I read somewhere that once the dust of Africa touches the soles of your feet, you will never be able to shake it off.
Cape Town, though, is probably not how you picture Africa. There's no monkeys wandering around the washed-out dirt roads. There's no women clad in bright, geometric prints, carrying baskets on their heads. Most of the people speak very good English.
But on a clear night on Signal Hill, I see the spread of city lights, a collar of diamonds around the endless, black Atlantic. Every day we see the clouds pouring down over Table Mountain, primitive in its rugged beauty. A less than five minute drive in any direction reveals stretches of aluminum shanty towns--some with no electricity or running water, with litter-lined sand "streets" where one of every two children you pick up in your arms is directly affected by HIV.
This is when I know I am in Africa.
The Lord is here. The Lord is wonderful.
