TWO
“When a sorcerer (medicine man) dies, his heart comes out in the sky and becomes a star.” A Busman interviewed by W.H.I. Bleek and L.C. Lloyd, 1870-1880.
Outside the spaceship is the redness of Mars. The sand seems to swell, to glow with light. The fields of lava redden and breathe, as though the wind stirs their fires within. I hear, under my shirt, a loud growl from my belly. Air pockets bubble through my intestines. Slowly I am able to expel the gas, first from my mouth, and soon from the other end. I am preoccupied with this for time, and then I try to comfort myself that the hunger I feel is nothing compared to the gnawing malnutrition millions of African children, and their parents, endure every day. And you don’t hear about them in the news bulletins. Thus, I reason, I can endure this without trouble.
I wonder where John is? I am grateful that he is gone. I still cannot decide who is in a better position. I guess that he must be, but I am not convinced. Where would he have slept last night? Perhaps he’d not slept at all?
The last time I was this isolated, I remember, was when I was six years old. I had gastroenteritis. They put me in an oxygen tent to bring my life threatening fever down. Because my mother was pregnant she was not allowed to touch me. I was naked, and in pain, and when you are six years old and bedridden, a day feels like a week. So you see Andy, you’ve been through this sort of thing before.
I shut the door on any rebuttal, but eventually one slips through. You don’t get discharged and walk into a parking lot with someone holding your hand. Here, you’ve either got to be rescued, or…you’ve got to find your own way.
I watch Venus sparkle in the bright blue heavens. I watch the dunes fill with red light, and then soften to shades of sulphur, ivory and ochre. It is magnificent, rather than beautiful. Again, this feeling of needing to cry overwhelms me. I resist it.
I drift off, dreaming about my big black spaceship, and how it brought me here, to all this space. I dream I am drifting over the ship, and through it, like a ghostly astronaut (but even in my dream I am stiff, and my neck throbbing). I dream that hordes are moving from afar towards the ship. They believe it can save them, that this is not just another derelict spacecraft in the desert. When they are much closer I see that they are not coming to be saved, but are shaking their tiny little fists at the sky. They want me to leave, except I can’t.
Their anger turns to despair as, despite their gesticulations, this machine that has sullied their graceful field, merely remains. They cry like the children of grossly negligent parents. The Mi-26, haunting their world, draws their deepest despairs like poison from a wound. Once spent, they turn and return, unburdened, lightened, to their homes on the horizon somewhere. I know now that they came to the machine to exorcise their hatred of all the inhuman things they have seen and known. They exculpate themselves here, at this symbol of the Empire. I see further, across Africa, through my ghostly eyes, to all the woe and untold desolation that is Africa.
It is frightening and ghastly and bewitching. I see, through all this, beyond yellow rivers of tears, something magnificent. I see a tree in the desert. Other broken trees, scattered and wrecked and mere skeletons under the sun surround it. This one has survived the elephants, its own thirst, and bursts of lightning above its head. Though mostly burnt, I see it is managing to produce fresh green buds, and small new shoots. This capacity to survive inspires me, even in my dream. When I awake my heart is beating like a drum. I want to get up, and run. I know I have dreamt this dream before, before I even came to the desert. I feel a pang as I realise that this dream came from here, and perhaps, has brought me here. I am suddenly filled with a sense of well being, and peace, and purpose. I am happy to know that me being here is not a fluke. I look out over the Kalahari with a little more love in my eyes, and watch the sands fill with light and heat
Outside the spaceship is the redness of Mars. The sand seems to swell, to glow with light. The fields of lava redden and breathe, as though the wind stirs their fires within. I hear, under my shirt, a loud growl from my belly. Air pockets bubble through my intestines. Slowly I am able to expel the gas, first from my mouth, and soon from the other end. I am preoccupied with this for time, and then I try to comfort myself that the hunger I feel is nothing compared to the gnawing malnutrition millions of African children, and their parents, endure every day. And you don’t hear about them in the news bulletins. Thus, I reason, I can endure this without trouble.
I wonder where John is? I am grateful that he is gone. I still cannot decide who is in a better position. I guess that he must be, but I am not convinced. Where would he have slept last night? Perhaps he’d not slept at all?
The last time I was this isolated, I remember, was when I was six years old. I had gastroenteritis. They put me in an oxygen tent to bring my life threatening fever down. Because my mother was pregnant she was not allowed to touch me. I was naked, and in pain, and when you are six years old and bedridden, a day feels like a week. So you see Andy, you’ve been through this sort of thing before.
I shut the door on any rebuttal, but eventually one slips through. You don’t get discharged and walk into a parking lot with someone holding your hand. Here, you’ve either got to be rescued, or…you’ve got to find your own way.
I watch Venus sparkle in the bright blue heavens. I watch the dunes fill with red light, and then soften to shades of sulphur, ivory and ochre. It is magnificent, rather than beautiful. Again, this feeling of needing to cry overwhelms me. I resist it.
I drift off, dreaming about my big black spaceship, and how it brought me here, to all this space. I dream I am drifting over the ship, and through it, like a ghostly astronaut (but even in my dream I am stiff, and my neck throbbing). I dream that hordes are moving from afar towards the ship. They believe it can save them, that this is not just another derelict spacecraft in the desert. When they are much closer I see that they are not coming to be saved, but are shaking their tiny little fists at the sky. They want me to leave, except I can’t.
Their anger turns to despair as, despite their gesticulations, this machine that has sullied their graceful field, merely remains. They cry like the children of grossly negligent parents. The Mi-26, haunting their world, draws their deepest despairs like poison from a wound. Once spent, they turn and return, unburdened, lightened, to their homes on the horizon somewhere. I know now that they came to the machine to exorcise their hatred of all the inhuman things they have seen and known. They exculpate themselves here, at this symbol of the Empire. I see further, across Africa, through my ghostly eyes, to all the woe and untold desolation that is Africa.
It is frightening and ghastly and bewitching. I see, through all this, beyond yellow rivers of tears, something magnificent. I see a tree in the desert. Other broken trees, scattered and wrecked and mere skeletons under the sun surround it. This one has survived the elephants, its own thirst, and bursts of lightning above its head. Though mostly burnt, I see it is managing to produce fresh green buds, and small new shoots. This capacity to survive inspires me, even in my dream. When I awake my heart is beating like a drum. I want to get up, and run. I know I have dreamt this dream before, before I even came to the desert. I feel a pang as I realise that this dream came from here, and perhaps, has brought me here. I am suddenly filled with a sense of well being, and peace, and purpose. I am happy to know that me being here is not a fluke. I look out over the Kalahari with a little more love in my eyes, and watch the sands fill with light and heat
posted by Nick at 12:48 PM
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