Today, I saw my first green mamba, a snake that, with a well-placed bite, can kill a healthy adult within half an hour, and a child within minutes. The regional coordinator is in town, so we spent the morning visiting various project sites, and on our way to the first one, he suddenly shouts from the front seat of the truck “Cobra! Mamba Verde!” When the car stops, he jumps from the vehicle and fearlessly begins to stride toward a tree covered in craggy dry vines at least 50 feet from the road. Although my first instinct was to run in the opposite direction (as eagerly as So Vasco, our plump cook who for some curious reason propels himself about the acampamento at a whistling jog), curiosity eventually got the better of me and I cautiously crept from the car to get a glimpse of the serpent. It took the regional coordinator verily climbing the exposed roots of the tree, and tossing sticks at the mamba – “Look Mica! Look! There it is! Can you see it yet?” – for me to finally catch site of its green head, and when I did I could not fathom how he possibly saw it, hiding under all that roughage, from the road. He explained simply “We’re bush people!” and left me to gawk. This is not your average project coordinator, a man highly respected within World Vision, and I would be remiss if I didn’t note that his keen sense of snake whereabouts and the reckless abandon with which he approached it didn’t augment my respect for him as well.
Our next stop was to see a conservation farming plot, newly prepared by one of the kids groups I met with for the first time last week. Their choice of location is encouraging; with a well and cows nearby, they will have access to water and fertilizer, giving them a chance to cultivate vegetables and build successful compost heaps, which is unfortunately more than I can say for most of the project sites where we attempt to implement these projects. Water is such a problem here, and with people waiting in line for hours for their turn to pump water simply to drink and cook, filling gallons upon gallons to water a garden simply doesn’t fly in most places.
The kids’ plot is also right next to a rural maternity ward and clinic, and after a brief tour, I felt simultaneously shocked, hopeless, and inspired. With one dedicated nurse (who could easily find a better paying job in a city) and 20 midwives (who are unpaid and walk their patients for many kilometers to get to the ward), the rural operation has seen 27 births so far this month. And it’s only October 13th. After speaking to them at length, learning that the only contribution the government can afford is kerosene for lamps for night births, and that if the midwives want soap to wash their hands they must bring it from home, we entered the ward where two woman lay on cots, swathed in the typical colorful cloths, clearly in a lot of pain from contractions. No water. No food. No privacy. No family. Just two women on cots curled into fetal positions and moaning gently.
Of course I know that this scene pervades Africa, but this was the first time I’ve seen it, and the dedication of the nurse and midwives was enough to break my heart. No one is helping them, and yet they continue to work day and night to ensure that these women don’t have their babies alone on a dirt floor. After careful prodding, I extracted the opinion that the government is doing all it can, at the local and national levels, to improve healthcare, but that their resources are spread very thinly, in accordance with the belief that a larger number of basic facilities is better than a smaller number of well-equipped facilities. It’s hard to argue with that. My mind immediately flitted to all the places I could begin to raise funds for this hospital: friends, family, churches back home. And even if raising money to buy soap, gloves, and gowns is not “sustainable”, it’s hard to care when the need is so immediate and acute. When the effort and heart are there, but the money simply is not.
What would YOU do?
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Adults Only
In Spanish and Portuguese ( as in all languages I imagine) there are multiple ways to say many words. Because the two languages are similar, I often rely on my Spanish vocabulary to help me communicate in Portuguese, and frequently it works. One way to say “battery” in Spanish (or at least Dominican Spanish) is “pila” (pronounced peel-uh). So that’s the word I’ve been using in Portuguese, and it seemed to be getting the point across, but after happening upon the word in the dictionary today, I doubt I will have occasion to say it again…
Although it could be continental Portuguese, my dictionary informs me that “pila” is a colloquial term for a man’s genitalia, and consequently what ‘Richard’s’ family might call him. As noted above, it’s likely that this word has other meanings as well, but that didn’t quell the panicky feeling in my stomach as I thought back on the multiple occasions on which I have used this word.
