This is an experiment. I need to exorcise some demons ? clear out old memories and cobwebs, to make room for new. I am not a word smith. My sister is the writer in the family, I'm the painter. My head and dreams are being bombarded with these images and I thought that if I 'put it out there' that some peace may come................
The road from the capital to where we live is one large pothole. We have to avoid the islands of tarmac as they are sitting proud of the road by 10 inches or more, the red dust is billowing from around us as we make our way home. We have our windows open, as the air-conditioner increases petrol consumption ? our 'black gold' in this economic decline. Everything is getting harder to come by. There is a road block up ahead and we slow down preparing for the routine inspection. The car is searched for weapons, paperwork is checked and questioned. An interesting situation considering chances are that this soldier is illiterate. The standard procedure is not to look anybody in the eyes, smile a little but don't show your teeth and feign patience. Forty five minutes later we carry on our journey. We pass through a village, we were here 2 days ago but the entire scene has changed. The dirt is stained black in places, smudged reminders of a massacre that has taken place. What a wonderfully versatile tool the machete is. The buildings have been ransacked and partially destroyed, crops burned and some of the remaining bodies are piled up waiting to be burned. The stench causes bile to rise in the back of your throat. The heat and risk of disease negate the humanity of funerals. There is a mass of people moving on, carrying a few belongings that weren't destroyed or stolen. The usual vacant expression of shock and grief. Moving on, feeling nothing and going nowhere. With AIDS rife (called Slim here, as you become slim and then die) the social structure of family has changed beyond recognition. Parents are generally the ones that die first, leaving their children to be tended to and looked after by the grandparents. When the grandparents die, hopefully from old age and a life for filled, the eldest child becomes the head of the family. Responsible for the livelihood and survival of siblings at such a young age. But, I digress.
We are home, the siren from the local multi-national company sounds the curfew signal. Anybody out between 6pm and 6am will be shot & killed. Those are the rules. At the beginning belly crawling around under the windows watching the tracer lights from the bullets being fired down the street had curiosity value. My adrenaline pumping too much to just be able to sit in the dark and wait it out until bed time. Now it's just another routine. No lights on or TV, just the radio playing quietly.
We have CB radios to keep in touch with friends. To 'check-in' and confirm that all is well. Our German friend has been a single mother here for many years, her two older daughters are 'safely' ensconced in a rural convent, her 11 year old daughter lives with her. We get a call that she is being raided, but we can't go too her. It's curfew. First thing in the morning we are there and cautiously approach her house. Bullet holes riddle the outside and windows are smashed. The detritus of civilized living litters her front garden. They are beaten but alive, although forever changed. She was raped by the 5 'gorillas', they left the daughter, but only because she begged them to use her body and not the child's. She lay across her daughter, they looked in to the young face of terror and anguish whilst releasing their venom on the woman's body.
Many times at a road blocks, we encounter the child soldiers. Boys between the ages of 9 and 12. Stolen from their villages to make up the numbers for the new militia. They live in the camps with the soldiers and whores (also stolen from their lives). The boys' eyes are bloodshot and glazed from booze and dakka, they lean through the car window with their AK47s casually slung from an arm, the boyish bravado long gone ? replaced by bordom and fatigue. Our currency now to accommodate free movement is sugar and cigarettes. Bribery has become a valid endeavor, no longer a characteristic of the corrupt.
Eventually, the British Army declares that it is time for us to evacuate. All women, children and non-essential persons are to be removed. We are herded onto buses at the border, carrying hand luggage only. Maybe our homes and personal effects will still be there when we come back ? one month, six months, who knows.
We take the slow night train down to the coast. We need a bit of a holiday to recharge our batteries. The gentle rock of the train lulls me into a peaceful sleep, but I awaken each time it stops, the rhythm gone. I crack the curtain open to see where we are, with my chin propped on my fist I can see the first glow of dawn on the horizon. The silhouette of giraffes gently ambling across the view. As the sun rises, the red reflection spreads across the landscape. A symbol of past blood shed and the blood that will be shed in years to come. Nothing really changes here. Life is cheap.
