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.

snippets of reflection

always a feeling of recognition in the sounds and words of L. Cohen
yesterday a feeling of identification, bringing me back to the need to delve inside

' [...] you know that i love to live with you, but you make me forget so very much
i forget to pray for the angels, and then
the angels forget to pray for us [...]'

i need to return to the pearls that happened across my path
i need to write and reflect, and write a letter
'Dear Ziad...'
knowing that i am neglecting what i had just started to find

magical numbers of the soul contributing to bringing me back to me

1 + 4 + 8
13
1 + 3
4

A special number, not the average. not 4 , but worthy of keeping the original

13 / 4 set on this world to continue the work of earlier incarnations
13 / 4 my solutions come from a combination of inspiration, creativity and practical action
13 / 4 be wary of being dogmatic, being fanatic and wanting too much
13 / 4 learn to relax, to let go
for my own happiness and that of the world around me

jazz
autumn verging on winter but clinging on to the warmth in the air
rain
drizzle and wind
herfstbier bij de flipperkasten
warmte ritme en vriendelijke gezichten
kralenkettingen van zachte gele lichtjes in de bomen
hoopjes natte bruine bladeren onder mn voeten
en alsmaar mn hand in zijn hand

... Nuraghe ...

does it ring a bell?

Roma of Antiquities, Roma of Travellers, Roma of Seekers
and did i find
Side sparks and wonderous encounters - uncovering glimpses of that which is covered
Emerging from interaction
High Priestess
White Robe
Majesty and Wisdom snake
Keeping of Secrets






The shining queen, who rules the velvet night,
And nurtures nascent change, concealed from sight,
Transforms and changes, wheeling light and dark,
And seeks the Sun to sire the unseen spark.
The watery depths bring forth the Child of Light

Geboren in het Teken van de Ram

Als ik op straat loop kijken ze
als ik ze aankijk lijken ze op schapen die de slager tegenkomen
ze hebben geen verweer, geen wil, geen spoor van moed
en vluchten voor mijn driftig bloed
dat hun vervolgt tot in hun bange dromen

Maar soms zal ik een nacht
warm zijn als de zon
lief zijn als een bloem
verrukt zijn als een kind
zacht zijn als een lam...
Ik ben geboren in het teken van de Ram

Wanneer de knoppen springen dan
de eerste vogels zingen dan
begint mijn ogengrijs naar groen te glijden
en soms dwaal ik alleen
door stormen langs het strand
en zoek de warme sterke hand,
die mij zal dwingen en zal leiden
Maar soms ben ik alleen
en eenzaam met mezelf
onhandig met m'n kracht
en bang voor m'n geluk
grillig als een lam...
Ik ben geboren in het teken van de Ram

Ik zoek totdat ik vinden zal
op alle vier de winden zal ik gaan
tot ik van iemand zal gaan houden
misschien wil ik teveel
misschien blijf ik alleen
voorgoed alleen niet een die ik bemin
en die ook van mij zal gaan houden...
Ik zou zo graag een nacht
branden als het vuur
wild zijn als de storm
blind zijn voor mezelf
onschuldig als een lam...
Ik ben geboren in het teken van de Ram.
- Lennart Nijgh

So much is happening and so little is being written down.

‘Start with words’ – I do that, and my list of words, or combinations of words, gets longer and more diffuse. Pages and pages of nothing but words.
A friend once remarked that the words I write down are scattered all over a page. I start somewhere at the top, or right in the centre, and, as if to imitate the random nature of my thoughts, I will add another at a slight slant towards the top right corner. The next time I am compelled to pick up the pen and jot something down for my own recollection, it will likely find a home at a 90 degree angle from the last word, but then in the bottom right corner. And so on.
My friend looked down at her own writings and found complete sentences, in perfect linear form and sequence, and looked up at me with a somewhat worried look, as if my topsy turvy mono-syllabic mental grunts might be expressions of a more creative mind. I on the other hand longed for full sentences to emerge from my mind – complete statements, well rounded thoughts, to inform myself and others of my position in my head and in this world. Without need for embellishment, not requiring any acrobatic handling of the notebook in order to take in what had popped out.
In light of Umberto Eco’s musing on the ‘Holy War’ between Mac and MS DOS environments and the minds of their corresponding ideal users, perhaps I should leave the Calvinism of MS-DOS (or the Anglicanism of the later MS Windows), fess up to my more Catholic tendencies of linguistic revelling and buy a Mac. Not that I have ever been much good at using that environment intuitively, as my truly creative film-maker/graphic designer friends will surely let you know.

