War and Rain
Denver is High Plains. Sukhumi is sub-tropical. They are very different.
Right now I am experiencing the wonder of summer sub-tropics - but exactly what does “sub-tropics” mean here? Sub means below, so does it mean that Abkhazia is below the two great tropical cities St Petersburg and Moscow???? I wonder whether the writer of the article I read before coming here describing the climate in Abkhazia as “subtropical” has actually been here. If I were writing I would say the climate is cold and wet in the winter, hot and very wet in the summer. That’s it. Forget the subtropical stuff.
Oh, who cares. It rains. And when it rains here in the sub-tropics, it really rains. And what is nicer than awakening to a soft rain, that soon turns into a thunderous downpour, complete with lightening that of course shuts down the electrical supply for hours or days. And never mind that last night it was one of those scorching inferno nights, where, as we sat on the terrace celebrating Jasco’s (Japanese nurse) birthday we were all sweating and laughing and recalling the events of the day. And now, it’s morning and those who didn’t shower last night are eager to shower, but there is no water…..well except the roaring sea down the street or the gazillions of droplets coming from the sky. There is water, it’s just not coming from our showerhead.
Oh well. Another day. More Rain. No electricity. No shower. Floods in nearby villages.
Comments on change:
Our Field Coordinator (MSF “boss” for Sukhumi) decided to leave. In addition we have reduced two positions in the national team due to down-sizing. Change.
And when there is change here, there is increasing tension that more change is just around the corner. That is what happens when you live in a place where war has dominated the undercurrent of reality. Reality here is that “what has happened is likely to happen again”. A little bit of war or rain (change) often turns into a lot of war or rain ( more change). These “realities” are rooted in natural, understandable reactions to real events in the lives of the Abkhazians. Relentless war is real. Relentless rain is real. Change is real and causes real problems.
And so we live with our Abkhazian colleagues, their tensions and reactions to these staff changes, knowing that they are asking who is next to leave? When is the next power outage?
When will the next war break out?
And I who know little about war on my homeland, (except Gettysberg, Shiloh, Pearl Harbor) touching my life, wonder why I struggle to understand the reactions of those in the midst of cruel, unintelligible actions against innocents and those who want to protect the innocents, war.
As months go by I listen, see, feel, and begin to know more about fear, despair, hope, how it is rooted in human experience, a new kind of beauty.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Djugelia
Djugelia is dying. We know it. She knows it. She has end stage kidney disease and there is no dialysis here, no chance to beat the odds, no reason for hope for another fall harvest. The death-reality happens every day in every place on earth. And so it is here.
What is remarkable is the way the death-reality is expressed. We have choices about many eventualities. We also have choices about how we live the reality that death is eminent. Djugelia has made her choice. It is honorable. She has chosen to return to her very, very humble home, to be surrounded by neighbors who will visit her and will offer human kindness.
She can offer gratitude for what has been, then acceptance of what lies ahead. This is beauty.
And a gift for those able to witness it.
What is remarkable is the way the death-reality is expressed. We have choices about many eventualities. We also have choices about how we live the reality that death is eminent. Djugelia has made her choice. It is honorable. She has chosen to return to her very, very humble home, to be surrounded by neighbors who will visit her and will offer human kindness.
She can offer gratitude for what has been, then acceptance of what lies ahead. This is beauty.
And a gift for those able to witness it.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Happy Honking!!!
Language
It is a mystery. It is subtle. It is a link between thou and me, other and self. Of course sometimes with me “other” and “self” are the same person, conversing among themselves………
This has been a place and a time to let language express itself without my always requiring interpretation or understanding. In fact, here, most of the time language is happening with no interpretation.
Inga would be disappointed, I expect, if she heard me say this. Her full-time job is making sure I understand what is being said by others and making sure what I say is understood by others. She is brilliant interpreter, she is patient, she is executing her craft with skill and kindness. What she does is interpret Abkhaz and Russian words. There is this other thing, Language, that is happening also. The language of Russian is becoming increasingly familiar to me. PLEASE do not interpret that last statement as “Genie can understand Russian”. I CAN NOT. The language, not the words, are becoming familiar.
I see language patterns, I hear common language expressions and familiar phrases, I pick up the “gist” of a conversation, and even by the pitch of what is spoken, I surmise an underlying emotion, AND I understand how much of the Russian language, including 99% of the words, I do not know. It is fun.