The road from the capital to where we live is one large pothole. We have to avoid the islands of tarmac as they are sitting proud of the road by 10 inches or more, the red dust is billowing from around us as we make our way home. We have our windows open, as the air-conditioner increases petrol consumption ? our 'black gold' in this economic decline. Everything is getting harder to come by. There is a road block up ahead and we slow down preparing for the routine inspection. The car is searched for weapons, paperwork is checked and questioned. An interesting situation considering chances are that this soldier is illiterate. The standard procedure is not to look anybody in the eyes, smile a little but don't show your teeth and feign patience. Forty five minutes later we carry on our journey. We pass through a village, we were here 2 days ago but the entire scene has changed. The dirt is stained black in places, smudged reminders of a massacre that has taken place. What a wonderfully versatile tool the machete is. The buildings have been ransacked and partially destroyed, crops burned and some of the remaining bodies are piled up waiting to be burned. The stench causes bile to rise in the back of your throat. The heat and risk of disease negate the humanity of funerals. There is a mass of people moving on, carrying a few belongings that weren't destroyed or stolen. The usual vacant expression of shock and grief. Moving on, feeling nothing and going nowhere. With AIDS rife (called Slim here, as you become slim and then die) the social structure of family has changed beyond recognition. Parents are generally the ones that die first, leaving their children to be tended to and looked after by the grandparents. When the grandparents die, hopefully from old age and a life for filled, the eldest child becomes the head of the family. Responsible for the livelihood and survival of siblings at such a young age. But, I digress.
We are home, the siren from the local multi-national company sounds the curfew signal. Anybody out between 6pm and 6am will be shot & killed. Those are the rules. At the beginning belly crawling around under the windows watching the tracer lights from the bullets being fired down the street had curiosity value. My adrenaline pumping too much to just be able to sit in the dark and wait it out until bed time. Now it's just another routine. No lights on or TV, just the radio playing quietly.
We have CB radios to keep in touch with friends. To 'check-in' and confirm that all is well. Our German friend has been a single mother here for many years, her two older daughters are 'safely' ensconced in a rural convent, her 11 year old daughter lives with her. We get a call that she is being raided, but we can't go too her. It's curfew. First thing in the morning we are there and cautiously approach her house. Bullet holes riddle the outside and windows are smashed. The detritus of civilized living litters her front garden. They are beaten but alive, although forever changed. She was raped by the 5 'gorillas', they left the daughter, but only because she begged them to use her body and not the child's. She lay across her daughter, they looked in to the young face of terror and anguish whilst releasing their venom on the woman's body.
Many times at a road blocks, we encounter the child soldiers. Boys between the ages of 9 and 12. Stolen from their villages to make up the numbers for the new militia. They live in the camps with the soldiers and whores (also stolen from their lives). The boys' eyes are bloodshot and glazed from booze and dakka, they lean through the car window with their AK47s casually slung from an arm, the boyish bravado long gone ? replaced by bordom and fatigue. Our currency now to accommodate free movement is sugar and cigarettes. Bribery has become a valid endeavor, no longer a characteristic of the corrupt.
Eventually, the British Army declares that it is time for us to evacuate. All women, children and non-essential persons are to be removed. We are herded onto buses at the border, carrying hand luggage only. Maybe our homes and personal effects will still be there when we come back ? one month, six months, who knows.
We take the slow night train down to the coast. We need a bit of a holiday to recharge our batteries. The gentle rock of the train lulls me into a peaceful sleep, but I awaken each time it stops, the rhythm gone. I crack the curtain open to see where we are, with my chin propped on my fist I can see the first glow of dawn on the horizon. The silhouette of giraffes gently ambling across the view. As the sun rises, the red reflection spreads across the landscape. A symbol of past blood shed and the blood that will be shed in years to come. Nothing really changes here. Life is cheap.
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