The Temple of Heavenly Falsities:
We went as far as the car would take us. It had been a hot, drowsy drive. I stretched, then stared up at the vertical cliff-face which housed the temple. To our left, a thin stream of spray gave away the waterfall pummeling at the sandstone crack.
“Can you see the stairs?” asked Alan as the taxi hastily pulled away.
“Too late to ask the driver,” I sighed.
Wasn't this always the case? Ill thought-out not-quite-spontaneous trip to go find some fabled temple. It had taken long enough to find a taxi-driver who understood our poor Chinese and who could read PinYin.
The plane banks over the Bluff then, with its landing gear out, bypasses the city and Umhlanga. Mount Moreland sugar-cane fields, a pale reminder of their past, flash by. A small bump, and they are cruising towards the new terminal--King Shaka Airport. He's last off the plane, uncertain of what to expect. He's been away for so long; had alienated himself from his friends and family--glad to have escaped the only town in the world whose main street ends in a river...