THREE

“There is not one world, but two.” Words attributed to Rraditshipi.

On the third day, I am feeling lonely. I cannot bare to think of the single bun and few drops of water that remain for me. My feelings of peace yield occasionally to feelings of desperation and depression. The pain has worsened, but fasting makes me numb and dizzy, so, when I am not moving, it is easy to sleep and ignore it. I have grown accustomed, in this brief period, to the rhythms of the day. I enjoy the heat, and tear off my clothes to try to absorb it, because the cold at night is less pleasant, and filled, it seems with wild monsters.

I am impressed that the Earth has places like this, where nights are filled with the raucous chatter of wild animals. It is surreal that the Kalahari resembles emptiness and yet is filled, by the sounds of it, with so much. If lions and elephants can live here, there must be more to it than meets the eye. Even the engineers at Orapa know this. They know there is more here than just sand. The sand is filled with diamonds. I wonder what I am not seeing. I wonder how I can make a home of this place, rather than simply trying to endure it. I wonder how one can live daily and happily in the Kalahari. I have come to a place where I believe this is possible. I just do not know how. I am intrigued. I sleep. My body melts against the prickly heat of the seat. I begin to flow through the plastic, through the chemical veins and hard bolts to the silky grains. I fly through a trillian capillaries, and finally bump my head against a thick tubular thing in the ground. I drift up through the soil, along the hard undulations of the tube, upward to breath in the sun filled tree. The tree haunts me. Lions walk by it. Occasionally huge cumulous clouds sail by it, sometimes deploying thick bolts of lightning that rip at the earth and shake the heavens. These bolts turn the grasses into fire. Lines of fire sweep towards the tree. Flames lick against the dark, gutted trunk. But always, the fire has to move on, and the tree survives once more.

I try to go back. I feel raked out of the soil and wake but I seek the dream again. My discomfort and my thirst is very great now, so I begin to imagine that I need to leave the ship. I see I am going to die here. Before I do, perhaps I should at least try to cover some distance. I plan to inspect the engine in the afternoon, and try to bring her back to life. If this proves unsuccessful, I will have to drag myself over the dunes, and I know, lie in the sand at night, while lions lurk nearby.
It occurs to me suddenly that the dream is trying to tell me something. It hits me like a slap on my cheek.

You are the tree. The fire represents your suffering, and you can endure it. If you are to survive, you must stay where you are. Listen. Stop trying and Remember who you are.

At this, I melt. It is a reassuring thought, but to know that I must remain here, and do nothing, fills me with unutterable grief. I know that my suffering will become excruciating. How long must I wait?

I find myself waiting, and occasionally, resisting the urge to cry, to shout, to scream. Always, something draws me away. A big spider on the seat, or a bird with a big beak that visits me. I return to a condition of waiting, and then the agony returns. I decide to stop waiting. It is a difficult decision, because I often forget it. It is a subtle contract I have with myself now. I decide to touch…I touch my own fingers, my nose, my tongue…the glass. I feel. I get lost in this. Somehow I feel irresponsible. I feel like I am playing, when I should be walking or analysing something. But I continue. The day hardens, then softens and is gone.