Boiling mango leaves with pinch of salt and more on medicine
i tried, i did. i dragged myself out of bed on day 4 of being bed-ridden in my lusaka bed-room, and attended a focus group meeting. I arrived sweating , and spent the day a veritable zombie presence. I won't go into the details, but i did come out of that day wiser in the ways of indigenous remedies, and conflicted about whether one should wallow in one's illness and let it do it's thing and pass through, or whether one should put up a brave face and pretend it isn't there, so as to not give it a chance to win the fight.
It was obvious that i wasn't my usual self, as people approached me not with 'hello' but with 'sorry sorry...' only to follow with a 'you will be fine, don't worry'.
By lunchtime, i felt like the only thing i could do was go back to bed - the sweating and shivering wasn't stopping, i was unsure when i walked if i would stay standing, my sight was blurry and my main contributions to the dialogue were loud and disturbing coughing fits. Junior however had no mercy - 'Saskia, you should just be yourself again, the way you usually are. Otherwise you let the illness win. Just get up, go eat some lunch, and don't look like anything is wrong'.
I felt scolded like a child, and a further mixtures of sentiments including shame for my weakness, self-pity, indulgence, i felt spoiled and childish and elements of many more things. Here I was, always in good health, a strong western-fed body, and as soon as i get sick, I fall down and writhe on the ground in self-pity. Surrounded by people that have grown up in much less luxurious, nutritious and health conducive environments than i have, and it seemed they simply hold their heads high and don't let the illness see that it is bothering you, otherwise it will overmaster you.
So i went and had a few spoonfulls of food. I couldn't manage more, I felt nauseous, but I looked at Junior and he nodded - this was good, good enough.
I sat through the remaining hours of the session until it was finished and then *really* wanted to go. Whomever I spoke to gave me their best recipes to feel better, the main two recurring ones were:
- Mango Leaves:
Boil the mango leaves (theres mango trees in every yard in lusaka) in a pan of water for 10 minutes and stir well. Add a pinch of salt. You will be cured in less than two days.
- Ginger, lemon and honey:
Boil the ginger root in water for 10 minutes, add fresh lemon juice and boil the peel with the rest of the mixture for another few minutes. Add some pure honey. One person was cured in one day only.
I went for the Ginger, Lemon and Honey. Cooked it all up in my hotel water cooker for tea..

That same evening my friend Gareth came to see me, brought a thermometer, fruit, juice and crackers, and was shocked, i really did look like a zombie. He wanted to take me to the clinic and i was avoiding it. It's just a bad flu, it will pass. We took my temperature - it was 39.4 celcius. We chatted a bit more, hung around, he called a doctor and family members, and made the decision for me. We are going to the clinic.
Pay 300,000 Zambian Kwacha and you have an expert consultation. How many can't just cough up 300,000 kwacha on the spot? The doctor on night duty, en elderly Indian chap, again scolded me... 'what? You have been having high fever for over 4 days and you still think that nothing is wrong?' he shook his head and similar sorts of sentiments as above swirled through me, triggered altogether differently. He did a malaria test - negative. He did more general check-ups, took my temperature again (102.something - i was momentarily shocked, until i realised it was a Fahrenheit thermometer) and didn't want to prescribe anything until blood and urine tests had been done, but they could only be done tomorrow morning when the lab was back open. For now, i had to go to the treatment room, have my blood taken, and take medication until my fever went down. They would not release me until my body had reacted to the medication, and I had come down off this high fever.
It took a while.
We noticed i was getting better when Gareth and I started fooling around and making movies about me in the hospital bed, 'Sas, what does it feel like to be hospitalised in a developing country with eboli virus?', it would have been a good movie if not for the unstoppable smiling and grinning that we couldn't hold back.
They took my temperature again, 35.8 celcius. What? What meds did you give me?!!? That's what it's like in a hospital in a developing country - faulty medical equipment.
finally at close to midnight they let me go.
Today, two days later again, is the first time i woke up without fever. I feel weak - I'm on antibiotics, I still sweat bucket loads at night, I switch between being restless and falling into deep deep sleep. But with all the possible side affects listed on the liner notes for the medicines, I am very thankful that it seems to be going the right way towards feeling better from here.
Insh'allah.

to starve a fever or to feed a fever?
Ghandi said to starve it, to fast. My mom says to feed it, with nutritious food. Whom to believe?
I end up doing both, and neither.
What a waste of time in Zambia. Haven't felt this sick for jonks.
To put more clothes on in bed as I'm shivering, or to take them off as I am sweating?
my ears are hurting, my neck is hurting, i'm boiling up and freezing my nuts off. In sub-saharan african summer!
hopefully tomorrow is better.

maybe just a post to release some worldly words, can't force these things if they don't come, can you.
It feels a little odd lying in my starched crisp clean bed sheets in zambia, sweating and restless, not due to the heat or the buzzing mosquitoes, but rather due to my carried-along-cold, which has come to full fruition upon arrival. Was it the lengthy air travel, the air-conditioning, or my hopes on it not overmastering me were simply wishful thinking.
I have been overmastered. Last night saw me lying in my bed, with my thick red nepali shawl that ilan sent me wrapped tight around my pulsating neck. coughing non-stop, getting frustrated and irritated, knowing that only makes the coughing worse, feeling alone, feeling sorry for myself, and many more unenlightened sentiments of which i know better than to indulge in.
i can't wait to get out and into the bustle of meetings, conversations, dialogues, plans - one day locked up in the hotel room is enough, it leads me to no good, questioning the worth of what i do, questioning my deflections from pursuing higher goals, questioning, questioning.
I will return now to the book I am reading - The Life of Mahatma Ghana, by Louis Fischer, and retreat from my worldly aches and pains.
I will also try to keep a dream journal - i can sense that a lot is happening in the nightly hours and spheres, and i am losing it all to the break of day. integrating practice into daily life, even if ailing and weak. no excuses. no self-deception.
I will it to happen.

Of Mildred Mpundu, journalism and HIV/AIDS
i posted about 2 months ago on Mildred Mpundu, she has since passed. There has been an outpouring of condolences and personal accounts of grief due to the loss of this amazing woman for Zambia and anyone that has been fortunate enough to know her professionally, personally or through reading her articles, and the contribution to the eBrain Forum of Zambia by Henry Kabwe that i found in my email inbox this morning has moved me to tears.
Thanks Henry for sharing your experience of her, and contributing to all our appreciation of her inspiring nature.

Of Mildred Mpundu, journalism and HIV/AIDS

A Dedication by Henry Kabwe

Before Mildred Namwiinde Mpundu became a journalist, she existed as a child, a school girl and a responsible young lady.

Before she became open about her HIV status, she was one of the journalists doing their daily routines of writing to the publics that they served.

She worked for the Times of Zambia newspaper and was one of the first Zambian Key Correspondents under the Health and Development Networks (HDN) based in Thailand.

On November 13, 2007, I received a call from another journalist, Felistus Chipako that she had died.

