I have to say, I almost don't like weekends. I am always relieved to have them, and I wish they would go on, but I find myself being so sloth-like in them that I'm glad to have work again on Monday morning. Although I'm not so glad about the fact that I've stayed up/slept in too much for the last two nights and can never go to sleep on Sunday night. That part is not so great.
If I ever came into a great deal of money, I would not be able to quit my job, unless it was because I had started an organization that required me to work every day. My life needs the structure.
On weekends, I watch videos about Somalia, and I watch videos about Darfur, and I think too much. I think about the bullet-pocked walls in Liberia and a coworker in Sudan who, when he saw a picture of Monrovia flash by on my computer, said, "Wow, where is that? I could actually live there. I can live anywhere there are paved roads." In that video about Darfur, where they show the "terrible conditions" that the peacekeepers are living in - the dirty latrines? Not so different from the latrine that was Wallace's last home. (Oh, Wallace. I do miss you.) There is no experience quite like 110 degree heat on a latrine made of corrugated iron. As I was watching the video, I thought, "That's pretty much how everyone lives outside of big cities in Southern Sudan." (Probably in Northern Sudan, too, although I hear that Khartoum is very modern.) My pity for the peacekeepers was distinctly lacking, regarding their toilet accommodations.
I realized the other day that Tiny Little Town in Southern Sudan is the one place in the world where I have been but will probably never be able to return to. It's a weird feeling. Every other place I've been has been accessible. I may never go back, but I could. I could buy a plane ticket and rent a car and take a bus and get back. But Tilt is just too remote. Even if I could fly to Nairobi and fly to Juba and fly to Rumbek, I would need to get on the UN flight to the airstrip in the middle of nowhere, where there are no houses or businesses, not even a child walking by with a tray of gum and biscuits, and therefore no taxis. I suppose I could stand out on the road in the sun with no shade, with big Chinese trucks rumbling past on their way to the oil derricks, waiting for the chance minibus coming from Bigger Town or from Khartoum, two or three days drive away. I suppose I could, but it would be very difficult. Nigh unto impossible. The very impossibility makes me want to go back.
...
A few days ago, I found a tiny blue jewel on a desk at work. For complicated reasons, I'm not the only person who uses this desk, or, at least, someone else very possibly had to use it over the weekend. It's not my normal desk. It was a very pretty and sparkly little blue jewel, and I kept it on the desk, because I thought someone might come back and want it.
Several hours later, I realized that it came from my earring.
If I ever came into a great deal of money, I would not be able to quit my job, unless it was because I had started an organization that required me to work every day. My life needs the structure.
On weekends, I watch videos about Somalia, and I watch videos about Darfur, and I think too much. I think about the bullet-pocked walls in Liberia and a coworker in Sudan who, when he saw a picture of Monrovia flash by on my computer, said, "Wow, where is that? I could actually live there. I can live anywhere there are paved roads." In that video about Darfur, where they show the "terrible conditions" that the peacekeepers are living in - the dirty latrines? Not so different from the latrine that was Wallace's last home. (Oh, Wallace. I do miss you.) There is no experience quite like 110 degree heat on a latrine made of corrugated iron. As I was watching the video, I thought, "That's pretty much how everyone lives outside of big cities in Southern Sudan." (Probably in Northern Sudan, too, although I hear that Khartoum is very modern.) My pity for the peacekeepers was distinctly lacking, regarding their toilet accommodations.
I realized the other day that Tiny Little Town in Southern Sudan is the one place in the world where I have been but will probably never be able to return to. It's a weird feeling. Every other place I've been has been accessible. I may never go back, but I could. I could buy a plane ticket and rent a car and take a bus and get back. But Tilt is just too remote. Even if I could fly to Nairobi and fly to Juba and fly to Rumbek, I would need to get on the UN flight to the airstrip in the middle of nowhere, where there are no houses or businesses, not even a child walking by with a tray of gum and biscuits, and therefore no taxis. I suppose I could stand out on the road in the sun with no shade, with big Chinese trucks rumbling past on their way to the oil derricks, waiting for the chance minibus coming from Bigger Town or from Khartoum, two or three days drive away. I suppose I could, but it would be very difficult. Nigh unto impossible. The very impossibility makes me want to go back.
...
A few days ago, I found a tiny blue jewel on a desk at work. For complicated reasons, I'm not the only person who uses this desk, or, at least, someone else very possibly had to use it over the weekend. It's not my normal desk. It was a very pretty and sparkly little blue jewel, and I kept it on the desk, because I thought someone might come back and want it.
Several hours later, I realized that it came from my earring.
1 comment:
Hi Amazed life - I found you because of your post, "Shiny Bits of Life" - that's the name of my blog.
Anyhow, it looks as if your life has been interesting!
Keep on adventuring...
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