Yoni said everyone should have a little seed garden of inspirations. The only thing you have to do is strew the seeds into the earth. In my mind I saw the words on my pages sometimes burst into colourful flower, or at times fail to surface at all. Sometimes two or more seeds thrown into the top soil close to each other and since forgotten, come out entangled and entwined, and create something that makes sense as I watch them grow into each other, an innocent bystander often not even recognising the seeds as having come out of my hands, or mind.
Marvel at Creation daily. It’s all around us.
I am sure it could work with words. Yoni has a special software application for it. I have a big green book. Which some people mistake for a Bible when they see it on my hotel room bedside table. creation, not Creation. Or is it the same - just a different writer, a different time. Welcome to the Gospel according to Saskia; welcome to SkiSays.

Scratching the scabs of my battle wounds - proof of all the partying we put our bodies, minds and hearts through during those magical days - I am again and again pulled back in time and place, from the red soils of West Africa to the desert landscapes of the Middle East. My current surroundings fade out of focus and recent memories crowd in front of my mind’s eye, showing me the kaleidoscope of colours, faces, and events in which I was utterly immersed not even a week and a half ago. None of those experiences have been written down in full and elaborate sentence form, as they so deserve, and I am afraid that if I don’t take the time now, and force it out, some detail, some discovery, and many lessons might be lost. I stare at my pages of words, and add one here, another there, at an angle to the previous one.

Like standing under the trickle of cold water pumped from a well yesterday, and recalling the luxury of powerful hot showers of the otherwise Spartan hostel in Yaffo. I had thought it Spartan, but in the last two days recalled its luxury in comparison to bareness of the guest house that was my home for two nights in Salaga. In the communal shower room in Yaffo a sign was hung, something like ‘Be careful with using the water, remember you are in a desert environment’. That’s not what it said though, it was a combination of words, full of simplicity and clarity. You see, I need a notebook with me at all time. Even when I am naked in hostel bathing facilities. The sign struck me, I am not exactly sure why. I remember staring at it for a while, and stopping to gaze at it again every time I entered or left the shower room.
I imagined myself standing naked, the surrounding buildings and cityscape stripped away, encircled on all sides by endless dunes and hills of desert sand. Dry, scorched, waterless – as I knew it was, there beyond the reach of the city. It is so very easy to move from town to town, with its roads, skylines and faucets with water-always-on-call, and to forget the environment in which the city arose out of small beginnings, building after building, settler after settler. Transported by that sign into recognising and appreciating where I was, I was forced to recognise how much comfort I had at my disposal in that tourist facility for well-endowed ever-youthful wanderers, more than many an indigenous nomad had at her disposal living in Bedouin tents just a few miles further south out of town.
Standing under the trickling cold tap in the one out of only two guesthouses in the remote African district town in which I found myself two days ago, I was brought back to that Middle Eastern part of my world that I carry with me, that different world that seemed so many worlds away again by now.
Its rainy season here now, this current ‘here and now’, and the rains have been coming on well. Shafiu and I had lifted the cover off the well at the guest house, marvelling at the water level of captured rainwater in this otherwise equally scorched land. Not a desert landscape exactly, not yet at least, what with global warming and the climates changing and becoming more extreme so quickly. But a landscape where growing crops that are thirsty for water is ever more difficult, where the traditional Fulani cattle are thin and bony for lack of luscious grazing ground, and where the Fulani cattle herders are increasingly ignoring the arbitrary European-imposed borders separating the two Nation-States of Ghana and Burkina Faso, in search of true greener pastures.
But the rains have come - the roads are beginning to look like red-tiled corrugated roofs again; the debate among Lelewu and Imoro, whether the wells dug by the Missions using machines are deeper than the wells dug by the people of Salaga without the added hand of technology, had a light, non-urgent air. The debate went on for the majority of the car ride back to the provincial town, with Lelewu’s assertion, that the Missionary wells found in Kpandae could not be equalled by Salaga dwellers, touching a sensitive nerve in Imoro, causing him to raise his voice, turn his head towards our backseat frequently while driving, vehemently accounting of his fellow townsman’s well digging skills, and causing our Isuzu truck to hit potholes created by the previous nights’ showers.

