spring 2012
SPRING 2012 // PAGE 1
Before deciding you hate me, BEST YOU GO FOR A
Need to think of a good standfirst to go here. Something about KERRI SACKVILLE finding out that all hate mail is not the same and something something something that is much better than I can come up with because my brain just isn’t working tonight. And I am not good at this stuff anyway. SPRING 2012 // PAGE 2
THE
OTHER
DAY
I
having lost his business
received some hate mail.
in the global financial crisis.
Now, this was unusual receive hate mail, nor do I get trolled. As a writer, I’m just not that controversial. On the scale of zero to Alan Jones, I rate about a two. I write funny anecdotes about my kids, the occasional story about grief, and, more recently,
wife
had
suffered from extreme
I honestly believe that everyone can be helped by knowing the truth about other people.
for me. I don’t usually
His
depression, one of his three kids had a chronic illness, the bank had foreclosed on his home, and he’d been deserted by many of his friends. “Have you ever known what it’s like to eat at quality restaurants one
a book about my struggles
year and be forced to go
with anxiety. Not really the
to St Vincents to feed
stuff of shock and outrage.
wearing the wrong dress out to
Still, the other day, there
dinner with your husband...”
it was in my inbox. Amongst
(oh please, I thought, T and
the latest deals from Ouffer,
I haven’t been out to dinner
blog comment notifications,
alone in months) “but you are
feedback from readers and
so completely out of touch
correspondence
with reality.”
from
my
editors was a bitter rant from an angry man named Ray*. Ray, apparently, was not a great fan of my work. “I picked up a copy of your book When My Husband
your family the next?” he had written. And just like that, my anger disappeared. I
wrote
back
to
Ray,
expressing my sympathy for his plight, because I really
Huh? Was he kidding? Me,
did feel for him. The guy had
out of touch with reality? Me,
suffered terrible misfortune,
who writes about the gritty
and was obviously in pain.
truth of modern life? Okay,
However, I did correct a
now I was furious. My fingers
couple of his misconceptions
hovered over the delete key.
about me. Partly, I knew,
Does The Dishes,” he wrote,
But then, as I glanced back
this was because I still felt
“and when I read about your
over the text, I caught the
the irrational need to defend
issues I wanted to vomit.”
words ‘lost everything’ and I
myself to a complete stranger.
continued on reading.
Partly, however, I genuinely
Vomit? Really? I felt my shackles rising.
Ray, as it turned out, had
felt that it would help him. I
“I understand that in your
picked up my book at one of
honestly believe that everyone
life the worst drama that
the country motels he visited.
can be helped by knowing the
you may have experienced is
He was a travelling salesman,
truth about other people.
*names have been changed
SPRING 2012 // PAGE 3
No, I told Ray, I’ve never
world, or the physical
had to seek help from
pain, or the cloud of
St Vincents, and yes, I
depression. You’ll see
acknowledged,
the marital problems,
my
first
book was light and fun. But he needed to know that my life certainly wasn’t. I’ve known as much pain and sadness and despair as any other person. I lost my sister - my only sibling - when she was just in her thirties. I have a child who, for many years, had
They may look from the outside like they are living a perfect life, but walk in their shoes for a year and everything will look different.
or the problem child, or the extreme anxiety, or the dependence on alcohol. And if they haven’t yet been untouched by misfortune, they will be sometime in the future. No-one gets to old age without
their
share
special needs. I have two
of tragedy, and you
medical conditions I don’t
never, ever know what’s
speak about in public, and
experiences of suffering to
an anxiety disorder that I
that of my Jewish relatives
frequently do.
murdered in the Holocaust.
around the corner. I used to resent people who seemed to be living perfect
been
Furthermore, no matter how
are
limited my weekly budget can
often tight. And there are days
get, I will be rich compared to
when I’ve woken up in the
the hundreds of thousands of
gorgeous,
morning and thought, how
people starving in the Sudan.
came
My
marriage
challenging.
has
Finances
bright,
from
an
popular, extremely
not one person alive whose
the right clothes, and - worst
I needed Ray to know what I
life will be untouched by
of all - was going out with
think everybody should know
hardship. They may look
the boy I’d had a crush on for
- that no-one’s life is perfect.
