#Mango Tree House Home stay
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I WROTE SOME HOBIE BACKSTORY FLUFF
Been writing too much angst lately🥲
anyway this is based of my previous head cannon on Hobie's siblings. Quick recap (might make a OC post about em) Hudson and Hendricks(yea name change) are the eldest twins about 12 years older than Hobie and are 21. Henry is in the middle he is 9 years older than Hobie, he is 18. Harley is only 5 years older and she is 14 going on 15 (she helps run the community garden). Hobie is 9!
I am Black but also an American from the midwest. So if I fuck up some of the UK vernacular or whatnot y'all can correct me in the replies or reblogs. If you see this fic floating on AO3 that is also me!
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1966 Chevy C10 aka the ugliest truck known to fucking man aka Harley bedroom away from home. Given to her by her old dirt and hay supplier before he moved to Wales, the dark green vehicle that lives parked in their ground floor garage was her escape from a house full of her lanky and, damn-right charlie brothers. She has the bed of the truck softened with a scrap fabric mattress and tens of thrifted comforters and pillows. Her portable record player crones with a Betty Davis record riding the groove with a whining guitar. Harley uses a chunk of mirror propped against her stage trunk to watch herself as she sections her hair into lazy cornrows for the night.
The sky slowly crumbles into a sunset, unfurling into a cool moon, shifting the world to a soft grayscale and sepia. Streetlights outside the garage flicker on and the human officers switch their patrol lights to a slow strobing blue and yellow. Harley gives a big yawn that pops her jaw and hums along to the guitar's riffs. The sound rests really low in her throat, it nearly drowns out the sound of steel door creaking and small steps that padding in. The 14 year old pauses her humming and stretches over to see the interruption of her night routine.
It's shaped lika palm tree, outlined in muted pink with their bare feet slapping around on the cement. Sleepy gray eyes met hers before they lighten to hazel for a moment, then back to sleep gray.
"Comin' ta bed?" Hobie whispers, voice all low and raspy. Harley helps the wire of a little boy clamor over the raised gate, he settles his head on her shoulder after. She chuckles and smears some leftover mango butter on his nose before her hands are back in her head.
"Inna bit. Thought I might sleep down 'ere though. Let my Baney Bart lil brother have the whole bed. You've got ta start wearin' yer socks to bed, ice foot." Harley teases and Hobie whines, then snuggles against her side.
Harley thought that now with Henry moving in with Rembrandt to the Canal flats would have given her the incentive to claim his room for her own and finally stop sharing both room and mattress with her baby brother. It wasn't easy though, ever since she came on the scene when the twins 7 and Henry was 5 the Brown siblings instinctively cuddled. Like cubs or kittens of some kind.
Hudson and Hendricks would sleep on their stomach, shoulders piled on top of each other or an arm around the other's back. Henry uses somebody's calf as a pillow and his foot always ends up in Hudson's face. Harley found her spot cuddled over Henry's stomach and when baby Hobie joined the mix she always woke to her shoulder being smothered in his drool and soft snores. They were like cats in that way, if one sibling saw the other napping, they were gonna share that sleep.
It has peter off some, Henry started sleeping over in the art alley with his mandem. Hendricks working overnight security with Pa. Hudson staying with Imani more days out the week(they all wait for the couple to announce the true reason why she was getting rounder). Harley sleeps in the truck when her band mates sneaks over after the city curfew because their fam is off it or someone is sick with radio or the flu.
But even with growing apart. A cuddle wassa cuddle and baby Hobie was gonna get his full of them. Of course Harley was still gonna share a bed with her little Barty when requested. Hobie starts to fade down to their true colors as sleep wraps him up,
"Oi! No sleep yet lil boy. Gotta put the 'fro up." She whispers tugging at the puff on the top of his head. Hobie grumbles, going cut yellow with crankiness. Harley counters it with a pink kiss to the top of his head and lets the stocking-band out that release his coils. Hobie blinks blearly in his slumped sit as Harley sloppily parts then flat twists them down into four rows. He gives a little sigh at the cool feeling of mango butter to his scalp but grumbles when she ties a scarf over them. Harley chuckles as she releases his ears from under it and scoots the front back.
They both know that damn scarf will be half way across the room and on the floor with her bonnet by morning. He cuddles into the front of her, stuck lika kola instead of a boy, smushing his face to her shoulder. Harley rubs his back and hums out the Buddy Miles intro that is stuck in her head as she feels around for her phone. Hobie blinks again as he watches her raise the antenna on top of it then pop in the code for someone. It rings loudly and they both wince before she lowers the volume and tilts the antenna to the right.
"Headin' ova?" She asks and a voice hums a soft no. Hobie sighs, that was Donovan.
"Dottie and Kirt's gots lead or radio. Feelin' weak me-self, keepa eye on ya water, yeah? Think OsCo is doin' flushes again." He warns softly.
Harley tenses at that. She sits back some and uses her free hand to inspect Hobie's face. She blinks hard and they both revert to true colors. All warm brown skin, black hair and steely eyes. She gives a sigh of relief at seeing that the whites of his eyes as fine, not any spots of yellow. No dryness to his pallor, just sleepy.
"Where you in the fountains today?" She asks and Hobie shakes his head.
"Wit Pa tuday." He mumbles to her, she lets him relax back and resumes petting his back.
"Thanks for the heads up Vonnie. I'll come by wit some bone soup and a filter from Hud in the mornin'.
"You're a dove Harles. Oíche mhaith a chroí."
Hobie gives a fakes gag as Harley blares pink then clovers sketches, Gaelic love poems and the expert of Romeo and Juliet having it off etch over her skin in cursive for a moment before she simmers back to sepia.
"Bon lannwit, Mon kè." She says back and hangs up. Harley stashes her phone back under the mattress before turning off her record player. With a practiced ease she carefully slides Betty Davis back into the paper sleeve, then lays the mirror chunk down on a quilt.
"Ann kouche, pinèz." Harley yawns and clamors out the truck bed with Hobie still clinging to her. They make their way up to the flat and to their room. Hobie is nothing but soft breath so it startles Harley when he speaks.
"You gonna live wit Donovan one day? Like Henry and Huddie?" Hobie asks. Harley kisses his cheek and lays them down in bed. She lights a lavender incense cone, then pops it in the holder.
"Maybe one day."
"Gonna marry 'em?"
"Can't get married. He's too Irish. Laws will bang us."
"You don't care." Hobie giggles and Harley smiles real big at that.
"Who said me and Van ain't gonna bang the laws back bruv? Don't worry bout it Barty Bug." She tells him when she lays down fully and loops an arm around his shoulders, Hobie puts his head over her heart.
"You gonna runaway? You two go off?"
Harley hums.
"Where imma go, bug?"
"... Cuba or Panama, like uncle."
"Too much sun for Donovan. He'd cook."
"Uhm… Canada. Like Erika's family?"
"Too cold. I'd freeze to death."
Hobie pouts at this point, turning into her elbow so he doesn't have to see the sleeply mirth in his older sister's eyes. Her black nails gently grasps his jaw and turns his face back to her. The both flare into blue and black ink and mapwork.
"What's with the questions. You think imma leave, love?"
Hobie nods in embarrassment but softens as Harley kisses his forehead.
"Not without you buggy. Same things goes for Hudson, Hendricks, and Henry. Same thing for Ma and Pa. No way I'm leavin' you even if the Queen, her corgis and the PM demanded it. Even if Von proposed right here. Which is stupid I'm 14, he's 15 and we've had lead poisoning on and off since we was little. So don't worry about Cuba or Canada, hell even Wales. I'm your big sister, we are Browns and some right punks. Labels are nothing but when you put in the care and obligations that comes with the title. Well, you're pretty fulfilled by em. And that means we stick together always. And care for each other always. So don't you worry your head about my crush. Don't worry about seeing my back out the door."
Hobie just snuggles her closer at that. Harley chuckles and cuddles back.
If there's one thing Hobie believes in, without a question, it is his sister.
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Oíche mhaith a chroí = Irish Gaelic - Goodnight, my dear
Bon lannwit, Mon kè = Haitian Creole - Goodnight, my heart
Ann kouche, pinèz = Haitian Creole - Let's go lie down, Bug.
