sam. smile. negative. Ganesha

Close to midnight and the temperature has dropped; the wind is rustling-tussling the leaves on the milk wood below the wood-frame window; the frogs have piped down to a hardly-noticeable audio wallpaper; the old fan moans as it stutter-swings rightwards, every-single-time-to-the-right.

Late afternoon, just on the right side of 34 degrees Celsius, we sat on the shop side of Sam's table in Tambetha, Umhlali. Lee drank red wine out of a mug, green tea and ginger for me. We bought a mauve essential oil burner: from Thailand the ceramic Ganesha elephant bears a lotus flower on its back; a tea candle aromatically roasts citronella and tea tree in almond oil on my bedside table, right now. (I only noticed the Christ thorn and aloe in the large ceramic pot outside the gate as we left at dusk.)

At 13h30, like two little wide-eyed vivisection monkeys about to be experimented on, we sat on the edge of a white-iron clinic bed. Aids tests for two. By two we knew we were HIV-negative times-two.

ocean. inspiration. healing

mighty OCEAN, constant roar, smell & sound of GOD o' universe: I bow down, in awe

I left my room-and-creative studio, then the house, at 6h30; Sascha the blonde German shepherd tried to follow me. But today I wanted to be alone (who on earth said you can't start a sentence with but?) so I shooed her away.
The house is 800m from the Indian ocean, that includes a steep 100m drop from the cliff top to sea level; one day I'll count the steps as I charge back up them: it's my proof to self that all resistance can be whipped, even twice if need be.
I ran to The Royale (so un-aptly named, never mind un-aptly designed: where do bad South African architects spend purgatory? I know! In Tuscany. Tuscany, Italy that is), then took the slippery steps and the winded path to the beach.
I love stripping off my vest, kicking off my running shoes, the first feet on sand-surf-white foam: At sea level, with The Greatness before me, I give thanks for my aliveness and for my healing.
This place - 595.3 km from Waterval Boven - is where I have come to live, to heal, to recuperate, to love, and to e loved.
Yesterday I rested from phone and email, today I work: I am location independent.

Lebombo border post

Approaching the SA / Mozambique Lebombo border post: It's a dead-heavy heat that's lacquered across a mostly colourless, tinderbox-dry pan-flat landscape. It's a parched landscape desperate, and begging, for summer's rain.
As my eyes get bored with staring, they unfocus into a non-present moment. That's the direction of where Samora Machel's plane hit the ground in 1986.
Then, suddenly, the bleakness left over from winter is destroyed, and interspersed, by vast, wonderfully lumo-green banana plantations: for contrast's sake the luscious, flailing palms stand, ironically, soldier-stiff in rich-red loamy soil.
Komatipoort passes in a flash.
Then the wide-flat blue beauty of the Komati River, in less-of-a-flash, flowing fast and hard from last week's first, but faraway rains.
Passport's out.
"No smoking & alcohol allowed", and "no blasphemy", is inscribed on the inside of the luxury bus we're traveling in.
A fresh, strong wind's blowing aggressively from Maputo's direction; amidst this bleakness of the landscape - and the litter-strewn devastation of the no-man's land between borders - it's surreal to smell, and sense, the exotic Indian Ocean so close-by.
I'm also well aware, because it was during my life time, of the ghosts of the war that shredded Mozambique. Also an awareness of the loss of life, mostly always of the poor and downtrodden, and of the ghosts of land-mines (and body parts) this now fine road is built upon.
Nor should we ever forget the sublime 'wars' that the former SA apartheid regime inflicted upon its neighbours.

Strayed

It's stopped, in the early hours of the morning, the rain that's lashed the house for two days.
Croaking frogs, more deep throated than those I'm used to at home, are interspersed by silence, then crickets, and then by the first large aircraft that I've noticed in days despite the nearby international airport.
But no dripping, sodden leaves, and sheets of rain; although 100 mm is expected through today. Then summer sun for the weekend.
As I arrived on the N2, 22 km north of Zinkwazi, on Friday, a stray dog ran in front of my car. At 16h00 on a Friday afternoon I was stuck on the side of road and with what should have been the insides of my car, then hanging out.
After a good and snotty sobbing session I came to my senses: I was unscathed, I was alive, I had been doing less than the speed limit, if not I could have rolled the car.
Without transport I've been able to explore the coastline on foot, both by running and walking, and I've had - at least twice - the opportunity to be wonderfully soaked through to my skin, and to jump in puddles; all of this with a broad, toothy grin on my gaunt dial!
To be oozing energy, fitness, leanness, mental health and wellness is a gift from the most high.
Now back to bed and deliciously deep sleep - I'm still needing tablets - and to think this nighttime rambling all started with an early morning pee.

This mortal coil

The rain's pouring-drip-ping against the wooden house, then - unexpectedly - ratchets up a double notch: now it's a sodden downpour.
I'm in bed, listening
There's a beautiful but tumoured dog with gentle eyes and soft fur lying at the foot of my bed, it's the first time she's sleeping here.
She is dying.