I hate getting woken up early. I don't care what the cause for it is - be it a loud noise outside, a ringing cell phone or consistent shouting - I just can't tolerate it. Being a bartender means that I get to sleep rather strange hours and sadly the world around me doesn't acknowledge those strange hours, especially not in the "jungle" which I refer to as my home.
I use the term "home" very loosely, the same way a vagabond might refer to a box as his home, or a drunkard a bridge. Home for me is a large round room with a high domed asbestos ceiling that allows light to filter in during the day. Built in the 60's, it's quaint but without a doubt there is a certain foreign charm which pushes it beyond rustic. The semi-transparent dome has accumulated a considerable amount of moss in the time it has been here and that causes the room to take on an ethereal, almost science-fictional quality as it glows a translucent green. The kitchen and the bathroom are down a small dark passage and neither of the rooms are much to write home about – they are small with low ceilings and the bare essentials. My home has been dubbed "The Hut" - it comes complete with it's own colony of rats and an exotic rainforest climate which means that everything will remain damp, smell damp and continue to be damp, possibly for eternity.
The Hut itself is situated on a large plot of land, nestled between a small factory and an informal settlement. Within the confines of the plots electric fence lies a different world, removed entirely from the industrial slum on its doorstep. Much like a place lost in time, it is unkempt and overgrown, uncared for and wild, and above all else serenely oblivious to change. Trees, shrubs and knee high grass dominate wherever the eye wanders. The plot is very rarely exposed to the true wrath of the sun as its array of flora has woven intricate canopies high above the ground to protect what lies below. Hidden in and amongst the greenery, elegant spiders with long segmented limbs weave webs of gold and silver which gleam in the morning as beads of dew cling to them. Closer to the ground one might stumble upon terrestrial spiders - bulky and large fanged, these critters live on the moist earth, often under rocks or in and around the ramshackled stables and outbuildings. A myriad of other creatures slither, slide, soar and scoot about within the confines of this utopia. On warm summer nights whilst cloaked in dense darkness, owls and other birds of the night converse, each indulging in one-sided chatter whilst the sounds of crickets and toads blend together to form a hum one could only describe as grey noise; a perfect backing for the mismatched choir that will end their performance before the first rays of dawn. During the day louries perch on the highest branches to survey the events that unfold below whilst humble sparrows and wag-tails compete for patches of sun kissed grass.
The Hut is not the only building hidden beneath the canopy, in fact, there are several more, each with colourful inhabitants of their own. I've always thought it took a special breed of person to live here in the jungle. That breed would have to be desperate, stuck in the 70’s or insane. I believe that everyone here is an adequate mixture of those three things, or at least adequate enough for them to stay. It's uncanny how most of the people here want to move (including myself) but just never do. When the jungle has sunk her filthy nails into you, it's hard to leave, no matter what goes wrong. One becomes extremely complacent and what would have once bothered a person to wits end fades away and is replaced by acceptance. To live here and also attempt to live in the 21st century is nearly impossible - the jungle won't allow it to be and the more you pull away from her, the tighter her grip becomes. We are allowed to share her utopia if we bend to her ever-changing will.
No person knows this better than Roland, the brother of my landlord. He lives in the original house that was built in the 40's; a grand old structure made of brick and mortar that is barely visible from the mud road. It was built back in the days when the plot was still a small farm, owned and run by Roland’s parents. Two stories high and still standing strong, the building seems tired as the last bits of paint flake off of its walls and the turning circle that once added to its grandeur is swallowed by copious amounts of impenetrable vines. What lies behind the dust-ridden windows of the house is anybodies guess but if the contents of the garden is anything to go by, I assume the entire house is brimming with old car parts, empty plastic oils bottles and any other bits of junk that were picked up along the way. Just outside of the front door, lying next to the old weather-battered porch is a huge pile of plastic bottles, still greasy to the touch due to what they once contained. It is not often that I question Roland on his actions or behaviour, but I couldn't resist asking about the bottles as in the time I've been here, the pile has doubled in size and is obviously one of his more recent junk-obsessions. I was fascinated to hear from him that World War 3 would be fought over water and that when he had time he would full all of the plastic bottles with water so that when the war began, he would be a millionaire. Never married and with no children, he has many theories about the world and an eerie conviction in each one, delighting in the opportunity to share them, no matter how absurd, with anyone who will listen. He is a man of average height, with a small build and a patchy moustache that is the same salt-and-pepper grey as his thick, curly hair. Rarely seen without his stained peak cap on, he doesn't work but instead attempts to maintain the cottages on the plot. He does this with the help of his best friend and employee, Vincent.
Vincent lives on the property too, right at the back on the other side of the swamp near the factories. He's a fair distance away from the little nucleus of people that my hut forms a part of, but I imagine that privacy is something he enjoys. Along with his wife and six children between the ages of toddler and teen, they live in what I would describe as two adjoining double story towers. The two towers consist of 4 rooms between them; two at the bottom and two at the top. There are no interior stairs linking downstairs to upstairs and therefore there are steps on the outside of the building allowing one to access the rooms upstairs. These towers were built a long time back to store crops in and therefore Vincent and his family have constructed structures next to the towers out of wood and plastic to use as a kitchen and a bathroom. Vincent has worked for Roland for 20 years and on any given day one can see the two of them wondering about, tools in hand, tryingto fix the never-ending list of things that are either breaking or broken. Vincent is a quiet, family man who always appears relaxed. He leads a traditional African life, cooking on wood fires and modeling toys for his children out of old wire and other scrap metal. His eldest daughter will be finishing school soon and he has dreams of her either furthering her studying or finding a good job in the area. Above all, Vincent comes across as proud and satisfied with the quaint life he leads.
The plot is owned by Julia, Roland's eldest sister who lives on a farm with her partner close by. She is a tiny timid woman in her mid sixties with white hair that is always scraped back into a bushy ponytail and fine whiskers on her chin and upper lip. Bearing the signs of a hard life, her hands are fraught with calluses and the early signs of arthritis whilst her clothes are tatty and worn. She's extremely soft spoken and despite the wrinkles on her aged face her wide eyes animate her, evoking images of a frightened mouse. She's a lovely woman, widowed and void of children and yet still evidently nurturing. Sadly those are not the qualities required when dealing with tenants that are forever either complaining or not paying their rent.
There is so much more to tell but I will leave it at that for now. The rain is still pouring down outside making it a muddy nightmare to attempt to navigate my way around and therefore I plan on staying in today. When it rains in the jungle, a fine mist tends to form in the air which often lingers after the rain has subsided.
Here's to a foggy night in Sair's World.
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