A hunt for the word “battery” reveals a one letter difference: “pilha” (pronounced peel-yah). This alongside the much safer “bateria”, which also exists in Spanish, but which as luck would have it I opted against, preferring the secretly erotic “pila”. Apparently the difference was slight enough that no one felt the need to correct me, but the snickers I thought I noticed when I used the word make much more sense now. Consider the following…
Does it have batteries?
What aren’t the batteries working?
Did the batteries die?
Maybe the batteries are old.
Maybe it needs new batteries.
I would snicker too! And if I was bored enough, probably neglect to correct the silly foreign offender. But just to be on the safe side, I’ll be sure to ask next time where I can buy “baterias”.
Although it could be continental Portuguese, my dictionary informs me that “pila” is a colloquial term for a man’s genitalia, and consequently what ‘Richard’s’ family might call him. As noted above, it’s likely that this word has other meanings as well, but that didn’t quell the panicky feeling in my stomach as I thought back on the multiple occasions on which I have used this word.
A hunt for the word “battery” reveals a one letter difference: “pilha” (pronounced peel-yah). This alongside the much safer “bateria”, which also exists in Spanish, but which as luck would have it I opted against, preferring the secretly erotic “pila”. Apparently the difference was slight enough that no one felt the need to correct me, but the snickers I thought I noticed when I used the word make much more sense now. Consider the following…
Does it have batteries?
What aren’t the batteries working?
Did the batteries die?
Maybe the batteries are old.
Maybe it needs new batteries.
I would snicker too! And if I was bored enough, probably neglect to correct the silly foreign offender. But just to be on the safe side, I’ll be sure to ask next time where I can buy “baterias”.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Cultural Relativity vs. Behavior Change
When I think of development work, specifically behavior change, in terms of culture and the alterations we aim to make to local traditions, however unfounded in reason those traditions may be, it makes me want to skip out on development work and return to anthropology – focusing on understanding people instead of trying to change them. But then, when I remember that so much of the way people live their lives (i.e. part of their “culture”) is the direct consequence of frivolous, unmonitored development, leaving a majority of the world’s population in misery, I remember why I’m here. Then the biggest issue becomes priorities. Every rural African, by default, has to focus on the immediate present and think about how they will provide for their family THAT DAY. Development work focuses on the exact opposite – influencing decisions that affect long term change and social improvement. Acres of trees and grass, valuable organic material, are burned to the ground every day to round up a few small wild animals that might provide protein for a family for that day…and how can I possibly presume to tell them this is a bad idea? It’s really disheartening.
Anyway, maybe there’s a way to find a middle-ground: changing people’s behavior without encroaching upon their culture, or at least the parts of it that make it unique and special, sacrificing aspects that might be partially responsible for jeopardizing personal well-being, for instance, the omnipresence of cassava, a crop that is known for its endurance but not its nutritional content. A background in anthropology tells me “keep your distance, observe respectfully, and don’t presume that people want/need to change”, and yet my experience as a development worker tells me “it’s the responsibility of developed nations to aid those in distress, those who may in fact be the casualties of the ‘success stories’ that fostered such privilege in more developed nations”. It’s really confusing.
My little soapbox for the day.
Unrelated but also potentially of interest to readers (are you out there?) is the difficulty of finding fruits and veggies in Mozambican villages. The natural inclination is to equate living in a rural town with the availability of fresh, chemical-free produce, but that’s not the case for several reasons. Most of the fruits and veggies I can find in Morrumbala are grown locally. In the States, local fare has become synonymous with "fresh and organic" and is usually accompanied with lots of options; however, that's because even small scale farmers in the States can afford lots of what we refer to as "inputs". Not only does their land have a history of being well-cared for, but they can afford fertilizer and pesticides (organic ones to boot!), they have easy access to water, and the weather conditions are more friendly, or at least can be controlled with greenhouses and shade coverings, etc. Here, you're at the mercy of the desert gods. Everyone has a lot of land, but no water. It's very sandy and hot most of the year, seeds are hard to come by, and transport to markets even more difficult. Small scale rural farmers are lucky to own a bicycle, let alone a cart to truck their wimpy produce into town.
So there are a lot of reasons that food is hard to come by in the rural areas, even if you're a little white girl with money to pay for it. :) And speaking of little white girls, we are definitely not cut out to endure the African elements.... The sun and sand are enough to have me dragging my feet by 10am every day.
