Rasta Dave

The house lies about a kilometre in from the main road. We park the car and John and Cobra lead us, barefoot, through tall grasses and small villages towards his property. The gate is closed to keep village children off his plantation, out of the marijuana plants that grow tall in the rich Eastern Cape soil. We left early that morning for Mdumbi. John and Cobra lifted the VW Golf in the car park and hopped in the backseat, coming along as guides, translators. They do the bargaining and business deals in rolling, rhythmic Xhosa, and we hand over the cash. Fifty rand here, thirty there, and another fifteen for that right there in the young boy’s dirty hands.
Rasta Dave greets us as we approach his garden. A pot simmers on nearby coals and Dave, John and Cobra exchange greetings in quiet Xhosa. He invites us inside. A dirty mattress is turned up against the far wall. John picks up a hand-made guitar from the floor and begins pecking at its few remaining strings, making a and lovely melody that resonates in the small room. Hanging above us, on the far wall, is the National Party flag, and underneath it pieces of an old motorbike, likely driven out here and too damaged by the bombed out pothole roads to make it back.
The house is rugged and dirty. I take pictures quietly smoke fills the room and, just as smoothly as we came in, we are gone, trekking with heavy breath back to the car and bumping along back to the tent.