(A post from Cecile's Facebook)
What do I miss about Upington?
The Upington I knew, the place that was my background, my reality, my personal and unique stage?
I miss the tiptol calls, the smell of freshly cut grass, the heaviness of the afternoon heat, the small black pools of melting tar, the cicadas, the smell of suurgras, the clouds building in the east, the mica glittering in the dusty pavements, the red sand, the kalkklippe, rusty garden gates, cool dark verandas, sturdy lonely houses, the canal with its crabs and low bridges, stunted trees, autumn leaves, the special light after a sudden thunderstorm, the school with its smell of stale sandwiches and bathrooms, dry yellow grasses, frosty mornings, dry air, static school clothes, the rusty orange school bus, the smell of Carob trees, agates and tiger eye stones, the muddy smell of the river, the spoelklippe, cement bricks and geckos.
The birds singing too early, crumpled school dresses, homework not done, queues at the water tap after break time, kind teachers, cruel teachers, athletics practice in the heat, the release of the final bell. Blue Kombi, dance classes, the library, oh the library!
The drive-in, Boy’s Inn with the best soft serves, Spur, Saddles, Le Must and Le Raisin, the café just past the garage where we bought ‘los lekkers’, Village Shop, the big park and the long park, the dunes.
The heat that shrank the world, the joy of swimming, ‘waatlemoenfeeste’ and street lights, quiet afternoons and morning mist over the river.
Trucks stuck under the duikweg bridge, posh women with white gloves, Volkskas bank, the old station. Spitskop and Uizip, school camps, night walks with compasses and exhilarating fear, and heat. Cicadas. Unforgiving stone koppies. Red Romans and huge planes and sand and the heat. Stolpers and Upington Slaghuis and our first house. And the Mica glittered in the August winds and people came and people went and I left and the town changed and a piece of my heart, all dried out, still hangs in the still dry hot afternoons, ignoring the change, listening to the cicadas, still yearning to understand.