#Hobie Brown#hobie brown fluff#hobie brown fanfiction#black oc#spider punk#spiderman across the verse#spiderman astv#astv hobie#black reader#getting ready for bed trope
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a playlist with what scene i thought of in each song.
wherever u r - umi, v
slow mornings. hiding under sheets. walking in our garden. basking in sunlight. sharing coffee. see-you-later kisses before work. i-missed-you kisses after work. cooking dinner together. holding each other before falling asleep.
it's you - max, keshi
good morning kisses. sleeping in. going out to visit our favorite cafe. buying each other flowers. a picnic. cool breeze. eating sweets in the afternoon. golden hour. painting the sky and the clouds at sunset.
love. - wave to earth
long cold days apart. video calls every free time. wearing each other's hoodies. watching anime and movies together through gmeet. sleepy i love yous. hugging stuff toys to sleep. looking forward to being together again.
ligaya - mrld
stay at home dates. baking cookies. whipped cream at each other's faces. kissing on the kitchen countertop. building a fort in the living room. cuddling while watching tv.
you'll be safe here - adie
waking up after a nightmare. one waking up to the other sniffling. tight hugs. forehead kisses. gentle caresses. talking under the moonlight. quiet i love yous. humming a lullaby. falling asleep in each other's arms.
off my face - justin bieber
reading books together. stealing glances at each other. discarding them anyways to kiss and kiss and kiss. listening to music while napping on the couch. one waking up first and staring at the other, admiring.
urs - john-robert
coming home to find petals scattered on the floor. dim lighting. a table with candles lit and our favorite meals. early evening with indigo skies and city lights. cold wind. warm lips.
bloom - the paper kites
weekends and early mornings. birds chirping. sun peeking through curtains. pancakes for breakfast. watering plants. soaking in the warmth of sun and coolness of the air. sketching. painting. writing.
everlasting summer - seycara orchestral, hikaru station
a hot morning. popsicles. colorful wind chimes. taking a bite from the other's ice cream. sharing a milkshake. watering plants turns to water fights. sprinklers. hose. water balloons. laying down on the grass in the afternoon.
my love mine all mine - mitski
winding down in the evening. white bath robes and wine. facials. masks. bubble baths together. slow dancing under dim lights. midnight snacks. matching silk pajamas. cuddling in bed.
you'll be in my heart - niki
a week before parting. staying in all day. cooking. taking polaroid pictures. playing guitar and singing together. making bracelets. late night talks. breakdowns. promises. "i'll be back before you know it."
v - razz t, thomas rydell
seeing each other again. tight and long hugs. out all day eating everywhere and talking about anything under the sun. feeding each other. updating each other about everything they missed. holding hands and reassuring squeezes.
afterglow - leila milki
slow and intimate moments. undressing each other, taking our time. feather kisses. soft touches. quiet moans. silk sheets. pink cheeks. rose-colored marks. making love.
love wins all - IU
a bouquet. walking down the aisle. two long white wedding dresses. veils. exchanging vows. two rings.
easily - bruno major
honeymoon. drinking wine. house by the beach. night swimming. coconut trees. cocktails. drinking together and getting drunk. laughing, dancing, singing at the top of our lungs. messy makeouts.
naturally - sydney maxine
cold, strong winds blowing our hair everywhere. the beach at night. a bonfire. walking by the shore, hand in hand. hanging out watching the waves. sharing a tent. stargazing.
tingin - cup of joe, janine
spring in japan. strolls in the park. long coats and foggy air from our mouths. hot chocolate and coffee. taking the train. sharing earphones. eating local snacks from stalls. vintage cameras. cherry blossoms.
it could only be us - beyond the sun
roadtrips. singing with the speakers blasting. sun in our veins. shades, shorts, summer outfits. floaties. mango shakes. playing in swimming pools and splashing water at each other. funny inflatables.
nahuhulog na sa'yo - noah alejandre
getting ready for date nights. doing each other's makeup. going out later than planned because we looked too good, iykyk. arcades. window shopping. just walking, letting our feet take us wherever. ramen for dinner.
every summertime - niki
getting our own place. moving in. working. grinding. saving up to open a bakery, cafe, bookstore, flowershop, or whatever we want. vacations and trips. pets. our dream life
?
#banner from @cafekitsune#💌#to my luna#to my love#happy motmot!#didnt plan it to be this long but oh well teehee
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My home is tucked away between a paradise of coconut trees and groves of mangoes and bananas. My childhood memories are scented like the monsoons of our land - the ones that leave puddles in our courtyards and cooling winds behind.
Jasmines bloom around the courtyards and in crevices in the streets, hang over walls and showers into the roads in sweet smelling blossoms. My grand-aunt weaves them into gorgeous hair garlands, and tells us of a time when this was done by hand for weddings and festivals and when whimsy struck. I have seen a million jasmine wreaths, all lovely and set delicately for sale, but the ones she wove were ever unmatched.
Ours is a coastal town, and the sound of the roaring sea is as familiar to us as any lullaby. There is sand in our hair, me and my cousins, as we lie exhausted on the beach, watching the sun come up. We are spent, Kalari having taken every inch of our energy, muscles aching in that almost sweet exhaustion. It is summer, and the air will be warm soon. But the sun has not come up; we can exist in this infinite seconds without thoughts or words. Like this, we feel like the heroes of the 'Northern songs', tales as old as this town, and maybe older still.
In my memories, toned warm and golden by nostalgia, we are scrambling up the trees of neighboring houses, competitive and filled with gleeful pride. The temple is close, and we can hear the devotional songs - rhythmic, lovely songs in praise of the gods. A street away, the call to prayer rises from the mosque. They meld together just the same in the mornings, the sounds my mother wakes to. I would not know, pleasantly and deeply in the embrace of sleep.
Fear is absent from these memories. We learn to swim in the temple pond, and I glare at my father mutinously, warning him that never would I learn to swim if he threw me in like he did my sister. My sister, who has already declared that she would never come near the pond ever again. Weeks later, I am swimming already, and my sister is too. We are born in a coastal town; a river winds down across our house. Water is in our very blood. I think of the tales of how mermaids where only humans that chose to stay in the oceans, and I feel like I can understand; I would stay there forever too, if I could.
The festivals arrive with riotous joy, colours lining the streets and homes. I drape myself in traditional skirts, and braid jasmine wreaths into my hair, the white stark against the locks as black as night. My sister and my eldest cousin are tying a swing between two arecca palm, and he is teasing her for her height. It is Onam, and we sing songs as old as the land - songs of celebration, songs of victory, songs of welcome, songs of joy. It is Vishu, and the crackers are bright enough to light the night sky alight. We laugh as we set off firecrackers in competition with a house we cannot see. It is the temple festival, and we slip past the crowds and to the stalls, giggles muffled as we pore over the glit and glam of balloons and plastic toys and delicacies.
I went home a month ago. I had thought, perhaps, that nostalgia had sweetened those memories; but my home is as lovely as it is in my mind. The mangoes had ripened to sweet rot, the scent heavy in the air. The rains were coming, showers gently caressing the streets, heralding the days when the sky would darken from sunrise to sunset. I stood on the beach, watching the sun kiss the horizon, the birds flying home in impossibly lovely flocks. Far away, the temples and the mosques ready for prayer. I don't cry, but my heart settles, like it had not for so long now. This is what it must feel like, I think, This must be what they call peace.
#home#prose#missing home#spilled ink#spilled thoughts#spilled words#spilled writing#desiblr#memories of kerala#mine💗
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questions about marathi culture, for a character! (her family is buddhist for extra context if it matters, but not very devout)
-what would be a term of endearment a parent might call their (adult) daughter?
-what are popular beverages of the area and what are they like?
-extremely specific but are devaks specific only to a few areas or are they more common in maharashtra? what are they usually like?
-what are some more mundane, everyday traditions or expectations? things that might pertain to daily life, like meals or greetings?
1. A term of endearment for a daughter is usually baal (baby) or Tai or Didi (honourifics for older sister). Affectionate names are rarely used in my house, but the most common ones, as an adult daughter myself, are bubdi (somewhat means "bubba") or just a shortened form of my real name.
Priye, which literally means "loved one", is a romantic name, but my father sometimes uses it for me.
2. Popular beverages:
The first one is, of course, chai (Hindi) or chaha (Marathi). People are obsessed with spicy, savoury tea here. There is a specific way to make it, and every family has their own recipe/ingredients that they use.
