I knew when I put my arm back above my head that it wasn’t a bee, a wasp or any kind of small bug. I had just had the pleasure of being stung by a rather large wasp that had invaded my mosquito net the previous Monday, and so was quite familiar with the lovely feelings and particular curse words that accompany that particular experience. This pain was new and strange. It was near my left shoulder, and went both up and down my arm simultaneously, and was both stinging and numbing, with twinges of sharp pain and burning. Although it sounds like the general symptoms of a pretty horrific STI (if not in the proper geographic place on the body), due to the rapidity of its onset, I concluded it was a scorpion sting.
We were lying on J’s bed, singing along with his newly purchased pirated copy of “Rent” (damn I love that movie!) waiting for the apple pie to cool. All was right with the world. Whichever law of the universe says that when things are too good, something bad must happen was suddenly enforced. Either that or karma, actually.
About a month back K and I had gone out to the bush for my birthday celebrations. In the processing of zipping the tent she was stung on her finger by an elusive and fast departing enemy, which we were unable to find in the darkness to positively ID. At the time, this seemed to me to be shades of slightly hilarious. We consulted our host, a guy who had lived in and around the bush for most of his life, but due to having a few drinks in him was more than slightly unhelpful. K took some antihistamine and we went to sleep, although I did periodically wake up throughout the night and than wake her up to make sure she was still alive (what a good friend I am). She did not appreciate this. Her hand was sore for a week
As the sensations of burning, shooting, stinging and slight numbness that K had described were now running up and down my arm into my fingers, I had a pretty good idea of which bandit had assaulted me. I yelped and grabbed my arm, disrupting J right in the middle of the duet we were performing while viewing Mimi’s first scene in the movie. I whipped back the duvet we had been laying on and saw him. About the size of my pinky finger and nearly translucent, he was scurrying for cover.
Since J is more afraid of creepy crawlers that I am, he darted towards the door. I grabbed his empty wine glass and upended it, trapping the intruder in a glass coffin. We put him on the desk, theorizing that we would kill him through either suffocation or starvation. Neither of which was, in the end effective. (We got him the next day when R, an Eagle Scout whose phone was of course off when I called in a panic, suggested that we gas him by throwing a few alcohol rubbing pads in there with him. That did the job. PCV’s are SO resourceful.)
After we had imprisoned the culprit and I had assured J that there were no more scorpions in the bed, I joyously began the next natural course of action in a situation like this. I text messaged K. She was of course thrilled to laugh at me, and I was laughing right along with her. We quickly went through our running tally of shitty things that had happened to us since being in country (including but not limited to scorpion stings, stalkers, site relocation, mice, bank issues, thefts, weight lost or gained, length of water outages, housing problems, and sicknesses, and decided that we were now equal and one of us would have to work on one-upping the other, so we could alternately tease or brag to the other about how much rougher or easier we have it).
Then I text the PCMO, my mom, and most of my close PC friends in country, and some that I’m not in regular texting contact with as it was a holiday and text messages were cheap that day. Leave it to me to want to have to best story of the weekend. J was doing the same, although not mentioning it was me that got stung, only that there had been a scorpion in his bed, so that his story would sound better. So there we are, side by side, my arm pulsing, the characters of Rent singing, and both of us ignoring everything to text everyone that wasn’t with us what was happening. Only in the PC. The next round of incoming texts were, of course from people we hadn’t even initially text who had heard the story from texts they had received from others and wanted details. Ah, the PC “network”.
The PCMO called several times, asking about the make, model and color of my scorpion, and advised me to take a benedryl. I did so, and then she called back, telling me not to go to sleep. We ate the apple pie, which did sort of take the pain away temporarily. As the first and main thing you want to do after taking a bendryl is go to sleep, I made a list of people J should call if he awoke to find me dead or otherwise not breathing and laid down to watch the rest of the movie. The PCMO called a few more times, we went to sleep, and I’ve lived to tell the tale of another African adventure. What Next?
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Recent Acquisitions... that are rocking my world
Just a random list of the things I’ve recently gotten my hot little hands on that have made my life easier, more enjoyable, or higher fashion! I figure I spend more than enough time describing, bitching, complaining, or scoffing at how strange, difficult, or annoying things are here I should be taking some time to tell you about things that make my life wonderful and amazing. Thanks again to those who sent or in other ways made possible having these things in my life. I love them!
The books "Tweak" and "Beautiful Boy." Memoirs of a young man’s addiction to meth from both his and his father’s perspective. Powerful moving stuff, inspires hope while living in the eye of a never ending hurricane of pain and uncertainty. I’ve found I enjoy reading stories that take you all the way down before bringing you back to a place of hope. It feels very applicable to life here in Seronga in some ways. It has also reaffirmed powerful lessons about hope in the face of hopelessness. Keep the Faith!
Shaving cream. I found it in Shakawe, it was only a fourth of my daily living allowance and my legs are thanking me daily. 6 months is too long to go without this stuff. I again feel slightly more civilized.
The movie “Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day.” My new favorite. I would love to have a real copy so I could watch the bonus features, but watching the movie over and over again is fun as well. Love Amy Adams and Francis Mcdormand. I could be crazy when I recall that Amy Adams is from MN and performed at Chanhassan Dinner theater, but I imagine if this is the case some kind caring soul will correct me. And Francis Mcdormand was nominated (won?) for an Oscar for her role in that lovely movie of Midwestern twang “Fargo” which I’ve never seen. And all those cute British actors, especially the guy who plays Michael- does anyone know what else he’s been in?