I am not taking formal Russian lessons right now. My teacher’s father is ill and she is in Russia tending to him. Quite honestly the lessons have not been so useful. I spend more time learning what my teacher (God bless her and her patience) wants me to learn and not what I want to learn. I have several great tools I use regularly; Russian language-learning books and a dictionary that are serving me quite well. What I want to do is to talk. Not conjugate verbs.
The infinitive, “to want” works for me, and those to whom I am speaking. Instead of I want, he wants, she wants, you want, they want, I will want, you may want…….etc, I just say “Want yablaka” And an apple appears. Then I say “Skolka (how much)” and a number is spoken - and sometimes I give them 70 ruble instead of 80 ruble because “seym” and “voseym” sound similar when spoken quickly. Usually, I get change back. Occasionally, I have been ripped off for my stupidity. Such is life.
If I come again to a Russian speaking mission, I will dig into conjugation. For now, I want convivial repartee, laughter, and lots of smiles!!!!!! Beats the socks off of conjugation!!!!!!!
I wanted a hair cut today. It is Saturday, and I had time to go to the market, get a haircut, etc. I navigated a conversation with the lady in the beauty shop and got a hair cut, instead of hair color or hair perm or hair annihilation, although some may question the end-result calling it more towards annihilation than cut. But what the heck, the language of “paz shalsta, ya kha choo pas tree git yhea” got me a nice summer “do”. (As you can tell, I do not have a Cyrillic alphabet on this computer, so you get the English-sound-alike version of what I said and not the real Russian look-alike version). It is fun, this language stuff.
There is another language that I am also learning. It is automobile horn honking language. It is as foreign as the Cyrillic alphabet and the Russian language.
There are honks for many occasions such as “Hi There”, “Get out of the way you bastard”, “Excuse me, you are blocking the bleeping road”, or “You idiot, don’t you know I am louder, stronger, faster and stupider than you, and that means I can mow you down, unless of course, you mow me down first”, and “This intersection is blocked and so I am going to sit on my horn until everyone is so annoyed they will get the bleep out of here so I can get on my way”…….and on and on and on.
I wish there were books and dictionaries for the Abkhaz honks, so that I could begin to learn how to understand them too. I am afraid I will leave here completely incapable of interpreting a single honk, other than the familiar “I will kill you if you don’t move, lady” honk.
What I am really wondering is whether the driver has to conjugate the honk language just like one has to conjugate the spoken language???????
I think so.
I hope each of you will give your horn a good ‘ol American HONK for me today. The one that says “Hey there, I am honking my horn because my friend Genie asked me to honk and American honk, otherwise I really have no reason for honking!!!!!”
Happy Honking!!
It is a mystery. It is subtle. It is a link between thou and me, other and self. Of course sometimes with me “other” and “self” are the same person, conversing among themselves………
This has been a place and a time to let language express itself without my always requiring interpretation or understanding. In fact, here, most of the time language is happening with no interpretation.
Inga would be disappointed, I expect, if she heard me say this. Her full-time job is making sure I understand what is being said by others and making sure what I say is understood by others. She is brilliant interpreter, she is patient, she is executing her craft with skill and kindness. What she does is interpret Abkhaz and Russian words. There is this other thing, Language, that is happening also. The language of Russian is becoming increasingly familiar to me. PLEASE do not interpret that last statement as “Genie can understand Russian”. I CAN NOT. The language, not the words, are becoming familiar.
I see language patterns, I hear common language expressions and familiar phrases, I pick up the “gist” of a conversation, and even by the pitch of what is spoken, I surmise an underlying emotion, AND I understand how much of the Russian language, including 99% of the words, I do not know. It is fun.
I am not taking formal Russian lessons right now. My teacher’s father is ill and she is in Russia tending to him. Quite honestly the lessons have not been so useful. I spend more time learning what my teacher (God bless her and her patience) wants me to learn and not what I want to learn. I have several great tools I use regularly; Russian language-learning books and a dictionary that are serving me quite well. What I want to do is to talk. Not conjugate verbs.
The infinitive, “to want” works for me, and those to whom I am speaking. Instead of I want, he wants, she wants, you want, they want, I will want, you may want…….etc, I just say “Want yablaka” And an apple appears. Then I say “Skolka (how much)” and a number is spoken - and sometimes I give them 70 ruble instead of 80 ruble because “seym” and “voseym” sound similar when spoken quickly. Usually, I get change back. Occasionally, I have been ripped off for my stupidity. Such is life.
If I come again to a Russian speaking mission, I will dig into conjugation. For now, I want convivial repartee, laughter, and lots of smiles!!!!!! Beats the socks off of conjugation!!!!!!!
