Saturday, December 15, 2007

Oliver...Annie....?

14 December 2007, Friday
Venue: Looking out over the impossibly blue summer sky above the scorched, pale grass of the field outside my window. (Just woke from a four hour nap I’ve been fantasising about for two weeks now.)
Soundtrack: “Welcome to the Jungle” from ‘Appetite for Destruction’ by Guns ‘n Roses (one of the many CDs Craig left here till he returns in January.) My favourite? Linkin Park. Also really getting into Metallica!
Beverage: a glass of Pinotage from the bottle I opened last night and left overnight in the fridge – ironically, which tastes a zillion times better chilled – most probably because it ranges more towards ‘plonk’ than ‘nectar’ on the wine scale!

EBENEZER VILLAGE

Every single day there is an incredible wealth of things to write about – ordinary, everyday things but somehow when written about, my heart finds the sacred in… But today I have managed to find time to write. And energy. (But why would one need energy to write? Surely you’re sitting still – a completely sedentary activity? But no, writing requires an immense energy to remember details and minutiae about scent, emotion, colour, sound… It feels almost physical, this remembering. And then there’s the transmuting into words – a process akin to giving birth?!) Which reminds me – the other night a friend showed me her daughter’s 4D scans while she was still in utero – and then the dvd of the birth – by Caesarean section! (Hmmm…. This could be another long story – but because I need to start clearing some space in my cupboards etc for Craig’s moving-in, I better keep this short and sweet: it really amazes me how since I was a tiny little girl I’ve wanted to be a mommy and a wife! More than being an artist or a writer, more than a dynamically successful career or fame and adoration, my heart has always beat to the tune of ‘mommy, mommy, mommy’. So many of my male AND female friends have been utterly perplexed and appalled at such a ‘domesticated’ and, I suppose, deeply simple desire. At hearing me confess this as my life’s sole desire, men have run for their dear lives rather in the direction of less broody bimbos! Two days ago at work, 5 year old Storm wrapped her arms around me and rubbed my belly and blaringly announced to a room of twenty or so mothers : “Lisa, are you pregnant?” Eish!! My first reaction was that my need to go on something akin to a diet was confirmed! One mom said that means I’m already pregnant or going to have a baby very soon - an old wive’s tale?! It is true though, this sixth sense, this intuition that young children possess – I have seen how they can sense a pregnancy either before you’ve told them, or even before YOU’VE discovered it yourself! Hmmm….)
But let me tell you about today. Driving to work, I surveyed – with mild disgust - my car floor covered in sea sand, an empty can of Coke Lite rolling backwards and forwards and wondered what the little orphans I needed to pick up later in Atlantis would think of this adult mess! All through my 9am class, my mind tossed and kneaded this idea of ‘orphan’ and ‘orphanage’ around, trying to understand exactly what it was I would be encountering later in the morning. Flooded by flashes from Oliver Twist and dirty, dark, cold Dickensian waifs, I just had no idea what to expect!
Straight after class, three of us – the Gymboree bus and two cars, filled up at the petrol station before heading out on the blisteringly hot R27 to Atlantis. Seeing the big packet of popcorn on the car seat next to me, I had visions of frantic scrambling and whining and crying little children not sharing it. (My colleague bought it for me the day before, but there it still lay on the passenger sear unopened.) Perhaps against my better judgement, I decided it WOULD be worth just letting them eat it on the way back. Driving past Melkbos, the arid and sandy backdrop dried up into almost nothing and then we turned right off the R27 to Atlantis. Far from a watery, undersea kingdom, Atlantis is a dessicated, almost forgotten West Coast town but still, I was struck by the peaceful, orderly cleanness of it. Indicators ticking, we stopped our cars in a row outside the electric-fenced grey brick property of Ebenezer Village while someone opened the gate for us. A neat but exuberant man in dark shirt and pants welcomed us in, indicating where we could park. His firm handshake matched his gentle strength and beaming smile as he introduced himself as Ronald. (I was later to find out he is also called ‘Daddy’ and ‘Pastor’!) Letting us in through the front door , we entered a cheery, organised hall where little children smiled shyly at