Actors aside, I found the movie to be filled with great shots, interesting angles, good music, cute costumes and a story that has me questioning what I’m doing here having given up love for not even money….
My new mirror. I may be vain but looking at myself in a full length mirror for significant amounts of time has come to be my new hobby. Since living in Seronga I’ve been using a broken locker sized mirror that divided my face, hair, anything I tried to look at in two. I found this one at a China shop (yes as unpolitically correct as that term is, they are called that not for their fine crystal or dinner place settings but for the ethnicity of the proprietors who run them) in Shakawe and got in down the long and bumpy road to Seronga in one piece in only a week’s time. Then it only took two more days to get from Simon’s place to my house. This is a Seronga record for timeliness. I would imagine my fashion choices are going to be much more impressive now that I can actually see what I’m putting on and walking out the door in.
My Trader Joes reusable cloth shopping bag. I use it every day as a purse-esc sort of thing to carry the 4 litres of water I have to haul around the village with me for the course of the day. I love, love, love this- thank you again E and A.
The Wicked Soundtrack. Rick, you are a saint among men. I saw this musical for my birthday last year and it quickly became my favorite. I have been playing it and singing it and last night even falling asleep to it. It often causes me to cry for reasons I won’t go into here, but I love it! No one mourns the Wicked!
My straw diva hat. Back in another life, in another country, in another economy, some of you may remember receiving a picture text from me of my new hat that I had impulsively bought on a shopping spree that may or may not have been inspired by a date of significance I was attempting to avoid (what? we’ve all been there!!!). The hat became my pride and joy until the splashes from an early summer weekend of boating wrecked and misshaped it beyond repair. I am pleased to inform you it has been replaced. Purchased for the equivalent of $3 US dollars at a PEP store in Gabs I have already gotten exponentially more use and cute ensembles out of it than my $40 US dollar Banana Republic catastrophe.
It has also been rocking my world to have been able to replace some of the clothes that through washing, stretching, sunbleaching, staining and my own shrinking have began to make me look like even more of a mess than someone without a mirror… hmmm. Thanks to those who made that possible.
Hope, Love, Peace, Gratitude- Holopeagra
It’s the simple things,
Jen
The books "Tweak" and "Beautiful Boy." Memoirs of a young man’s addiction to meth from both his and his father’s perspective. Powerful moving stuff, inspires hope while living in the eye of a never ending hurricane of pain and uncertainty. I’ve found I enjoy reading stories that take you all the way down before bringing you back to a place of hope. It feels very applicable to life here in Seronga in some ways. It has also reaffirmed powerful lessons about hope in the face of hopelessness. Keep the Faith!
Shaving cream. I found it in Shakawe, it was only a fourth of my daily living allowance and my legs are thanking me daily. 6 months is too long to go without this stuff. I again feel slightly more civilized.
The movie “Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day.” My new favorite. I would love to have a real copy so I could watch the bonus features, but watching the movie over and over again is fun as well. Love Amy Adams and Francis Mcdormand. I could be crazy when I recall that Amy Adams is from MN and performed at Chanhassan Dinner theater, but I imagine if this is the case some kind caring soul will correct me. And Francis Mcdormand was nominated (won?) for an Oscar for her role in that lovely movie of Midwestern twang “Fargo” which I’ve never seen. And all those cute British actors, especially the guy who plays Michael- does anyone know what else he’s been in?
Actors aside, I found the movie to be filled with great shots, interesting angles, good music, cute costumes and a story that has me questioning what I’m doing here having given up love for not even money….
My new mirror. I may be vain but looking at myself in a full length mirror for significant amounts of time has come to be my new hobby. Since living in Seronga I’ve been using a broken locker sized mirror that divided my face, hair, anything I tried to look at in two. I found this one at a China shop (yes as unpolitically correct as that term is, they are called that not for their fine crystal or dinner place settings but for the ethnicity of the proprietors who run them) in Shakawe and got in down the long and bumpy road to Seronga in one piece in only a week’s time. Then it only took two more days to get from Simon’s place to my house. This is a Seronga record for timeliness. I would imagine my fashion choices are going to be much more impressive now that I can actually see what I’m putting on and walking out the door in.
My Trader Joes reusable cloth shopping bag. I use it every day as a purse-esc sort of thing to carry the 4 litres of water I have to haul around the village with me for the course of the day. I love, love, love this- thank you again E and A.
The Wicked Soundtrack. Rick, you are a saint among men. I saw this musical for my birthday last year and it quickly became my favorite. I have been playing it and singing it and last night even falling asleep to it. It often causes me to cry for reasons I won’t go into here, but I love it! No one mourns the Wicked!
My straw diva hat. Back in another life, in another country, in another economy, some of you may remember receiving a picture text from me of my new hat that I had impulsively bought on a shopping spree that may or may not have been inspired by a date of significance I was attempting to avoid (what? we’ve all been there!!!). The hat became my pride and joy until the splashes from an early summer weekend of boating wrecked and misshaped it beyond repair. I am pleased to inform you it has been replaced. Purchased for the equivalent of $3 US dollars at a PEP store in Gabs I have already gotten exponentially more use and cute ensembles out of it than my $40 US dollar Banana Republic catastrophe.