I wanted a hair cut today. It is Saturday, and I had time to go to the market, get a haircut, etc. I navigated a conversation with the lady in the beauty shop and got a hair cut, instead of hair color or hair perm or hair annihilation, although some may question the end-result calling it more towards annihilation than cut. But what the heck, the language of “paz shalsta, ya kha choo pas tree git yhea” got me a nice summer “do”. (As you can tell, I do not have a Cyrillic alphabet on this computer, so you get the English-sound-alike version of what I said and not the real Russian look-alike version). It is fun, this language stuff.
There is another language that I am also learning. It is automobile horn honking language. It is as foreign as the Cyrillic alphabet and the Russian language.
There are honks for many occasions such as “Hi There”, “Get out of the way you bastard”, “Excuse me, you are blocking the bleeping road”, or “You idiot, don’t you know I am louder, stronger, faster and stupider than you, and that means I can mow you down, unless of course, you mow me down first”, and “This intersection is blocked and so I am going to sit on my horn until everyone is so annoyed they will get the bleep out of here so I can get on my way”…….and on and on and on.
I wish there were books and dictionaries for the Abkhaz honks, so that I could begin to learn how to understand them too. I am afraid I will leave here completely incapable of interpreting a single honk, other than the familiar “I will kill you if you don’t move, lady” honk.
What I am really wondering is whether the driver has to conjugate the honk language just like one has to conjugate the spoken language???????
I think so.
I hope each of you will give your horn a good ‘ol American HONK for me today. The one that says “Hey there, I am honking my horn because my friend Genie asked me to honk and American honk, otherwise I really have no reason for honking!!!!!”
Happy Honking!!
Dolphins and Yogurt Pie
Whew, the dog days are upon Abkhazia, and I expect they are upon the good ol’ US of A as well.
But I have the sea two and a half blocks away, so how can I complain?
I have been walking-jogging every morning before work. The scale says I have lost 10 pounds, but I am doubting its veracity, 5 is more likely, or maybe I haven’t calculated kgs into lbs properly. Anyway, now that the sea is a perfect temperature in the morning, I will replace the sweaty walk-jog for a swim. This morning the dolphins were jumping.
I can’t wait to be at the right spot and the right time and swim with them. They jump high in lovely patterns….synchronized swimmers. I can almost hear them saying “Wheeeeeeeee”. It is beautiful. I have tried to capture them on film, (and swim fast enough to meet them) but every time I swim to shore and grab the camera, and ready the shutter to capture the moment, they are gone (and every time I try to swim with them I have never been able to swim fast enough or far enough to “capture” them either). It’s a game we play, the dolphins and I. This beauty is much less about the physical wonder and much more about the experience of wonder. The gracefulness, the silence, the sweet playfulness that I experience is “real” for me even though the dolphins are not likely to consider themselves sweet or playful or even graceful for that matter. They are swimming and eating breakfast. What I have absorbed from the moment, my experience of beauty is my own. Others might say, “Look at the dolphins swimming, nice huh?”
My camera is not suited to capture gracefulness or sweetness anyway.
Tonight our Burmese doctor will make dinner- Burmese-style. Yum.
It’s about time for me to make another apple pie, but it is so hot, I thought I might make a cold fruit pie - like a berry yogurt or berry custard pie. Great, except I can’t find any vanilla extract to make the custard. Any ideas? Any recipes? I guess I could use vodka (since there is plenty of it - and it’s cheap) to give the custard a bit of flavor - maybe cognac would be better. Of course a yummy graham cracker crust would be great too, but you can already guess there are no graham crackers, in fact there are no crackers of any kind here.
So I will make a regular flour, butter, salt and water crust, make a custard with some flavorful spirits and add fresh berries…..we’ll see, nothing like making do in the “wilderness”, roughing it.
I think we are going to go camping in a couple of weekends - to the mountains. I am already excited…..cool, beautiful, fun……
Well, off to the office to check the cold-chain - (drugs that require refrigeration). It’s my weekend to check 5 fridges twice a day to make sure they are the proper temperature. Then off to the market I go to see what I can find in the way of “custard spirits” and to get some shampoo - always a trick to make sure I can decipher whether I am buying shampoo, body wash, conditioner or body lotion. Last shampoo purchase ended up with my hair being washed by a lovely smelling body lotion……
It’s all about having a good time, right?
But I have the sea two and a half blocks away, so how can I complain?