us or watched quietly from the outskirts. Ronald walked us matter-of-factly through the orphanage. And though that is exactly what it ‘is’ in legal / factual terminology, it is one big ‘home’ – all one level – his own livingroom’s glass sliding doors opening out onto the courtyard like any daddy would open his lounge doors onto his back patio and garden for his children to wander in and out of. There was no sense of him being a ‘warden’ or ‘in charge’ – but truly he is a father above all! The little ones all call him ‘Daddy’ – except for the day-mothers and volunteers who, with affectionate regard call him ‘Pastor’! He walked us through the various age-groups’ living areas – and I was almost overwhelmed by the thoughtful homeliness of each and every room – whether it was the pretty bedrooms or cheerful and clean bathrooms. Painted in happy pastels, the walls are adorned with Whinny the Pooh or dolphins – the bedding clean and colourful and no sad scent of neglect. Granted, I could NEVER grasp what it must be like to live this life or experience its thoughts or feelings, but the sheer atmosphere of love and hope was almost too much to bear. My previous volunteer experiences a few years ago at a boys’ homeless shelter did not prepare me for this home so overflowing with care and REAL love! The youngest little one is a month old – perfectly formed and healthy and smelling like only babies can : the sweet, warm smell of just-baked biscuits. Holding each of these little people in my arms was like cradling a precious miracle – NOT a tragedy. Here in my arms, soft and clean and warm and looking into my eyes was a little person with exquisite potential! And it is nothing more than Pastor Ronald and his wife’s active and practical love that has enabled this life to be. I felt no self-centred pity or guilt, but only an excitement to add to this love in whichever way I can!!!!
Shortly after walking into the courtyard garden manned by a proud black Labrador, my friend Candy picked up a little girl in pink who’d wordlessly requested to be taken up into her arms. Awhile later, Pastor Ronald said something to this little girl, calling her ‘Destiny’. Almost visibly, Candy recoiled in a kind of shock, shooting rapid questions about where she was from – ‘Is she from the beach?’ and a deep, visceral realisation engulfed Candy as she realised that THIS was the same little girl she’d first encountered with the mother outside Primi Piatti in Blouberg more than a year ago and had compassionately and regularly aided with food and clothes over the span of a year! An entire winter of wondering what had ever happened to them after they’d disappeared from the area, Candy – reeling, could hardly grasp little Destiny’s warm and smiling presence in her arms. Destiny had recognised her! Destiny… (Candy is taking her into her own home over the holidays)
Only able to safely fit four little ones into my green Ford Fiesta, they somehow chose me – and twenty minutes later, I was singing Old Macdonald down the R27 with four happy, healthy and awesomely considerate little children – spilling more popcorn than they ate – but sharing like I never shared with my own sisters! They waved at the cars and cyclists we passed along the way, and touched my arm with such precious affection as if they’d known me forever… We laughed and chatted and screeched with delight all the way until finally we parked outside Gymboree where suddenly their mood turned hushed and a little bit reticent : they had no idea what to expect. Clambering out the car, soft, warm little hands reaching for mine, we walked into the front door where the sedate, air-conditioned quiet was blasted away by ‘WOW’ excitement I’ve seen very seldom in my 29 years! Trying to organise name tags for more than 30 cloud-nine children was a happy chore and soon they flooded the play area with such powerful exuberance unmatched by any other group of children I’d seen before! Bettina, the trainer in charge, checked her hunch with me that a less structured play environment was what was needed – and so, after almost an hour of riotously joyplay, it was a very special moment to have witnessed all thirty six children and a handful of volunteer teachers sing great big lungfuls of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’, captured inside our giant parachute!
Pastor Ronald observed all of this from the outskirts with a quiet sort of pride. And he’s agreed to me spending one day a week at the home playing and laughing and doing art with the little ones as of next year! I’m SO excited and so, so inspired! Truly, what a haven of caring love and excellent support – Ebenezer Village!

