Goodbyes

Goodbyes, an inevitability.  The stubborn bedfellow of freedom.  The shadow that looms on every horizon. 

I sat at the kitchen table watching him prepare breakfast.  Boiling water for tea, bread in the toaster.  The bright city sunshine streamed in the windows, lighting the room from all angles so nothing was in shadow.  The soft words and gentle sleep from the night had left him and he was once again a pillar of self-control, a wall as thick as concrete between us.  As he laid down a plate in front of me I looked up, searching his face for the emotions he had conveyed as we lingered on the darkened streets only a few hours ago.  His eyes darted and he took defiant strides away.  Where was that dream we had built, of hot and dusty cobbled alleyways, of shimmering shorelines, of shuttered rooms where only we would be?  I concentrated on a mark on the table, willing myself to accept that I had known this conclusion before this moment.  Did he sense the aching in my core?  He knelt beside my chair, his hands twisting my body so it was his turn to look up at me, his eyes were pleading, willing me to forget, not to remember.  Suddenly he stood, moving around in agitation, picking up this thing and that. I readied myself.  This was the beginning of our end, it was inevitable.  I stood patiently and he came to me.  The embrace was long; I clung to his neck as his hands grasped my frame, moving the length of my back.  My lips brushed the soft skin on his collarbone and I felt his breath by my ear.  I lowered my stance so my face nestled into his chest, arms round his waist wishing I could step back and let go.  I could feel the moistness of my eyes and hoped he wouldn’t see how I was struggling.  As he released his clasp he changed his mind and put his hand to my face, drawing it up to his.  I knew what he was doing, and knew I should stop it but I couldn’t.  His lips found mine and I just stood for a second, numbed by the action that took us so far from where we had been before.  We couldn’t control it or comprehend it so we gave in, timid at first and then wholeheartedly.  We broke off dazed, lungs vying for air, skin tingling. It wasn’t enough, would it ever be enough.  I had to stop, it had already too far, every fibre of my being wanted him.  I tried pushing him away, a feeble attempt but enough to remind myself I was in control I could stop.  I wouldn’t be a slave to the heat of my emotions.  I twisted beyond his reach and grabbed my bag, I regretted it instantly, but one of us had to.  Back to back we paused, the silence in the room grew heavier as the realisation of what had passed between us dawned.  He drew himself up, calmly with an elegant composure I envied.  How could he switch off, how could I not?  We finally walked through the door and traversed the street in silence.  A fork in the road, how fitting, his path one way, mine the other.  This time we didn’t wait, a rough kiss on the cheek barely acknowledging each other’s presence and he was gone.  Just like that he walked away.  I watched him for a second hoping he’d turn but his moves were certain.  And so I stood there alone, hating goodbyes.  

One Day, 15th July

My friends have found a new obsession.  In the past these phases have been centered around the strictly make believe; wizards and vampires.  I too have been swept along, swooning over R-Patz and idolizing Emma Watson, but this year’s fixation is getting under my skin, in all the wrong ways.  One Day by David Nicholls tracks the life of two friends over the course of a lifetime, by narrating the events of the 15^th July every year.  It sounds like a brilliant concept, even a brief description of the characters and plot line had me excited to get started.  Star crossed lovers, missed opportunities and gut wrenching endings are right up my street.  I have no problem bawling my eyes out at books, films, music, well anything really and I was guaranteed a good old cry.  Or so I was lead to believe.  I have shed tears, but only of frustration that I have embarked on this disastrous journey.  Put it down if you hate it, I hear you yell, but unfortunately this is not an option.  Once I start, I must finish (a mantra for all things).  I admit, maybe I’m a bit bitter.  Romance in real life is just not how it is in the movies (or novels for that matter).  Do men ever come good?  Do two people who have been skirting around each other for years really get it together?  Not a discussion for now.  There was one redeeming feature, it got me thinking…

15^th July 2004

10 days to go.  I’ve been waiting for five years for this and now it’s the final countdown.  I don’t know how I feel, I’m sure I will on the day.  The last two years have been a struggle; A levels, university applications, Milo.  Milo Milo Milo.  What will happen to us?  Of course we won’t last, but maybe we will.  I love him but he’s  a law unto himself.  I’ve spent hours of my life being stood up by him, speaking to his Mother about how he’d lost his phone…again, crying because I don’t understand why he can’t just put me first, just once.  I turn over in the dark and try to imagine myself in South America.  I haven’t even looked at a picture, or read a guide book.  Then I transport myself to Thailand, India, the Taj Mahal.  Will I meet people, will I get lost, will I meet someone else? 

15^th July 2008

Last day in Buenos Aires.  I love this city, I love this country, hell I love this continent, I want to live here forever.  Woody’s last day.  I am sad but it’s his own fault.  He chose his job over me.  Mendoza tomorrow, and then onto Santiago.  I remember Santiago from few years ago, or should I say I remember Paulo...  This trip took months to plan, this time I didn’t want to miss a thing, so I have an itinerary planned to the minute.  Next year will be stressful; finals and job applications so this summer is all my own, just to have fun.  Brazil was beautiful; the Campo Grande national park was teeming with wildlife, unfortunately only the backside of a capybara but supposedly they’re now in Edinburgh Zoo. 