November 13^th is my birthday and I was on the way to Lundazi District, over 800 kilometers from Zambia’s capital city of Lusaka.

When I broke the news in the vehicle carrying an entourage of colleagues from the Media Institute of Southern Africa (MISA) Zambia that were heading to add value to a local community radio station, Chikaya, it became apparent that a great person had been lost.

The delegation leader, Brian Lingela, the head of broadcasting at MISA Zambia, made the situation more emotional. He narrated that Mildred taught him in primary school before they both met again as media practitioners.

“She was like a mother to me. She used to call me ‘son’,” decried Brian, who later disclosed that he had plans to take Mildred to some herbal clinic which had promised miracles for people that need immune boosting.

When a lady called Dorcas died in bible days, a number of women she had helped tried everything to ensure that she lived and had unusually believed that God would to resurrect her from the dead through Peter, the apostle. And, it worked.

This is what everyone that saw Mildred’s health fail wanted to do to ensure that she continued living and being good to society.

For Mildred, wearing a smile even in the most challenging moments was as natural as blinking the eye.

She was a darling of everyone. “Yes dear,” was her catch word and the spirit behind the voice was so soothing and reassuring.

Whenever she rebuked you, it was like funny. She never offended in her correction but she did with so much emphasis and fortitude that it was difficult to ignore or disobey ‘the order’.

On my birthday last year, my life had become a nightmare. I was beaten economically, socially and emotionally.

Everything had gone wrong. My grandmother and mother had died within two months, and I was battling some financial challenges coupled with a bit of personal social issues.

The birthday that was supposed to be celebrated had become a bitter reminder of the people that were responsible of my being brought to this earth.

By this time, Mildred had become financially challenged. She and her child – that darling called Mate – had come to my office.

She could not watch me look like a bear deprived of her children and invited me to her favorite eating spot in town for a meal.

When I looked at her failing health and the sacrifice she made to just make me feel better, it made me shed tears whenever she was not focusing her attention on me.

That was my birthday last year and on this year’s birthday, she said ‘Bye’.

I had earlier called her a week before, on a Friday to be specific, to inquire about her whereabouts and how she was doing.

She told me that she had traveled to her father’s home in Kalomo District and was supposed to be back the following week, especially Monday.

On Monday, I remembered to call her and the sister indicated to me that she was not talking.

I thought it was one of those little relapses that come to those infected with HIV and are taking antiretroviral (ARV) drugs.

However, it was not to be; the following day, she died.

I first met with Mildred when a features reporter under her desk, Gethsemane Mwizabi introduced me to her and told her that I was leading the Media Network on Orphans and Vulnerable Children.

She immediately inquired about the Media Network ostensibly referred to as OVC Media Network in two minutes and the next thing I saw was her hand reaching into her bag to pay the membership fee into the network.

I did not realize the amount of value, insight and hard work Mildred was going to bring to the organization, but it had definitely appealed to me that her commitment to children’s was unheard of.

She was soon to be elected treasurer and took up the responsibility of organizing events. I can imagine her budget for the last come together we had in that graceful handwriting.

The budget contained too many details but I knew how time wasting it was to try to compromise on the amount of things to buy for any event. In the end, she was doing the tedious lot and needed to be backed in all manner of ways.

Mildred was held dearly by both veteran, ‘middle-class’ and inexperienced journalists, including students.

She had mastered her art of writing so wittily but never thought of her position in the ranks of journalism when it came to getting advice on how she could do an article or some report better.

It used to beat me to get ‘bothered’ (I told her word was a command) to go to her lap top and go through her article or report to confirm whether it was good or not, and suggest possible corrections.

With no qualms at all, she would get on with her work and made her win a lot of awards in the journalism sector.

She was also a well traveled journalist. If there was one person I used to wonder how they kept moving to from one country another, it was Mildred Mpundu. I would sometimes rant against the idea of going to another country. Jokingly, of course!

It was in this period that we started noticing her health failing. She was always complaining of one aspect of ill-health or another.

Her food patterns also changed as she resorted to more health foods but rebutted anyone who indulged in junk food. Didn’t I start changing my eating habits when I did a long winding project with her? Well, I was commanded to and I did it with pleasure.

To her, eating the right food was vital to living with HIV. Although, she did not tell us her status by then, she emotionally condemned ARVs as a business venture by the West.

I was so scared of her words just in case she needed the ARVs.

Afterwards, her health became so bad that she could not walk and was confined to bed. When we visited her one day, she could not come out of the bedroom. We were asked to go in.

On her bed, she struggled to speak and Mwiika Malindima from the Zambia Institute of Mass Communication (ZAMCOM), who is also a Key Correspondent for HDN, Glory Mushinge, the chairperson for training at MISA Zambia and Pastor Joe Mulenga were so touched.

She now started saying there she saw no need to remain in denial. She was going to face it and test for HIV. She went ahead to praise ARVs and how they had helped people living with HIV/AIDS.

It was a soothing experience that had left us hopeful that once she got on ARVs, things could get better. While chatting, her youngest daughter kept shifting among the three male visitors as from one husband to another and made the situation a little lighter.

When we left, it was clear that we had a big challenge and started wondering how we could of help.

She went to Teba Hospital where she was confirmed that she had HIV.

Before long, I received a text message while in a church in Mansa District tipping me to read The Post newspaper for that day. We had gone to visit relatives and watch the Mutomboko Traditional Ceremony of the Lunda people.

After church, we struggled to get the newspaper until we found a man who had it in a shop at a filling station.

We saw the story, Mildred Mpundu had come out about her HIV status and we got so emotional that our rather congenial trip turned out to become somber and quiet.

The following day, an indicator of the impact Mildred had created was to come.

Harriet Mulenga, a beautifully bouncing lady who had deteriorated in health due to HIV/AIDS called me.

She said she saw Mildred’s story in The Post and wanted to talk about her five years experience on ARVs.

I met with Harriet some three years earlier at a ZAMCOM media workshop on HIV/AIDS supported by the United States President George Bush’s HIV/AIDS program.

Since before of us are busy people, it was difficult to get in touch and get the story running somewhere, but Harriet kept my phone ringing and I kept reassuring her on the other side.

However, I did not know that The Post had graciously offered Mildred an opportunity to be contributing articles.

So when Harriet called me on a day when I was with Mildred, I talked to her about Mildred’s work and I handed the phone to Mildred.

They talked and became friends right there.

The following day, I was Mildred’s aide when we went to the Comprehensive HIV/AIDS Management Program (CHAMP) and the two women hugged like they had known each other for a long time.

Then we proceeded to the boardroom where the interview was to be conducted.

There was Mildred doing her work. She got her notebook and started interviewing Harriet.

How touched I was! I could not hold it and I sent a text message to the one who made me get closer to Mildred, Gethsemane, who later confessed that I was a strong man. Whatever, he meant.

This interview was very encouraging to Mildred as she confessed that she would also get better.