from the outside like they are
three years. She seemed to
Of course, some people’s lives
living a perfect life, but walk
be leading a charmed life. I
seem far easier than others’,
in their shoes for a year and
would have done anything to
and to a certain extent they
everything will look different.
change places with her.
really are. I could never, for
You will see the childhood
example, compare my own
abuse that they hide from the
SPRING 2012 // PAGE 4
there
in high school. She was
wealthy family, dressed in all
through till bedtime?”
ultimately,
whom I envied passionately
is
the hell am I going to make it
But
lives. There was a girl, Talia,
Talia
didn’t
marry
my
childhood crush, but she did
get married, and ended up
know this. There is no such
alone in our challenges. After
having three kids. Two of her
thing as perfect. There is
all, it’s hard enough struggling
kids are profoundly disabled
no such thing as a life free
through your own dark times
- the kind of disabled that all
of suffering. Of course, that
without believing the rest of
the money in the world, all the
doesn’t mean that life isn’t
the world is dancing in the
brains, all the fortune, can’t fix
wonderful, because it is. And
sunshine.
in any way. It is desperately
it doesn’t mean that we have
Because no-one dances in
sad, and it is a huge lesson for
to constantly brace ourselves
perpetual sunshine. And if
me. There is no such thing as
for tragedy, because for most
they appear to be, I promise
perfect. There is no such thing
of us, there is boundless
you, you’re just not looking
as charmed.
potential for happiness. I just
hard enough.
I wanted Ray to know
feel it is incredibly helpful to
this. I want everyone to
understand that we are not
Need to think of a good standfirst to go here. Something related to this story by BIANCA WORDLEY about her adventures in the Sahara and Morocco and you know what I am talking about and it is clear that I am just waffling on now to fill this space.
I’D BEEN OUT dancing when I was mugged in Barcelona. I have vivid memories of the moment. The men pushing me back against the bench, their hands grabbing my neck, the taste of bile in my
The country heaved with men. Smells of sweat, mixed with those of fresh bread, olives and spices.
It was the men and children
who
trailed
us though the twisting alleys in the souks, in an attempt to sell us carpets. On a drive to Essaouira,
locals
had
placed goats in trees and
throat, my screams. I think
were charging people to
of the feeling of survival
take tourist snaps of the
and how travel from that
docile creatures standing
night was forever peppered with fear. I packed
in the branches. And children tried to thrust
that fear with me in my carry-on luggage and
glitter-sprayed rocks through our car window.
took it with me around the world.
Much like travelling with your kids, in Morocco
I took it with me across on the ferry to Morocco; a place that always fills my thoughts when I’m on yet another micro-managed family holiday. It reminds of when travel made me feel alive.
you were seldom left alone to soak up the atmosphere. We hired the smallest two-door Toyota car and smugly insisted we could drive it through
While I traveled with my now husband, I
the sand dunes to the tip of the Sahara, to the
wore a $10 “fake” engagement ring to imply
tiny town of Merzouga, en route to Erg Chebbi.
“possession” in an attempt to avert the prying
We were armed with a Lonely Planet guide with
eyes of the men who filled the streets and coffee
directions that relied on pure hope. They read
shops; the men who sat at crowded tables
something like: “Follow the track, making sure
drinking mint tea and smoking apple-flavoured
the stobie poles are to your left, and when the
tobacco from water pipes.
poles end then turn left and follow the sand
The country heaved with men. Smells of
tracks until you reach the town.” Or in other
sweat, mixed with those of fresh bread, olives
words, just drive until something resembling a
and spices. Smells of dates drying in the sun
hotel turns up.
and the tagines they sweetened wafted from
To look out at stretches of vast nothingness
doorways. The women were hidden, behind
was a welcome relief. Finally, we were alone.
veils, in kitchens and offices.