Thursday, December 6, 2007

"Lisa's Surprise"

LISA’S SURPRISE
Halfway through unpacking his bags the night I picked him up from the airport, Craig handed me a long white envelope, with ‘Lisa’s Surprise’ written in neat blue ball-point across the front. A couple of sparing clues given me over the previous month did not prepare me for what I unfolded from this innocuous envelope.
Five pages evidently printed straight from a website, my mind soaked up text and images in happy disbelief : a weekend away in a dreamy tree-house overlooking a river and nestled in a mountainous valley… Besides the fact that surprises are one of my favourite things EVER, it was this element of surprise, combined with the thoughtful planning, sheer expense and uniqueness of idea that made my heart contract with an excruciating combination of elation and regret : this was the most romantic gesture I’d ever been gifted! (my heart pumped : ‘wow….wow….wow….wow…wow..’)
With my little green Ford Fiesta packed with towels, food, beers and books, we headed out towards Malmesbury along the way to Citrusdal – the sun hot and dazzling through the windows – my car heater somehow managing to have gotten stuck on the red a week before (no comment.) After stopping at a quaint, road-side cafĂ© near Citrusdal where we were the obvious attraction/distraction for the day – an icy Coke each and we hightailed it out of what reminded me too much like a scene out of ‘Deliverance!’
A little while later we turned right at the sign to Citrusdal – 500m later and we took another right onto a desperately pot-holed farm road at the sign to Kardouw Tree Houses. After 16km of a road that required a fair amount of nifty manoeuvring, we hit the 8.5km gravel road which made me feel proud of both Craig and my little Ford Fiesta which tackled the challenge with finesse and great gusto (though in retrospect, I’d recommend a bigger car or even a 4x4 on this particular stretch of the adventure!) The plus side to this dusty obstacle course of ruts and rocks is that it keeps your average yobbo away! (hmmm… I sound distinctly like my father!) Driving through orchards of orange trees in full fruit, we arrived a little earlier than our 2 o’clock check-in time. Beneath a natural canopy of very shady oak trees, we tried not to park a trio of other cars in – all the while looking for some sort of reception area but finding none. A little confused, we decided to follow a wonderfully inviting wooden bridge leading into the whispering, cool darkness of the trees beyond. In the distance, we heard the contented murmur of visitors, punctuated by the odd toddler’s shriek of delight. The solid but deliciously exciting wooden bridge branched off here and there directing the way to quaint wooden huts, their entrances privately obscured and giving the illusion of being the only hut nestled there amongst the tree tops. Eventually, the bridge began to taper downwards and in the distance we saw a sunlit patch of grass with the river sparkling lazily alongside it, and the source of the voices we’d heard earlier. They explained that the check-in procedure was to choose the hut that most tickled your fancy and move yourself in! Seeing as there was still an hour or so left till our check-in time, we changed into our cozzies and unfurled our towels out onto the grass, consciously neglecting to put sunblock on our lilywhite post-winter flesh, and hauling out our individual novels : ‘The Green Mile’ for Craig and ‘The Wedding Officer’ for me. Within seconds I was swatting and swiping in a mild sort of panic at the million little spiders that somehow seemed magnetically attracted to me (arachnophobia notwithstanding!) Needless to say, this caused Craig to enter a state of shocked but laughing amusement – he’d not been officially informed of this arachnoid distress of mine!
Once the super-efficient army of cleaning staff had left the area, Craig left me in all my lazy suntanning glory to find us a hut! Returning a little while later, he told me he’d chosen us the best tree-house : the one with the view directly over the river – the orange orchards and mountains beyond. Perfect! (Already, I was beginning to feel like a princess!) He unpacked the car, taking our bags and packets of food along the bridge to our little hut while I lay in the sun, wondering how it was possible such a kind and romantically thoughtful man could possibly exist?! Interrupting my cynical ruminations, Craig returned – and it was time to get up to see the tree house we’d driven three hours to spend the night in.
Turning left off the main walkway, we walked along the side of the hut (most of the fronts of the huts are concealed from the main walkway!) and turned the corner of the hut to discover the most perfect little balcony overlooking the Olifants River, a shimmering canopy of leaves causing the light to fall in a kind of lace across the dark silver wood of the balcony, where there was a little black wrought-iron table and two chairs just waiting for us to sit down with a cup of tea. The whole front of the hut is covered in floor-to-ceiling glass sliding doors – a fresh, modern touch to the simplicity of the bamboo and thatch ceiling and wooden floors. The double bed, covered in plump pillows and a down duvet – the fresh white cotton linen almost begging for us to climb in – dominated the interior. To the left of the entrance along the wall was a cabinet neatly filled with the basics in crockery and cutlery, as well as a mini-stove/oven and a kettle. Craig’d bought us colossal croissants for lunch and he opened an icy Savanna for me, and a Windhoek for himself. And after this perfect lunch, we decided it was time to crumple those immaculately smooth white sheets! With the glass doors left open to the dappled afternoon light and cool breeze, we kissed and kafoefled like teenagers until all of a sudden we were visited unexpectedly by the first of a couple of uninvited guests! One of the previous guests arrived at the open door to tell us he’d brought back the