15^th July 2009

Hoi An, Vietnam is so peaceful, an oasis of still and calm.  It is only Abbey and myself, this is the first time we’ve spent alone in a couple of weeks.  But what a fortnight it’s been.  We stroll down the river which is lit with the soft glow of Chinese lanterns strung across the fading paint of the colonial buildings, beer in hand, reminiscing.  It started in Vang Vieng, Laos on our friends Gemma’s birthday.  We sipped cocktails in the sunshine while floating down the river.  Later that evening, at dinner, Gemma rushed in to squeal my degree result at me; a first class honors with an award to boot.  I suffered for the celebrating, but Luang Prubang, with its glittering gold temples and flame red walls restored me.  I prayed, I’m not religious but it seemed the right thing to do in this pious town.  I thought of Wesley a lot, my partner in crime while I was a teenager, had died in January, suddenly.  He had always worn a St Christopher, like the one I wore now.  Then it was onto Halong Bay, Vietnam.  The Colombian, Nico had stolen the show despite the raw beauty of the rugged rock skyscrapers jutting majestically from the blue green depths of the sea.  We giggled conspiratorially at this, perched on a bench and opened another beer.

15^th July 2011

The ward is dark and silent.  Every now and then a nurse silently pads past my curtained cubicle.  I can hear her, but not see her.  The canulator in my wrist itches, and the tubes running out of it are getting tangled despite my stillness.  I had spent the week counting down the minutes for the weekend to finally arrive.  Instead of picking up my old friend Cheryl at the airport, and heading for Windsor for some royal history, or Oxford for Pimms on a punt, we had headed to hospital.  We hadn’t seen each other since Senegal in 2009, but I suppose there’s no better way to bond than 6 hours in a waiting room.  Luckily she’s a student of public health, and I was desperately trying to sell this as a learning opportunity.  And then there was tomorrow, it might still be redeemed.  He had seemed concerned on the phone, he had been away, I hoped he’d missed me. 

“Don’t die” he said, “or you’ll have me to answer to”. 

Rioting, London, England/Potosi, Bolivia, August 2009 and 2011

Destruction in Clapham.
Photo courtesy of friend in Clapham

If the media frenzy is to be believed, London has been in the clutches of violent rebels protesting against the iron grip of the British regime.  While this may not be completely accurate it is certainly fair to say that there has been unparalleled levels of anger expressed at all levels of society.  The question that permeates throughout is why?  Why did hundreds of young people choose to go out onto the streets of our capital and wreak havoc with baseball bats and pyrotechnics?  Disengagement has been cited, a generation of disaffected youths desperate to make sense of their worlds that are void of opportunity and increasingly ignored by the state.  Does this justify the millions of pounds worth of damage and the shattered lives of those who have lost everything?  In my opinion no it does not.  A friend of mine went into Clapham the night it was raided and describes the event as one of the most exciting occasions he’s witnessed.  This is unsurprising.  War zones are exciting.  Adrenalin is a drug and it is highly addictive.  I can only imagine the atmosphere created by hundreds of hormonally fuelled teenagers surging en masse, a multi headed hydra enveloping the deserted streets.  His most poignant observation was the looks of sheer joy radiating from the eyes of the masked marauders, like this was the greatest night of their short and uneventful lives.  For me this is just further proof that human selfishness knows no bounds.  I am a firm believer that in desperate situations people will act desperately especially if they feel they have no choice.  Are we to believe that in this case a new pair of trainers will solve the supposed entrenched insufficiency of these adolescents’ lives?  Or was the looting merely symbolic of a larger problem; neo liberalist consumerism being endemic within society?  No I don’t believe that either.  Whatever it was it was not desperation.  I have seen desperation and it isn’t sated with electronics and footwear.

