I look forward to Saturday mornings when we take the dogs out for a long walk in the playground of an abandoned government school, next to our residential complex. We have to get there through a break in the boundary wall, stepping carefully away from some garbage dumped by the neighbouring houses and pulling the dogs away to stop them from burying their noses in the filth.
There are trees lining the playground, large trees with thick trunks and some with low, sturdy branches, that you can climb, sit on and dangle your legs from. There are thin paths running through overgrown grass and plenty of ground to walk and run. There is a lovely grove of trees in the middle of the playground, where you can find shade from the sun and watch the wildflowers sway in the breeze in the dappled sunlight. Tiny flowers of yellow, cream, purple, red and pink.
Sometimes there are grazing buffaloes, with peaceful eyes and gentle snorts. Sometimes there is a man in a hat and sunglasses, practising manoeuvres with his remote-controlled car.
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