“Muzakaniona Henry nizakaina so. Ma hips yazachoka aya (You will see Henry how I will get big like this. My hips will protrude),” she said while showing how big she would become with her hands and we all laughed.

After the interview, the two people living with HIV kissed each other with Mildred carrying a bunch of pictures that showed Harriet as a ‘finished’ (her own words) and weak, and a happy ending of the now bouncy and beautiful lady.

I jokingly said “How about me?” and Harriet said mine was not supposed to be public. The laughing frenzy continued.

It was sad that Mildred died while I was in Lundazi. Monalisa Haundu, her friend and colleague in the OVC Media Network tried to organize a number of people to go and mourn our colleague, but it was too late.

I traveled from Lundazi, Chipata and Petauke Districts under a strictly rescheduled program but the long journey between Lusaka and Kalomo District where Mildred was buried betrayed me.

In Lundazi, those that knew her were beaten. Former ZAMCOM Director Mike Daka, the director of Breeze FM in Chipata said it was sad that a committed journalist like Mildred had died.

He confessed that she was the first journalist to start consistently writing about HIV/AIDS.

When I arrived in Kalomo around 11 30 hours, I called her number and I was told that the procession had already started off for burial at a farm.

I was told that it was difficult to know where the farm was and could do better to wait for the procession to come back.

I was in Kalomo for an extended period of time for the first time and my emotions could not allow me to stay on for the sake of Mildred.

I saw an ode to Mildred by Dr. Robert Mtonga after buying the Times of Zambia and when I tried to read, it was too much to bear.

Even the call boys at the bus station discovered that I had gone to mourn ‘Ba Mpundu’ when they heard talking on the phone.

The whole area had a sense of solitude and sent a strong indication of what Mildred meant to people out there.

Beyond one person living with HIV/AIDS like Harriet, a lot others have been encouraged by Mildred.

Beyond one journalist like me, a lot other journalists are inspired by the life and work of Mildred. Her advice to the media was blunt but helpful. “Never mess with the sources” and “I wish I listened to my parents” come out as strong conclusions of her advocacy.

And beyond one call boy, one Dr. Mtonga and one reader, Mildred’s impact will live as a testimony for all who have read and continue reading her articles.

Though dead, Mildred will continue speaking and touching lives.

Having shared a hope of the resurrection of Christ and the eventual glorifying of those that believe, she hoped for that better place; the place of rest and comfort.

We shall then see each other one day, “My dear.”

...Wishing you all a good End of Summer ...
Samhain

the final harvest done, bring in what you have collected,
stop your hunting drive for the months to come..
a time of rest, reflection and enjoyment of the fruits you have gained
elves, pumpkins, fire, the night and the blood of a plum.

set a place for your dead at your table tonight,
tell me tales of your ancestors and i will tell you about mine
slaughter that which you think will not make it through the winter
transform it into what will feed and nourish you, make it your shrine

let's extinguish our individual fires and come together in one
take a light from our common fire and relight your hearth
bond me to you and you to me
walking hand-in-hand, purify me

throw apples and nuts into the air high,
show me where they land
who will be my Lover, my Spouse?
how many children will descend in me from the sky?
tell me tonight, tonight i can understand.

run after the crows my child, show me in which direction they flew
Divine for me, tell me please - what will be new?

what to strive for in life..
Arundhati Roy, excerpt from her Come-September speech
thanks for pointing me to it Redz.

"The only dream worth having [...]is to dream that you will live while you're alive and die only when you're dead. [...]



"To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never, to forget."

i just can't shake these words off me, they're not mine,
but how i wish they were, they speak for my soul, which i hear speak far too little.

Lay your head where my heart used to be
Hold the earth above me
Lay down in the green grass
Remember when you loved me

Come closer don't be shy
Stand beneath a rainy sky
The moon is over the rise
Think of me as a train goes by

Clear the thistles and brambles
Whistle 'Didn't He Ramble'
Now there's a bubble of me
And it's floating in thee

Stand in the shade of me
Things are now made of me
The weather vane will say...
It smells like rain today

God took the stars and he tossed 'em
Can't tell the birds from the blossoms
You'll never be free of me
He'll make a tree from me

Don't say good bye to me
Describe the sky to me
And if the sky falls, mark my words
We'll catch mocking birds

Lay your head where my heart used to be
Hold the earth above me
Lay down in the green grass
Remember when you loved me

Laat zien wat er in jouw hart omgaat en verberg het niet, opdat ik kan laten zien wat er in mijn hart omgaat en kan zien waartoe ik in staat ben

(Roemi)

6.47pm the birds are back. they fly in swarms over my skylight windows, temporarily painting the sky black, letting streaks of evening grey through.
6.54pm their collective chatter is comforting and familiar. i am happy my background soundscape is filled again with nature's sounds, in overdose. drowning out the inane sounds from the television, drawing me out of my trance and into the world outside my window. a veritable conference of birds.

6.57pm the phone rings and a dear and distant friend calls to make an appointment. catch up tomorrow night, before the bass drowns out our speech and fills our spines and spirits. more familiar things to bring me back to myself.

i lie belly down on the carpet, eyes on the green turning brown outside my window. the birds are restless, jumping and twitching and chattering like there is no tomorrow. at first i thought it was hundreds, then i thought it was thousands. they own the trees. 3 trees at the most. jostled together, filling the trees with jubilant twitter, a cacophony of sound. now i think it must be a million. the trees are strong to hold them all.
children walk under the trees and vie for attention. they yell and squeal. the birds reduce their decibel for a moment as if to listen. the children walk on, the birds resume their boisterous conference.
how many more days until they leave my trees again. where will they go? back to familiar lands for the winter?
where am i going.
back into familiar things, familiar friends, familiar sounds, familiar chatter - will do very nicely for now.

Come you lost Atoms to your Centre draw,
And be the Eternal Mirror that you saw:
Rays that have wander'd into Darkness wide
Return and back into your Sun subside

The Bean, late Sept 2007, Roma
and Pip and Dom and the Vatican and our voices.. fascinating stuff. for those who care.
taken with mobile vlogging tools, during 2.5 hours post-conference visitation opportunity
Thanks Pip, Dom & Bean! Much love, xxx

Especially Bean the Phone Eater - sorry Pip, not YouTube, hope Blip.tv is good enough.. ;)
or view the smaller, less vague, phone version (loads Quicktime)

Pip, Dom & the Vatican, anyone?
phone version

and this one is for you ilan, up close and personal, as you hadn't seen any pics yet. Will video do nicely?
phone version

Always good to see Lucie
PICT0002, originally uploaded by NynkeKruiderink.

Acte de Presence @ Web2forDev
PICT0020, originally uploaded by NynkeKruiderink.

