the universe conspires
once again
following on from meeting baba ziad that night in the palace
from Ténéré comes the next piece of code
something bigger than ourselves unfolds
i hope i can be strong and wise enough to play my part

written during nairobi - amsterdam night flight..

i close my eyes and imagine myself
walking up your steps, not mine
it'll be early, daylight wont disturb
the romance for another few hours.

i imagine myself lying on your carpet
your house warm and inviting
the heat of your shower and
your smile looking through the bathroom door.
though time is scarce and reality awaits
and commonsense would dictate another course of action,
my returning to my house doesnt offer the feeling of sanctuary
that following you to yours does.
candles and caresses
and a good dose of your skin
the january cold will be biting
nothing but warmth within.

No is comfort, Yes is adventure
Read this and re-found a truth that i had know, and wish to live.
Thanks ilan.

heard while in a taxi to chita lodge, my home away from home:

When I asked my 12 year old daughter to do me one more favour, she said Sure mommy, what is it?
I want to ask you to go for VCT (voluntary counselling & testing) , if you want to that is, to know your status. As hard as it that was for me to ask her, so lightly and easily she responded: Sure mommy. I'll do that. I would be proud to be just like you. Positive. I hadn't expected her to respond like that. It moved me deeply. What's more mommy, I know now what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be a doctor. Then I will be your doctor and care for you.

all I could do was look out of the window on the passenger side, breathe deeply and hope Soko wouldn't say something to me that required a response. I wouldn't be able to hide the tears welling up in my eyes and the big chunk of emotion that blocked and pained my throat.

(note: the picture is of Mercy, a Zambian girl that Ilana found, and that was lost to our joint care shortly after when her mother left the shanty town they lived in, and took Mercy with her, leaving Ilana no forwarding address)

Mistaking dependancy for romantic notions
Hoping at every text message received that it is from you. and then it isnt. and then i feel sad. and off I go thinking about you again - about our words, about our differences, about the current lack of understanding.
The real-life messages and their senders dont get my full attention, the Here and Now fades into the background. It's dark outside, its been raining torentially, plots on the right side of the road have water gushing out from under the gate as if pipes have broken in each basement of every house. On the left the fields are flooded, driveways are unpassable, people and cars are stuck, unable to reach their homes.
With me in the little van are three new team members that i hadnt met before today. I have all the opportunity in the world to talk to them, ask them a million things, quench my thirst for learning about all their experiences, knowing all about the project's advances, challenges and lessons.
Instead i stare out into the wet darkness, think about you who are a million miles away, and feel sad. I don't engage with what's around me - as soon as the official discussions are over, I no longer delve into knowing more about, and meaning more for, the project. I retreat into hoping for communication and enter pictures and dialogues in my head, drifting away from reality.
That's not romance, that's dependency.

he says 'go turn inward, yes, that would be good'
i know its true, yet its difficult to hear.
why?

the sun is slowly setting, the mosquitos are starting to bite, a leisurely saturday in Southern Africa.
The rains are refusing to come through, apart from a few drops while driving to the airport picking up our european visitors.
hours upon hours spent behind the building, shoes off, hiding from the sun, heated by the hotspot. no cables, fast speeds, millions of words entering my head, from australia to southern africa, shielded by the straw roof of the traditional insaka.

complexity increases. i look around, and see pumpkin leaves, wood and straw. i open my ears and hear the tinny sounds of Bob coming from laptop speakers which arent mine. i open my mouth and am spoken to in dutch by a dark young african man. i go to look at photos and end up perusing many people dressed in white - i dont know where and i dont know why. But i keep looking, page after endless page.


I call soko, 'do you remember me', he will take me to my home away from home, i will shower, i will consider all the work i wanted to do today which i didnt do, i will feel bad, i will rush because i am late, and i will have to switch my brain to Education. Teachers. Lesson plans. Training. Technologies. I feel the sigh rising. I want to go to bed and read, but i left inspiring books at home. I have too much work to catch up on. Or is last night's wiskey with Sir G catching up on me?
Ilan, I love you.