Anyway, maybe there’s a way to find a middle-ground: changing people’s behavior without encroaching upon their culture, or at least the parts of it that make it unique and special, sacrificing aspects that might be partially responsible for jeopardizing personal well-being, for instance, the omnipresence of cassava, a crop that is known for its endurance but not its nutritional content. A background in anthropology tells me “keep your distance, observe respectfully, and don’t presume that people want/need to change”, and yet my experience as a development worker tells me “it’s the responsibility of developed nations to aid those in distress, those who may in fact be the casualties of the ‘success stories’ that fostered such privilege in more developed nations”. It’s really confusing.
My little soapbox for the day.
Unrelated but also potentially of interest to readers (are you out there?) is the difficulty of finding fruits and veggies in Mozambican villages. The natural inclination is to equate living in a rural town with the availability of fresh, chemical-free produce, but that’s not the case for several reasons. Most of the fruits and veggies I can find in Morrumbala are grown locally. In the States, local fare has become synonymous with "fresh and organic" and is usually accompanied with lots of options; however, that's because even small scale farmers in the States can afford lots of what we refer to as "inputs". Not only does their land have a history of being well-cared for, but they can afford fertilizer and pesticides (organic ones to boot!), they have easy access to water, and the weather conditions are more friendly, or at least can be controlled with greenhouses and shade coverings, etc. Here, you're at the mercy of the desert gods. Everyone has a lot of land, but no water. It's very sandy and hot most of the year, seeds are hard to come by, and transport to markets even more difficult. Small scale rural farmers are lucky to own a bicycle, let alone a cart to truck their wimpy produce into town.
So there are a lot of reasons that food is hard to come by in the rural areas, even if you're a little white girl with money to pay for it. :) And speaking of little white girls, we are definitely not cut out to endure the African elements.... The sun and sand are enough to have me dragging my feet by 10am every day.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
The Big Bad Wolf
On our way back from a disappointing visit to the campo yesterday – the man we were supposed to be helping to set up a demonstration plot employing conservation agriculture techniques hadn’t cleared his bean fields after all, leaving us no space to begin – my colleagues poked fun at a little grass house on the side of the road, saying the owner really must have been lazy to not at least have built a mud house. Upon my inquiries, they explained that everyone knows how to build a mud house and it costs nothing but labor, concluding that “everything in Africa depends on how much work you’re willing to put in”. This seems truer to me every day, even when applied to my work with World Vision, which is significantly less physically taxing than building a mud house.
There exists, in the NGO world as in any business or company, a hierarchy of employees and volunteers. Being white gives me a simultaneous advantage (people listen) and disadvantage (they don’t necessarily trust me), but I’m still a volunteer and only have so much influence. For instance, today we showed up at the office, expecting to spend the morning capitalizing on the much needed internet connection, to find that the person in charge had neglected to pay the internet fees, and now is on vacation in the city, to return at a date TBA. Apparently this is not a new occurrence. Not content to sit and await that evasive date, I immediately commenced to flitting around any and everyone who could potentially fix this problem – ridiculous as it is in the first place since the money to pay the energy and internet comes out of project funds as opposed to their own pockets – making calls to people in the city who had strategically turned off their phones, and generally making everyone in the office here uncomfortable. I may not win the popularity contest by the end of my year here, but I won’t just sit in my room all day and wait for something to happen. Even if I am a volunteer. Knowing I only have 10 months here (which, today, feels like an eternity) makes me want to kick things into gear, but with my colleagues acting a little put out by my eagerness, it seems I must find some sort of middle ground between aggressively trying to make things happen and sitting back and smiling dumbly, nodding passively as behaviors remain unchanged.
As I try to settle in and determine my role in Morrumbala, where I am decidedly the outcast, I feel constantly thwarted by socio-cultural differences that make my efforts seem useless. When I go to the market to buy my own groceries instead of having the cook go for me: The 12 year old cell phone credit sales-boy tries to overcharge me; the guy who sells me vinegar tries to overcharge me; and the guy who sells me coconuts allows me to buy 2 that turn out to be perfectly putrid on the inside. I try my hardest to see things from their perspective – “white skin = money, and I need money, therefore I’ll do what I can to get it” – but it makes me feel as rotten as the coconuts.