Acte de Presence @ Web2forDev
PICT0012, originally uploaded by NynkeKruiderink.

greetings from the Web2forDev conference in Rome.
IICD colleagues and I are here, and its difficult to find some time to blog in between the various sessions.. The pre-conference training day yesterday went down well. It was a collaboration between itrainonline partner organisations (APC and IICD) for the conference, and Karel and I did most of the pulling together of the resource people and ideas over the last frantic weeks. There are two posts on the Web2forDev blog about yesterday which you may be interested in checking out: http://blog.web2fordev.net/2007/09/25/vox-pops-from-web2fordev-on-day-zero/ and http://blog.web2fordev.net/2007/09/25/first-feedback-from-the-pre-conference-web20tasterday/
For some visual impressions of the Web2.0 Taster Training Day, have a look at the Flickr pics, and search using the tag 'Web2forDev'
But essentially most talks and dicussions going on here at the conference adress the issue of building capacity in the use and appropriation of Participatory Web tools. Many speakers have mentioned it, and many opinions differ on what is the right approach. Is there any point in skills training Web2 tools? Should people learn by playing around and having fun? (What is the role of Facebook in getting people into Web2 mode and mood..?) Does access come before capacity support for using the tools? Or should people be made aware of the tools through seminars for example before they even have access (stimulate demand)? If you do decide to train on web2 tools, what are appropriate forms and methods to employ? Do you demo step by step or do you let people explore and experiment and you act as a support and guide? These and many more questions regarding capacity building are coming up, and I am triggered to go and ask more speakers and participants with experiences about their views. I'd like to do short video interviews, but hey, where's our itrainers community vodcast space on www.blip.tv or www.youtube.com? ;)
For a webcast of today's presentations and speakers, go to http://www.fao.org/webcast/
There is a lowbandwidth version, so i hope its viewable for all of you that want to watch it. And hey - if anyone has questions on Web2forDev, especially regarding Capacity Building around Web2.0 tools, that you want me to ask people around here, do let mes know!
That's it for now, Ciao de Roma, saskia

Cookiemonster: Hot or Not?
Sasje: Shit. Godverdomme. Alweer jij!
Cookiemonster: Toe nou.. Hot or Not? Kijk goed en geef je mening.
Sasje: Lekker belangrijk. Wie heeft daar nou in hemelsnaam tijd of ruimte voor? Waar gaat dit over. Wat een platheid. Vervolg me niet. Laat me met rust.
Cookiemonster: Je roept me zelf op..!
Sasje: Je zit in mn rugzak. Je gaat overall met me mee. Ben ik dan schuldig voor wat jij me bied?
Cookiemonster: Wil je zien wat ik nog zo te bieden heb?
Sasje: Nee. Laat me je gestolen goederen niet zien... Jij steelt en ik raak onherroepelijk kwijt.
Cookimonster: Toe nou, er zitten nog meer lekkere dingen in mijn cookie jar..
Sasje: Nee... ajb, ik wordt ziek hiervan. Ik wil het niet weten.. Of toch...? Nou vooruit, laat zien dan. Geef me een paar waarheids cookies. Bittere koekjes. Moeilijk te slikken.
Leuk is anders.

Speaking out on your Status - Mildred is honoured by the Nation
One more thing to share, before all else takes over again
- when i first came to Zambia in 2002, a journalist for the Times of Zambia covered our work. A lovely young woman called Mildred Mpundu. Young and dynamic, a keen and thoughtful writer, in this nation where journalism generally suffers from superficiality and sensationalism.
Over the next few trips she was seen less and less, no longer directly involved with our work, but occassionally writing for the ICT4Development knowledge sharing network that the organisation i work for supports here. In 2004 I was again in direct contact, when she put forward a women's self helf group from her hometown of Kalomo as deserving of a chance to learn how to use ICTs to support their good work. The women called their project The Kalomo Bwacha ICT Club, where 'bwacha' means something akin to 'Coming out of the darkness into the light', and the title predates but reminds me strongly of the Number 1 Ladies Detective Agency books coming situated in Botswana, just south of Kalomo. When the Kalomo Bwacha women were in Lusaka to attend the kick-off training for the project, Mildred invited the women and Gareth and I to her house, where we sat around a fire basket, listening to the elderly women tell stories, laughter and fire in their eyes. Mildred mentioned that she had had to move to a smaller house, that she was having difficulties in paying for her rent and caring for her daughter, but not much more was said on the subject. It was a memorable evening, and i am honoured that i was invited to be a part of it. More on the project.
Since then I hadnt heard much about Mildred, until this visit.
Yese told me that she had spoken out about her HIV/AIDS status in an article in The Post recently - as a well known and well respected journalist, her outspokenness caused many waves, Zambia's first president went to visit her, many newspapers reported on her, and many people are touched by the attention and her honesty. After writing about HIV/AIDS and working on many HIV/AIDS programmes and campaigs for years, she never had herself tested until early this year and found her and her daughter HIV/AIDS positive. Yese recounted the recent media attention with tears in his eyes, maybe her message will make a difference: if I could live life again, I would listen to the good advice people gave me.

When you google Mildred now, you find her writing and referenced all over the place, see HIV/AIDS stigma and support groups , Corruption in Zambia
Truly an inspiring woman.

A quick mind-scape from the hotelroom..
I spent a relaxing day offline on a plot of land in the bush surrounding Lusaka yesterday, playing with dogs, bouncing on a trampoline with two young boys who have recently moved with their parents from the Lusaka residential areas to the wild and wonderful bush, chatting and playing camera woman/waitress to friends who were planning and plotting away on the cement slab where a few months from now their very own house will be stand tall and proud, for an entire day not talking about ICTs for Development (ok apart from that session with Rachel in the kitchen when she asked me that much-feared question for which i never seem to have a short answer 'how are your projects developing in zambia?'.., stopping to have a good look at the their own community of Guinea fowl, all spotted and lovely, chattering away in their little habitat complete with improvised waterfall (leaking water tank), fallen tree trunks, lookout hill and more, causing me to think of them as in animation style movies with pronounced personalities, pecking order, dramatic interrelationships and lots of adventure within their little microcosm, feeling sorry for Molly the beautiful black Labrador who got spat in the eye by a spitting cobra (and allegedly killed it by ripping it in two! go girl), racing the boys across the plot with unfair but exhilarating advantage (me on a quad, them on their bmx'es..), watching the sun set in its dark red and purple hues over the horizon of trees, surrounded by the glow of fires across the farm land, set alight by villagers getting the land ready towards the end of dry season for the next cycle of planting ...
I was happy yesterday that i didnt have my camera with me, that my mobile phone that has a camera was out of battery, and that i was walking around unburdened by technology and the desire to capture every little thing around me in digital format. But now, when i recall all these images in my mind, i wish i had had something with me none the less, just a few shots, just a few impressions of what i saw yesterday that felt so normal, but what today I again realise is special and extraordinary for many of us.
oh well. sowwy.
:)

before we drove out to the plot, Gareth and I went past the Chikumbuso project in Ngombe compound - unfortunately the women who run it weren't there - it was Sunday morning and all were in Church - and the school wasn't open, but i nevertheless got a good sense of what the project does. Esther was there and showed me some of the bags that the grandmothers weave from plastic bags from supermarkets, amazingly sturdy creative bags, for your grocery shopping or for your notebook, pen and mobile phone - yes, complete with little mobile phone pocket inside!
The terrain used to host a bar with a brothel behind it, and man, the place must have been dismal. Tiny little shacks behind the bar in a cramped back alley, one next to the other, tiny little cement rooms with wooden beds - it must have been a filthy, disease-ridden, nasty place, with women selling their sexual services to drunk and dirty men - just the thought of it made me nauseous and ill at ease.
And to now see it as a community centre, a school, a playground, an home to orphans and single mothers, and a means for grandmothers to come together and generate income for themselves and their orphaned grandchildren - i tell you, it does something to you. If you have a young daughter who wants to take a year off and do some volunteer work, these are the kinds of projects that we need to send them to. If we do some advertising or importing and selling of handicrafts from Africa with a charitable story behind them, these are the projects we need to bring forward.