It has also been rocking my world to have been able to replace some of the clothes that through washing, stretching, sunbleaching, staining and my own shrinking have began to make me look like even more of a mess than someone without a mirror… hmmm. Thanks to those who made that possible.
Hope, Love, Peace, Gratitude- Holopeagra
It’s the simple things,
Jen
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Blood Diamond: With the commentary. From both the director and me, I guess....
I recently spent an afternoon roasting in my house watching "Blood Diamond" (while trying to think cool thoughts) with the commentary on. It was really interesting to watch it again, having now lived in Africa, and so close to Zimbabwe (Leonardo's character is Rhodesian) and Mozambique (where most of the film was shot).
I found I was able to relate to Jennifer Connolly's character as an American who comes to Africa pretty naive to the causes and reasons for the diamond conflict, much as I did regarding HIV/AIDS prior to coming to Botswana. Not that I ever thought it would be easy, but I had no idea the intricate web of culture, geography, economics, politics and the like that would so deeply influence this epidemic. For that alone I am grateful to be in the eye of the hurricane at a time in which I can truly experience the "crisis" from it's core. I have a much better understanding than I did only 6 short months ago when I came as a result of living this life with the people, and can only hope that I can do them justice in my reporting, reflection (and really blogging) of their struggle. Being here especially in rural Botswana with such very limited resources has made me passionate about, yet occasionally impotent to impact on this crisis, but the spirit of the people here does and will continue to inspire me to keep trying. ok enough soap box... (maybe? ok reading through that seems to be exactly what I kept going on ooops)
It was interesting for me to note that during the process of her character development Connolly spoke with female reporters who had been in Africa during the Sierra Leon blood diamond conflict times and the fall of Freetown, and how she made it a priority for her character to make specific efforts to maintain her femininity in an area where it's not necessarily safe to do so as a female. This is an iceberg I'm just at the tip of in living in Africa and it was interesting to note that that was something she considered. Another piece of her character I felt was very true to life is how she sort of occasionally has to flirt her way through her interactions with African men (both black and white) to get things she wants/needs, but remains very serious about and committed to her ultimate cause, which is documenting and reporting on the conflict.
Despite my own personal passion for and commitment to the causes I am working with in Botswana I find myself occasionally having to do the same thing. Older men often smile condescendingly at me, and talk down to me and respond very, very badly when I reply in the assertive, or correct them that no my name is not "Baby". When I do this I've found I will nearly always then be told no to any request I have. In a country where it takes forever to get anything done, and at many, many junctures you can be told no for little or no reason, especially if you're young and female, is it wrong to smile pretty? To not correct a man who calls you sweetie, (when my Setswana name means "Love" for god's sake) or insists (as the chief has done) that I am his niece, which is technically true, but do I really want to call him uncle Kgosi? Will I do it if it means that he will then support my project, knowing he has the absolute power to stop the progress in it's tracks? There are some ways in which I've often wondered if I've compromised my integrity in dealing with the men of this country on this level, the level of development, and change, and getting shit done. There are many ways in which despite these doubts I wouldn't do a thing I've done differently.
In the struggle (both universally and mine personally) for women's overall equality and my specific task of creating and supporting projects than can help these women, the ones I've come to know, of this village, earn income to support their families and become more empowered to stand up for their rights with their husbands I ask myself many questions. Am I copping out? Have I contradicted or am I compromising myself? Am I being disingenuous? Am I taking one for the team? Should I use what I have? Are these the questions women from and living all over the world have been asking themselves since the beginning of time?
Back to the movie:
I also noticed this time through the intricacy of DiCaprio's accent, how he uses a Rhodesian accent most of the time and a thicker Afrikaans accent when he is peaking with the general or someone of influence from South Africa. Having been surrounded by these particular accents a lot recently I ahve a greater appreciation for the vocal work he must have done.
The director talks about building the bar on the beach where DiCaprio and Connolly meet, and apparently it's still there in Mozambique and I think we're planning on going there. Many of the shots of the fall of Freetown sequence were apparently filmed in and around Maputo and we'll be there for at least a little bit (I'm always a sucker for being in places movies were filmed).
All in all, the movie seemed to take on some new meanings for me as I watch it living in Africa. Does anyone have a copy of The Last King of Scotland they'd like to send across the pond?
I found I was able to relate to Jennifer Connolly's character as an American who comes to Africa pretty naive to the causes and reasons for the diamond conflict, much as I did regarding HIV/AIDS prior to coming to Botswana. Not that I ever thought it would be easy, but I had no idea the intricate web of culture, geography, economics, politics and the like that would so deeply influence this epidemic. For that alone I am grateful to be in the eye of the hurricane at a time in which I can truly experience the "crisis" from it's core. I have a much better understanding than I did only 6 short months ago when I came as a result of living this life with the people, and can only hope that I can do them justice in my reporting, reflection (and really blogging) of their struggle. Being here especially in rural Botswana with such very limited resources has made me passionate about, yet occasionally impotent to impact on this crisis, but the spirit of the people here does and will continue to inspire me to keep trying. ok enough soap box... (maybe? ok reading through that seems to be exactly what I kept going on ooops)
It was interesting for me to note that during the process of her character development Connolly spoke with female reporters who had been in Africa during the Sierra Leon blood diamond conflict times and the fall of Freetown, and how she made it a priority for her character to make specific efforts to maintain her femininity in an area where it's not necessarily safe to do so as a female. This is an iceberg I'm just at the tip of in living in Africa and it was interesting to note that that was something she considered. Another piece of her character I felt was very true to life is how she sort of occasionally has to flirt her way through her interactions with African men (both black and white) to get things she wants/needs, but remains very serious about and committed to her ultimate cause, which is documenting and reporting on the conflict.
