A Happy Birthday

Duma Tau camp is located in the private 290,000 acre Linyanti Wildlife Reserve that borders the western boundary of Chobe National Park in Botswana.

The facility is lovely, the staff outstanding, food great. Our guide named “Name” (short for Nametsecha) was friendly, personable, and an excellent tracker. The morning game drive at 6 am came too early, but was worthwhile as we had a rare sighting of wild dogs. They are beautiful animals with brown and tan coloring in a patchwork pattern, and large round ears. We watched them for a while as they played in a mud pool and lounged around. When the alpha male and female left, the others soon followed, and so did we—on the chance that we might see them hunt. Wild Dogs are the most successful hunters of all animals—more so than lions or leopards.  But the dogs weren’t that hungry, so we left them and scanned the horizon for more animals, finding giraffe, zebra, impalas and numerous birds.

In the afternoon a thunderstorm came out of nowhere, and a horrendous gale shot sheets of rain through the screen windows and flooding the inside of our tent, as if someone had lost control of a fire hose. The bed was drenched, our clothes, the floor, everything. The worst of ‘everything’ was my husband's computer, which he’d left open on the desk.  We weren’t the only victims, of course. The whole camp looked as if a hurricane had struck (which it more or less had). Over the next hour I moved us into to an unoccupied dry tent next door while my husband went to the managers to get help for his drowned computer. They filled a box with rice and stuck the computer in the box in the hope that the rice would soak up the moisture.

And after all, how many people can say that their birthday began with a sighting of a leopard chowing down on a newly caught kill? Name tracked a female leopard to a tree where she’d just hauled up a baby impala for breakfast. Impalas are everywhere in the bush. It’s said that if you go on safari and don’t see an impala, you get your money back. And since the babies hang out together, like a pre-school class, they’re extremely vulnerable to predators. The rest of the morning drive included sightings of gorgeous lilac breasted rollers, blue kingfishers, a colony of red and blue Carmine bee-eaters, crimson-breasted shrikes, as well as a huge herd of elephants sloshing through a pond.

Later in the day my husband was presented with a cake—chocolate—and the staff sang Happy Birthday in English, which I thought missed the point of celebrating a birthday in a tent camp in the middle of the bush in Botswana. He received a nice present, though: The power button on his computer functioned again—a step in the right direction.

Living Vicariously

There is a little ham in me.  When I was in 7th grade I announced to the school administrators that I wanted to give a vocal recital to the student body.  I did it, too.  When I'm in a musical (acting, singing) or in a choir no matter how big or small (one year I was in 3 groups at once - a mixed chorus, all-girls' group of 12, and a quartet) I'm a happy camper.  I've sung in several master chorales performing classical works, and a competitive all-female barbershop group. My favorites are Broadway show tunes and old standards. I applaud the invention of karaoke! In another life, I might have had a career on the stage.

Self Love

A friend's ex-husband left her after 40 years of marriage to take up with a 20 year old.  It would not be easy to recover from such a shock when you had the expectation of growing old with someone.  We never know what is around the corner.  And we may not know how we're going to handle it.  The most we can hope for is to make it through with integrity, forgiveness, and love of self. I came across a plaque years ago that read, "The only prison is the prison of self." We can lock ourselves in, or free ourselves.

A Change in Perspective

I was driving toward the farmer's market, and came up behind a car stopped in the middle of the street, not signaling, just stopped.  I waited a minute, expecting the driver to move.  When he didn't, I tapped on the horn and he pointed to the side of the street, as if he was waiting for a car to pull out so he could park.  But no one sat in any of the cars, no backing lights.  By this time two cars were behind me.  I maneuvered around the guy -- an old man in a blue cap with a red plaid shirt -- and as I passed by my expression said, "What are you doing?"  He gave me the nastiest scowl, shouted at me (though I couldn't hear what he said through the closed windows), and gave me the finger.  Yeah. When he was the one being inconsiderate and rude!  Later, when I was walking around the farmer's market I saw the same man pushing a woman in a wheelchair.  His expression was much more pleasant.  What he'd done before was rude and inconsiderate, but I could understand it better.

Normal vs Perverse

If we agree that what one culture sees as strange is another's norm -- i.e. that the "norm is a spectrum that varies from culture to culture" -- where do we draw the line between 'normal' and 'perverse'?  On which side, for instance, does (tribal) genital mutilation fall?  The purpose of the practice, though certainly cultural, is subjugation. Sensation is for men only. Women are baby factories.  The mutilation is done to all girls in the tribe.  If a guy cuts his penis in half, there may well be a 'culture' that regards his mutilation as admirable, but it is not something everyone in his culture is forced to undergo.  And while I might consider his choice strange (and probably an expression of some mental illness), he has the right to do that to himself if he chooses.  But a girl who's mutilated by force, against her will, without even anesthesia, has no choice.  Is this perverse?

A Few Dreams

Dreams ...

I am outside the world looking down on it – seeing the blue oceans and continents from space.  And then I soar towards earth, closer and closer, like a Google map.  Finally, I recognize a large mountain range -- rocky and barren. I fly over it, thinking that maybe it’s the Alps.  I come closer yet until I’m cruising over a quaint village of old-fashioned shops and restaurants with a cobblestone street -- something from 18th century London.  Lights are on, but it’s still dusk. I fly above the streetlamps, feeling happy to be there and wanting to stay.  I continue to drift over the town and wake up, wishing I could go back to the dream.

