No Turning Back

*DISCLAIMER* In South Africa, using racial terms such as black, white, coloured (of mixed race) and Indian (people with ancestors from India) are not considered derogatory terms and are in fact terms used in our National Census. If these cause offense please don't read this piece.


NO TURNING BACK
I remember how they stared at me in disbelief, carrying only my hiking backpack into the line where they all stood at the airport. They were surrounded with luggage, a myriad of colours,sizes and shapes. Every one of them carried more than I did.

"We're going to live in Japan for a year! Can you believe it?" an Indian girl next to me exclaimed. We had both come up from Durban and I felt sorry for her because her family couldn't come to see her off at Johannesburg International Airport. I saw my mother and father smile at me wryly, or was it sadly? My fiance's smile was wan, a smile of sorrow but tinged with pride. Did this make me an adult now? Stepping off onto such a great adventure to another part of the world I had only read about before. I didn't feel very grown up.

Before we had eaten lunch at the restaurant on the balcony overlooking the snaking line of intrepid adventurers. They all look like teenagers I had thought to myself. Did I look twenty-two to those people watching us from up there? I felt like I was twelve, at the moment too drunk on excitement to feel sad about leaving my family.

Our line inched forward, slowly, ever so slowly and not in the least bit helped by the arguments that were erupting over luggage weight. Suitcases were opened, gifts and clothes and trinkets bearing memories were packed and repacked until everything fit. Someone even tried to bring their mountain bike.

One person stood in front of me now as I waited and I thought about what was in my bag. Three sets of clothes, stockings and a new black dress for formal occasions. Black shoes to match the black dress, and my sneakers which I wore. One book, a Taoist text to keep my mind in contemplation and my sketchbook which I could never live without. One eraser, one pencil and one black ink pen for doing line art, each carefully stuffed into the pocket of my jeans. Gifts, plenty of gifts as we had been told to bring. Tiny African animal plush toys, pens topped with more African animals erasers, postcards showing safaris and those rolling green hills of Kwa-Zulu Natal dressed in fields of sugar-cane or draped in garlands of jungle. Photos of family and friends, black, white, coloured and indian, a perfect image of our Rainbow Nation.

Finally I stepped up to the counter, handed over my South African passport, explained my visa's for teaching in Japan and watched as my luggage came up horribly underweight. I shrugged, telling the dark-skinned woman at the counter to use the extra weight for my new Indian friend behind me.

I stepped through the portal and stopped. Turning back to see my family and lover standing there like statues. My mother was already crying. Dad lifted a hand and waved solemnly. I suddenly regretted not giving my fiance one last hug and kiss once we had reached the airport. But still, I couldn't cry. Did that make me a bad person? I smiled, beamed perhaps, and blew them all a kiss. Then I turned and didn't look back, taking step after step forward towards the Land of the Rising Sun.