All in all, a very lovely and inspiring day.
The mental-emotional fog that had me chained to darker moods since leaving Holland had lifted after breaking the contact/no contact rule, and i was able to fill freed-up mental space with the details of the day and surroundings at hand. Finally back in the Here and Now. Phew. It felt good.

Then today is a whole other story. Meetings to make decisions with senior figure of Zambian health institutions, i was pleased and inspired to meet with such dedicated and strong leadership; over lunch learning about encryption technologies and forging ways to support a nascent open source developers community; in the afternoon being sucked into the final preparations for the Web2forDevelopment conference which is quickly approaching - sucked in never to reappear. The Here and Now completely lost to the Very-Far-Away and Soon, with all the frustrations of sustained lack of access to work mail and ever-growing follow-up and preparatory task lists drowning out the immediate contact and surroundings..

... today's african sunset i did not witness, but it's all good.

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field.
I will meet you there."

~ Jalal ad-Din Rumi

Ik ben verdietig.
Ik mis je.
Ik weet niet wat ik ermee moet.
Ik ben in de war. Vooral verdrietig.
Ik mis je.
Ik ben eerlijk.

From the Floris Series: Floris Finds the Roots 'n Culture

this video is long overdue to be posted - another convert :)
Thanks for the good time and positive vibes
x

Beautiful Luangwa
My friend Gareth's brother Patrick is another one of those talents that is living The Life.
For all the years I have been coming to Zambia, I have been told about the incredible beauty of the Luangwa Valley. For the same amount of years I have been wanting, yearning to go. But havent yet made it.
Recently plans came up for 'Loosje the Longboard Lion' and me to save money, lots of it, and make our way to Zambia together and finally into the valley and its camps. The dream remains with me.
Patrick's blog showing what he encounters almost daily, seen through his lense and craft, has only reinforced this desire. Longing. Yearning.
Apparently going Jan, Feb, March of next year would make staying in the camp financially feasible, no pipe-dream. Will we still have the plan? Will we make it happen?
Look, indulge, enjoy and wonder.
Beautiful Zambia. Beautiful Africa.

Contact, No contact
Does writing on my blog count?
Hoping that there's that bubble of me floating in thee.
Imposing the bubble selfishly.

Know Thyself.
These things aren't that simple I guess.
Now what, Albert E?

... musing from my flight and excerpts from hours and hours of Shantaram...

~ Khader's mafia did not deal with prostitution or pornography because both trades injure women and degrade men.
He took the moral high ground, even when all other mafia councils were cashing in on these profitable trades.

~ from the Easy Listening channel during the first leg: Neil Young, Joni Mitchell and more

~ yes, i'm sure it's true. similarly many women do things that isn't necessarily good for them. they gossip. they buy too many shoes. they bitch about other women. they care too much about what men think about them. they eat too little or eat too much. they have plastic surgery done. they identify more with their bodies than with their spirits. they...
i'm sure any 75% of a female population does one or many of the above, or many other things they are tempted to do for whatever reason when they know better than to do so.
But that isn't the population I will compare myself to to make myself feel better. Surely I do sometimes. But i try not to, it would be too easy. I identify with who I want to be. Where I want to grow to. With my Better Self, my Higher Self. That's who I want to project, that is what i want to define me. Not my Base Self. I have that. I was born with that. Yes, 75% of women or more don't intend to grow from their Base Selves, may not feel this growth as a goal in life. But why on earth would I compare myself to them? What's the good in it? Why is it even part of the discussion?

~ Beauty lies in people who shine and radiate positive constructive energy, beauty lies in people who love and care, who are true to themselves and their potential to grow.
Otherwise it is a beauty that strikes the eye rather than the heart, a beauty that sours if it isn't nourished by some goodness from within.
It's a distinction that seems to me so easy to make. Or do only women see this distinction in other women?
When beauty strikes you, which type is it? Or, which type do you want it to be?

From Shantaram again, in the words of a prophetic madman: Strong men create their own luck.

Web2forDev - Sparking a Movement?

Cross-posting from our corporate blog...
Sounds a bit promo, but the enthusiasm is real ;) Nice when you can write about your work and it comes gushing out easily. Never mind the additional workload and the pushing out of mental sight all the things that I am neglecting to do because of picking this up.
Roma.. Pippa, Dom and Beanie - Vengo!

The Floris Series: Floris @ the Art Exhibition...

Click To Play

Caballero o Vaquero?
Pandering to your ego, or showing off what I like to see?
Both are counterproductive to our higher quests, but hey.
I give thanks ;)

The Promise of Tango
During the days spent in the southern Spanish lands my appetite was whet.. for dancing .. entwined but distant.. passion seeping through the seems of carefully crafted poses.. the tension of beautiful strangers, the fantasy of intimacy.
Tango, Flamenco, red and black, and fire and earth. I long for it already and still.
Watch Vengo and hear the gitana Caita's voice cry out. Yasmin Levy and Sheikh Ahmad Al-Tuni, and the haunting wind instruments. Dancing on pick up trucks and arabic carpets under olive trees and next to the uninhabited lakes we drove around. All songs from the soul, about homeland, the heart, sadness, longing, a place of belonging. I remember the straight faces at the open air concert at the fort in Cádiz, deceiving me into believing that the people around me weren't touched by the music. I closed my eyes and felt engulfed by the rhythmic clapping pulsating through me, I was surrounded by it, I heard nothing else. Not even the music, only the passion expressed though intricate and call-and-answer clapping. I was profoundly touched. I listen to the Bularías from Jerez, and I am not afraid of feeling; I long for it.

Today I re-discovered something that jilted me out of my haze, something that triggered my heartstrings and made me want to discover music, made me want to make and share music, made me want to rediscover the ways in which music inspires me and shapes me.
Her name is Hindi Zahra, and when I hear her, I want to be her.
Childish I know. But I want to never lose childish innocence, I hope to regain more of it as days and weeks pass, and to allow it to blossom. Aspiring to be someone I admire, I pray will keep me rooted and help me grow. Roots Tango. aahh.