Despite my own personal passion for and commitment to the causes I am working with in Botswana I find myself occasionally having to do the same thing. Older men often smile condescendingly at me, and talk down to me and respond very, very badly when I reply in the assertive, or correct them that no my name is not "Baby". When I do this I've found I will nearly always then be told no to any request I have. In a country where it takes forever to get anything done, and at many, many junctures you can be told no for little or no reason, especially if you're young and female, is it wrong to smile pretty? To not correct a man who calls you sweetie, (when my Setswana name means "Love" for god's sake) or insists (as the chief has done) that I am his niece, which is technically true, but do I really want to call him uncle Kgosi? Will I do it if it means that he will then support my project, knowing he has the absolute power to stop the progress in it's tracks? There are some ways in which I've often wondered if I've compromised my integrity in dealing with the men of this country on this level, the level of development, and change, and getting shit done. There are many ways in which despite these doubts I wouldn't do a thing I've done differently.
In the struggle (both universally and mine personally) for women's overall equality and my specific task of creating and supporting projects than can help these women, the ones I've come to know, of this village, earn income to support their families and become more empowered to stand up for their rights with their husbands I ask myself many questions. Am I copping out? Have I contradicted or am I compromising myself? Am I being disingenuous? Am I taking one for the team? Should I use what I have? Are these the questions women from and living all over the world have been asking themselves since the beginning of time?
Back to the movie:
I also noticed this time through the intricacy of DiCaprio's accent, how he uses a Rhodesian accent most of the time and a thicker Afrikaans accent when he is peaking with the general or someone of influence from South Africa. Having been surrounded by these particular accents a lot recently I ahve a greater appreciation for the vocal work he must have done.
The director talks about building the bar on the beach where DiCaprio and Connolly meet, and apparently it's still there in Mozambique and I think we're planning on going there. Many of the shots of the fall of Freetown sequence were apparently filmed in and around Maputo and we'll be there for at least a little bit (I'm always a sucker for being in places movies were filmed).
All in all, the movie seemed to take on some new meanings for me as I watch it living in Africa. Does anyone have a copy of The Last King of Scotland they'd like to send across the pond?
Never would I ever....
Imagine that I would walk nearly five k's over hot sand in the blazing Tropic of Capricorn heat to use the Internet. But that's exactly what I just did ;-). I got a text from Thuso that the Internet was back up and went from the clinic to the school confirmed that it was indeed working, then from the school back to the clinic and then home to grab my laptop and back to the school. Round trip probably 5 k's.
There are a few other things I never dreamed I would be doing that have now become commonplace to me, including but not limited to:
Reusing my bathwater. I fill the tub every morning in case the water goes out sometime over the course of the day, and then use and reuse the water for whatever I can think of. It's often got sand and floaties in it, but I'm generally grateful for the wet, and occasionally the cool. This is what you do when you don't have electricity to have a fan! I have swam in lakes cleaner than what comes through my tap but I have generally found that I'm able to have good humor about it. After I sit in the water to cool down I leave it in for the point in a few hours when I will need to cool down again. It's just a few shades short of hot but I make it work. My mother has lovingly reminded me of the days when I had to boil water to bathe with. Dishes are cleaned, laundry cleaned, body cleaned. Sure maybe it's not "sanitary" but that concept makes me laugh these days.
Getting altogether too excited at the concept of sleeping in a tent. It is now so incredibly hot here that I can barely sleep through the night in the oven that is my house, (go figure, you get rid of the night terrors and they're replaced by heat. I swear to you I'm laughing!) and am thrilled that my mother has sent me a tent. I cannot wait for it to arrive so I can sleep in my yard. Prior to Africa I had been camping for real precisely once, and it was a nearly complete trauma. I never thought camping would be an upgrade, but it is and I love it. I think perhaps the reason I never wanted to camp in the past was somewhere deep down I had a feeling I would be doing it for two years straight in some distant day in teh future.
Baking. Like for a hobby. So far I've made (from scratch and occasionally without measuring cups): brownies, coffee cake, apple pie, and peach cobbler. I have to honestly say I wasn't sure I had the baking gene in me. Everything I've made has been edible and Simon (not typically a man of many compliments) has even said it's quite good. My mother and grandmother are shocked and surprised and my mom has said that if I come back from Africa knowing how to cook a miracle indeed will have occured. I have informed her that baking is not cooking, so don't anyone hold your breath.
Cohabiting with spiders, bugs and other creepy crawlies. I have a general policy at this point that if the size of a creature (including legs) is close to the size of my palm, they have to die. Anything smaller is generally friendly and someone to talk to. With of course the exception of the scorpion that recently stung me, but that was at J's house so that doesn't really count.
Imagined that I could be this hot. Tempurature wise that is, as my hair is beginning to "fro" as it grows. I wake sweating and fall asleep sweating. I drink 4 litres of water a day. The dust blows and sticks to me. My brainpower gets a little foggy from 11 am onward and by 2 my mind is completly useless and I stare into space. I dream about ice. I pant like a dog. It's lovely.