Aamras is only made in the summers, because it is simply mango pulp with sugar added to taste. Some other families mix milk into it. It may be eaten with a spoon just on its own or you may dip bread into it.
Rasna and Maaza are packaged beverages that are also favoured in the summer. Rasna is bought in powdered form and mixed into water at home, and Maaza is basically mango juice. All of these are cold.
Solkadhi is a pastel pink, cold, slightly spicy beverage that is usually poured on rice or drunk after meals.
3. Devaks:
Are far as I know, only the Maratha families have a Devak. They are family totems for protection and other spiritual things, in the form of a physical object for eg. a banyan tree or an idol of a god. A man and a woman whose families have the same Devak may not marry each other.
4. Some specific traditions:
Do not enter the temple with your footwear on. Your footwear has touched a lot of unsanitary places, and a temple must remain clean and uncontaminated. Do not enter anyone's home with your footwear on, basically. Even your own home.
You must wash your hands with soap before and after a meal, as food is eaten without cutlery. Eat with only one hand, the other must stay in your lap or on your knee. Most families say a prayer before beginning the meal, to thank the gods for giving them sustenance.
As for greetings, people in rural areas usually greet with a Namaskar (Marathi for the Hindi word namaste) or a Ram Ram (yes, Ram from the Ramayana). During formal occasions like religious festivals or family gatherings, the younger ones usually greet and take leave of the older people by touching their feet, and receiving blessings in return. These blessings may be ayushman bhava (may you live long), vijayi bhava (may you be victorious), samartho bhava (may you be accomplished), vidwaan(masc)/vidushi(fem) bhava (may you be brilliant in studies) or many more.
Most traditions are unique to each family, so finding generalised ones is pretty difficult. I hope this was helpful, and my asks are always open!
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“Take your medicine if you want to live your life”
7th March 2023
Test your eyesight before you enter the hospital!
When we first visited Benedictine Eye Hospital BEH here in Tororo, we were impressed by the high professional standards and the excellent organisation. Since then, that impression has only been confirmed, and today was no exception. Excellent meeting to start with, then a clinic under a mango tree (my favourite kind), followed by three home visits.
Clinic under the mango tree.
We met Brenda, the psychiatric nurse, when she attended a Continuing Professional Development workshop run by Jamie’s Fund in 2019. Then, she seemed quiet and competent. Well, she’s certainly still competent, but rose to the challenges of today with energy and vitality and managed it all with great enthusiasm, not as quiet as we’d thought.
BEH has a well established community based rehabilitation programme which has focused on physical disability and epilepsy. They run 11 mobile clinics across the district and are treating over 200 people with epilepsy already. With JF encouragement they are looking to include mental illness in their routine work. Brenda is well under way with implementing some of that. Despite the cost they would like to find ways to do more to address it. They are including it in their five year plan and are aware that there is a lot of need which will need planning and finance to meet.
Following the meeting we gathered the team and headed out to an outreach clinic near a Catholic church, a bit of a way away. Brenda usually gets there early: today we were late because of the meeting at the hospital. The clients would have expected her there by 8, today it was nearer 11.
Was there a chorus of complaints? Not a whisper.
Brenda saw 43 patients, many of them epilepsy patients, a mix of adults and children with lots of those wonderful grannies who take care of children as and whenever the need arises. I love how so many of them dress up in their best dresses too.
Brenda running the clinic and a patient receiving her medicines.
As in the previous blog, everyone sat together, under the mango tree, and listened to each other’s stories. No one objected in the slightest. Children from the local school came out at lunch time and joined the onlookers, standing and staring from a short distance. Probably their best entertainment all week, especially with the wazungu, the white people, in attendance. Who knew what mysteries they might get up to?
As the morning wore on, various of the lovely grannies and mums as well as patients, came round to greet us and welcome us, and tell us their stories. Our colleagues told us they probably hoped for the magical healing touch of the white person. Oh dear, pretty unlikely!
Mid-afternoon we were finally able to proceed to our home visits of the day.
The first, an older gentleman, had had a psychotic illness with suicidal ideas, having come home after 20 years away. Successfully treated, he was together again with his family. We were a bit surprised, having seen his house, to learn that he had been a senior management accountant, had spent time in Slough and London, and done very well. Severe mental illness can have the effect of impoverishment.
Some parts of his history remain a mystery but he’s certainly in very good mental health now. His daughter has epilepsy, and is also under the care of the team.
The old house they are living in, with mud forced between the wooden lattice, and the new house partially built behind - needing more funds to complete it.
Finally, we went to meet Grace, a trained teacher who had lost her job because of epilepsy. She was smart and articulate – and quite distressed because of the impact of stigma which has such potent effects. The same happened to a young woman whom Grace adopted when everyone else had abandoned her. She too has epilepsy and had frequently been thrown out of school. People here assume that epilepsy is catching, and you should stay away from such patients at all costs. Mother and adopted daughter had been ejected from many situations as soon as their epilepsy became known. Both continue to wonder what job they can do to bring in an income?
Grace with Gregory the programme manager.
Whatever the challenges, Grace is in no doubt that the team and the medication have really changed things for good in keeping her well. As she tells anyone who will listen:
“Take your medicine if you want to live your life”.
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A Family Documentary
My father has chronic neck and back pain. Always being hunched over in his office. FIngers tirelessly racing against his keyboard day and night. Relentless and time consuming work, always on the clock. Tonight he takes us out to dinner and spoils us with dessert too. Afterwards, we will reach home and cross through the threshold laughing with our bellies full and while the rest of us make our way upstairs to our warm beds, he will remain downstairs. He bids us goodnight and closes the door to his office. The next morning I will wake up for school and he will already be long gone, but there is a note waiting for me outside my room. “It is cold outside today” it reads, and sitting beside the note is my coat and a pack of hand warmers. He will then return that night from work and we will all sip on tea in our living room listening to his stories of war and love. He will smile ever so brightly and fondly at us and the light will dance upon his face dimming the deep bags under his eyes.
My mother is always in need of a bandaid. She had nicked her finger again with the sharp and merciless knife as she prepared a plate of fruit for me. She cuts through meat, fruits, grains, vegetables, and her own flesh. However, I take too long to get up from the couch and she is now frustrated. A shouting match breaks out between us, bouncing between the walls, making the room feel much smaller than it really is. I grab the bandaid and slam it on the counter leaving the kitchen in a flurry of anger. Yet despite this, she dresses her wounds and continues on cutting. Once she is done she will let out a soft knock on my door. I let her in and she will lay down a white flag: a plate of mangos that she washed with gentle hands, cut with precision, plated with softness, and handled with love just like her own mother did before her.
My eldest sister is not surprised to see the door to her bedroom creak upon, light from the dimly lit hallway slowly floods into her room, and the figure of a young girl manifests. She rolls over and lifts the cover without saying a word while I slither and climb in, my snot smearing on her pristine pillows. The next morning we both sit at the breakfast table sneezing and sniffling while my mom fetches for flu and cold relievers for the both of us. Ten years pass and the bedrooms of our youth now takes the form of her home. I now ring the doorbell to the house of her new family and she lets me in, telling me to stay however long I need, feeding me, and allowing me into her sanctuary. But little does she know the true sanctuary she is giving me is her heart. Her heart that is a deeply rooted tree, forever growing amidst the chopping of wood, always producing warm delicacies for those around her, constantly giving while others take, and she does so unwaveringly.
My older sister just sent me a message. It is a screenshot of something so inherently niche to who I am as a person. I grin from ear to ear as I heart the message. She wraps gifts for me on my birthday of things that bring me to tears. It’s as if she procured them by reaching into my soul and grabbing my wants and needs. We both are talkers and despite the friction and anger it caused as we grew up, now it’s something I treasure so dearly: for my sister talks and talks and talks, ripping her words open, gutting them out, cleaning the remains, filling them with care and warmth, and delicately stitches them whole. She talks and talks and talks about me. My sister talks about me, my accomplishments, my victories, my dreams, my smile, my tendencies, my potential, my beauty, and she does so with such fondness in her eyes that they bring upon me so much warmth and life. So much so rhat they rival the sun herself.
