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good to laugh after the river and the dogs and the gunmen.
    – You too will be sent to dig holes this afternoon.
    – Holes?
    – For the poles for the camo shade cloth they span over the marijuana. So you can’t see it from the sky and so the marijuana does not die.
    – They farm marijuana?
    – Now you farm marijuana. They will put you in a crew called Polemen. The Polemen are the rebels and newcomers ... the ones who cannot hide the fire in their eyes. They stay Polemen till their heads hang, until their spines hook and their feet drag. Then they become zombies. We call the zombies Shadowmen. They have given up all hope of escape. They travel in a truck to the Limpopo before sunup and fill drums with water for the marijuana. They spend the day in the shadows of the shade cloths. They plant the young marijuana four feet apart and water it just a bit each day. Not too much, otherwise the roots rot. And they pick the tops to dry out for ganja .
    – How long have you been on this farm?
    – Two and a half years. My wife has heard no word from me since I came to South Africa. I was a baker in Harare.
    – Is there no way to escape? To send word out to the world?
    – They who run get shot down like old dogs. The vultures pick their bones. I once sent word on a paper tied to the foot of a pigeon that landed on this barn. He had lost his bearings for a time. He had a ringed foot, so chances are good my paper was read somewhere. The catch is, whoever read it would think the words were the scribblings of a madman. Besides, I cannot map out where we are. There are no landmarks in this dry borderland.
    Jabulani gauges from the distance he ran and the pickup ride that they must be about a marathon’s distance from the border.
    The old man puts out his empty hand.
    – I am Jonas.
    – I am Jabulani.
    They shake, palm to palm, then swivel their hands to hook their thumbs.

9
    H ERMANUS MARKET.
    Vans have unloaded their cargo. Cardboard boxes have spilt their wares. I have put out my beaded animals.
    The market is a jamboree of colours: Kenyan cotton sarongs called kikois , bolts of Indian cloth, Chinese silks, pyramids of mangos and oranges, yellow and red peppers, and golden bananas.
    The market echoes with the rapping of the Tanzanians hawking their wood carvings, the muttering of a faux Zulu shaman fogging magic muti (a mix of beetroot, garlic and honey) to cure you of The Virus and still another hex in a vial to spook snakes away, the keening of a Moroccan snake-charmer’s flute, the dry-bone music of marimba men from Malawi and the haunting howl of the whale crier’s kelp horn.
    Instead of riding listing, laden boats to Spain or Italy, young Africans with a fiery dream may head south, leaving behind them countries where a leopard-hatted ruler fattens his gut on overseas funds. They spend all their money on rides under tarps in trucks, in the holds of cargo boats. Or they walk for miles and miles, crossing borders, dodging the men and animals that prey on them under a vulture-zoned sky. By hook or by crook they find their way south to Cape Town, the London of Africa. And further south still to this marketplace.
    A villagey, matey vibe pervades the market. Traders whistle or wave across the square; they shake hands and linger.
    Now locals and holidaymakers drift into the square. You can tell them apart. The locals have sun-jaded, wind-scratched skin and a lazy lilt to their walk. They have lost their stiffness. The slick holidaymakers from Johannesburg up north tend to have an upbeat skip to their walk. They strive to look chilled in their Billabong gear and flip-flops, but they stay tuned to their cellphones in case a deal eludes them. The pale-skinned holidaymakers from overseas stand out like folk from another planet with their muted joy, Crumpler bags and colourful Crocs.
    A coloured fruit seller pitches his high call over this jumble of voices. Liii-tchiii. Liii-tchiii.
    Seeing me tuned in, he lobs a red ball to me across