Nobody wanted anything from us. We had time
SPRING 2012 // PAGE 7
have planned been it better himself. My fear of being robbed was immediately overturned by my fear of dying from dehydration or having to eat my boyfriend. So, as we drove through the sand with a djelleba wearing, bearded stranger in the back seat, we begun to wonder if we’d been had. And when he directed us to his “cousins” hotel, we knew we’d been had. Pushing money into his hand, we drove away leaving him angrily shouting profanities at us. We had our already-booked Kasbah to find. But, after our fourth circuit through the small town, even the local children had given up chasing the car and were instead back playing soccer in the sand. We were lost again and we’d had enough. We were tired and needed some respite. In one last ditch effort, we drove to soak in the vistas without being hassled or stared at. We laughed as we drove through the sandy landscape. We questioned whether perhaps we should have hired a more capable car. We were determined to make it. And then it happened. We got bogged. We tried digging away the sand from the tyres,
further along the sandy track until like an oasis in the desert, there stood our hotel, a traditional Kasbah. Moments later, our luggage was propped in the corner of our room. Brightly patterned pillows piled on the bed, velvet curtains blowing in the light breeze. The place was bursting with
but still they’d spin without traction. The sun
colour. Our refuge was straight out of a film set.
bore down on us. And as we started to give up
As the golden hues of sunset spread across
hope, a man emerged from a nearby bush. I
the desert, we wandered past the resting sand-
was immediately anxious. I was immediately
blown camels and we climbed the sandy hill.
fearful of being robbed again. Yet, instead of
Holding hands we sat and watched light glisten
threatening us, he started to dig. In return, he
on the dunes. This was what travel was about -
asked for a lift to the nearby village, the same one
an adventure, blind faith and sharing your tiny
where we were struggling to get to. He couldn’t
Toyota with a charlatan.
SPRING 2012 // PAGE 8
Sam DCruz / Shutterstock.com
gather
THE WOMEN Need to think of a good standfirst to go here. Something related to this story by LINDY ALEXANDER about this article that she has written about waffle waffle trying to fill in this space to give an idea of what it will look like.
a small gully. He tumbled off his bike with a big grin and a wave yelling Jambo. Jambo we had called back. One month and it already feels like my previously singular understanding of this place has broken wide open, finding me right here; content and still in the heart of Africa. Most days now before the sun starts to slide below the horizon, Nat and I walk from our small brick house, across our yard to a little wooden Hector Conesa / Shutterstock.com
IT’S BEEN A month since I arrived. One month since I was covered in grime and dirt from our long bumpy journey. I had travelled for six hours through central Uganda with Nat, another international volunteer, in a bus that churned up small squalls of red dust. We had passed women sitting out the front of mud huts on the swept earth, shelling peanuts, nudging hot pans over charcoal stoves and throwing
table that has pyramids of small tomatoes and onions balancing. Our neighbour Harriet sells these few things most afternoons. She lives on the edge of the trading centre and sits on a brick step that leads into the front room of her two-roomed house. As Harriet watches the day settle into dusk, she hopes her tomatoes will be sold before night darkens the trading centre. If she needs to light her lamp the cost of the oil will steal some of her profits. We ask Harriet how her day has been and she smiles, just fine,
stones at bold chickens trying to steal the nuts.
she says. Alon, her eldest son whose dimples
By the time we arrived in the tiny village that
bracket a cheeky grin peers at us from inside the
was to be home for the next seven months, the
house. We call to him but his head quickly jerks
chickens squawking near my feet, the dusty
back from the door. One eye slowly reappears to
boxes of soda bottles and the empty yellow jerry
see whether we are still there. He is shy, Harriet
cans were long gone. All had been unloaded at
says.
earlier destinations. We were the last ones on
His reaction has been typical of the children
the bus. As we stepped down onto the warm red
in the village, startled at our pale skin, our
ground a little boy riding an oversized bicycle
difference. However, as the weeks have passed
saw us and wobbled off the side of the road into
some of the children have been unable to contain
SPRING 2012 // PAGE 10
their curiosity and as we pass their huts, we
shoulders lift as if to say, well, this is Uganda.
can hear their excited yells to each other. Soon
Nat goes on to say that we are hoping to gather
enough their round-up calls bring other children
some of the women together, to see if we can
out of their homes and most days we have a ready
do something for and with them in the next
group of admirers trailing
few months. I look over
us on our walks. These
at Harriet and ask her
are the children who are
what she thinks.