Having come back now from the district to the provincial town, I stood under the hot shower, en-suite to my room, in this Indian-owned hotel, indulgingly for well over half an hour – using my Ahava soap with beneficial minerals from the Dead Sea - washing off the red dirt clinging to my body from the travelling, recollecting the activities, lessons and laughter from the last two days, and moving away again in my mind to the Dead Sea, where I had been soaking these very minerals into my skin by doing nothing but floating, watching ilana’s friends and little brother, my travel companions for that day around the Holy Land, float ahead of me while the sun began to set over the cliffs that house the ancient and history-laden rock fortress of Masada, turning the sky soft shades of purple and pink and yellow…. Where I started singing and chuckling to myself, da da dé da dé, da da dé da dé, little fluffy clouds, little fluffy clouds.. dee duu doo…
’hey mikki, did ilana ever play you that song, where the girl says ‘…I’ve never seen such beautiful skies, they were full of little fluffy clouds and the skies, they were all pink and yellow and red…’ or something like that.. it used to be one of our favourites..’
Mikki looks back bemusedly, not knowing what I am on about, but commenting that it quite seamlessly fits his mental picture of his sister and me in those days, mumbling something about hallucinating, laughing, shaking his head and floating off again. My following uttered-aloud thought about what would come out if you cross-bred a billy goat with a sheep didn’t do much good in improving his image of my sanity either, I would guess.
When the moon started coming up over the sandy cliffs across on the other shore that is Jordan, beautiful and full, coming ever brighter out of the sky which in its turn was falling slowly into night, our little trooper group, that had been light-hearted and überchatty all day, grew quieter and more thoughtful, retreating into our own individual little worlds, that had had little in common but Ilana, but that had been full of love and spirit from the start. Driving back around Jerusalem to the urban and metropolitan coastal strip, past real or imaginary fences separating the Israeli nation state from the Palestinian homelands, the music coming out of Ohad’s iPod via the rental car’s stereo, was bringing me again into different times and places, back to long ago childhood car rides, from one European country we were temporarily calling home to the country where I was born, all the way down the Telegraph Road… That song somehow had felt like another unspoken connection between me and Ohad, unacknowledged apart from a gentle stroke of his hand on my leg behind his driver’s seat while we sang the song’s refrain’s in unison, verse after verse, gazing out over his shoulder at the Israeli highway with its typical traffic of macho drivers, sirens, flashing lights and road blocks, but likely both miles away together in thought. With the bright almost entirely full moon above us. That was the night before the wedding.

I don’t know how I will ever capture all the memories, the thoughts, the emotions, the questions, the fleeting epiphanies, the impressions, the new friends, the moments of withdrawing, the surges of pulling close, all those moments, all those mine, how I will ever capture them all. The full sentences are helping, they are recreating what comes up and what comes out. They are giving shape to the words, giving them body and substance, planting them with meaning in my heart. Descriptions of events and moments leading up to events alone already take me on such journeys, I don’t want to cut corners, I want to follow their lead. But then before I even get to what I want to put down, what I want to put out there, I feel the need to break, to breath and to rest. To pick it up again a little later, with freshness and vigour, to delve into subsequent episodes and emerge with the weeds and jewels found on the sea beds from those deep and mysterious waters.
And then I find myself with a book full of intro’s – winding, truthful, exploratory intro’s, valuable pieces of work within themselves, for this is work for me, that leave so many of their follow-ups untold, and unexplored. My Book of Intros. Sas’ Almost-Loves. Somehow I’m always skirting around the edges. My Lives on the Edges of My Lives.
That reminds me of a few words written down in my GreenSeedGardenBible book, picked out of the cacophony in the ether surrounding my life, noted down for their resonance; unfortunately not really translatable, so here it is in pura forma: Alles wat je half doet, ga je je half van voelen.
I do so much, my life is organised out of doing things, going places, doing things while being in places, yet I feel so half. I don’t do them fully, I don’t do them truly, I am never fully there, or here, there and then. Here and now. Not even in writing. I flutter from one thought to the next, from one place to the next, and back, or onward, or back but just next to the previous moment and place in time, following no real pattern, just following. Not directing. When I first met Arwen and she looked at me and listened to me briefly, she remarked that I might not be very grounded, might I possibly recognise something in that? I float, here there and everywhere, and am afraid of coming down into my body, down onto earth. A fallen angel. Fallen down onto earth, not landed. Still floating between heaven and earth.
Coming down into actions, and consequences, and investments, and losses. Earthing. Rooting. Bringing the ship into the harbour. Building a house out of cement, and opening the door to what follows. No more standing on toilet-cubicles. I am Saskia. In my Slavic root, I am. Protector of Humanity.