That I would become an expert at ID-ing animal shits. Whether it came from an elephant, cow, donkey, goat, dog, mouse or lizard I can tell you who did it. And that's kind of sad....
And many more things that I discover and soon become commonplace every day!
Africa is fun!
There are a few other things I never dreamed I would be doing that have now become commonplace to me, including but not limited to:
Reusing my bathwater. I fill the tub every morning in case the water goes out sometime over the course of the day, and then use and reuse the water for whatever I can think of. It's often got sand and floaties in it, but I'm generally grateful for the wet, and occasionally the cool. This is what you do when you don't have electricity to have a fan! I have swam in lakes cleaner than what comes through my tap but I have generally found that I'm able to have good humor about it. After I sit in the water to cool down I leave it in for the point in a few hours when I will need to cool down again. It's just a few shades short of hot but I make it work. My mother has lovingly reminded me of the days when I had to boil water to bathe with. Dishes are cleaned, laundry cleaned, body cleaned. Sure maybe it's not "sanitary" but that concept makes me laugh these days.
Getting altogether too excited at the concept of sleeping in a tent. It is now so incredibly hot here that I can barely sleep through the night in the oven that is my house, (go figure, you get rid of the night terrors and they're replaced by heat. I swear to you I'm laughing!) and am thrilled that my mother has sent me a tent. I cannot wait for it to arrive so I can sleep in my yard. Prior to Africa I had been camping for real precisely once, and it was a nearly complete trauma. I never thought camping would be an upgrade, but it is and I love it. I think perhaps the reason I never wanted to camp in the past was somewhere deep down I had a feeling I would be doing it for two years straight in some distant day in teh future.
Baking. Like for a hobby. So far I've made (from scratch and occasionally without measuring cups): brownies, coffee cake, apple pie, and peach cobbler. I have to honestly say I wasn't sure I had the baking gene in me. Everything I've made has been edible and Simon (not typically a man of many compliments) has even said it's quite good. My mother and grandmother are shocked and surprised and my mom has said that if I come back from Africa knowing how to cook a miracle indeed will have occured. I have informed her that baking is not cooking, so don't anyone hold your breath.
Cohabiting with spiders, bugs and other creepy crawlies. I have a general policy at this point that if the size of a creature (including legs) is close to the size of my palm, they have to die. Anything smaller is generally friendly and someone to talk to. With of course the exception of the scorpion that recently stung me, but that was at J's house so that doesn't really count.
Imagined that I could be this hot. Tempurature wise that is, as my hair is beginning to "fro" as it grows. I wake sweating and fall asleep sweating. I drink 4 litres of water a day. The dust blows and sticks to me. My brainpower gets a little foggy from 11 am onward and by 2 my mind is completly useless and I stare into space. I dream about ice. I pant like a dog. It's lovely.
That I would become an expert at ID-ing animal shits. Whether it came from an elephant, cow, donkey, goat, dog, mouse or lizard I can tell you who did it. And that's kind of sad....
And many more things that I discover and soon become commonplace every day!
Africa is fun!
Nearly 6 months in Africa... and I miss you.
And I sit on my floor, alone, sweating in the concrete oven that is my home, balanced in some unsettling yoga pose, trying to quiet the mind that refuses to be silenced. I listen to the song that will always remind me of the he that has always been there, in so very many capacities, the times we had, the history there, the love lost and found and misplaced but never forgotten. The ways in which he's been right, the times he's been wrong, the me he's always known to my core, better than I of myself on occasion, the me he has understood in ways that only history and far too many drunken nights and levels of disclosure will allow. The love we’ve had that would never truly work in reality is in it’s current incarnation a mutual respect and a lifelong friendship. The times I've seen inside his soul when he gifted me the opportunity to see inside his vulnerability. It seems his turn has come in the series of moments dedicated to those that I miss, those that I've come to ache for.
Flashing through my mind like a random photo screensaver, the good times, the bad times, the wonderful casts of characters make their cameos and take their bows. The times and people of a different era remind me of who and what I've left behind. As my life is so disarmingly different here, it's easy to overlook the presence of those I carry with me. Sometimes it sneaks up on me, overtakes me, steals my breath and brings me to my knees in grief, causes me to bargain and barter with the powers that be that will not allow me just one Saturday morning in my mother's kitchen, talking over tea and nonsense, one Sunday afternoon dinner with section K, one more movie date with Karly. One more night out with him, in any city or country in the world, at any museum or bar or coffee shop, as we always seem to be able to translate the words we couldn't quite speak aloud through these venues.
These are things I long for, and come to terms with not having in stages, but the grass is always greener, right? The mourning also stems from the knowledge, the absolute certainty, that even if I were to have these things I wish for, they would never again be the same, as time passes I change irrevocably, for better or worse, through sickness and health, in this crazy commitment I've forsaken all others to undertake with myself. I know I will never again fit within that box; I will fail should I attempt to wrap myself in the skin I've shed and outgrown.
