In stories and dreams, people sometimes fall to earth. This time it happens to the traveller. He is suddenly walking through a desert, a hot yellow plain scattered with rocks and stones and empty horizons. He may have been walking for days on end, considering the distance to the mountain range behind him and the fact no signs of other human presence are noticeable. But his quest will soon be coming to an end. Ahead of him shades of buildings have started appearing. He can see a long line of housing mass, with high-rise at one end. It seems he's heading for a city, and a big one at that.
First there's a suburb of course. When he is close enough to recognise the structures in front of him as housing blocks, a man-made gorge blocks his way. Twenty meters down a highway is laid out, three lanes in both ways. The asphalt looks brand new and not many people appear to've been told about it. A truck passes and two cars, then it's quiet for a while. Seeing no bridges, the traveller decides to cross the road on foot. No real danger here.
Up the other slope he approaches the blocks of flats, some twenty in a row. Their fronts look strange, unnaturally flat and dull. Up closer, the traveller sees why. These are no houses, they are only façades, like set pieces used in a film. The windows are not even covered with glass, just open holes through which the desert wind is singing. He goes round a corner to find they are indeed plywood walls. Further down the field there are more rows. He continues to pass them and right before he reaches the last row, he sees some people sitting together.
Are you the crew, he wants to know. This is a film set, isn't it?
They tell him otherwise. This is where they live, these are the beautiful flats promised them when economic hardship forced them out of their native villages, off their ancestors' lands to an ever expanding city. They have no work, they tell him, because there is no work, so they have no money. Not even enough to go back. At night they go out into the city to steal, but most neighbourhoods are barely better than theirs. Only the city centre is rich, made of marble and gold, but there's police everywhere and you are arrested for merely wearing dirty, shabby clothes.
The traveller hasn't got much to share with these people. He wishes them well and continues his journey.
Two more highways he finds on his path. These are slightly busier with traffic, but he manages to cross them in a similar manner. He comes upon more housing blocks, real ones of concrete and brick though equally empty inside. Here the people's camps have a more permanent character. They shelter in huts made of garbage with soup boiling in kettles over wood fire. The sun is past its high point and the desert winds are turning chilly. The weather here is terrible, they tell him, scorching hot in summer and freezing cold the rest of the year. They're from the coast, they say, where the climate is mild and the lands are green.
The trees are full of fruits this time of year, a lean old man with a broken voice remarks. His eyes are bulging and wet.
So why don't you return, then?
That's forbidden. Or rather made impossible.
With a tiny bow Skinny Eyes invites the traveller to the fire and waits for him to sit down and make comfortable.
You see, we live in a democracy. There are two parties, the people democrats and the worker democrats, we call them pee and wee.
A strong bloke with long hair turns at those names. They say, if you don't want to live in the city you are a fascist.
Old Skinny smiles thinly. The people at the coast pay lots of taxes to keep the city growing and when some started refusing to do so any longer, the tv said they were fascists. This country has a long and dirty history with fascism and you don't want to be called a fascist. It can even get you to jail. This was our choice, you understand, go to prison or move to the city.
Skinny spit in front of him, hitting some dirt in the middle. If I had known, I would have chosen a real prison over this stink.
The traveller has difficulty understanding it all. Isn't democracy supposed to protect people's free will?
Not here.
Skinny talks about a region which tried to separate itself. Its people did not believe in keeping the capital growing until the whole country would crumble and they chose to save themselves from that unpleasant fate. They went out into the streets and took each other's hands to form an enormous mass, showing the world their determination to survive.
The democrats were quick to call them fascists. They used to call these people jews, Old Skinny told, I guess because they envied their work attitude. Now they were suddenly fascists, even nazis. Isn't that weird, how can you call people both nazis and jews at the same time?
That's how our democracy works, a young woman joins in. You can only be a democrat if you live here and obey to the rule of the centre. If you live on the coast or you have a different opinion, you are always suspicious.
That's because you're a minority, the longhaired bloke returns. It's undemocratic to be a minority.
And this coast, how far is it?
Very far away. They built highways and railroads there, to speed up the import of goods, but it is still a good day's drive.
You say import, the traveller noticed. Aren't you producing enough here?
In the desert we only work in offices.
They all laugh.
Democrats are delicate people, they don't do dirty work.
But you don't seem to work at all.
A lot of offices were closed when the economy tumbled. You will find some functioning ones in the centre. Shiny offices, full of shiny people.
The traveller thanked these souls for their kind information and went on his road. The streets became a real city here, with flats full of poor people and then less poor people. He saw a kettle shiner show off his skills on the sidewalk and he gave him a euro. He saw girls only aware of their own long legs going past boys talking footballers' cars. He saw old ladies wearing house shoes carefully shopping tiny quantities. He saw buses and not too large numbers of cars trod by. He saw shops and bars in a regular manner, with the occasional closed business. Although the streets were new to him, the traveller felt he knew this city.
He passes yet another highway. This time there's a bridge, leading him onto not overtly busy lanes along ten story flats. He immediately recognises the place.