My older brother is a soft gush of wind, existing ever so quietly but always there: moving around me. This wind finds me on cold and desolate winter days where my mind is stuck in the slush of the snow, taking on the form of warm and earthy heat. This wind finds me on summer days where I am confronted with mindless boredom but this time the wind is cool and refreshing on the brow of my forehead. Some days the wind is behind my back keeping me upright in the face of grief and pain. Others, the wind is above me keeping me rooted in the ground as life tries to topple me over. The wind keeps me going like the push to my sails, giving me the momentum to reach my destinations. The wind is everywhere and all around, encompassing me in a compassionate embrace without saying a word.
#a family documentary#I wrote this for a class assignment but ended up never turning it in#a little incoherent and half baked as are most of my writing#but I love my family#beyond belief#so yeah#I’ll admit this is extremely long lmfao#one day I’ll proofread it and edit it maybe and turn it into something good#for now it will exisit here#m’s mind#biography blogging
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My garden.
The other day I woke up and my garden wasn’t my garden anymore. It used to be a small plot of land where grass didn’t even grow, but now it had bushes, flowers, and trees of all kinds: fruit trees, ornamental trees, all of them as tall as the house. It was so full of foliage that I couldn’t see the other end of the place, I had no way of telling how big the place was anymore. But the thing that stood out the most to me was the stone paths. There were three separate ones, starting from my backyard door, and each seemed to take you to a different part of the garden.
Before that day, I had spent a few weeks not coming out of my house, rotting away in my bed until the garden appeared. It took me two days to gather up the courage to venture into it, during those two days I would stare out of the window into the garden, feeling a sense of uneasiness, like any person with common sense would do. But it seems I didn’t have enough of that in me. During the nights I could hear the sounds of crickets and frogs singing and the occasional owl gently cooing. On the third day, I finally went in.
That morning was sunny and as I sat at the kitchen table eating breakfast, I studied the garden and heard the loud sound of cicadas coming from it. It was almost alluring, the way the wind swayed the trees from side to side, the sun finding cracks on the trees to come through and cast its light onto the white stone paths. I finished my glass of orange juice, opened the sliding door, put my shoes on and walked into the garden, choosing the path in the middle.
I looked around, at all the trees and plants that had grown overnight. None that I had ever seen before, at least not in person. The plants in here weren’t native to the area from what I could see, they weren’t native to each other either. A rosemary grevillea shouldn’t be able to grow next to a flowering dogwood but here they were. Their kind, separated by land and ocean, but growing in each other’s shadow in this place.
I walked for a few hours that day and I would be lying to you if I said I found the end of the garden. What I found was a pond with a tree that grew yellow flowers hovering on the side. I turned around after that, deciding it was enough exploring for the day, and went back home. I thought about the garden the whole night, tossing and turning in my bed.
I went back the next day, of course. And the day after that, and the day after. Until it became a routine. The garden had consumed my life. I would wake up early in the morning, pack food, water and a few books on trees and venture into the well-kept foliage. I’d spent hours walking alongside the path, trying to name every tree, bush, and flower I came across. Once the sun would go down, I began the journey back home. That was one of the rules I gave myself at first. No staying after dark. The garden wasn’t an inviting place in the night, even when I could see it had lamps that would turn on all night and light up the place, I didn’t dare myself to go in.
The other two paths were just like the first one, they didn’t lead anywhere special. So far, I have found the pond, and there was a small shrine too, and also an empty field with tall grass. But nothing too exciting. I felt that the most exciting thing I could find would be the end of this place, to hit a wall or a fence, but so far nothing. All there are is trees and a never-ending stone path that curved and went in straight lines like there were no space limitations.
One time as I walked a rabbit came out of nowhere from a bush on my right, it ran across the path and disappeared into the other bushes to my left. I looked into the trees and even though it was clear, you could even see the grass underneath them, I didn’t dare to get out of the path. There was something in the back of my mind that told me to stay away—no straying from the path. That was my second rule.
No taking fruits. That was my third rule so far. There were oranges, apples, mangos, apricots, star fruit, mangosteen, and so many other kinds. But no matter how juicy, sweet and ripe they may seem I never take them; I don’t eat them, I even refuse to touch them. The garden doesn’t seem like a malicious place to me, but it also doesn’t seem like the kind of place that gives without taking something back. There is no reason I should disrupt the unknown.
I’m not exactly sure how many days it has been since the garden first appeared, but I’m willing to bet it’s been weeks. That day I did my usual routine: woke up, had breakfast, packed a bag with food and a few books and went into the garden. I usually would roam for hours, trying to find a new path, and as time went by I started to get familiar with the layout of the place. I knew that a few meters into the left path, passing the enormous silky oak, taking a turn left, you could find the most magnificent and delightful marble fountain with a lady in robes pouring water from a vase. If you walked in a straight line through the path in the middle, without taking any turns, and once you found a group of saguaro cacti you then took a turn right and at the end of that path you would find a wooden gazebo with vines growing on its sides. There were also the pergolas full of green grape vines, or the big rock with a symbol carved on it. All of those places were ingrained in my brain by now, so I constantly went in looking for something new to add to my palace of knowledge.
But after a while, it became more difficult to find new places, no matter how many turns I took, something was stopping me from finding more and even less of the end of the place. You might think that after so much searching around you’d be able to hit a wall or something. It was as if the place kept growing, but it didn’t gain any space. The constant expansion simply didn’t let you reach the end or anything further than what you already knew.
Then, lunchtime came around and I headed to the pond—I usually rest and eat there. It was so peaceful and you had a full view of the sky, not covered by any trees. But this time, as walked through stone the archway that led to the pond, I froze in fear at the sight of a person sitting on the edge of the water. I stood there, not knowing what to do, there was nowhere to hide, I was in plain sight, my only relief being that they had their eyes closed and didn’t seem to have noticed me yet.
I should have headed back where I came from, back to my house. But what the fuck? There is a stranger in my garden. I’m not leaving and letting them stay. So, I put my big girl pants on and walked—very carefully and slightly afraid—over there and stood across the pond opposite from them. Now that I was closer, I could see them clearer. They had long slick black hair cut symmetrically and they wore a sort of robe-like garment with faint reds, blues, and a gold pattern, their face was painted with black lines on the cheeks and forehead.
I stood there, like an idiot; not knowing know what to do or say. So, I sat and continued to stare. Hopefully, they would open their eyes soon and see me. Then, I would have a thing or two to tell them about trespassing property. For now, I will be considerate enough to not disturb their meditation—because God forbid, I confront someone for breaking into my property.
“You’ve spent too much time in my garden.” They suddenly said. I jumped, my heart beating like a drum in my chest. Their voice was like a gentle breeze, deep like the pond and clear like the sky above us.
I broke out from the sudden trance I had fallen into due to their voice. “You’re garden?”
“Yes.” They finally opened their eyes. Completely white, cloudy eyes stared at me.
“This is my garden.” I laughed in disbelief, feeling my voice quiver. How dare they? Trespassing and now this?
“Is it?” they crocked their head to the side, their mouth in a mocking pout.
“Yeah! I live back there, in the house.” I pointed in the direction of my house.
“What house?” they asked. I opened my mouth to answer but nothing came out. I gaped at the situation trying to decipher if they were making a fool of me or if they were being serious.
“M-my house. There…” I mumbled, unsure of my knowledge. Was my house actually back there? “Who are you?”
They suddenly stood up in a single swift movement, their drapes flowing with the wind.
“Would you like to walk with me?” said, voice still gentle, and soothing. They offered me their hand. I hesitated but for some reason, I still got up and walked towards them.
Once I stood by his side they began to walk and I followed. We walked in silence along the path, only the sounds of trees rustling and birds chirping.
“Are you God?” I asked in an act of bravery immediately feeling stupid. They laughed, a soft laugh that felt like falling in a pile of cotton.
“Not at all. Would you like me to be God?” they were smiling, I couldn’t stop looking at their smile.
“No.” I shook my head. “I was just wondering…” I felt a little embarrassed now. “If this is your garden, then why is it in my backyard?”
“Why do you think it’s there?” a bird flew by us. “Maybe your house is in my garden.”
“That makes no sense.” I frowned. How could my house move somewhere else? But the same goes for the garden, how could it move, then?
“I think you need to go outside.” What the hell did that mean? A strong breeze flew by knocking a large number of leaves from their branches. I didn’t notice at first but once they started falling, they turned all sorts of browns and oranges. Just like autumn.