Potosi, Bolivia, 2009. It was two days before the general election.  The people’s hero Evo Morales had thrown his hat into the ring for a second term in office.  Every spare inch of concrete had his political slogan scrawled across it.  Just as Pro Evo engenders every boys dream in my country, it also held within it the hopes of a nation.  Hopes that the rich ruling classes may be forced to distribute their wealth more evenly, to allow a chronically poor country to provide those basic needs such food and water to its stricken population.  Potosi is a silver mining town and for a small fee tourists can explore the labyrinth of tunnels whittled deep into the belly of the mountain, which was my reason for being there.  As I ascended the hillside with my guide, the town was readying itself for a party.  Coloured bunting was strung from balcony to balcony, the staccato rehearsals from brass bands, and everyone out on the streets in their Sunday best.  Whisky bottles tucked away in breast pockets, cigarettes lazily rolled between fingers.  My guide had tough, weather beaten, tan skin, and sparkling white teeth- Andean to a tee.  As we walked towards the bus stop he recounted his experiences of the mines.  He was an ex-miner who had seen the all-consuming nature of those who tirelessly work miles beneath the earth, carving out early graves.  He explained that despite the jubilant appearance of those on the street, tensions were rising and he advised that I could do worse than get on a bus to La Paz as soon as the tour was finished.  I didn’t understand and therefore didn’t listen.  Instead of being dropped back off at my hotel as my guide begged me to allow him to do I headed for the main square.  It was packed, the band I had seen earlier could be heard in the distance, heading up a parade that was moving away from the central plaza.  I zig zagged my way through the crowd assuming the festivities had begun.  I was wrong.  They weren’t euphoric carnival goers this was an angry mob and I had managed to get in the middle of it.  Luckily they were too busy chanting to take notice of me.  People were angry.  Really angry.  Clenched fists in the air accompanied a fury of words. As I was swept up the street the air began to fizz.  It was as if storm clouds were gathering on a blindingly hot summers day.  Right on cue the thunder roared except this was not Mother Nature but dynamite being blown up in a side street.  The crowd surged sideways away from the explosion which was followed by another and then another.  Onlookers ducked for cover and in the commotion I found myself on the ground struggling to get up.  I crawled and when I could, ran with no idea where I was going.  I caught my breath up against the wall of a boarded up bakery while others whizzed past my refuge.  My Spanish is minimal and my map was lost, there was nothing for it I had to go back the way I came.  I tried to skirt around the edges but with the possibility of exploding buildings I wasn’t sure if this was safest option.  I re-entered the main square at the same time as the band.  An official looking man in a suit and sash was walking up on stage and the crowd settled.  I was amazed that such a tense situation seemed to have dissipated when moments ago I thought I was witnessing the start of some sort of civil war.  Then I understood.  When your government isn’t listening and you’ll die before your thirtieth birthday from lung disease caused by your atrocious working conditions what can you do?  Nothing.  So instead you set off dynamite, shout at the top or your voice and wave your fists in the air because maybe someone will hear and maybe someone will listen.  That is desperation, desperation is hopeful and hope is free. 

Surprise Sierra Leone, March 2011

So I’m guessing when I say Sierra Leone you immediately think of blood diamonds (or conflict diamonds as sometimes referred to) but there is much more to Sierra Leone than just its horrific history.  It’s not really a surprise that these negative images spring to mind.  The film was brilliant but bloody despite the dodgy South African accents, and how could we forget the famous court scene with Naomi Campbell, who is seemingly embroiled in a high profile case concerning Charles Taylor and aforementioned rocks.  The subject of diamonds and their shady origins is emotive, I have several friends who refuse point blank to wear anything resembling bling out of principle and there are definitely worse things to take the moral high ground over but there is more to African conflict than just gemstones.  We live in a highly technological society and it is not uncommon for millions of people across the globe to replace these electronics frequently without any thought to recycling the old product.  What has this got to do with anything you may be asking, well quite simply everything.  Within most electronic products, whether it be your mobile phone or laptop, there are certain minerals which are predominantly found in Sub-Saharan Africa.  Armed groups will often control the mines and the people that live and work there with extreme violence, pressuring children to fight and women and young girls into indentured ‘marriages’.  There is no regulation of these minerals and there is no onus on electronics companies to keep supply chains clean- they simply want the cheapest product at the right place at the right time, and we as consumers allow this. 

The first thing I noticed as the plane descended onto the tarmac was green; lush emerald forests, marooned between sapphire deltas, surrounded the runway; not at all the arid wasteland I had envisaged.  The airport is situated on an island 20 minutes off the coast of Freetown so once I’d navigated the turbulent boat ride I was thrown into the heart of a bustling African town.  Rickety shacks lined the streets between once grand colonial mansions, interred behind imposing concrete ramparts.  There seemed to be people everywhere and the taxi moved only at a snail’s pace or maybe it was just that I hadn’t yet adjusted my internal clock to ‘Africa Time’.  I was given the weekend off before the real work in the mining town of Makeni would be starting so I headed straight for the beach.  The road was long, dusty and navigating it like a skier across moguls was slow.  Fruit stalls nestled into the trunks of trees, escaping from the blinding heat and children ran along the side of the 4x4 until their Mothers called them away.  Everyone was interested in a friendly chat, not because I was white quite simply just because I was there.  I was surprised by the honesty with which they spoke, no topic too uncomfortable and no anecdote without a lining of humour. 

We turned down an unmarked track through leafy forest until we parked up on the sand dunes.  The water was clear turquoise, and I could have been on a South East Asian island rather than West Africa.  The small restaurant adjacent was roasting lobster and shrimp on an open barbeque, the aroma of lime and chili wafting through the dusky air.  The sky was turning gold’s, reds and purples as the burning sun descended into the rippling water.  Along the shoreline, concealed and abandoned, hotels cast long shadows into the mangroves.  Most noticeable was the silence, we had the place to ourselves.