little gas stove ---- I don’t know who was more embarrassed : us or him!! (It was actually SUCH a comical situation but do you know what? I think that I’m still too embarrassed to write about it!) We reckon he either told no-one or everyone!!! After THAT we were too wide awake too sleep (after much hysterical laughing!) and it was time to see if the red and white canoe moored in the reeds along the shore was sea-worthy! Like the true gentleman that he is, Craig stood chivalrously in the cold, brown water, holding the kayak so I could climb in without mishap. Once I was safe and sitting, Craig climbed in but almost causing us to topple shrieking headlong into the shallow waters only a half-metre from shore! With a couple of inches of river-water swirling around our bare feet, Craig paddled us quietly giggling and relievedly dry downstream. I felt like a Victorian lady being wooed by her suitor – all I was missing was a parasol and a corseted dress! The view of the mountains from the river past the thick bulrushes and flittering birds and weavers’ nests was humbling and magnificent. And the long trailing waterblommetjies, waterswept under the dark water, with their white, waxy flowers and leaves of greens, golds and reds… surreal. Reminding me of Ophelia. Hearing the turbulence of rapids ahead, the romantic tranquillity of the moment was turned upside down as I bossily told Craig to turn us around – I was NOT in the mood to a) capsize in a cold, black-watered rapid and b) have to walk the kayak back upstream along the shore! Ya. Not very romantic behaviour, Lisa! And so, my darling Craig dutifully turned us around and paddled us up into the late afternoon breeze while I sat lazily on the prow – Cleopatra or the Queen of Sheba?! – pointing out weavers nests and baby waterfowl!
As the afternoon grew more gold and the shadows leaned more and more away from the setting sun, we went to sit out on the balcony with another chilled drink, wishing we’d had the foresight to have bought a bottle of wine (i.e. not being able to buy wine on a Sunday doesn’t apply in the Eastern Cape!) A little walk down to the grassy banks and other decks revealed an even more incredible view of the mountains – the light had set the mountains beyond on fire – the rocks literally blood red, but overshadowed with deep lilac skies the colour of old bruises. We talked about how this place would make an amazing wedding, birthday or New Year’s venue! The guests could stay in the ample accommodation – there even being allowance and space for tents to be pitched down below on the grass. And the tables and chairs on the wooden decks just perfect for a feast! There are even old-fashioned oil lanterns on the tables one could light as it got dark. And with the night drawing in, the rhythmic rumble of bullfrogs combined with all sorts of trilling birdsong over the lazy surge of the river.
Tastefully decorated in a modern colonial style, the bathrooms were clean and somehow rustically luxurious. We showered under plenty of steaming hot water, feeling like adventurers as we stepped out in our clean bare feet onto the wood of the bridge. (I didn’t feel quite the same, however, when we went to brush our teeth later that night and there on the walls were all the species of spider known to the Cederberg region!!! Thankfully when I needed a wee at 4am, Craig escorted me to the loo and checked the walls and behind the loo for potential man-eating spiders!)
After a humble but yummy supper of soft white bread rolls and cold, roast chicken from Woolies, we lay in bed and chatted about the quiet but powerful beauty of the area, my apparently amusing arachnophobia and what we would do the next day. With the trees sighing like the most tender lullaby, we drifted off to sleep with the doors open to the wild darkness wrapped languidly and a little sunburnt in each others’ arms.
*scuttle, scuttle … sniff ….* I sat abruptly up in bed . 4am. There was someone or something in the hut!! I sat and listened to the furtive scurrying and hungry sniffing. Next to me, Craig remained semi-comatose. I decided it was time to shake him awake – he is the MAN after all!! He looked up to see me sitting rigid and hyper-alert in the bed but as blind as a bat without my glasses. (He found this quite funny apparently!) After telling him about the ‘thing’ in our hut, he got up to close the door. A few minutes of hysterical laughter later and Craig needed a pee – and I suggested just peeing off the balcony into the anonymous night rather than trudging all the way in the spidery dark to the loos. Standing at the closed glass door and gazing like a sleepwalker with a rather full bladder, out of his throat slowly came a delayed and gutteral ‘F – U – U – U – C – K !!’ as a rather large and stripey mongoose/monkey that at the sight of a half-naked Craig jumped hara-kiri off the balcony into the tree-tops in terrified escape! Needless to say we kept the doors tightly shut for the rest of the night.
But then at around what felt like 9am, I heard some more sniffing and surreptitious shuffling. Repeating the same bolt-upright sitting position as a couple of hours earlier, I met, eye-to-eye, with a strange little pink-eyed jumbo albino jack-russel thing which almost seemed to be smiling and talking to me! “Please may I jump on your bed? I’d love to even come home with you if you’d want me!” (Hmmm… Craig had opened the door after sunrise – sure that the Lesser Striped Winkie Eating Monkey Mongoose had disappeared with the rising of the sun!) Honestly? I’d rather have a cute but odd-looking white dog in the daylight next to my bed than a smallish werewolfey thing in the middle of the night!! For breakfast we ate yoghurt and fruit on the balcony, wishing with all of our holiday-deprived hearts that we didn’t have to go home that same day… Besides the various escapist options we discussed about me bunking work for the next week, we decided we would definitely come back : probably in March 2008, and then maybe again in the November!