“I am outside,” I said, confused. The temperature lowered, a chill ran down my spine and I had to stick my hands in my pockets.
“You are not. You need to go out.” They stopped in front of me and offered me one of those intoxicating smiles while placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “You don’t belong here.”
I looked around and suddenly the trees had no leaves, the sky was grey and the grass was yellow. The words that came out of their mouth made no sense to me. If not here, where do I belong?
“It was nice having you over.” They guided me through the path until I could see my house in the distance.
“I don’t understand. I like it here.”
“You can’t be here forever, kid.” They said, in a comforting tone. “Out there can be scary sometimes, right?” they sighed. “I was hoping you would break those rules of yours. The garden is meant to be enjoyed, not feared. Maybe you are not ready yet.”
We were at the end of the path, my house just a few meters away.
“Ready for what?” they laughed, not in a malicious way. In the way you would laugh at a child saying something unintentionally funny.
“You need to live some more first.” I felt their hand gently push me forward. “I hope to see you again someday, maybe then you won’t fear this place anymore.”
I stepped off the white stone and looked back to see them waving at me, that kind, soft smile still on their face. I looked up at my house, an icy cold feeling forming on my chest, sliding down to my stomach and pooling there, making my legs feel like they didn’t belong to me. My heart rate picking up. I looked back, wanting to search for that comforting smile but all that was there were the three walls of my empty backyard.
I looked forward and walked into my house, grabbed my keys and drove to the nearest garden centre.
The cashier was very nice. They gifted me a bag with a succulent print.
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Temperature and Temptation
With summer, the school holidays arrived. To me, that meant idle time and temptation, in other words freedom. I particularly liked skulking along the Logan River’s banks checking the wild mango trees for fruit. I loved mangoes! Their sticky juice permanently stained my chin for the season. Whilst I adhered to Mother’s warnings about snakes, I didn’t abide by hers to stay away from all watercourses. Those mangoes were way too big a temptation. Mother feared I’d drown in any pool of water larger than a puddle. I thought she worried needlessly; though, her fear was reasonable in hindsight. Back then, most people couldn’t swim and nearly nobody could breathe under water. As there wasn’t any community swimming bath built in the area; I and the other local children had no opportunity to learn. Consequently, people drowned.
Alas, Mother’s threat, that she’d kill me instantly if she caught me near water, didn’t deter me. I wasn’t sure which death would be quicker, easier or the least painful; drowning or the punishment I’d receive for sticking my toe in water. Despite shying away from bath water, I stuck my feet in every pool of water I saw; unless it smelt of course. I waded in a nearby creek’s shallows on a hot day and through flash flood water to go wherever I needed. Mother never checked if my feet were dirty or clean from a dip in a puddle on the way home.
In distance terms, the Bethania Waterford area wasn’t far from the coast. Thus, summer was hot and humid. The surrounding thickets of bush trapped this heat and humidity. Fortunately, I knew where this creek was hidden amongst the dense scrub. It was located conveniently close to Pop’s and Nana’s house and just over one and a half kilometres from my home. It flowed through a string of waterholes. Some of these were large pools and others long, narrow channels. With no roads nor railway houses in the vicinity, the creek became a frequent and secret haunt of mine. I knew Mother would never find me here. Being sweaty with the heat, I often felt tempted to immerse myself in the creek’s cool waters. However, it looked deep and appeared to flow quite fast. I was alone too. My previous injury with the tomahawk near this creek had taught me not to engage in dangerous pursuits by myself.
Soon after this injury, I began hanging around regularly with Reggie. As neither of us were farmers’ children, we had time to goof about. I learned that mischief was far more enjoyable when it was shared. Which of us was the worse influence on the other was uncertain. Reggie was a neighbour’s son and was about six years older than me. As a young boy, I treated him like an older cousin. Sometimes, he doubled me on the handle bar of his bicycle to and from school. By the time I was nine, I had adopted him as my big brother. He didn’t mind. There were no other lads in the surrounding area for him to hang with either. Besides, he loved my bit of hero worship.
His father and uncle were mates with my dad. The three men were an incongruous trio just as Reggie and I were an unlikely pair. Reggie’s dad held an important job high up in the Railway; mine didn’t. Still, their Railway blood was thick. His uncle meanwhile involved himself with illicit pursuits and paid the price accordingly. Due to Dad’s friendship, Mother couldn’t disapprove of my budding bromance with Reggie.
Reggie was good to me. He taught me to be entrepreneurial. Together, we collected soft drink bottles along the railway tracks for their deposit money and halved the rewards. When his father bought him a new bicycle to accommodate his lengthening legs, he sold me his older, smaller one for the money I earnt from the bottles.
He had a talent for making fun too. One day whilst riding along a bush track, we stopped at the creek. We rode down the creek’s bank into the water as deep as we dared to go. Reggie couldn’t swim either. Nevertheless, being the taller of us, he checked the creek’s depth and thought it safe enough for us. We stripped off. Reggie was as wily as I. We didn’t need our mothers to see wet clothing. We launched our bikes off the creek bank and crashed into the water, splashing each other. We laughed loudly. I hadn’t laughed like this before. The spot became one of our favourite summer hangouts.
We became more adventurous and surveyed the creek’s length and its depths. Its central channel looked deeper than Reggie’s standing height but its width wasn’t wide. We had previously spied people swimming in it. So, we thought we’d take a dip too. Being country lads, we had our trusty rope with us. Boys always carried a rope. It could be used to drag wood home or to help climb a tree. We tied the rope to a strong looking gum. This was our lifeline to hold on to while swimming in the creek. Soon, we let it go and discovered how to dog paddle from one side of the creek to the other. We swam there often. I even hid a pair of khaki green shorts permanently in a tree to have a dip on route to Pop’s house. I no longer looked a dirty urchin. Luckily, nobody noticed!
Temptation and its friend, stupidity, beckoned Reggie and me to a larger, deeper waterhole further along the creek. On one sweltering day, this crystal clear pool of water was very enticing. I jumped into it first without a thought about the creek’s fast flowing current. This current caught me in its grasp. I valiantly tried to swim against it but it determinedly dragged me downstream. I flailed frantically, trying to swim to the creek’s bank. Reggie dived into those perilous waters, and being much stronger, pulled me to safety. If I hadn’t panicked, I probably would have floated to the bank where the creek narrowed. I answered my question about death. Drowning would be quicker, easier and less painful than Mother’s punishment.
From that day, Reggie and I respected water and its dangers. In time, we became better swimmers though not fishes like my future children would be. Neither of us would ever muster the courage to swim underwater either. At least, we didn’t fear water like our parents did even if we wouldn’t wet our toes in the Logan River. By the way, they never caught us swimming.
Sometimes, temptation is the best teacher if one survives its lessons and their consequences. Its lessons aren’t easily forgotten. The dangers aside, Reggie brought fun into my life and had my back.
#temperature and temptation#school holidays#Logan River#mangoes#swimming in waterholes#temptation#my mate Reggie
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Which is the best farmhouse or villa near Mumbai?
I don't have subjective opinions, but I can provide you with some options for the best farmhouses or villas near Mumbai based on customer reviews and ratings. Here are some popular options:
Amanzi Resort, located in Pavana: This beautiful resort is located near the Pavana Lake and offers stunning views of the surrounding mountains. It is well-known for its luxurious villas and cottages, as well as its excellent amenities.
The Machan, located in Lonavala: This eco-friendly resort is built on tree houses and offers a unique and unforgettable experience. The Machan has luxurious villas, suites, and cabins, all designed to blend seamlessly with the natural environment.
SaffronStays Verandah, located in Alibaug: This stunning 150-year-old heritage property has been restored and transformed into a luxurious villa that can accommodate up to 12 guests. It has a beautiful garden, a swimming pool, and all the amenities one could need for a comfortable stay.
Mango Beach House, located in Kashid: This charming beach house is located just a few steps away from the beautiful Kashid Beach. It has four bedrooms, a beautiful garden, and a stunning pool.
U Tropicana, located in Alibaug: This luxurious resort is located just a few minutes away from the Alibaug Beach. It has beautiful villas and suites, a stunning swimming pool, and all the amenities one could need for a comfortable stay.
These are just a few of the many options available for farmhouses or villas near Mumbai. I recommend doing some more research based on your specific requirements and preferences to find the perfect one for you.