I hear from the he who has been here, who's slept in the very bed I've made for myself and truly knows the extent of the life I live in Seronga, and I hear the longing and confusion in his voice, I connect with the changes in the he he's become, and I fear for myself. His sorrow and resignation resonate with me, and yet I am inspired by his strength. I know in the depths of my soul that there's nothing different, nothing to change, but that doesn't stop me from missing it. The world I left behind. All of it together helps teach me acceptance, that elusive lesson I've been stalking all my life. I wrestle with the concept, on good days surrendering to it, on bad days shadow boxing the invisible opponent that I could see should I look in the mirror. In the end I decide to give it a rest, to dunk myself in the standing water in the tub and try my hand again tomorrow. I hope for sweet dreams, and perhaps a chance to see him and all the others there.
Flashing through my mind like a random photo screensaver, the good times, the bad times, the wonderful casts of characters make their cameos and take their bows. The times and people of a different era remind me of who and what I've left behind. As my life is so disarmingly different here, it's easy to overlook the presence of those I carry with me. Sometimes it sneaks up on me, overtakes me, steals my breath and brings me to my knees in grief, causes me to bargain and barter with the powers that be that will not allow me just one Saturday morning in my mother's kitchen, talking over tea and nonsense, one Sunday afternoon dinner with section K, one more movie date with Karly. One more night out with him, in any city or country in the world, at any museum or bar or coffee shop, as we always seem to be able to translate the words we couldn't quite speak aloud through these venues.
These are things I long for, and come to terms with not having in stages, but the grass is always greener, right? The mourning also stems from the knowledge, the absolute certainty, that even if I were to have these things I wish for, they would never again be the same, as time passes I change irrevocably, for better or worse, through sickness and health, in this crazy commitment I've forsaken all others to undertake with myself. I know I will never again fit within that box; I will fail should I attempt to wrap myself in the skin I've shed and outgrown.
I hear from the he who has been here, who's slept in the very bed I've made for myself and truly knows the extent of the life I live in Seronga, and I hear the longing and confusion in his voice, I connect with the changes in the he he's become, and I fear for myself. His sorrow and resignation resonate with me, and yet I am inspired by his strength. I know in the depths of my soul that there's nothing different, nothing to change, but that doesn't stop me from missing it. The world I left behind. All of it together helps teach me acceptance, that elusive lesson I've been stalking all my life. I wrestle with the concept, on good days surrendering to it, on bad days shadow boxing the invisible opponent that I could see should I look in the mirror. In the end I decide to give it a rest, to dunk myself in the standing water in the tub and try my hand again tomorrow. I hope for sweet dreams, and perhaps a chance to see him and all the others there.
On Famingoes and Iridescence
After I abruptly shortened my time in Maun (in Africa it's ok to be a flake!) to join A and Z on the cross country voyage (you gotta love that concept in a country the size of Texas) we had a small detour at a beautiful camp between here and there. After a detoured night of debauchery and dancing on the bar the likes of which I suspected I was no longer capable of at the advanced age of 27, (oh how we surprise ourselves… I ended up in the pool as well as dancing on the bar) we arrived at Cracker and A’s house in Sua. We stop at the internet cafe where I part with the best 13 pula I've ever spent in this country on internet of comparable or better speed that the good old US of A. I got through all 127 emails that had collected in my inbox as a result of my three week struggle with the phantom internet in Seronga. We grabbed some "sundowners" a lovely term for drinks consumed in nature, and generally in public while observing one of the phenomenal African sunsets. The concept of sundowners is a product of a place where the laws concerning public consumption are a complete and unenforceable joke. It’s another of the things that make me speculate that perhaps I am indeed in the Wild West or some other crazy last frontier.
We make our way to the salt mines, where they pump the salty liquid from deep in the Earth and flood the pans after which they harvest the salt which is left. We are lucky to have access to the closed fields because Cracker has done his PhD research there.
We cross through the ominous looking gates and I am immediately confronted with one of the more confusing of the many unusual sights I've encountered in Africa. It begins as we drive over the hill and I see the snow. I literally shake my head and squint and have to remind myself that in the heat this sight is impossible; this salty sand is just really white. And thick. We drive on, seeing herds (this word should probably be flocks, but really when you see these big birds running across the pan you would think herd as well!) of ostriches, again causing a bit of inner turmoil as I thought we would be looking at flamingoes. We crest another hill and I am amazed to observe a complete and total lack of horizon. I can see where the sand meets the water and then there is a line caused by the tide of flamingoes,(and I immediately wonder if there are several trailer parks in Blaine, MN that are missing their yard ornaments) but where the sky meets the water is a complete mystery. There is no horizon. Just the sky, and the reflection of the sky in the water, with no differentiation line as to where one ends and the other begins. I again squint, question the veracity of my hangover and the possibility that I have had a phantom hangover that must have come back without showing any signs of it's existence until now, when it decided to follow me though the looking glass to this bizarre place.
It quickly became one of the top ten most awe inspiring sights I have witnessed in my young life (Sorry, Seville at Semanta Santa. You’ve just been served). The air feels so heavy, yet not really humid; it's drier and feels as though it is sucking the moisture out of your very skin. I walk carefully through the discarded feathers that cause the whole beach to look like the street the day after a drag queen's birthday celebration, and let my feet sink into the stinky mixture of salty mud and flamingo shit. I am awestruck by the colors in the sky, and the perfection of the sun's reflection of itself in the water. The place has an opalescence about it that reminds me of the inside of a clam type shell. The flamingoes honk and grunt, and snort verbally in absolute contrast to the brilliant shades of pink and gorgeousness of their appearance. I sit on the gritty sand and watch the sun sink into not the water that reflects its beauty to itself, but the haze that causes the colors and absence of horizon. I smile and am grateful I said yes.
