On the bowal, about 6:20am
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Your picture
This morning I took apart an ikon of sorts; I am using the
frame for your picture. The frame is a too big, too thin, but the color—dark, brickish—plays
well with the colors in the photo. It’s the one that I really like, that your
friend took of you looking out at the busy Cambodian street, with the people
and tuktuks and mopeds passing below blurring together in the shallow depth of
field. Your hair is still facing the road, but your eyes look right at the
camera; she must have taken it in that splitsecond between when she called your
name and you saw the camera and realized what was happening.
I got the idea last night. I had been meaning to get a frame
for a while, putting on the last three shopping lists I made, but I don’t
really know where to look for frames, nor do I have much extra money, nor am I
frequently in the city where one might acquire such an item [excuses]. As I was
lying facedown on the floor resting after too few pushups I noticed/remembered
that the stack of old things the previous tenant left in the house contained
some framed images. Cleaning last year I had carefully pyramided them and put
them under the bed, where they have been gathering dust and moisture since.
The frame used to have a homemade collage: images of Christ,
a picture of a cross, an illustration of the virgin, a short poem - Confía
en El. A piece of yellow notepaper served as matting, and an inspirational
note “Díos
Te Bendigo” written in a loopy hand filled the space. Time and moisture caused
some of the collage pieces to tear and stick a bit; I’ll have to scrape off the
fragment of fringe of radiant light still clinging to the pane. There is also
considerable cobwebbing at the corners. If I can find a piece of black paper I
will use it as a mat, but the plain white cardboard backing will probably
suffice.
Where should I hang it?
Wet Start
It was dark when I awoke. The crescent moon had set long
ago, and the muezzin and his rooster friends had not yet begun to crow. I lay
in bed, staring at the mosquito net, imagining a future trip where maybe I
didn’t (have to) sleep under a mosquito net, where the day held movement and
new adventure, where I might feel like my activities where under my direction,
instead of feeling like a passenger on a moving sidewalk, slowly crawling
along. But the muezzin interrupted my reverie, and so I fell into his, the
entire extended prayer call pouring gently through the bars of my open window.
When it was over, I swung myself around and out from under the net, lit a
candle, made a cup of tea, and ate a grapefruit. Halfway through, a light rain
began playing on the roof, and the overexcited birds gave way to small, calm
drips and drops.
Raincoat on, I darted out into the new wet day. My morning
run this week takes me exactly one mile towards the next village, up the grade
southeast of town, past some huts and houses, over a bridge or two, and past a
slippery soccer field. There, at the high point, I turned around. The road was
wet, and uneven, so I guessed in the lightening day where the rolley rocks are
and tried to avoid them. The rain continued, gray pillows overhead taking the
place of the pink shreds and orange stippling of clouds I usually observe at
dawn on my way back. Some stupid sheep [all sheep are stupid] ran ahead of me
for a bit, not realizing that they could cross
the road and I would not follow. The smell of warm, wet wool lingered in the
air after them; I was reminded of skiing, at lunchtime.
Seventeen minutes later I was back inside, and after
twenty-five I was out of the shower and the rain had stopped and I was boiling
cornmeal for porridge. The sounds of the latest world news blended nicely with
the sound of an egg frying; crackle coup d’etat in Guinea Bissau pop military
intervention in Mali sizzle.
I assembled the day’s kit: lesson plans, scraps of paper for
warm-up exercises, some balloons, several varied sources of light [candle,
flashlight, glow-in-the-dark Frisbee] and a big basin to help demonstrate
refraction. With everything except the basin tucked into my bag, I started off
towards the school. While I was eating, the dark grey sky had brightened
significantly. However, and odd and mildly ominous stormfront had established
itself from north to south overhead. The result was a bit confusing: the bright
part of the sky was in the west, and the eastern half was dark and foreboding
and growing rapidly. I stood in the road and watched for a full minute; the
darker grey front moved over and down and then broke over the hill to the east.
Low fog spilled over the crest and began to infiltrate the treetops. The day
darkened some more.
About halfway to school rain started again. Lightly at first,
then more earnestly, moreso at least than an hour ago during the predawn. The
few villagers that had risen early in spite of the dark and wet moved back
under the eaves. I held the basin over my head.
Outside the schoolyard I passed two women walking into the
center of town, plastic bags tied over their scalps to keep their braidwork
dry. “I like your umbrella,” one said in clear English. “Thank you,” I replied.
At the school the principal was sitting at his desk, the
window and door closed to keep out wind
and rain, listening to the radio in the dark. He had pulled his scarf and
flowey long caftan tight around him, effectively cutting his apparent size in
two. I sat across from him, both of us in contented silence, listening to the
same soundbites I had heard earlier.
Presently two more teachers arrived. We talked about the
upcoming Tabaski holiday (the Muslim sheep-sacrifice holiday, in remembrance of
Abraham’s piety as he was ready to sacrifice his own son) and how it might
impact the school schedule; I explained that in the US we also have a T-holiday
that involves the customary consumption of a designated animal; and we talked
about temperate climates (the Guineans were all very cold, I was enormously content).
About twenty minutes late I shuffled off to class, where three students (out of
67) were waiting. I wrote the warm-up question on the board and distributed
half-sheets. Gradually, more damp students arrived, and gradually, the rain
increased. Sometimes a bit of wind caused a loose leaf of corrugated roofing to
flap noisily overhead, startling the students. Through the doorway I could see
a family of sheep, standing in the lee of a tree in the schoolyard, the larger
one closest, the smallest ones lined up next to her.
Still students continue to arrive, and still the rain
intensifies, and the classroom gets louder. I sat on the windowsill and watched
the sky get brighter and brighter.
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