If you are always searching for a farmhouse then I would suggest you a resort home/villa project in Alibaug. Balibaug is a beautiful villa project near Nagaon & Akhi Beach. Its unique name defines its uniqueness… It is a combination of two beautiful tropical cultures Bali & Alibaug. Its design is inspired by Bali's temple & palace architecture. It is a RERA registered project that has 20 villas with lavish amenities like club house with recreational activities, a swimming pool, a party area, a banquet hall, multi-cuisine restaurants, spa, every element here has the essence of Bali.
The villas are adorned with international standard furniture, a private pool & terrace. The streetscapes have flora & fauna, Bali theme statues, a grand entrance of candi bentar, etc. Other facilities include EV charging stations, rainwater harvesting, sewage water treatment, etc. Their innovative investment opportunities guarantee you assured returns. It is developed by Pushpam Infra- a real estate company based in Pune. They also have another project Pushpam Sanskruti in Karjat that has studio suites & villas with similar amenities.
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Little Forest (2018)
I lived in a small town, farming is what most people do. My dad, too, is a farmer. He plant rice and corn, sometimes trees that bears fruit. He and my mum planted a Chikoo and Rambutan in our backyard just before our new house was built. There were also Bananas, native Mango, Calamansi and a tree that bears little cherries. Kids in the neighborhood would ask my dad to pick these little red cherries; according to them, they tasted like those of legitimate cherries. But I never like them.
We have a bunch of growing plants around our house, one of my favorite is the Kalachuchi. When it gets dark and on are streetlights, the Kalachuchi would create a shadow in our balcony - almost as though it was always meant to be there to give us a show. We also have a Coconut tree and my siblings love drinking the fresh Coconut milk after doing laundry. My little brother, in particular, love it. But I didn’t.
My grandparents own a poultry yard and they take pride of it. My dad, though, the cunning man he is, would secretly catch chickens and take them home to cook for dinner. I love his tinolas, sometimes with vermicelli sotanghon. Soup is my favorite meal, then and now.
But I never wanted to stay in my hometown. I always felt it was a deadend, and I felt suffocated. Someone who wants to leave the place he lives, they say, is unhappy. For a while, I thought I was unhappy. For a while, I thought I need to get away because life is out there, the real world.
And then, I left.
I left but couple months after I wanted to go back. I feel lost in the vastness of this new city, lost in the differences of these new people I meet everyday, lost in the phenomenon of homesickness;
I am lost and wants to be found.
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Ya Ward 3la Full w Yasmien
There is a tree of Jasmin outside your dorm room.
Every time I walk you home, I sing the same song about roses, Arabian Jasmin, and Lagerstroemia indica.
At night, I leave my girlfriend asleep in my bed and come to see you.
You come out pants-less and we sit on the footsteps of the chapel where you tell me about your brother.
I sit on the floor, leaning on my hands—while our friends go to karaoke— and I watch you talk about oranges for hours.
I show off every time I jump over this moderately high stone bench and I turn to look at you with a grin.
We kiss in front of the kiln.
.
You were waiting for me at Logan’s when I lost all my luggage and we stayed at fancy hotels we couldn’t really afford.
We rented bikes the next day and drove around like we knew where we were going.
(We didn’t.)
We shared a tiny bed in Van Gogh’s room.
We had sex so loud the whole house complained.
(I loved it.)
You would come meet me at work.
We’d go for walks.
Down Spruce St.
Up Broad St.
To Reading Terminal Market.
To Ogontz Chinese Restaurant.
To that one Phở place.
To the Jamaican chicken restaurant.
Past the street with all the flags,
Past the big fountain,
I kiss you on the steps of the Museum of Art.
.
Remember that day we ordered every dumpling dish on the menu?
Or the day we tried Zushi?
Remember how we went looking for basketball courts?
The late-night walks to get cigarettes?
Remember our neighbour who let us watch Shark Tank for the first time?
Remember the cat we tried to feed?
The dead bird?
Remember that day I carried you over the snow because you weren’t dressed properly?
The white man passing by?
(“Okay then.”)
Remember going to Camden?
The bus driver was so worried about us, because we looked like we had no idea what we were doing.
Remember the ice cream we got afterwards?
(Mango.)
Remember getting drunk in Beirut?
Remember when we stopped remembering?
Remember when the things to remember became the things to forget?
Remember when we fell out of love?
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Stay rooted: Embrace the new, Nurture the old
Strong Roots and Solid Trunks!
Happy New year! Today brings opportunities to introspect, reflect and review old resolutions and make new ones.
Just as the New Year stems from the old, everything new in life stems from something in the past. The roots are always older than the trunk of the tree. So too all that we are as a society is rooted in our past. Indian culture and traditions are one of the oldest in the world. The science and study behind them never fails to amaze!
In a new year message to a devotee, Sri Sathya Sai Baba said, “Endowed with long life and sound health, surrounded by children, grandchildren and friends, keep on imbibing joy through devotion and wisdom. I bless that your days be spent in the service of Sarveshwara, the Lord of All. Spend your life in abundant peace and happiness.”
The joint family system wherein we live with elders, children and grandchildren is a great training ground for imbibing values such as tolerance, harmony, mutual respect, empathy, sharing, caring etc. It is a great support system where everyone stands together in good times and bad. A family that eats together, prays together; stays together. Learning to co-exist, while deepening your devotion and acquiring wisdom, leads to abundant peace and happiness.
Blessed are those children who grow up in close proximity to grandparents, for they beget boundless love. Here too it's the roots of the family (grandparents and elders) that support and nourish the youngsters.
It’s good to make new friends, but it’s wise to keep the old ones.
It’s good to plant new trees, but it’s wise to nurture the old ones.
While I am all for modernisation and new technology, I would any day vote for the traditional over the modern, on subjects like family, food habits, values, yoga, meditation etc.
I was recently gifted a beautiful plastic Toran as part of a gift hamper on Diwali. Traditionally a Toran is made of fresh Mango and/or Peepal leaves strung together and tied across doorways in our homes on auspicious occasions. The reason for tying them was that mango and peepal leaves emit oxygen for 3-4 days even after they are plucked. During festivities or gatherings in the house, there are more people than usual. The leaves ensured an influx of oxygen so that there was no suffocation! How could a plastic toran do even a fraction of that noble job?
Interestingly, my granddaughter came home from school, holding a Toran. "I made this!" she said, beaming from ear to ear. I saw leaves cut out of white chart paper; coloured with green crayons with glitter added for effect. They were pasted onto a ribbon to make a Toran. It was a great initiative by the teacher to introduce the concept of Toran to the children. Today they were taught to make it with paper and crayons; tomorrow they would make it the real way! Well done! Plastic decorations are pollutants, be they those used for Christmas decor or Torans or any other.
On a similar note, Millets that have been our native food till the 1960’s, have suddenly become ‘super foods’ and are being appreciated the world over. So much so that the year 2023 shall be celebrated as the International Year of Millets!
So let us value the treasures of Indian culture and pass them on to the next generation. Just like the Covid vaccine produced by India is proving to be the best; far better than those produced by other countries, we have the best of everything.
Let's step into the New Year and take the learnings from the yesteryears along. Our future lies before us, like a sheet of driven snow. Let’s be careful how we tread it, for every mark will show! Our choices shall determine whether the times to come, will be Happy/Happier/Happiest!
This article is published in Hindustan Times today 1.1.2023. It would be my pleasure to know your thoughts on this. Do leave a comment in the space below :)
#indian culture#happy new year#newyear2023#toran#international year of millets 2023#back to the roots
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Life in Ngor Village
20 years ago the center of Dakar was way down south, ten kilometers at the other end of the peninsula, and the three ethnically Lebou villages of Oakam, Yoff and Ngor existed separately. The Senegalese writer Mariama Ba has some lovely descriptions in her book So Long A Letter. Fast forward to today, and there are at least 10 construction cranes visible at any given moment from anywhere in the city, probably many more if your eyes are sharp. New neighborhoods have sprung up even in the past ten years where there was just scrub-brush, knitting together the former downtown and the outskirt villages. It reminds me of the construction I saw living in China back in 2013, constructing giant ring roads around a future metropolis.