We make our way to the salt mines, where they pump the salty liquid from deep in the Earth and flood the pans after which they harvest the salt which is left. We are lucky to have access to the closed fields because Cracker has done his PhD research there.
We cross through the ominous looking gates and I am immediately confronted with one of the more confusing of the many unusual sights I've encountered in Africa. It begins as we drive over the hill and I see the snow. I literally shake my head and squint and have to remind myself that in the heat this sight is impossible; this salty sand is just really white. And thick. We drive on, seeing herds (this word should probably be flocks, but really when you see these big birds running across the pan you would think herd as well!) of ostriches, again causing a bit of inner turmoil as I thought we would be looking at flamingoes. We crest another hill and I am amazed to observe a complete and total lack of horizon. I can see where the sand meets the water and then there is a line caused by the tide of flamingoes,(and I immediately wonder if there are several trailer parks in Blaine, MN that are missing their yard ornaments) but where the sky meets the water is a complete mystery. There is no horizon. Just the sky, and the reflection of the sky in the water, with no differentiation line as to where one ends and the other begins. I again squint, question the veracity of my hangover and the possibility that I have had a phantom hangover that must have come back without showing any signs of it's existence until now, when it decided to follow me though the looking glass to this bizarre place.
It quickly became one of the top ten most awe inspiring sights I have witnessed in my young life (Sorry, Seville at Semanta Santa. You’ve just been served). The air feels so heavy, yet not really humid; it's drier and feels as though it is sucking the moisture out of your very skin. I walk carefully through the discarded feathers that cause the whole beach to look like the street the day after a drag queen's birthday celebration, and let my feet sink into the stinky mixture of salty mud and flamingo shit. I am awestruck by the colors in the sky, and the perfection of the sun's reflection of itself in the water. The place has an opalescence about it that reminds me of the inside of a clam type shell. The flamingoes honk and grunt, and snort verbally in absolute contrast to the brilliant shades of pink and gorgeousness of their appearance. I sit on the gritty sand and watch the sun sink into not the water that reflects its beauty to itself, but the haze that causes the colors and absence of horizon. I smile and am grateful I said yes.
On Pirates, the Delta and Fashion...
In hindsight, it may not have been the smartest decision I’ve ever made…
(But it’s still up there for fun and hilarity.)
To say yes when Simon called asking if I wanted to go out on the houseboats to meet his clients for dinner and drinks, leaving at 5:00 as the sun was beginning to set, but I said sure anyways. He had been gone for a week, and I was getting hungry! Knowing that whatever Simon has in store is generally going to be an adventure of some sort, I thought, why not.
So I met him at the office of the houseboats, his first words to me being, “Didn’t you bring a jacket, silly girl?” The summer winds had recently picked up and I had left it at home when I nearly fainted from carrying it, my bag and two parcels from the post (thanks mom and Karly!!!) at lunchtime. “Well, looks like you’re going to suffer, but you’ll learn, won’t you?” he growled as he made his way down to the landing and the boat.
M, my new S. African mother saved the day by insisting that I couldn’t go without a jacket, and brought me one about 4 sizes too big (hey I didn’t care, beggars can’t be choosers.. ) and off we went.
My first inclination that this might not be the best of ideas came as Simon fired up the outboard motor on the boat… Using… a flathead screwdriver. Sparks and smoke poured out of the engine, but hey, I rationalized, if he’s been all the way up the delta in this boat and it’s still fine, what the hell. I climbed aboard.
We met up with the clients, who were lovely folks from S. Africa and Europe, and had a nice time watching the sunset, talking and taking pictures. Dusk came and we went to the actual houseboat, and this was my first time on one.
Quite a good dinner of butternut squash soup, real meat, salad and lovely conversation followed. I’ve found I’m more intrigued by conversations consisting of a variety of different accents and on this occasion I was pleasantly entertained by a plethora.
By the time all the clients had gone to bed, and it was only Krauser, Simon, Hugh the pilot and I, I pointed out that it might be time for all Cinderellas to head on home to bed, the small hope creeping into the back of my mind that Krauser might just tell us to stay on the boat that night, how after all, would we possibly get home on the boat, in the delta in the dark?
The motor on same boat that only hours earlier had to be started with a screwdriver, and had no lights, stickers, buoys, anything.
I would soon find out. We found our way on board by jumping from the houseboat across a few platforms and onto the small boat. There were workers lighting the way with small flashlights, and I hear Simon laughing a bit maniacally as he fires up the engine, again with the screwdriver. I briefly contemplate the physics of the electrical situation present and wonder what Simon’s chances of being electrocuted are, and also spend a moment or two trying to refresh my memory on that boat safety class we were required to take along with our driver’s permit test in the great state of MN. I was just beginning to grab a glimpse of a memory of the manual when I remembered that by that time the teacher I had had (who had been my mother’s driving instructor as well) was so close to retirement and his pension that I had been the one scoring the tests for the class, as one of the better (Dependable? Trustworthy?? What? Who? Me?) students (albeit in hindsight not necessarily one of the better drivers) I was given a great deal of responsibility. Being myself I can’t imagine I didn’t take full advantage of the situation by not bothering to study too terribly hard on the boating portion. Still, I think boats fall into that small category of machines with motors that I haven’t crashed at some point (a category that does not include cars, four wheelers and riding lawnmowers). I’m kind of certain I could drive one? But I digress.
