A bit of Shakespeare for your V-day

So anyone who knows me well, knows this is one of my favourite sonnets...I remember one particular evening spent with Rod analysing it over a beer in Nkozi.  The reason I love it so much is because Shakespeare is really sticking it to the poets who crapped on about perfection and my man was like, bollocks to that.  Plus I love the references to his mysterious dark lady.  Hope you enjoy a bit of Shakespeare in your Valentines day.


My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks; 
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
   And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
   As any she belied with false compare.

Valentines Day...V Day...The big V...

Well, anther Valentines Day is here for me to spend by myself.  Now don’t go getting out the violin...I’m at peace with that.  This year Valentines Day is a day for me to reflect and remember a friend.  Whereas last Valentines Day I was throwing up in the “shower” in Nkozi, Uganda before spending the day waiting at the hospital for malaria treatment.  Now that was a great week.

I’ve never been the kind of girl who gets spoilt on V Day.  Hard as it may be to believe, I’ve never been taken out, been brought masses of flowers or chocolates or even had so much more than a text message to be exact.  Except in 2009.  February 14^th 2009.  My sister and I were living together in Darwin and when we got home there was a single red rose on the outside table.  Just one rose.  No note...just a rose, a long stemmed red rose.  It was so beautiful. 

After an hour of guessing who the rose could be from or for, we gave up and just accepted that someone was thinking about us.  It didn’t even matter who.  “We” got a rose!  It was by far the best Valentines Day.  A week later our awesome-est friend Matthew Davies was in town, there he was at the door with a big cheesy grin on his face.  He said “did you get the roses I sent?”  When we told him we only got one without a note he couldn’t stop laughing...apparently he spent ages out at sea with shitty reception on a sat nav phone trying to buy us a rose each with notes and paid wayyyyyy too much for them on his credit card. 

It was singularly one of the loveliest things anyone has ever done for me.  This year, however, Matt is no longer with us.  He lives on in our minds though, for me, Valentines Day will be the day where I reflect on his life, that rose and the joy it brought.  So if you care about someone, a friend, a girlfriend, wife, mother, daughter, sister, anyone I hope you show you care.  Especially on Valentines Day...it’s often the things that we think of as minor and un-noteworthy that end up standing out strong in memory, long after we’ve gone.

One Love.

El marque del beaste! So much more exciting than your average mark...

I will never understand D-grade movies.  I do wonder what goes on inside the head of a Hollywood producer.  Is it two monkeys playing hackey-sack?  No, I'm sure they're very intelligent and so forth, and sometimes make bad mistakes etc...  But what I am asking is do they get a really crappy script and just think WOW!  This'll be great or do they know it's a shit idea and just make the film for fun?  My last two weekends have been spent studying and watching crappy movies.  No, I'm totally kidding it's been a non-stop party with loads of drugs and women with their tits out screaming, "Pass the Jager!"  It's your choice whichever one you want to believe...

I had the pleasure of watching a shitty movie called Cursed once.  But see I watched it in Spanish so it didn't seem that bad.  For a very average Spanish speaker such as myself it was actually really good, the sentences were short and they didn't use big or complicated words.  Plus there was just something hardcore about seeing Portia De Rossi (now Degenerees) saying in over-acted Spanish voiceover "El marque del beaste!"  I did enjoy that bit of bollocks.  Oh but tonight, I watched it again...in English.  It lost it's appeal.  So, so badly scripted, shitty-arse D-grade movie plot and storyline etc...  Although, Christina Ricci acted the arse of that role, in a corny "this has what my career has come to way".  I'm thinking they made it as a bit of a joke?  I hope.  It's either that or the director/producer/everyone involved in the movie really does just have two monkeys playing hackey-sack where brains should be.

Moving on...Eragon.  What utter crap.  I know, I know it's meant to be for kids.  But still...even as a child I would be thinking, "really...what crap, dragons aren't real and even if they were they wouldn't sound like Charlotte from Charlotte's Web".  I wish I had a dragon though.  You know if they were real and all.  When people would call me on a Sunday asking to hang out (because we all know my social life is so hectic), I could be all like..."oooohh no, sorry I'm just out riding my dragon".  Then they'd be all like, "Can I come too!?" And I would be all like "yeah...no...it's my dragon".

Falling down, getting up...doing it over and over again...

Bob Marley sung “Everyman thinks that his burden is the heaviest”.  How true is this?  From what I’ve seen we all think this from time to time.  People as a general rule have a very “woe is me” attitude.  Like when nothing is going your way and you feel like you are as far down as you can possibly handle.  I know I did today.  I even bought a gluten free chocolate brownie mix so I could go home and throw myself a little pity party.

But then I remembered something that made me feel like a massive sook.  When they were interviewing people affected by the floods in Queensland there were a lot of people saying, “there are other people who are worse off, we’ll be right”.  No matter how hard the journalist looking for his or her next sob story tried, they could not be broken.  They had strength and pride and the knowledge that they can get up, brush themselves off and start again.

With that in mind I didn’t sit around eating brownie, I took my new skateboard across the road to the park and rode up and down the path falling off at least twenty times.  I skinned my knuckles, I got caught in a massive downpour, I felt stronger, braver, happier, because no matter how bad I felt, I got back up.  I persevered.

I suppose life is like that.  No matter how much embarrassment and hurt we endure falling over again and again in private and in public.  No matter how heavy the rain is, no matter how soggy we feel.  We have to just get up, stand like a goofy mother-trucker and hope for a tailwind to help us along.  And if one doesn’t come, push.