Soapstone Homer
back from being away.. offline, and the SMS-blog option wasn't tried nor tested. Mea culpa.
For evidence of the hard work achieved and blood and sweat spent during the 3.5 weeks of offline heaven, have a look at the Flickr pics, and remember, Envy is a Sin ;)


As a first quick post of sharing what trickles into my life, this video about Soapstone Homers and Marges seems an appropriate lighthearted come-back, with a bit of a bitter aftertaste for some of the more geo-politically sensitive among us.
Welcome to a Kenyan village, welcome to really dedicated handicrafts, welcome to income-generating opportunities, and welcome to global outsourcing of labour-intensive Simpsons merchandise... video

Bits and Bops in Anticipation
Feeling a little restless today.
Am finding that i am a bit of a strange mix between indulging in the Here and Now, and only being present physically in the Now but my mind being anywhere but Here.
Today for example, my head is mainly in the Southern European lands... far away from the perpetual greyness of these Northern Lands. At the foot of a hill, looking up at the whitewashed buildings of an old Moorish town at the top of the hill, with endless blue skies and yellow sunlight behind. Scorching hot temperatures being blown across from Africa, drying up the creek that runs through the property, wild and luscious with wild succulent flowers in the early months of spring, now likely dry and full of thistle, in arms against the heat and dryness. The horses in the yard thankful for fresh water bringers, the fruit trees in the orchard providing welcome shade for daytime readers and a canopy for night time dreamers. Living the barefoot life, clothed as minimally as possible, eating from the land and acting local.
That's where my head is, and where my being will be for 3.5 weeks starting next week. As Baba Ziad pointed out, my magical vision of these weeks suit the number 9.5 even better...

Next to that, other Bits and Bops, are emanating from my laptop speakers, making me day dream.
A few transcribed here, and if you like them and are intrigued, let me know and i will inform :)

Come closer don't be shy

Stand beneath a rainy sky
The moon is over the rise
Think of me as a train goes by

Now there's a bubble of me
And it's floating in thee

God took the stars and he tossed them

Can't tell the birds from the blossoms

Don't say good bye to me
Describe the sky to me
And if the sky falls, mark my words
We'll catch mocking birds

feeling a bit like this at the moment: haven't been posting, haven't been writing, have been thinking and feeling and pondering tho.
Hope to write some somethings down while i go off line next week, while i frolic under fruit trees and gaze at the starry night skies.
good opportunity to test sms-blog uploading? Haiku's it shall be then.
love from me here.

Is it the whiskey?

So spent another 2 or so hours straddeling the furniture in my Chita hotel room, with Sir G bringing the whiskey and the camera, and a good dose of sillyness.
What was all sophisticated and mysterious in January...
... turned into Junkie-chique and breaking shower glass in May..


by the time it's end 2007 i fear where it will end.
Sir G, thanks for a laugh. Oh and erase all those other 300 'near-misses'..
Don't distrust your talent. ;)

The Summer Sun Mek da Music Come
gosh it's nice to be home.
a warm welcome, and the sun is shining. never mind the pollen plague, a little sufferin by contrast makes me enjoy more.
Takin a day off from work and lookin through what the next few weeks have on offer, and lovely it does sound:
- a good start with Reggae pon di Beach comin Sunday eve, starting with about 4 hours to go till the sun sets big and red one the horizon, the place where the sky hits the end of the sea in the very distance, location: our very own tropical Hage Beach;
- friday 15th, a choice choice of either some Portuguese/Friesian Fado mix-up, beautiful melancholic sounds, of the nostalgia type *OR* another visit to the Lion of Roots, always an inspiration, always healing food for the soul, always putting whats important back in perspective. And a chance to bring the lovely Dienster out once more? :) Burning Spear, live inna Amsterdam.. ay ay, what choice choice;
- followed by a little Puerto Rican/Belgian mix-up with Gabriel Rios on the 17th June, watch my sis' in law swoon over this cutie, am looking forward to that too!
- after that i don't even know what to pick from.. comin up in the neighbourhood: Israel Vibration, Wayne Marshall, Morgan Heritage, Anthony B (again!), Ziggy Marley, Stephen Marley & the Congos (nice!), Groundation, not even begginning to mention the all star line-up at this year's Reggae Sundance (also on a beach!);

anyway, was surfin, and feeling happy for all the music comin my way.
Felt like sharing the joy :)

Bless, saskia

Spent a very entertaining morning at the Chawama Youth Project who have just openend their community recording studio in Chawama Compound (township) in Lusaka..

Check some Flickr pics, but also the following Blip.tv videos! :)

Click To Play

Click To Play

Chita staff part II
so i just had a drink at the bar at Chita, and when i started to walk back to my room to do work and prepare for tomorrow's workshop, one of the girls who serves food linked into my arm and started walking with me to my room.
during previous trips she used to work the breakfast shift, starting my day with friendly joyful chatter, recounting her struggles with further education in a chirpy manner and updating me on the latest gossip of Chita staff and Chita management. The first day that i came back this time, she slid up to me and told me in a conspiratorial voice that she had to tell me something.. aah.. but not now, eyes shining and a secretive smile on her face.
I had forgotten until she walked me to my room, waited for me to open the door and came in with me. 'I'm pregnant', she said. With a smile on her face, averting her eyes and not saying much else for a bit. I noticed I wasn't sure how to react. A stream of questions started racing through my head - Was she happy? Was it planned? How óld is she anyway? Was she going to ask me for money? Would she still be able to work? Would I give her money, and if so how much? Was I going to give some structurally, put aside some every month to help out? How did I feel about her going to ask me for money, we had always been so friendly, girly confidantes, open and sincere, how was this changing how I felt towards her? If I gave her money, what would happen with the other staff who I have been friendly with over the years, and who have sick/illiterate/old dependants or babies and equally as miserly salaries?
So I started asking her some of them.
- Wow, that really is a big bit of news, uhm, was it planned?
- No, no. It just happened... so what can you do.. keep it.
- How far along are you?
- Well the doctors they say that the date is end of June, but I don't know.
- What date is the end of June?
- When the baby is coming!
I looked at her belly through the thick winter jacket and saw a small protrusion, but she definetely didn't look 8 months pregnant..
- Are you sure?
- (laughing). Ha, that's what I said! But you know the doctors, they started saying, you don't believe us? we are professionals! you think you know better than us? You know what doctors are like, they can Scream at you, although the nurses are worse..
- so.. are you happy?
- (silence) guess so (smile)
- and.. what about the father?
- yea, he's around. (silence). but I'm not going to get married..
- No?
- No. I don't want to. Definetly don't want to. Maybe in two or three years, but not now.
- And what does the family say?
- Ah, they didn't say anything..
- No?
- No. My parents are no longer alive. I grew up with my sisters. Now I live with my auntie. She fell sick and had no one to take care of her, so I came down to Lusaka to care for her.
- So do you have people to help you? To show you what to do?
- yea, but i don't want that. It's my baby, so I don't want people telling me You must do this and that..
- and are you still going to be able to work here?
- hmm yea, but after four months or so.
- who is going to take care of the baby?
- i dont know, I'll hire someone, a girl, and then when i come home from work I will take care of her. Anyway, I want to go back to school. You remember last time you were here, I was at school and finished first level. I passed, so know I want to go to second level.
- that's great. so you'll be working, going to school ánd have a baby?
- (smile) yea, in fact, people keep telling me that I should stay with the baby all the time, but I don't want to!
- so, how old are you now?
- ... twenty-two (smile), and in fact, the guy keeps saying we should get married, but i don't want to.
- why not?
- ah, me - i don't trust men.
- no?
- no. and i don't want to get married because there will be a baby. Maybe two or three years after, but not now. Then when there will be trouble, we will say, ah we only got married because of the baby, and i don't want that. marriage.. no, not yet. i see so much trouble.. i don't want to be dependant on a man. me i want to be independant, it's my baby, and i want to care for it and make the decisions.
- do you know if it's a boy or a girl?
- no, but i think its a boy.
- how do you know?
- (smile) i don't know, i just think so. if it's a boy, the boy is going to give him the name. if it's a girl, I will give her the name. I'm still looking for names, I don't want anything ordinary, I want something special. I've got three names now, but I'm still looking. And then i want to give her a local name too, a name from my tribe, people keep saying I should give her a local name.. but i will only give it as an initial! (smile)
- is there a naming ceremony? I mean traditionally, like if she is born on a certain day she has to have a certain name? Which tribe are you?
- Lozi. and about tradition, me I don't know. I don't know what they do in the village. Me - I've never been in the village.