*            *            *

I am riding a very small horse.  In real life it would be more goat-sized, but he’s a horse in my dream. And I take him on a long ride with obstacles in our path; we’re having difficulty getting back home.  At one point we wade through a stream, and cross a rocky slope. I’m afraid he’ll trip and fall.  We cross an uneven meadow and come to an Eastern monastery with flowing water and attendants and a modern structure where people are filing in.  I get off my horse and lead him up a manmade waterfall and into the building with the other people. It’s serene and peaceful inside.  We pass through and continue homeward.  There’s a large structure, like a bridge overpass, that we can’t get across.  We need to go around, and I’m concerned about the distance and whether my horse will be all right and make it up the slope.  Then I wake up.

I went into a theatre auditorium, which had rows of chairs flat on the floor, not slanted as they usually are in a theatre.  Our seats were in the first row, but since my husband wasn’t there, I went into the lobby to call him. I couldn’t get my phone to work properly.  Every time I punched in a number, something was wrong and I couldn’t get through.  The play began; I heard the actors’ dialogue and wanted to be watching, but I was worried about Ron, and kept trying to call him, getting more and more frustrated that I couldn’t get the phone to work.
I went to the lobby window that faced the sea. In the water was a small fishing boat, and someone had a straining fishing rod in the water.  The line was bowed with the weight, and I wondered what the person had caught.  A rather stout woman in a wetsuit went into the water.  She was evidently wondering what was on the other end of the line too.  (Line, as in phone line??)  As I watched her swim to the boat, the water cleared so that I could see beneath the surface.
The fisherman had caught a black and white pony on his line, and the pony was drowning.  As I watched, the lady in the wetsuit reached the pony, wrapped her arms around him, pulled him to the surface and brought him to shore.  The pony was all right; he’d survived.  I was so overjoyed that when the woman came inside the lobby, I gushed with gratitude and praise, and thanked her for what she’d done: saving the pony.  She looked at me as if I was a nutcase, as if it wasn’t any big deal.  Then I woke up.

My husband and I were in a taxi driving in a dark part of a city unfamiliar to us.  The car stopped and two men with strange-looking guns pointed at us through the windows.  We were afraid to move.  I thought we might be shot – that they wanted to rob us. Instead, an old man got into the front seat.  His silver hair was long and wavy, and at first he didn’t say anything or turn around to where we were sitting, anxious and afraid.  After a minute, he turned his head and said to me, “I am your grandfather.” Since I’d never seen him before I understood that he was my ‘birth’ grandfather – not my adopted one.  He got out of the car and began to hurry up the street without saying anything more.  So I got out and ran after him, asking him questions.  He wouldn’t answer except to say that he had to leave.
I followed him to a small, old building, with a lobby and adjacent room.  I went through the lobby and saw a group of people sitting on the floor in the room.  They were practicing yoga – each in a different position.  I looked around the corner and saw my grandfather lounging on a raised platform. He had on different clothes – bright-colored satin, and his long, silver hair flowed out around him.  He was smiling and talking; he seemed to be their guru. I decided this wasn’t my scene, so I left to find my husband. He didn’t ask where I’d been.  We walked in the dark street, hunting for a taxi, and came to a store, which was closed. Everything was closed.  In front of the store was a dolly piled with carpet remnants, and a man lay on top of the carpets, asleep.  He appeared at first to be a bum, or a homeless person.  My husband got a shovel and hit the man on the head.  I was appalled. (In real life he would never do such a thing, either.) The man began to mumble things, and I saw that he was very rough-shaved, as if he’d shaved with a dull knife.  There were red marks around his neck and throat.  He also wore a soldier’s uniform. I was shocked that my husband had hit a soldier, and said that I was upset about this man being here, probably homeless and a soldier. Then I woke up.

My husband and I were at a weekend workshop inside a complex of town-house style buildings.  A large group of people was there, and we were to spend the weekend moving from one workshop to the next, all located within the complex.  The first one I learned about was a biology lab experience, and a woman asked me if I had any prior education in biology that would give me the ability to use a computer to keep track of data gleaned from the experiments in the lab.  I said no, but that I was a quick study and was willing to learn, but that I wouldn’t dissect any animals, not one.  She asked me if was more mentally alert in the morning or at night.  I said night, so I was assigned to an evening session.

We continued on our tour of the complex.  While in an upstairs room of one of the townhouses, I looked out the window and saw the building we were in sinking into the ground.  Evidently, there was a threat outside, and this group had devised a method for hiding their buildings in the ground so they wouldn’t be detected.  I was never clear exactly what the threat was.  But at one point, my husband and I were outside when the nearest townhouse dropped slowly into the ground.  We frantically searched for a way inside before it was too late.  Ron made it in, and I tried, but didn’t make it.  So, I went around to the other side of the townhouse to steps that led down and inside.

The room was crowded with people who immediately checked my shoe for an identifying red dot that said I was ‘one of them.’  Some of us hustled to the next workshop, where I saw my husband and told him I’d been assigned the biology night shift, and that I wasn’t happy about it.  We lost track of each other, and I lost the group I was with.  So I followed another group outside and through a beautiful expanse of green mountains and rolling hills. We came to a stone wall, turned left, and before us was a crystal green pool filled with aquatic animals – a large number of green turtles the size of dinner plates, exotic birds I’d never seen, and a mammal that floated on his back and looked something like an otter, except that the fur on his head was much longer. I kept asking what the creature was called.  No one answered me.  But I decided I would much rather be out here in this beautiful, enchanted garden learning more about these animals than working inside in a biology lab. And I woke up.