They were strangers. He'd never before been among so many strangers – tall and bent and wide and old and shuffling about the harbour, waiting, running. Most of them were carrying cases. If they weren't 
carrying cases, they were sitting on boxes strapped with leather. They were wearing too many clothes for the weather, he noticed. Keeping their belongings about them. No doubt they had money sewn into their hems, like him. It thickened the bottoms of his trousers. They swung, heavily, and scoured his ankles. It hadn't been a good idea.
He'd always lived among people he knew. It was a village. He didn’t know if it was big or small. It was just home. But now he was here, by the mighty ships and the crowds of faces and the shouts and clanks and calls, he understood he'd never really lived. Everything he'd known was a prelude. Everyone was the smallest of families.
And now he was among strangers, and felt excitement knot his belly like a sickness.
Birdcatcher. That was her name. He lifted his suitcase and zigzagged his way along the wharf.
8/2/2008
Botho Strauss
Kalldewey, 1990
p 61
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