We went on for a bit, and she never asked me for money...

I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees

[...]

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

from Every Day You Play, by Pablo Neruda

and when i'm at the lodge, and not engaged in conversation at the bar..

i find myself meandering through cyberspace again, moving ever further away from the open Word document in my task bar, and discovering new, to me, unknown worlds, of lyrics, of poetry, of mythology and mystical 'heresy'.

i'm not sure whether it is my state of mind or heart, but the random function on my latop media player seems to be churning out not-so random tunes.. a few songs it keeps throwing at me, and, as they are pleasant and pull at my at-the-moment-not-so-joyful heartstrings, I allow myself to indulge, and even dream up meaning in the lyrics or associations that the songs put forward.

some examples:
from the earthly John Legend with his 'I don't trust myself with loving you' (thanks Haim for sending me that and sensing some possibility for identification..)

Hold on to whatever you find baby
Hold on to whatever will get you through
Hold on to whatever you find baby
I don't trust myself with loving you

I will beg my way into your garden
I will break my way out when it rains
Just to get back to the place where I started
So I can watch you back all over again

..to repeatedly pushing a more ethereal Branford Marsalis 'Reika's Loss' off an album called 'Eternal'. Marsalis himself apparently said that this collection of ballads 'is an expression of emotion... In particular it's about the expression of melancholy. [...] All of the songs reflect the idea that there is beauty in sadness" and the reviewer goes on to say "Eternal is the perfect compliment for pensive moods. An excellent soundtrack when you are musingly thoughtful and a welcomed friend when you find your spirits depressed. I recommend it for rainy day afternoons of contemplation when you want to shut out the outside and immerse yourself inward."
How does my media player know? I think i may be spending just a little too much time with my laptop.

Another time it throws songs at me that i don't even know are on there, where the sound and melody intrigues me and triggers a search for further meaning. So it was with Nick Cave's 'Nature Boy'. Variations on:

And she moves among the flowers
And she floats upon the smoke
She moves among the shadows
She moves me with just one little look
She moves among the sparrows
She floats upon the breeze
She moves among the flowers
And she moves right up close to me

are lovely enough, as is:

Years passed by, we were walking by the sea
Half delerious
You smiled at me and said, Babe
I think this thing is getting kind of serious
You pointed at something and said
Have you ever seen such a beautiful thing?
It was then that I broke down
It was then that you lifted me up again

but what got me investigating new lands was the following:

Later on we smoked a pipe that struck me dumb
And made it impossible to speak
As you closed in, in slow motion,
Quoting Sappho, in the original Greek

Who was Sappho??
So i looked up Sappho, and was mesmerized by the fragments of her poetry that remain to the world, sometimes just fragments, just two or three words here and there, but such a rich history of myth and lore, of Love and suffering, of passion and fire, with poets like Lord Byron, Ezra Pound, Baudelaire and others enthralled by her being and her words. how is it that i was never consciously aware of her until tonight, and came to her so indirectly?

Then through reading various references for Sappho i stumbled upon a French mystic, Marguerite Porete, who was burned at the stake in Paris in 1310, for a work of Christian spirituality dealing with the workings of Divine Love..
here we go again i thought. What's been getting me in this pensive melancholy mood is exactly that - Divine Love, and wordy discussions and misunderstandings on the same. Moving from Eros or sexual love to Divine Love, whatever that may be, however it may feel, and if ever it is possible between lovers infected with the supremacy of erotic love in our times. Although Porete's writings and beliefs have a distinct Christian focus on God's love (as appropriate to the times she lived in, exploring in poetry and prose the seven stages of 'annihilation' the Soul goes through on its path to Oneness with God through Love), it nevertheless resonates with Barry Long's conviction that love (and love-making) between man and woman, the divine way, leads to spiritual union which is the manifestation of God/Love on earth.
Uncanny timing.

This is where I am now in my journey, sailing from song lyric to ancient poetry to medieval christian mystical texts, and i am amazed at what i encounter, how it all resonates, and how little time i take to let myself flow to distant themes, words and writers in my 'normal' life. Yes, it feeds my melancholy, but it also feeds the fire. The fire of my imagination, the fire of my longing for knowledge and inspiration, my desire to understand and practice what is beautiful and good, and to grow through it.
But yes, I agree, the danger is that i get too caught up in words, in the realms of my head and imagination, that my spirit wants to soar, and that my unrealistic expectations will end up chaining me to the ground.

Enough for now. I really should turn off my media player.
A song just came on that goes 'Gravity is working against me, And gravity wants to bring me down ... Just keep me where the light is, Just keep us where the light is.'

Where is the light?

Some first impression from the days spent here..
The conversations on the first night back brought me back to what life is like in Zambia. Snippets of those conversations, usually with Prince behind the bar at the lodge, other underpaid but lovely lodge staff, the regulars imbimbing their double whiskeys, and the taxi drivers, make a big impact on me when i hear whats happing in normal (read: non ICT4D) Zambian life, but then other conversations and work take over and the nuggets of reality fade from my focus.

