After Anna departed back to Boston, I stayed behind with a load of write-ups and time to spent in front of the computer, inside the house. As the light depression, that haunts me at quiet times and drives me to constant movement, threatened to set in β my trying to visit community meetings, concerts and festivals alleviated the condition only marginally β my grandmother passed on, and when it turned out that I would not be able to return to Germany for her funeral, I could no longer stand the Joburg routine.
And so, one of my housemates, Matthias, who lectures at the German Department at Wits University and was nearing a burn-out, and I decided to escape. We found the right way immediately, surprisingly so, and everything was going smoothly: Matthias and I exchanged emotional insights, drank sodas, snacked on chips and popsicles, took bathroom breaks in the bush and contemplated past-university anxieties before deciding to mentally shove them aside for the time being.
But then we reached the last road on our way to Rosendal, an infamously pothole-infested, endless affair. Ignorant Joburg-residents we were, we continued our agitated conversation and speed, and when Matthias was just about to share another family secret, the car jumped, fell β and stopped. We got out. Flat tire on the front right. We managed to change it. With oil-smeared fingers and somewhat proud of our newly discovered ability to change a tire, we climbed back into the car.
But the car would not start. So we sat around, not sure what to do. Several cigarettes and walks up and down the road later, we decided to stop the next car.
It was getting darker and cars would only pass us by sporadically, so it seemed like a good idea to do something. It took several minutes of talking to our smiley but non-responsive faces for her to realize that we did not speak a word of Afrikaans.
