Worthing, really.
"This is the ghetto."
I held his arm tight - but not so tight that my veins would start throbbing and attract any more attention to myself. It's hard though when I am obviously a tourist, and more obviously ASIAN, walking between the houses of the wait staff who serve my drinks and spit in my meals and mutter "fuck you" as they bring it to my table. That I don't mind. Don't mind it so much in comparison to this. My only reply to Chris was "uh-huh" then my right foot slipped on the mud because talking became one of too many things to do at once: 1. walking, 2. being scared, 3. trying not to look scared, 4. maintaining a calm and non-intrusive gaze, 5. I am also hung over and sweating rum and cokes out of my face.
The ghetto seems miles away from the ice-cream coloured colonial style mansions lined up along the beach, but actually it's just a few strides off the main road.
To say they had a look of surprise in their eyes seeing me is an understatement. There was also confusion, slight disdain - but mostly from the women, who look familiar, like the ones who ignore me when I try to order food - and the this-is-all-just-too-fucking-weird-for-me look.
But I came invited. We were walking towards Chris' house because he wants to give me a photo of him to take back home. Everything else aside, this is a nice gesture, and I couldn't refuse.
Their homes are not lined up one by one to follow some non-existent housing frontage city bylaw. They are staggered. A handful of these face each other to share some courtyard of leftover bins, rackets and posts for some makeshift cricket field. And other homes are positioned randomly along some worn-out path. Each of them are 4 adjoining walls sheltered under grooved metal roofs, rusted from rain, age and poverty. Don't get me wrong. I am not passing judgement. The majority of the people in this world live this way. This is shelter. People can find real comfort elsewhere. Comfort exists beyond ready to assemble Ikea furniture, matching linens, any linens, or a home entertainment system. Comfort can be inviting a stranger to your home, built from the basics and decorated with souvenirs over generations, to look at your photographs from your travels on a hot afternoon, and nothing else.
If I could have it my way, I would just have it this way.
But my flights out in 2 hours. Shit.
Permalink!
I held his arm tight - but not so tight that my veins would start throbbing and attract any more attention to myself. It's hard though when I am obviously a tourist, and more obviously ASIAN, walking between the houses of the wait staff who serve my drinks and spit in my meals and mutter "fuck you" as they bring it to my table. That I don't mind. Don't mind it so much in comparison to this. My only reply to Chris was "uh-huh" then my right foot slipped on the mud because talking became one of too many things to do at once: 1. walking, 2. being scared, 3. trying not to look scared, 4. maintaining a calm and non-intrusive gaze, 5. I am also hung over and sweating rum and cokes out of my face.
The ghetto seems miles away from the ice-cream coloured colonial style mansions lined up along the beach, but actually it's just a few strides off the main road.
To say they had a look of surprise in their eyes seeing me is an understatement. There was also confusion, slight disdain - but mostly from the women, who look familiar, like the ones who ignore me when I try to order food - and the this-is-all-just-too-fucking-weird-for-me look.
But I came invited. We were walking towards Chris' house because he wants to give me a photo of him to take back home. Everything else aside, this is a nice gesture, and I couldn't refuse.
Their homes are not lined up one by one to follow some non-existent housing frontage city bylaw. They are staggered. A handful of these face each other to share some courtyard of leftover bins, rackets and posts for some makeshift cricket field. And other homes are positioned randomly along some worn-out path. Each of them are 4 adjoining walls sheltered under grooved metal roofs, rusted from rain, age and poverty. Don't get me wrong. I am not passing judgement. The majority of the people in this world live this way. This is shelter. People can find real comfort elsewhere. Comfort exists beyond ready to assemble Ikea furniture, matching linens, any linens, or a home entertainment system. Comfort can be inviting a stranger to your home, built from the basics and decorated with souvenirs over generations, to look at your photographs from your travels on a hot afternoon, and nothing else.
If I could have it my way, I would just have it this way.
But my flights out in 2 hours. Shit.
Permalink!
posted by j.bot 3000 at 11:00 a.m.
3 comments