The neighborhood I lived in during my time in Senegal has changed a lot, friends there told me. Lebou elders sold grazing land next door and the swanky neighborhood of Almadies sprang up around the American embassy and other NGOs. Ngor Island a few hundred yards offshore cut down their mango trees and began building houses, many of which were sold to Europeans. Growing families took advantage of lax land laws (and often ancestral land) to build concrete and rebar foundations they could add onto over time. Today, the parking lot by the beach, dirt soccer field, cemetery by the mosque, and the beach are some of the only large public spaces. Smaller squares the size of housing plots still gather vendors and families during the morning and evening hours, sometimes sandwiched in between small alleys. The fishing stocks have depleted, too. My friends’ parents have described all the fish they caught in their younger days they don’t see anymore, and the popular fish now -like the meaty lotte- that were considered waste fish back then.
For all that change, though, Ngor still feels very much like a village. The vast majority are still ethnically Lebou, and related; the same half dozen last names are shared around. No one, it seems, has more than one degree of separation from anyone else. Our downstairs neighbor showed Carolyn a construction site shortcut through the neighborhood she uses when the greetings for ten neighbors to get in the front door seems overwhelming.
The economy still centers around fishing, and the two dozen or so gorgeously painted pirogue boats are still pushed out at dawn by a dozen straining men. Refrigerated trucks roll up on the sandy shore all the time to haul the catch to markets across the city. Kids walk away from the shore swinging giant fish by their tail for the midday wheel, or if they’re too big, with a wheelbarrow. The Lebou are known for being expert fisherman and great swimmers. Some of the men forgo the fishing boats and bring their own setup -bodyboard, flippers, weighted belt and net- to go spearfishing. When the beach fills up after Ramadan with Dakarois from across the city, it’s the Lebou lifeguards who will swim out to fish the non-swimmers from deeper water.
Sheep are everywhere, though they look more like large American goats. They’re stored on rooftops, and little pens, lovingly washed in the ocean on the weekend. Some keep them as large pets year round, some raise them for the slaughter during the post-Ramadan festival of Tabaski. All year we fed our food scraps to the rambunctious herd on the roof of our building. Shifting herds of sheep, sometimes staked and sometimes roaming free was just one more way the physical makeup of the village changed on a daily basis.
Ngor has a justified reputation as a rough and tumble fishing village, where people take care of their own and the police mostly stay out. An example; there were big demonstrations near our home, in early February after the African cup. The president -in a spectacular display of tone-deafness- had promised contested land now occupied by the old airport to the millionaire players on the Senegalese national team. The Lebou claim their grandparents had only loaned the government the land 50 years ago when it was empty fields, and the government claims it was sold. Either way, there were a few days of riot police everywhere, tear gas.
The neighborhood generally felt really safe to walk around in, even at night. The western cultural creep of alcohol and drugs has infiltrated some of the young men of the village like everywhere else, and the parking lot was best avoided late, but other than that all generations walked around at all hours. Carolyn and I were the victims of petty theft twice while we were there -never with the threat of violence- and both times we talked to a village elder, and our things were returned anonymously by the next day. A third time we found a young boy in our house poking around, slipping something into his pocket, and I chased him through the neighborhood alleys until some of the young men who worked at the ferry stopped him. (He’d taken a key) They berated him by name, then the father was promptly called, and the unfortunate boy was hauled off with the family. All the kids around heard an impromptu sermon on Islam and proper behavior.
Wedding tents popped up all the time, everywhere without warning. Sometimes they were next to our house, sometimes down the alley, sometimes near the village round point. Gorgeous matching dresses and headscarves for women, long robes for the men, drumming that started late at night. There were several other ceremonies that happened regularly, too. When well dressed neighbors lounged in chairs outside houses, it was a good bet a baby naming ceremony was happening inside, and when the cobblestones were covered in a truckload of sand, it meant a traditional nup healing ceremony had just happened or was about to. A cow being hauled into the beach spray was the other sign sickness was being washed and chanted away. Drums beat a rapid trance pattern late at night and dancers moved around the sick as the spirit moved them. The sand was to catch them if and when they fell back down, exhausted. The way neighbors gathered in the hundreds in these small spaces late at night and dispersed just as quickly never stopped surprising me. In addition to the constant piles of sand and gravel and excavated water trenches that changed walking paths weekly, the human blocks of celebration kept walks around unpredictable.
Carolyn and I were never invited to a marriage or naming ceremony while we lived there, probably a function of our limited Wolof language capabilities. Still, we knew by name and more by face dozens and dozens of neighbors by the end of our time there, and our own walks around took longer and longer as we asked about family and health.
Our home was a rooftop terrace apartment that looked out over the ocean, Ngor Island, and the hive of activity that was the parking lot. Sitting on the terrace during the morning and sunset, alone or with friends, is one of my strongest images of the time there. The entrance was tucked behind a labyrinth of small alleys that never stopped confusing our friends. The owner and his extended family lived downstairs in the many other apartments. A family of sheep lived on the roof. We found it with village connections; the wonderful manager of the surf camp lived downstairs, and it seemed like most of the spaces in the village proper were like that. You could find a place through a rental agency on the outskirts, but even Google Maps gave up trying to trace the alleyways of the inner village where we stayed.
There were more non-Lebou people -foreigners like us as well as other Senegalese- slowly moving into the neighborhood, but gentrification was arrested by social ties. The Lebou, by and large, didn’t want to move out of their three traditional villages, and they owned large enough plots that they could rent out a room or two while still housing large families. The money they could make from selling wasn’t enough to make them break multi-generational ties to move. That line of defense made me proud to live in the village, and more than a little sad for the vanishing ties like that back in America.
In so many other ways, Ngor reminded me of the stories I heard by grandmother and other elders tell me about growing up. Wistful remembering of running around in gangs with there other urchins until they came in filthy after dark, a mix of agrarian and city life where you dodged horse carts and sheep herds next to the cobbler. One of my older neighbors had a grandson who was living in America. He was getting in trouble in school there, and she insisted he come back to spend his early years running around in the sand here with the other ankle-biters. I met him. He looked deliriously happy. I wondered if he’d had culturally competent teachers who recognized the buzzing energy of a young black boy as the gift it was. I have a feeling my American neighborhoods back home will seem so very lonely and empty by comparison. Even so, I couldn’t be more grateful to spend my year in Senegal living in Ngor Village.
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There Was A Bad Tree by John Giorno
There was a bad
tree
a bad tree,
that people
hated.
The leaves gave off
a foul
smell,
and the flowers
had a bitter
stink.
If you got too close,
you vomited.
The fruit
was poison,
one bite
and you were dead.
Everyone really
disliked it.
The bad tree
stunk.
They talked
endlessly about it;
and decided
to cut it down.
Get rid of it.
They chopped
with axes,
and barely made a dent;
wearing breathing masks,
they whacked at it
and whacked at it,
and nibbled and chipped.
Oily powder
from the shiny dark green leaves,
got on their skin,
blistered,
and was really itchy;
and they scratched
bloody red.
They put on
protective gear
with oxygen,
and went at it with
electric buzz saws
and heavy equipment.
Working 24-hour shifts,
finally, they cut it down.
Everyone was very happy,
and celebrated
the great victory.
A noble deed, well done;
and they went to bed exhausted.
The next morning,
the bad tree
had grown back,
had sprung up
new and bigger,
and more beautiful
and ugly.
It was very discouraging.
They talked a lot about it,
and cut it down again,
and poured gasoline on the roots,
and burned all the leaves and branches
in a big fire.
After the smoldering embers
got cold,
the tree grew back,
bigger,
more bad,
and really gorgeous.
Other people
had been watching
from their houses,
waiting their turn.
They thought themselves
smarter,
with higher intellectual
capabilities,
they knew how
to get rid of the tree.
It was a growing plant,
a wood tree
that grew in the earth.
They incinerated it,
burned the roots
with chemicals,
vaporizing acids,
and robotic lasers;
detonated
on the ground,
bombed
from the air,
hit
with smart missiles;
and bombarded
with radiation.
They made
a fire storm;
and covered the ground
with concrete
and steel.
The tree grew back,
more fresh,
more elegant, even gracious;
and really ugly.
The wood was
harder,
darker,
more shiny,
thick hot muscle;
and the leaves,
full and lush,
moved like underwater plants
luxuriously in the breeze.
Everyone was very depressed,
extremely discouraged.
It was a catastrophe.