More Life-in-Italy
In the words of one of the main protagonists, or shall we say, heroes of the stories..:

[..For those that werent in Orvieto..]You don't know what you've been missing:
The best butcher in Italy with the world's best sausages, salami and porchetta!!!!!!
Eating outside in the Umbrian Landscape.
The best spa in the north with an extremely relaxing aroma oil massage. (Forget about the allergies. : )
Italy's best lake - Lago di Bolsena - with an amazing boat trip around two islands!
Lazio's best cheese shop in a cave with the best Peccorino ever!
Civita, The city that dies slowly!
The greatest duomo with cruel reliefs and an amazing history. Incredible caves with dove cots and old bankers! I love it!
A wonderful view out of Pippa's guest room's window into the great wide open, a lush landscape full of bore and deer. Or the view out of the bathroom window with a beautiful pitoresque ruine.
By the way, the best bore pasta - homemade. Mamma mia!
Our Risotto and long-time-ago-music night was also to remember!
And never be forgotten: The legendary boar walk in the middle of the night in the complete dark!!!
We saw hundreds of wild boar with their huge teeth fearfully threatening us. It WAS dangerous!

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Originally uploaded by sistaski.

Life-in-Italy.... Senza Parole... or.. Life-in-a-roman-fountain-with-roman-dog-in-roman-midsummer-heat

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Originally uploaded by sistaski.

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Originally uploaded by sistaski.

Life-in-Italy....Lion of ... !

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Originally uploaded by sistaski.

Life-in-Italy....crumbling away... shhh, dont tell lonely planet...

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Originally uploaded by sistaski.

Life-in-Italy....; in between Allerona Old and Allerona New
The site of nightly fires; ghostly noises and fireflies;
regrettably: no boars in sight

a fallen angel
"u know sas, this may sound strange,
but when i look at u, i see a fallen angel.
i dont know if that makes any sense to u"

oh yes it does

"and i picture u in a long white robe
walking on a long road
walking away
and looking back over ur shoulder"

Gary, one of the Christmas Twins

An obvious Master
when u need inspiration, its handed to u. this time in the form of Master Percussionist (yes, he deserves the capitals) Trilok Gurtu... together with Malinese artists from a small village in the bush, bringing indian/pakistani music together with West African music - to him 'All music is One'
Definately a source of strength! Incredibly beautiful music, stunning musicianship - the likes of which i havent heard, or in this case: seen!, often before.
Two links to check out:
The Master: http://www.trilokgurtu.net/
The Disciples (and Masters in their own right): http://www.frikyiwa.com/

diversify & conquer
involuntary tears rolling gently down my cheeks; barely noticeable.
no sensation in the rest of my being.
if it wasnt for the somewhat loaded content of the exchange, and my knowledge that it is quite something for me to reach out, to let somebody, anybody, know that all's not always ok - if i didnt know that i had reached out and that love was pouring back in, albeit in 1s and 0s, I probably wouldnt have been able to place the tears.
they felt so alien, slowly forming in the corner of my eye, slowly rolling down, as if in slow motion, gently tickling my cheeks.
no particular trigger, no pang, no pain, barely any discomfort.
but here they are nevertheless, rising to the surface, where the well is i dont know.
calling out, comforted by the response, and still too fragile to reciprocate. Dialogue? How? and what on earth to say? i want to respond just to show my appreciation, my thanks. yet i dont.
whats being asked of me? nothing un reasonable - to come out of my locked toilet cublicle, ah the ghost of mrs Augustine, and to diversify my sources of strength.
At the moment i dont feel strong at all - and, as if on cue, they well up again, those tears. obscured by hayfever-induced sneezing attacks, another distraction, stopped the water from rising.
'if you keep adding rocks soon the water will... be lost in the well, lost in the well.. mmh mmh mmh'
Is that all it takes? To admit that im not feeling strong? That im feeling weak, helpless, lonely?
Bingo - somethings rising again, but i have my guard up now. wont fall for the same trick three times.
Kamande said something about wishin i was in a'dam. i picked up on the word wishing or wish, and unleashed something bigger.

[...] and let me wish upon a star
let me know what life is like on jupiter or mars
in other words, hold my hand,
in other words, darling kiss me..

