Red brick sand covered the streets after the rain stopped. The sand turns roads into beaches. Cars blast through large areas of deep muddy water drenching people on the side of the road. Nobody cares. It’s time to ride a bike.
Within two minutes my feet, legs and back, my teeth were covered in red mud. As I pedaled the gears ground that annoying chalkboard sound of sand and chain. I was on the coast road. Every breath I took was filled with the smell of fish and garbage. It’s in piles, scattered, it’s strung out like it fell from the sky. An overcrowded micro-bus grazes my right shoulder. Heads and arms hung out its windows, everyone was yelling something. Were they yelling at me? I wasn’t sure. With my heart pounding I stopped to think.
“Let’s go”, I said to myself. Continuing north on my left were colors of red, yellow and pale green. Some were dwellings. Some were tiny shops with people lying around sleeping. On my right were the choppy waters of the shallow
I wanted to stop but I kept riding.
Up ahead were two Policia on dirt bike motorcycles. They were waiting off the side of the road. I was sure they were waiting for me. Both had automatic weapons strapped to their shoulders. Both were smoking. My papers and Passport were back in my room. My heart pounded again. I tipped my hat and waved a peace sign as I pedaled by. Why not? “Keep pedaling”, I thought. Pedal with purpose. Pedal like you belong here. So I did past naked children sitting in puddles, young girls walking in threes, and chiseled muscular men on the South East African shoreline. I pedaled past a white Casino with an empty parking lot and a Mother holding out her hands to feed the glassy eyed child she held in her arms. I moved through grass roofed huts where young boys pointed toy guns at a skinny white cat. I heard laughter from behind broken blue walls. I just kept going.
When I passed through the guarded gates where I live, I felt the separation return, the sterile part of being an outsider.
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