They had made for themselves
a hell world.
They talked incessantly about it,
and came to a big decision.
The Mayor resigned
in disgrace,
and those, who had worked
so hard,
left,
humiliated,
departed,
moved to the other side of town,
stayed away.
Then, out of the blue, appeared
these beautiful people,
They were simple
and humble,
and a little like peacocks,
and seemingly well-intentioned,
with a great sense of humor.
Radiantly relaxed,
oozing
loving kindness
and compassion,
they walked right up,
and started eating
the leaves.
They ate the leaves
and enjoyed them,
became happy,
and laughed
and laughed;
and chomped on more leaves.
You could tell they really
liked the taste.
They pressed
their cheeks
to the flowers,
black velvet
coated with transmission oil.
They licked
the sweet juices
that seeped
from the petals.
The pollen
was coal dust
and petroleum gas.
Burying their noses,
they sucked
in deep breaths,
eating
the smell,
great bliss.
They discovered the fruit
hidden beneath the leaves,
overripe mangoes
with sticky eggplant skin,
hung like testicles;
and inside the fruit
was rotting meat,
like liver.
The special people
got their faces
into the stinking slime,
and really got into it;
inhaling with their lips,
and teeth,
and tongues.
They licked and drank
the thick red juice.
The seeds,
like cabochon rubies,
seemed particularly potent,
and were chewed
with great delight.
The fruit contained
the five wisdoms.
The men and women
became luminous,
their skin was golden
and their bodies,
almost transparent,
were clothed in shimmering
rainbow lights.
They became sleepy,
yawned, and curled up
under the tree,
and a took a nap.
While they slept,
music filled the air.
Lounging
against the gnarled tree trunk
and protruding roots,
their huge bodies
colored red, yellow,
blue, green, white,
rested in
great equanimity,
and radiated
huge compassion.
Inside the tree
were the secret homes
of many demi-gods,
hungry ghosts,
and earth spirits,
who were very pleased
with all the positive attention
being paid them.
After years of abuse
mutilation
and destruction,
they were thrilled;
even though, they were being ravaged
and their flowers
wrecked.
At the root endings,
there were jewels,
diamonds and emeralds and rubies,
which were stars in the sky
of the world below.
The beautiful men and women
woke up,
and nibbled on the leaves, again;
They ate the leaves,
like deer,
pausing between bites,
looking up
at the vast
empty sky.
The leaves and fruit
increased their clarity
and bliss,
and introduced the nature
of primordially pure
wisdom mind.
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3rd May 2022, 11.14pm
I just want to feel everything. The flutter of insect wings.
Saturday I argued with my father. Then I ate strawberries grotesquely. I was home alone, and I finished a whole basket, quickly, with shame, without savoring the taste. Eating to eat is never good.
Sunday, I woke up early and left for the airport. I walked in silence to the bus stop near my mother’s office, looking at the trees and asking myself when did they become so green. The leaves look tender under the sun. No one was awake.
Since it was labor day, no one was driving busses too, and since nobody told me, I waited for an hour, standing and looking at the road, piercing the horizon and hoping to hear a motor engine coming from behind the turn. In the end, I was saved by the kindness of a stranger, who offered me a ride in a taxi. He said he was Canadian, and that he was going to the airport anyway, and that I needn’t worry if I could not pay him back.
I got there in time, and M. was there. I wanted to buy him flowers, I had this picture of myself walking in with a bouquet of daisies, which are not in season but are his favorites. I hung a painting in my mind where I would have waited for him, and he would have come through the doors of the customs, and he would have ran to me and I would have ran to him and we would have hugged. Kissed, maybe. I could have lowered his mask and kissed him, with the flowers in my hand.
It was too early for florists to be open. I was too late to wait.
We hugged. His arms are strong, he pressed me to himself tightly, but gently, and I let the physical contact confirm that he was in fact in front of me, and not just a wish. I do not dream, so I had no doubt of being awake, but he could have been an hallucination.
Venice, with him, looked better. We used the shuttle service to get to Mestre, he put his head on my shoulder and his curly hair tickled my neck. We took the bus, the 4L, the only reliable line, and got to Venice.
The sun was brighter than usual and for once I fully understood the appeal of this city. The countless canvases of vedute, the engravings of bridges and houses that foreigners have always loved made sense. Maybe it was just him. He told me that never in his life he had wished to come to Venice, never had he felt the need to visit the city. He barely had any expectations. He said he came here for me.
In the afternoon, we got ice cream, because he was tired and it was too hot. I got a mango icicle, he got two scoops - lemon and strawberry - on a cone, and then we went to sit in a shadowy park. It was cooler there, sheltered by the branches. We found a bench. He held my hand.
He is the first boy who has ever held my hand in public. There were people near us, a couple talking, children, nannies, parents, but he held my hand anyway. He was not scared. I weighed his palm in mine, like one would weigh a rock before throwing it, to make it skip on the water of a lake.
Our fingers interlocked, we just stayed silent, quiet, still. My head on his shoulder, his head on my head. I closed my eyes. I felt like a sea wave, or the page of a book when it’s hit by the sun at just the right angle and the texture of the paper becomes apparent.
Afterwards, we went to Arsenale, and I told him about the paintings I recognized. He said he likes when I do that, when I start explaining things he does not know about. He surprisingly knows nothing about art, and very little about literature. The French education system seems to be quite lacking on that front, because at one point I showed him some paintings by Klimt (I have a test on him soon) and he did not know any of them. The gold leaf around Giuditta, around the two kissers, I felt it embellishing my time with him.
I brought him to Punta della Dogana, and it took his breath to see the lagoon with its water like brushstrokes. The light was green and gold. I wanted to kiss him.
Afterwards, since it was getting fairly late, we decided to head to his hotel. I made him get on a gondola, one of those that cross Canal Grande and cost only two euros. A lady was embarrassingly agitated, she said she was late and that she had to get her drying laundry.
At his hotel, we checked in. They asked for my document too, which I did not expect.
We watched heartstopper, which we had started together on video call, and at the end of it I kissed him. I told him I was tired of seeing people kiss on the show, which was true, and that I wanted him to kiss me.
I felt like he was coming in me, like his soul was passing through me.
-c.
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The memory that never fades
The memory i was sticking and and hoping to comeback is that when i was a kid me and my parents were once a happy family , We are in the middle class family were my parents work very hard making money by the help of our little farm . In the year 2014 in the sunny afternoon i can still remember that my father harvesting mango while I climbing high up in the mango trees and smells the fresh aroma of the tress while the cold wind blows towards my skin and it feels so relieved and I can still remember that day it was so grate . as we go through the kitchen mother filled the kitchen table some delicious meal for us to have our lunch for the day. And i have two little puppy we play chase and fetch in the middle of the soaring heat , In this era I was did not even hesitate when my skin will burn because of the sun rays just know that I am happy playing .
And as the evening comes all the chickens gathering around waiting for me to throw some of the corns while the pigs are shouting very loud also waiting for my dad to feed them , My mother always have me in going to the market buying some foods and everything that we need daily in our home as we walked around the market I am wondering that when is the time that I will go to market all by myself and buy some food.
And in the weekends my father always take me to the nearest river to refresh our body and to chill for the hardwork we made, He always carrying me using his back when i get tired of walking and when i got wounds and i cry approaching into him one thing he told me is that to be strong whatever the problems is and he always told me not to cry . As a kid I think everything would last forever but it's not. My father was arrested for being involved in something he never did , My mother and I was forced to go to town and finish my studies there I thought that me and my mother will stay in the same house but I dont even know she had a plan working abroad and i still waiting for my father to come back and go back to our farm cause I miss everything.
After we transfer in that town my personality change, I am not the person who always doing some chores like feeding the chickens, playing with the dogs, always play under the sun and going to the river every morning I literally change my habits . As the days past I am still hoping that we would go back to wear it use to be but in that young age I already accepted that it will never be the same . Years by mother decided to go abroad to work she ask my grandma to take good care of me .
That childhood memories will never fade in my mind I am very lucky to have those happy memories as I grow old , My parents decided to separate when I was was in 6th grade . Now that I am already grow up I already accepted that they will never be together again . since the day that they got separate and the day my mother work abroad, After my grandma past away i was living alone and i know my life was quite lonely. But I always smile and accepting the fact and move on is way better .
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