not yet brave enough to
At first she is unsure
visit our home, but in a
what we mean. Nat
crowd they are confident
explains that we have
and cheeky. Some try to communicate with us. They run alongside us on the road’s embankment trying to impress with a few rote English phrases gleaned
from
older
siblings. They shout, How are you Madam, Give
They think you are complicated and that you are going to complicate their lives. They are afraid.
the time and energy to dedicate to looking at the women in the village and supporting them if they wanted specific things. I cut in, like HIV/AIDS testing,
information
about their health and their children’s health,
me money Madam and
a sort of support group.
the ever hopeful plea for
Harriet
lollies; Sweetie, Madam,
slowly as we talk. Her
is
nodding
Sweetie. If Nat or I break our stride to go over to
eyes are sparkling. She tells us she thinks the
them, they shriek and scatter. Alon is also at the
women will be keen to come, that some of them
wide-eyed stage, inquisitive but not enough to
have been talking for some time about finding
risk actual contact with us. His eyes are intent
a way to come together and support each other.
watching from behind the door.
But, Harriet goes on to say; some of their
As we give Harriet money for one of the piles
husbands may not think it is such a good idea.
of tomatoes, she asks how we are enjoying
They are suspicious of you, she tells us. She
living in the village and when we tell her that
goes into her house to look for change. Nat and
the welcome has been quite overwhelming, her
I look at each other but are silent. When Harriet
SPRING 2012 // PAGE 11
comes out she says, these men
they wear; trousers. It is as if
full age range of women kneel
here, they are worried what
the division of our two legs
and greet men. It does not
you will tell their wives and
by a thin strip of fabric also
matter that they may have
their daughters. They think
signifies the divide between
a jerry can full of sloshing
you are complicated and that
‘their’ women, and us.
water balanced on their head
you are going to complicate
It is also traditional for
and baby on their back, nor if
their lives. They are afraid.
females here in the Musoga
they are old enough to be the
She hands us our change and
region to show respect by
mother of all those they greet,
puts the tomatoes in a small
touching both knees to the
they must show deference to
clear plastic bag.
ground. We greet everyone
even those they have born. As
I am puzzled. I think about
eye-to-eye and do not kneel
soon as young girls find their
what the men have seen of
when addressing the men as do
feet, they are pressured from
us so far. Although we dress
their wives, sisters, daughters,
behind the knees to kneel.
modestly
village,
mothers. I have heard that
I am terribly uneasy with a
ensuring that our shoulders
some international volunteers
culture and tradition that
are covered and our knees
have followed tradition and
manages to pay one person
do not see the light of day,
kneel when addressing males.
so much respect and pays the
perhaps some of the local
But my discomfort extends in
other so little. And so I don’t
men have seen us returning
all directions. Since arriving
kneel.
from Jinja in clothes that only
in the village I have seen the
in
the
SPRING 2012 // PAGE 12
But surely that doesn’t make
I am terribly uneasy with a culture and tradition that manages to pay one person so much respect and pays the other so little. And so I don’t kneel. us complicated? The men
village. Our difference makes
have seen that Nat and I have
us unpredictable and no one
gadgets;
knows quite what to make of
cameras,
phones,
drivers’ licences, bank cards, and the means to make our way in the world without relying on what we grow. We are mobile and not bound to the land and seasons as they are. Perhaps the complication that Harriet refers to comes firstly from being strangers in the village, then from being white and then lastly because we are women who are both strange and white. After male
us yet. Especially the men. I take the bag of tomatoes from Harriet, and say, the men don’t need to be afraid, Harriet, we are simple. And so is what we want, she replies with a sad smile. She looks at our faces, and leans on the table, her palms flat. She can see that we are disappointed by what she has said. Don’t worry; she says as she dusts off her hands, I will come. A
and female, we seem to be a
little voice flickers from the
sort of third sex. We are people
darkness behind her. And I
who don’t have a history,
will come, echoes Alon.
tradition or a role within the
Our first supportive male.
SPRING 2012 // PAGE 13