Learning to read
Prince for example, the young barman who has stuck it out at Chita Lodge longest of all, who has turned into a friend over the years, sharing stories and questions, discussing life in 'the West' vs life in Zambia, romance, books and family matters, was telling me about his struggles in sustaining not only himself and his little daughter, but also his brother and his brother's wife who he has been putting up at his house. We were talking about his daughter who seems to be lagging behind in school. With Prince being caught up at Chita all day and night for work (under inhumane working hours and inhumane salary conditions), and the mother of the child no longer being in the picture, there hasnt been anybody to help his daughter with doing her homework and studying after school.
'What about your brother's wife?'
No, his brother's wife is illiterate, she doesnt know how to read or write. She has recently come from 'the village' to the city, and doesnt have any means of income. In the city if you can't read or write, there is little you can do. You cannot even read the signs all around you, the names of stores, the paper, you name it.
'Since your daughter is in grade 1, wouldn't it be a good opportunity for your brother's sister to learn how to read and write along with your daughter? tracing the letters, doing the excercises..'
No, she doesnt seem to want to learn. Plus, with the hierarchy here in Zambia, elders dont want to be seen as knowing less than the youngsters. Loss of face. In fact, she wants to go back to the village, she doesn't like it in the city, she doesn't do anything.
'Why doesn't she go?'
My brother doesn't want to. He feels that life happens in Lusaka, not in the village.
'What does you brother do?'
Nothing. He drinks and watches TV. He can't get a job, doesn't even try. Stays out and doesn't come home at night, and drinks a lot'
'How does he pay for it?'
I don't know. In fact, just yesterday i got really angry with him. He stays in my house, he and his wife are my dependants, and he does nothing. But he doesn't want to go back to the village.

of Poison & Gangrene
did I hear of Andrew's sister dying? Yes, Yese told me on the phone. He also told me that she died under strange circumstances..
Yes, her liver and her kidney apparently stopped at the same time, she was dead within 4 days.. Now how does that happen? it can't be a natural death, still nobody knows. People say she was poisoned, i never trusted that husband of hers..
You serious? Would her husband really do that?
You know men here in Zambia.. she was doing quite well professionally, was very independent, went her own way most of the time. And he wasn't doing very well, jealousy and consuming too much..
I'm so sorry for Andrew.. it must be hard..
Yea, but then life is like that, a few weeks, months and you forget. Well, you don't forget, but..
Sas, you were hear when my mom passed away right?
Yes, i heard.
Well, she died and i was sad, but after a few weeks, well maybe four months, i don't think about it. Only in the beginning did she come to mind, mom - oh no, mom is no more. she's gone.
How did she die Prince? I've never known..
Ah you know.. we don't quite know. what is it called? Gangrene or something? I think thats what it was, i'm not a doctor.
Gangrene? Like the infection in the feet spreading up through the blood?
Yes, we tried to get her treatment, but the doctors didn't do anything. I took her to see a few doctors, but nothing was done (knowing Prince's miserly salary, this must have cost him fortunes).
One day she was feeling really bad, so i put her in a car to take her to UTH (University Teaching Hospital), i knew we had to hurry, i could feel it. On the way there I looked back and there she was in the backseat, dead. Her eyes just staring and her head leaning against the side window (he imitates the position of his dead mother against the taxi window on the back seat).

[Comment from other guy sitting next to me, who has been listening in on the conversation] yea, gangrene, and what's that other one that people are suffering from more these times.. gout? Yea gout, Zambians eat too much red meat.. ha ha..

Prince and other guy laugh about Zambians and their love for eating meat, I am silenced by the reality of these diseases, and the incessant unnecessary deaths that permeate life here.

Sort of Books, Scandinavian Shortstories and My Friend Tom*

Today i've been travelling without moving. I haven't moved a limb, apart from my fingers. And the images flooding my mind-scape.
Images of the simple scandinavian country side, remote islands dotted in between the Swedish, Finnish and Baltic mainlands, simple lives, removed from the clutter of daily distractions. Tales of two women friends, opposites but complementary, living, working, talking and sharing. Written in beautiful simplicity, prose leaving out the unnecessary clutter and giving us readers direct access to lives lived and lives shared.
For those of you that love short stories, or those of you that want to be transported, read a few chapters of the following collection of short stories that together make up a novel. Sometimes i wish i could write like that, more times i wish i could live like that.


While you are on the premises of Sort of Books, have a peek at Tom's latest work to be published. Tom Bullough, talented young writer, part-time recluse in the Welsh hills, of college days shared history, of Whirlygig-, dub-in-halls-, Staines house-, and Babe&Babe-associations to my blotchy memory of those distant times, fellow appreciator of Southern Africa and African music, i can't wait to receive my signed copy of The Claude Glass, orderd from my Zambian hotel bed just a few moments ago. Meandering through his website, he doesnt appear to have changed a bit.

I still have an image of the river Wye on my computer which i downloaded after receiving an email from him years ago by now. His description and admiration inspired such curiosity for this wonderous landscape, i couldnt resist to match his words with an image. Plant a small cottage anywhere in the image to the right, imagine a paraphene lamp, and a writer immersed in secluded ceative work, floating down the river in warm weather for relaxtion, and ploughing through fields covered in meters-high white snow, climbing over frozen wooden gates to reach the cottage from the far-away road in winter.
That's how i've been storing him in my memory and imagination.

ilan, maybe he is someone to consult on the Art of Publishing? Presuming that publishing from the Welsh countryside bears any resemblence to publishing in the Melbournian metropole?

*inspired by Ant's repeated mentioning of Her Friend Mark, as if 'Mark' alone and her stories of their friendly adventures did not suffice in identifying the person in question

Cleaned up for public display.
I looked at those around me,
And when they looked at me,
I let them see my soul that day.

Are you scared of it?
Do you wish that it would stop?
Does it bother you
when you hear your spirit talk?

(neil young)

that little place between a smile and a tear

tears slowly filled my eyes for the beauty of the sound and the atmosphere created, a smile stretched increasingly further across my mouth, creeped up my face and joined the tears in my eyes. what exactly happened inside, how the music and the artist touched my heart and soul, is not describable. i doubt i can even tell how it really has touched me.


Toots, exuding love, from the moment he came on stage, refusing to speak through the microphone and honouring the audience by simply beginning to play. after a few tracks, which had been met by emotive and wonderous silence, when he did chose to speak, his voice was weak and his breathing sounded difficult. Yet when blowing into his harmonica, his 'whistle', there was no sign of weakness, of a long life lived, no 85-year old Toots who told us that he started the year depressed and somber, and now would not cease to bubble with charming anecdotes, stories, jokes, high-fives and hand-kisses sent to his adoring band members and the audience.

The Amsterdam city backdrop, with its soulful orange lights lighting up rainy streets and old houses, completed the feeling of participating in a movie soundtrack - i could vividly imagine romance seeping through the dark and deserted streets, the night-owl couple stealing through the cobblestone streets, stealing past canals and over small bridges, soaked by the incessant raindrops and warmed by eachother's loving touch and glances. My mind would wander and create moviescapes, local and familiar and heartwarming, to Toots' soundscapes.

I have been to few concerts that have evoked such emotive dreaming, such pangs of the heart by pure and nostalgic sounds, such adoring appreciation for an artist who, at 85 years of age, can blow into his 'whistle' and transport you, heart and mind, to such a special place, between a smile and a tear.