Through the pitch black delta we sped, a moonless light with stars to pretend to light the way but no real lights but the ash from Simon’s cigarette. I’m relatively certain he was navigating by feel, and I swore I once overheard Simon muttering to himself about the boat finding it’s way home….I inquired about the possibility of turning on a light or torch of some sort, but Simon grunted that no, we couldn’t do that as it would surely upset the hippos. Great.
Along the narrow channels we went, weaving around the papyrus banks, the long reeds bending over to nearly smack me in the face as it’s not like I could see to avoid them. The motor was not sounding not the healthiest I’ve ever heard an outboard run. I had a few visions of Simon and I as pirates, and how cute I would look with a red bandana and my new black and white striped tank top my sister sent me for my birthday. My mind then began to distract itself by wondering if perhaps pirates were in this season, and if not they surely would be next season, in which case I would be a trendsetter. It was one of those situations in which all you can do is laugh, (as you’re likely all cried out for the week or perhaps month) text 50 of your closest friends and hope you live to blog the tale…
(But it’s still up there for fun and hilarity.)
To say yes when Simon called asking if I wanted to go out on the houseboats to meet his clients for dinner and drinks, leaving at 5:00 as the sun was beginning to set, but I said sure anyways. He had been gone for a week, and I was getting hungry! Knowing that whatever Simon has in store is generally going to be an adventure of some sort, I thought, why not.
So I met him at the office of the houseboats, his first words to me being, “Didn’t you bring a jacket, silly girl?” The summer winds had recently picked up and I had left it at home when I nearly fainted from carrying it, my bag and two parcels from the post (thanks mom and Karly!!!) at lunchtime. “Well, looks like you’re going to suffer, but you’ll learn, won’t you?” he growled as he made his way down to the landing and the boat.
M, my new S. African mother saved the day by insisting that I couldn’t go without a jacket, and brought me one about 4 sizes too big (hey I didn’t care, beggars can’t be choosers.. ) and off we went.
My first inclination that this might not be the best of ideas came as Simon fired up the outboard motor on the boat… Using… a flathead screwdriver. Sparks and smoke poured out of the engine, but hey, I rationalized, if he’s been all the way up the delta in this boat and it’s still fine, what the hell. I climbed aboard.
We met up with the clients, who were lovely folks from S. Africa and Europe, and had a nice time watching the sunset, talking and taking pictures. Dusk came and we went to the actual houseboat, and this was my first time on one.
Quite a good dinner of butternut squash soup, real meat, salad and lovely conversation followed. I’ve found I’m more intrigued by conversations consisting of a variety of different accents and on this occasion I was pleasantly entertained by a plethora.
By the time all the clients had gone to bed, and it was only Krauser, Simon, Hugh the pilot and I, I pointed out that it might be time for all Cinderellas to head on home to bed, the small hope creeping into the back of my mind that Krauser might just tell us to stay on the boat that night, how after all, would we possibly get home on the boat, in the delta in the dark?
The motor on same boat that only hours earlier had to be started with a screwdriver, and had no lights, stickers, buoys, anything.
I would soon find out. We found our way on board by jumping from the houseboat across a few platforms and onto the small boat. There were workers lighting the way with small flashlights, and I hear Simon laughing a bit maniacally as he fires up the engine, again with the screwdriver. I briefly contemplate the physics of the electrical situation present and wonder what Simon’s chances of being electrocuted are, and also spend a moment or two trying to refresh my memory on that boat safety class we were required to take along with our driver’s permit test in the great state of MN. I was just beginning to grab a glimpse of a memory of the manual when I remembered that by that time the teacher I had had (who had been my mother’s driving instructor as well) was so close to retirement and his pension that I had been the one scoring the tests for the class, as one of the better (Dependable? Trustworthy?? What? Who? Me?) students (albeit in hindsight not necessarily one of the better drivers) I was given a great deal of responsibility. Being myself I can’t imagine I didn’t take full advantage of the situation by not bothering to study too terribly hard on the boating portion. Still, I think boats fall into that small category of machines with motors that I haven’t crashed at some point (a category that does not include cars, four wheelers and riding lawnmowers). I’m kind of certain I could drive one? But I digress.
Through the pitch black delta we sped, a moonless light with stars to pretend to light the way but no real lights but the ash from Simon’s cigarette. I’m relatively certain he was navigating by feel, and I swore I once overheard Simon muttering to himself about the boat finding it’s way home….I inquired about the possibility of turning on a light or torch of some sort, but Simon grunted that no, we couldn’t do that as it would surely upset the hippos. Great.
Along the narrow channels we went, weaving around the papyrus banks, the long reeds bending over to nearly smack me in the face as it’s not like I could see to avoid them. The motor was not sounding not the healthiest I’ve ever heard an outboard run. I had a few visions of Simon and I as pirates, and how cute I would look with a red bandana and my new black and white striped tank top my sister sent me for my birthday. My mind then began to distract itself by wondering if perhaps pirates were in this season, and if not they surely would be next season, in which case I would be a trendsetter. It was one of those situations in which all you can do is laugh, (as you’re likely all cried out for the week or perhaps month) text 50 of your closest friends and hope you live to blog the tale…
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