Pinprick

Years ago, while still living in Gauteng, I told Matilda that my big wish is to live in a place where, when you switch off your bedroom light at night, it must be pitch dark. I do not want to see lights of any kind. Least of all security and flood lights.

I am definitely not striving to be anachronistic, singing the praises of the Stone Age, but electric light in all its forms symbolizes for me a type of infiltration and colonization. In our human advances, we no longer plant flags when arriving on terra nova, we switch on a light.

On moving to Barrowfield my dream came true. The stars are bright and near, the Milky Way arching majestically overhead, everything wrapped in black velvet.  I felt spoilt, immensely privileged.

The date my ideal world was shattered I cannot pinpoint exactly. But one night, on stepping out of the front door to check on the kiln in the pottery studio, a pinprick of light in the far-off distance, maybe 30 km away somewhere against the lower slopes of Amajuba, shone in my eye. By the looks of it, it cannot be much more than a 60 W bulb, but it is blinding.

(There is an element of hypocrisy present, I know. Our kiln uses three phase power and without it we’ll be stranded. But bear with me. I am trying to write myself into some form of clarity here)

If I knew who it was, I would phone him and ask politely, “Do you mind switching off your light? I am trying to live in bliss. Thank you.”

I could draw trajectories on maps to pinpoint the culprit, drive over there and deliver the request in person. People with a military background can be called in to help me with that. Determining the exact position, I mean. But I have a sense that my train of thought is starting to derail somewhere.

I could build a narrow high wall or some screen of sorts to block it out, but then it would spoil our view of the beautiful sunsets.

With the state Eskom is in, a much bigger switch might be flipped, that will grant my specific wish. But heavens forbid! That will be like shooting a canary with a nuclear missile and too many people really rely on electricity – ourselves included.

But the light in the distance is a thorn in my flesh. It is like a small hole in a black bag that is bulging with millions of other lights, pushing, straining. A leak that one day will tear wide open under the pressure to flood the hills around Barrowfield. I dread that day.

I hate to admit it, but there might be another perspective as well. Looking from the other side of the valley in this direction, it could well be that people enjoyed their darkness until a little more than 5 years ago. We then moved into our dear old house that has been standing empty for many years and switched on the lights. However weak, the ray of our light bulb reached the slopes on that side. Leading them to say: “If that is the way you want to play this game, a light above the back door we’ll get!”

I know what I long for. But it might ask more of me than I have initially imagined. One has to start somewhere. I stand up and reach for the switch, hoping that the favour will be returned.

George