Moxyland - Lauren Beukes [1]
'They don't like that, you know,' says the guy sitting across the way from me. He doesn't look like he belongs here either, with his scruffy beard and hair plastered into wet tufts. Older than me, maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight. He's wearing a damp neoprene surf peel, a surfboard slung casually at his feet, half blocking the aisle.
'Then I'll delete it,' I snap. It's impossible, of course. I'm using my F2, picked up cheap-cheap along with my Hasselblad at the Milnerton market during the last big outbreak, when everyone thought this was really it. It's oldschool. Film. You'd have to rip it out the back, expose it to the light. But no one's ever sharp enough to notice that it's analogue.
'Kit kat,' he says, 'I was just saying. They're sensitive round these parts. All the proprietary tech.'
'No, thanks. Really. I appreciate it.' I make a show of fiddling with the back of the camera before I shove it in my bag, trying not to think that I'm included in that definition now – just as much proprietary technology.
'See you around,' he says, like it's a sure thing, standing up as the doors open with an asthmatic hiss. He's left a damp patch on the seat.
'Yeah, sure,' I say, trying to sound friendly as I step onto the station platform. But the encounter has made me edgy, reinforced just how out of place I am here. It's enough to make me duck my head as I pass the station cop at the entrance – behaviour the cameras are poised to look for, not to mention the dogs. The Aito sitting alert and panting at the cop's feet spares me a glance over its snout, no more, not picking up any incriminating chem scents, no suspiciously spiked adrenalin levels or residue of police mace. His operator doesn't even bother to look at me, just waves me through the checkpoint with a cursory scan of my phone, verifying my bioID, the temporary access pass.
It's only six blocks but my pass isn't valid for walking rights, so Andile has arranged an agency car, already waiting for me on the concourse. I nearly miss it, because it's marked only by a VUKANI MEDIA licence plate. The name means 'Awake! Arise! Fight!', which makes me wonder who they're supposed to be fighting. The driver chuckles wryly when I ask her, but doesn't offer up a theory. We travel in cool professional silence.
Although my hand itches for my camera, I manage to restrain myself as we pass between the rows of filter trees lining Vukani's driveway, sucking up sunlight and the buffeting wind to power the building. You don't see filter forests much, or at least I don't. They're too expensive to maintain outside the corporate havens.
Inside, the receptionist explains that she'd love to offer me a drink, but it's not recommended just before the procedure. Would I like to have a seat? Andile will be only a minute. And would I mind checking my camera and any other recording devices? I don't have to worry about my phone: they've got app blockers in place to prevent unauthorised activity.
I reluctantly hand over my Leica Zion, and after a moment's hesitation, the Nikon too.
'It's got half my exhibition on there,' I say, indicating the F2.
'Of course, don't worry. I'll stash it in the safe,' she says, against a backdrop of awards – gold statuettes of African masks and perspex Loeries with wings flung wide.
I take a seat in the lounge, feeling naked without my cameras. And then Andile arrives in a fluster of energy and hustles me towards the lift. He's got the kind of personality that precedes him, stirring up the atoms before he even enters the room.
'There she is. Right on time, babes.' He honestly speaks like this. 'You get in all right? No hassles?'
'It was fine. Apart from nearly being ejected because I took a photograph of the underway.'
'Oh babes, you got to rein