Am i singing it for me? It does make me feel good, picks up my somewhat gloomy mood. But then there's a young man crossing the street ahead, and i move outside of myself. I go back to sing the bit where i think i can make my voice sound good. My step is lighter - a singing bimbo, trying to show the world (..in the form of a single young man on an otherwise empty street..) that I'm not weak, I'm strong, look at me - I need nobody, but I'll sing my song for you, hoping you'll like me, want me, love me.
Diversify my sources of strength.
I know nothing else! And if i go out and find something new, I'll be doing it on my own. Double-edged sword that. I'll feel strong just not to feel weak. And alone.
Winter is ok. I can blame the cold, the darkness, everyone is hybernating. So should I.
In summer i cant blame the light. Nothing conducive about the long hours, the long days and the bright nights. everyone leaves the office early - my priority is the July event. Africa. Africa is my locked toilet cubicle.
Diversify my sources of strength.
I'm afraid of my strength. Of the power within me. I subdue it. I kill it. I do think so.
So Kamande feels acknowledged and loved by my song, in 1s and 0s - jus like u c me soul tanx me love tanx - there are others out there needing love and feeling disconnected?
How is it that just when a good friend, however distant in geography or in time since a last communication, feels that - that the universe conspires to make us get in touch, and leave us feeling warmer, touched, and loved.
Is that OneLove? Blessed Love?
I jest about it, but i do witness it.
I don't always acknowledge it, in fact I'm probably horribly ignorant of it most of my time - but i do witness it.

I bear witness
and yet i discredit it
I'm afraid - that control issue
I could go on.

back to ethiopia
The very first view of the hills surrounding Addis Ababa was enigmatic, with early morning fog clouds creeping from the hinterland up the hills all the way to the precipice, after which they would pour over the edge into the crater-like valley that harbours Addis (A.A. in local parlance..). With Addis at ca 2300m above sea-level, i was glued to the airplane window, wondering in early morning post-night flight stupor about the resemblence of the organic looking creeping cloud formation to moss, and how did it know to creep up and up, and stop creeping just before it would cascade down into the valley...

5 days & 1 eLearning Africa conference later...
..i was sinking into the backseat, relaxing into the idea of a long car ride that would allow all the details of the the day to sink into my thought. My co-passengers were equally lost in their own worlds - Lorna dipping into short bouts of sleep, Sheba lying down on the very back bench quietly whispering into her mobile phone and smoking a fag.
I couldnt begin to think what this visit must've affected in Dee, being Jamaican and wearing locks, but never really having delved into this movement - this faith and its projenitors. It must've been a true baptism by fire, judging by the amount of times we heard 'FYA!' proclaimed that day. Not wanting to distrub her, I recognised that chit chat or further discussion was really not required for the events of the day to start making any more sense in our minds - from the frightening 4am call that aroused the Addis-based household into a state of worry and a need for an explanation, a cause for the attack. With old fears and accusations rising through the questions and anxiousness, the atmosphere in the house had been tense and the mercy-bound journey to Shash, loaded with bandages and disinfectant for the wounded youths, was a prospect that gave me heavy boots.
Now the day was growing old, and the sun was coming down fast, bathing the surrounding low lands in soft orange and pink light against the remainder of the immense bright blue sky, with stars beginning to sparkle through the vast expanse of the night firmament.
In Africa I've heard it said that the stars in the sky are the campfires of their ancestors. If thats true, then somewhere up there may be my dad's dad, whom i had unfortunatly never known, but who, my dad told me recently, had been keenly interested in Africa, its nature and its people - so much so that he had written text books on Africa for Dutch primary school classes all over the country. Setting off every so often, from the small towns and villages in the east of the country where they had lived, often next to or even attached to school buildings where he had worked, to the offices of the Ministry of Education in the capital The Hague, to get his latest collection of lessons published - all geared towards an enhanced understanding of, and appreciation for, this distant continents' treasures on the part of Dutch school children.
The idea occurred that he might just have come out of his dwelling, picked some firewood from the bush, made a camp fire, is sat down by the crackling fire, gazing out over earth, bemusedly following my adventures and explorations on this continent and beyond. Who knows, maybe grandma is even sitting next to him, boiling up water on the fire for some tea; maybe they fell in love again when grandma finally joined him there, delighted and inspired by each other's company.
We reached the top of a hill and suddenly were surrounded by a most stunning 240 degree view of two lakes sparkling in the last daylight, shimmering silverly ahead and aside of us. Flanked on one side with protective hills and streching into the horizon on the other, the sight of Lake Shala and Lake Langano caused Lorna, Dee and me to exchange glances and share our visible pleasure at the incredible sights and moments availed to people travelling on the majestic African continent.

Babylon is fallin
Ethiopia she is callin