Walkabout

(in Henderson as part of field work)

10 a.m., already elderly men congregate in enclaves in coffee shops, in sport shoes, tables full of empty beer bottles and mugs with remnant froth. At a particular care centre, old ladies (mostly) sit at round tables, wedding-dinner style. Except the table is still empty, no one's talking, because they can't make themselves heard over the karaoke singing which can be heard two blocks away, or maybe there's really no point in socialising when they don't even know how they're going to settle expenses for the next few days.

Parents walking with their children; parents whose unspoken expectations lie in the excess pinafore cloth hanging over their daughters' knees.

The dark corridors, the air that suffocates like poverty; neighbours quarrel over water spilt in the corridor to retain some semblance of control over what they have left in their life. Anger as their protest at what life has unceremoniously dumped on them; it's nothing personal.

You hear noise, a baby wailing, the noise of frustration, of pigeons fighting over food, you think you can even hear the noise in the head of the old man who sits stoned, on the bench.

And then there's the community centre, on a hill, quiet, driveway immaculately paved, the huge meeting room with large comfortable chairs, metal railings for the old people, but wiped clean of fingerprints. Maybe no one has had the strength to venture up the hill yet, no one has dared to trespass the visible but denied boundary between the have and the have-nots.