Poverty is always visited with your eyes ajar. There is a mixture of curiosity and blush to look at the terribly that others can live. A kind of care not to be discovered as a voyeur in the middle of an orgy of misery. My visit to the Township had all that. We agree, Through the former English school cleaner of a friend, An encounter with your home, With his life, After payment of an amount of money for travel expenses. It is difficult to understand that tours are organized throughout the city to see from a bus how the throats dry to hundreds of thousands of people. The only difference between our encounter and that of the charted buses towards hung. The rest? Cover, like almost everyone.
What did I find in Los Guetos? Tin and cardboard houses as far as the horizon is inclined; children, miles, Playing to play for all corners; Faces that looked at me with amazement; cordiality; Barro streets delimited by debris; A DJ that click his music about a garbage can, in the middle of the street, Before the watchful eye of his only spectator: A dog; A succession of barbecues, hidden in shamans, where lambs are cooked (Animals languish, With the heads already black and burned from smoke, In the middle of the sidewalks, dying); dozens of containers turned into hairdressers, Stores and bars; cars with thunder music; An impromptu theater about sex starring boys from the street in which they offer you the tribune seat (A fruit box) While flooding on your head; A house where armchairs are paint cubes; Children who pose before my camera for the only pleasure of looking on my screen (They ask for it, They look at you, laugh and ask for another); Few complaints about the inopportune photos; A clean and modern shopping center full of European stores; An advertisement by Cristiano Ronaldo; police, guns and hundreds of people running; Brick houses next to Casas de Colla; desolation, joy.
Tin and cardboard houses as far as the horizon is inclined; children, miles, Playing to play for all corners; Faces that looked at me with amazement; cordiality; Barro streets delimited by debris; A DJ that click his music about a garbage can, in the middle of the street
A week ago I was in Khayelitsa, Langa y Guguletu. A week ago my vision of this place has changed. A week ago I'm preparing the return. Now, morning, I am going to travel eight days to the depopulated lands of the north, to the border with Botsuana and Namibia. To leave my first traces about the Kalahari, One of the symbols prior to this adventure. Maybe, If we have time and desire, We will end up visiting the mythical mountain country: Lesotho.
I'm afraid that I have already spent another week of this time.