I have been walking-jogging every morning before work. The scale says I have lost 10 pounds, but I am doubting its veracity, 5 is more likely, or maybe I haven’t calculated kgs into lbs properly. Anyway, now that the sea is a perfect temperature in the morning, I will replace the sweaty walk-jog for a swim. This morning the dolphins were jumping.
I can’t wait to be at the right spot and the right time and swim with them. They jump high in lovely patterns….synchronized swimmers. I can almost hear them saying “Wheeeeeeeee”. It is beautiful. I have tried to capture them on film, (and swim fast enough to meet them) but every time I swim to shore and grab the camera, and ready the shutter to capture the moment, they are gone (and every time I try to swim with them I have never been able to swim fast enough or far enough to “capture” them either). It’s a game we play, the dolphins and I. This beauty is much less about the physical wonder and much more about the experience of wonder. The gracefulness, the silence, the sweet playfulness that I experience is “real” for me even though the dolphins are not likely to consider themselves sweet or playful or even graceful for that matter. They are swimming and eating breakfast. What I have absorbed from the moment, my experience of beauty is my own. Others might say, “Look at the dolphins swimming, nice huh?”
My camera is not suited to capture gracefulness or sweetness anyway.
Tonight our Burmese doctor will make dinner- Burmese-style. Yum.
It’s about time for me to make another apple pie, but it is so hot, I thought I might make a cold fruit pie - like a berry yogurt or berry custard pie. Great, except I can’t find any vanilla extract to make the custard. Any ideas? Any recipes? I guess I could use vodka (since there is plenty of it - and it’s cheap) to give the custard a bit of flavor - maybe cognac would be better. Of course a yummy graham cracker crust would be great too, but you can already guess there are no graham crackers, in fact there are no crackers of any kind here.
So I will make a regular flour, butter, salt and water crust, make a custard with some flavorful spirits and add fresh berries…..we’ll see, nothing like making do in the “wilderness”, roughing it.
I think we are going to go camping in a couple of weekends - to the mountains. I am already excited…..cool, beautiful, fun……
Well, off to the office to check the cold-chain - (drugs that require refrigeration). It’s my weekend to check 5 fridges twice a day to make sure they are the proper temperature. Then off to the market I go to see what I can find in the way of “custard spirits” and to get some shampoo - always a trick to make sure I can decipher whether I am buying shampoo, body wash, conditioner or body lotion. Last shampoo purchase ended up with my hair being washed by a lovely smelling body lotion……
It’s all about having a good time, right?
Monday, July 6, 2009
After 4 months time, with all the war and work, the rats and rain, the smells, the struggles, the sadness’s, today I finally let homesickness come into my room.
And she stayed awhile, and comforted me while I cried. She wasn’t really a sickness as much as an imaginary presence that quietly entered when I wasn’t looking.
She came while I was listening to music. She lured me into wonderful, soothing places of joy and melancholy.
It wasn’t really that I wanted to be home, it was more about wanting to be hugged and loved in a way “home” hugs and loves. With purpose, with gentleness, with acceptance. With flesh and blood. I wanted some of that today. Just a little bit of “home” to sit with me while I cried. No need to talk or solve anything. Just be here with me.
This imaginary presence told me about:
my family that has given me love and titles (mom, wife, sister, daughter, cousin,and my favorite title, babooska-grandmother), offered go-get-‘em-girl support and plenty of patience,
my friends that have brought their immense depth to share with me and offered me renewal and challenge beyond my dreams and wishes
my places that provide a large allotment of pleasure, our mountain cabin, favorite walking spots, friends homes………..
I was grateful for “homesickness” or what I now call “home-imagination”.
She didn’t disrupt the quiet fan that was keeping me cool, nor was her intensity sufficient to drown out the gentle rain. She was noticeable but barely.
I wished home-imagination had a body. I wished that body was sitting here holding me and singing to me or dancing with me or simply being here.
She left after a while. She didn’t say goodbye. I guess she will return.
And she stayed awhile, and comforted me while I cried. She wasn’t really a sickness as much as an imaginary presence that quietly entered when I wasn’t looking.
She came while I was listening to music. She lured me into wonderful, soothing places of joy and melancholy.
It wasn’t really that I wanted to be home, it was more about wanting to be hugged and loved in a way “home” hugs and loves. With purpose, with gentleness, with acceptance. With flesh and blood. I wanted some of that today. Just a little bit of “home” to sit with me while I cried. No need to talk or solve anything. Just be here with me.