Whangamomona...a little country in a little country in the country

Phew!  There is 20 minutes of my life I will never get back.

Along a long dirt back road called the Forgotten Highway which runs down the centre of the North Island of New Zealand is a country within a country.  Strange but true.  I never knew.  As I was driving this annoyingly long road, filled with landslides, stunning country hillsides and beautiful native forestry with my Aunt, who thought it would be fun to take the super-duper long way to Taranaki we came across Whangamomona.  The Republic that is.  Now, there is not a lot there to make up a whole country but you know they have a pub and a post office so what more do you need?  Think about it, you can farm all day, drink all night and post the odd letter to friends in New Zealand or if feeling a bit adventurous...Australia.

Stamped!

So I do not know exactly how there came to be a little country in a little country but according to the barmaid at the pub (name forgotten, all apologies) it goes something like this... Taranaki decided that Whangamomona was not good enough to be a part of the Taranaki District, then Whanganui said, alright lads we can have you as part of ours.  But the good folk of Whangamomona thought they were too good for those lot and decided to become a Republic.  They can stamp your passport and all that jazz, but I do wonder how seriously they take the whole thing of country-dom.  You see they have had a goat, a dog and a turtle as their Presidents, which, makes me think they might be having a bit of a laugh.
According to our lovely barmaid it is all dead serious and not to be laughed at.  I say pah!  I shall laugh at your Presidents!  Lookout, I may have gained myself a lifetime ban from the Republic of Whangamomona!

A little lost...a lot gained

I'm not talking about my weight either!  Although it is Christmas, I am in New Zealand and yet to get to grandma's place where I am envisaging copious amounts of food piled in front of me until I can fit nothing more in and I'm rolling around on the floor in a fit of agony from overeating.  Much different to my very sad and lonely Christmas last year stuck in the Ugandan bush taking care of a malaria ridden Roger, who by the way made the soggiest, most painful patient ever.  Sorry Roger but it's true and I will spongebath you next time.

The massive laksa...in a salad bowl?

So my mission to find good African food in Auckland is failing.  I searched.  I did not find.  There is one place on Albert Street but it's reviews are saying that it's Moroccan food but it's not really Moroccan food.  I did however find possibly the largest bowl of laksa in the world.  Who eats that much?  Really?  I felt like I'd ordered a dish meant to be shared between 2 or 3 people.  Thankfully they let me take the leftovers home and laksa made a great dinner and next day lunch.  The Malaysian place on Khyber Pass Road in Auckland has the yummiest food but next time I'll order a regular person sized meal...for one.

On the gain side of the scale, I gained a new little family.  And no I haven't been adopted again.  I met my big sister Chris for the first time, her lovely husband and their 3 kids.  Being called aunty Laurel felt great and one of the girls has the exact same hair as me and they all chat away so obviously we're all related.  I felt so blessed to be meeting such kind and funny people and the thought that I have more people I can call my kin leaves me feeling all happy and squishy in my tummy.  That and I obviously need to go to the gym, get back my rock hard abs! (HAHAHAAA.....abs...)  This whole being an aunty business now is interesting, I'm just thinking of all the things I can do to be the cool aunt, I'm so gonna rock at this aunt stuff!  I also got to meet allllll of the girls' teddy bears!  Very cute, although I'm not sure about Burlesque bear here...she's a bit of a worry.

Yes, thats right...burlesque bear

Ethiopia in Uganda

One of the huge things I miss about living in Uganda is the cultural variety.  Uganda is a virtual melting pot of African nationalities all living and sharing their various cultures.  As I'm sitting here in Auckland googling like crazy to find somewhere African to eat I found myself drifting back to memories of Kabalagala.
My favourite little dive is on the main road down a little dirty alley, up some rustic colonial-period stairs and through a little Arabic door, one of those places where Muzungu would fear to tread.  Molober in Kabalagala was my favourite haunt, I was there almost every day when I lived in Kampala and when I missed a few days it was noticed.  My return was always heralded as though I had been lost at sea for many months, kissed three times on the cheek by the staff and some of the regular customers.  I long for the afternoons I would spend there with a friend or by myself or with a stranger I had just met.
There I spoke with exiled Ethiopian journalists, Sudanese refugees, Kenyan businessmen, an Egyptian drunkard and many North African men and women who came to Uganda looking to escape their Governments.  We were all there for the same thing, a little bit of peace and quiet tucked away neatly upstairs avoiding the busy roads filled with people and traffic and loud street vendors grilling chicken and matoke.
Not to mention the food Effe used to cook for us all.  Soft injeera, goat tibbs a little salata and boona.  I don't think a day passes where I don't think about eating at Molober or a coffee ceremony at mamma Fozi's house.  I hope my search of Auckland tomorrow provides me with something good to eat, although there are some experiences and feelings that I know will have to wait until I am back in East Africa.

Parental Madness

I've mentioned once before that my mum and her partner are nuts.  Here's one of the latest of many exchanges...this one on buying prawns.

M: We need prawns for Christmas
B: I'll buy raw ones
M: Why don't you buy cooked prawns
B: I'll cook them myself
M: You can't cook prawns
B: Yes I can
M: I've been with you 5 years and I've never seen you cook a prawn, there's been no prawn on the barbie here!
B: I'm a man!  Of course I can cook prawns
M: Just buy the cooked ones