This imaginary presence told me about:
my family that has given me love and titles (mom, wife, sister, daughter, cousin,and my favorite title, babooska-grandmother), offered go-get-‘em-girl support and plenty of patience,
my friends that have brought their immense depth to share with me and offered me renewal and challenge beyond my dreams and wishes
my places that provide a large allotment of pleasure, our mountain cabin, favorite walking spots, friends homes………..
I was grateful for “homesickness” or what I now call “home-imagination”.
She didn’t disrupt the quiet fan that was keeping me cool, nor was her intensity sufficient to drown out the gentle rain. She was noticeable but barely.
I wished home-imagination had a body. I wished that body was sitting here holding me and singing to me or dancing with me or simply being here.
She left after a while. She didn’t say goodbye. I guess she will return.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Under the Chicken Coop
Outside our office is a chicken coop that was previously occupied by chickens. Now, it sits empty. The virtue of an abandoned chicken coop is the dirt underneath the coop. It’s great fertilizer. Especially when it has been “ripening” for a year.
So, this spring I decided to take advantage of the coop poop and scoop some for the little garden I was planting….tomatoes, zucchini, lettuce…etc
The story begins. On this particular spring day, the day I was going to harvest the chicken poop, the soil was soggy around the chicken coop due to rain. Not a problem. I found some lumber and made a “bridge” to reach underneath of the coop, which was my destination. Great, except the “bridge” sunk into the mucky gunk as I was crossing it. Oh, what the heck, it will be mucky fun excavating coop poop. Clothes and shoes will get washed later.
Once entering the under-the-coop poop area, which is about 3 feet high, and 4 foot square area, I realized I would be stooping to scoop the poop. Not a problem. Scoop a while, stretch the back, stoop and scoop some more (stoop, scoop, stretch, repeat). Next challenge: I needed containers to carry the poop to the garden which is at our house across the street. So, I found an old metal bucket that seemed sturdy enough to carry poop. And the scooping began.
There was not enough room to put the metal bucket under the coop, so I had to scoop, and toss the poop into the muck by the bridge, then get out from under the coop, stretch my back, re-scoop the poop and put it in the metal bucket. I had a nice system working for me now. Stoop, enter under-the- coop, scoop the poop, toss the poop out from under the coop, get out from under the coop, stretch, re-scoop the poop, put in bucket, carry bucket across bridge, through the compound, then across the street, dump poop in the soon-to-be-garden, and return with the empty bucket and begin the process over again.
After about 20 repetitions I was pooped out (tee hee). And still did not have enough fertilized soil to my satisfaction. I took a break and went back to work. I had to dig out the already rooted weeds growing under the coop that had taken advantage of the nitrogenous, healthy soil, but that was OK too. I just kept digging, scooping, tossing, carrying……
While routing around under the coop I found various interesting items, that are worthy of comment and speculation. It was no surprise to find tea bags and kitchen refuse, the kitchen is next to the coop. No surprise to find cigarette butts either, every Abkhaz male and many females smoke and freely toss butts wherever they choose. Under the coop is a good place.
It was the pantyhose and undies I uncovered while scooping that surprised me most, and made the whole experience worthwhile. I giggled and thought of a likely scenario to explain the undies and pantyhose.
And so the story begins one lazy summer evening a year or two ago:
Boy says to Girl: “Let’s meet tonight - somewhere private”.
Girl says to Boy, “Let’s meet in the back corner of the MSF compound after dark. I know the guards, they will let me in.”
So, they arrive outside of the compound after dark. Girl says to Boy “You can climb the fence while I distract the guard.” Girl knocks at the large metal door and the guard approaches and she says “my mom is the cleaner for MSF, and she forgot something. I am coming to get it.” The guard lets her in without further questions.
Boy easily scales the fence surrounding the property and they meet at the corner where the chicken coop is, the most private area, where no one, not even the guards will see them. They giggle and crawl under the coop, tell stories to each other, do the things that young lovers do. Then they hear the guards opening the iron gate letting in an expat to do some late-night work in the office. They stay quiet, hidden under the coop, looking in each others eyes, enjoying the adventure of making love under the chicken coop and hiding from interlopers. They are joyous, delirious. Soon it is time to leave, she crawls out first. As she is walking toward the guards area she remembers she left behind some clothing, but the guard sees her and she can’t retrieve them now. She once again talks to the guard, while Boy scales the fence. Boy and Girl hug farewell and go their separate ways, likely to meet again another night in another secret garden.
All is well, under the chicken coop, then and now.
I liked my work that day. I enjoyed making up the Girl-Boy story while I was scooping. I would never have imagined this late-night adventure had she not left her things behind.
The day has left a permanent smile in my heart like many simple days that bring profound joy. That mucky, back-breaking, repetitive, stinky day of scooping poop to put in the garden brought me pleasure.
I have an abundant harvest now, 3 kinds of lettuces; a red fluffy leafed, a green frilly leafed, and a tall straight one, some spinach and of course lovely flowers. The tomatoes, basil and zucchini should be ready this month.
later, g
So, this spring I decided to take advantage of the coop poop and scoop some for the little garden I was planting….tomatoes, zucchini, lettuce…etc
The story begins. On this particular spring day, the day I was going to harvest the chicken poop, the soil was soggy around the chicken coop due to rain. Not a problem. I found some lumber and made a “bridge” to reach underneath of the coop, which was my destination. Great, except the “bridge” sunk into the mucky gunk as I was crossing it. Oh, what the heck, it will be mucky fun excavating coop poop. Clothes and shoes will get washed later.
Once entering the under-the-coop poop area, which is about 3 feet high, and 4 foot square area, I realized I would be stooping to scoop the poop. Not a problem. Scoop a while, stretch the back, stoop and scoop some more (stoop, scoop, stretch, repeat). Next challenge: I needed containers to carry the poop to the garden which is at our house across the street. So, I found an old metal bucket that seemed sturdy enough to carry poop. And the scooping began.
There was not enough room to put the metal bucket under the coop, so I had to scoop, and toss the poop into the muck by the bridge, then get out from under the coop, stretch my back, re-scoop the poop and put it in the metal bucket. I had a nice system working for me now. Stoop, enter under-the- coop, scoop the poop, toss the poop out from under the coop, get out from under the coop, stretch, re-scoop the poop, put in bucket, carry bucket across bridge, through the compound, then across the street, dump poop in the soon-to-be-garden, and return with the empty bucket and begin the process over again.
After about 20 repetitions I was pooped out (tee hee). And still did not have enough fertilized soil to my satisfaction. I took a break and went back to work. I had to dig out the already rooted weeds growing under the coop that had taken advantage of the nitrogenous, healthy soil, but that was OK too. I just kept digging, scooping, tossing, carrying……
While routing around under the coop I found various interesting items, that are worthy of comment and speculation. It was no surprise to find tea bags and kitchen refuse, the kitchen is next to the coop. No surprise to find cigarette butts either, every Abkhaz male and many females smoke and freely toss butts wherever they choose. Under the coop is a good place.
It was the pantyhose and undies I uncovered while scooping that surprised me most, and made the whole experience worthwhile. I giggled and thought of a likely scenario to explain the undies and pantyhose.
And so the story begins one lazy summer evening a year or two ago:
Boy says to Girl: “Let’s meet tonight - somewhere private”.
Girl says to Boy, “Let’s meet in the back corner of the MSF compound after dark. I know the guards, they will let me in.”
So, they arrive outside of the compound after dark. Girl says to Boy “You can climb the fence while I distract the guard.” Girl knocks at the large metal door and the guard approaches and she says “my mom is the cleaner for MSF, and she forgot something. I am coming to get it.” The guard lets her in without further questions.
Boy easily scales the fence surrounding the property and they meet at the corner where the chicken coop is, the most private area, where no one, not even the guards will see them. They giggle and crawl under the coop, tell stories to each other, do the things that young lovers do. Then they hear the guards opening the iron gate letting in an expat to do some late-night work in the office. They stay quiet, hidden under the coop, looking in each others eyes, enjoying the adventure of making love under the chicken coop and hiding from interlopers. They are joyous, delirious. Soon it is time to leave, she crawls out first. As she is walking toward the guards area she remembers she left behind some clothing, but the guard sees her and she can’t retrieve them now. She once again talks to the guard, while Boy scales the fence. Boy and Girl hug farewell and go their separate ways, likely to meet again another night in another secret garden.
All is well, under the chicken coop, then and now.
I liked my work that day. I enjoyed making up the Girl-Boy story while I was scooping. I would never have imagined this late-night adventure had she not left her things behind.
The day has left a permanent smile in my heart like many simple days that bring profound joy. That mucky, back-breaking, repetitive, stinky day of scooping poop to put in the garden brought me pleasure.
I have an abundant harvest now, 3 kinds of lettuces; a red fluffy leafed, a green frilly leafed, and a tall straight one, some spinach and of course lovely flowers. The tomatoes, basil and zucchini should be ready this month.
later, g
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