I also have the sneaking suspicion that I’m driving everyone at the office crazy with all my questions, but how am I supposed to figure out how anything works around here if they’re not forthcoming with information? For instance, I asked a woman at the office today if there were any markers around that I could use to make a presentation for the Junior Farmers I’m finally supposed to meet with tomorrow. She said no. A couple hours later, I walked into the office and saw a big box of markers. I picked them up right in front of her and said “huh, markers! Whose are these?” She said they were World Vision’s, that they specifically belonged to the Ocluvela project that I’m here to work on. Naturally I asked to use them and she, unable or unwilling to hide her frustration, said that we had to ask the owner first (who, of course, is nowhere to be found and whose name she couldn’t even give, I guess for fear of….marker subterfuge?) and that if I used them without permission they would get upset. THEY’RE MARKERS! Not personal hygiene items, not even a favorite t-shirt, and yet the owner might be angry if I used them, even for a presentation for the children I was specifically brought here to work with! I smilingly stated that that seemed like a lot of protocol for markers, and was met with a blank stare, then a tart retort that she would ask. I don’t mean to insult, or infringe upon a system I clearly don’t understand; all I want to do is the job I was brought here for, which seems clear on some days and foggy on others.
Interactions like these leave the impression that my colleagues are more perplexed by my energy and inquisitiveness than actually happy to be working with me. I’m beginning to feel that, while I desire a career that will allow me to affect social change, I might be better off going the academic route as opposed to working in the international NGO arena, or as an individual development worker at the community level as I was in the DR. I know I’m still new to the game, but it seems to require patience, determination and optimism to the nth degree, whereas I feel my temperature cooling suspiciously. It might be a long year in Morrumbala. Or just a long day.
I imagine the man we visited yesterday, with his unprepared land, felt similarly helpless. As an auxiliary worker, he is paid 50$/month for which he is expected to organize and mobilize the presidents from 4 local farmers’ associations to employ conservation farming techniques in their fields. The “due date” as it were for him to have 5 plots completed is Friday; we discovered yesterday that he has done nary a one. I also discovered, while he was being verbally chided by my colleagues for his lack of progress, that he has several malnourished children who spend the day gnawing on sugar cane, and that the plots he is responsible for are at great distances from one another. The frustrations of my colleagues seemed to be based in the fact that the farmer had misrepresented to them the amount of work he had actually accomplished, and upon our arrival, the falsity of his claims was self-evident. The vegetable patch we visited was completely overgrown with weeds, giving the impression that it had not seen a visitor since the seeds were sown. They gave him one last chance to fulfill his obligations, and because his family relies on the 50$ a month he earns, he might manage to get it done. But even knowing that these were his responsibilities to fill based on the job description, I left feeling much more sympathy for the man than did my Mozambican colleagues, hardened by field experience and the simple fact that to them, this is life. You either build a mud house, or you build a straw one.
There exists, in the NGO world as in any business or company, a hierarchy of employees and volunteers. Being white gives me a simultaneous advantage (people listen) and disadvantage (they don’t necessarily trust me), but I’m still a volunteer and only have so much influence. For instance, today we showed up at the office, expecting to spend the morning capitalizing on the much needed internet connection, to find that the person in charge had neglected to pay the internet fees, and now is on vacation in the city, to return at a date TBA. Apparently this is not a new occurrence. Not content to sit and await that evasive date, I immediately commenced to flitting around any and everyone who could potentially fix this problem – ridiculous as it is in the first place since the money to pay the energy and internet comes out of project funds as opposed to their own pockets – making calls to people in the city who had strategically turned off their phones, and generally making everyone in the office here uncomfortable. I may not win the popularity contest by the end of my year here, but I won’t just sit in my room all day and wait for something to happen. Even if I am a volunteer. Knowing I only have 10 months here (which, today, feels like an eternity) makes me want to kick things into gear, but with my colleagues acting a little put out by my eagerness, it seems I must find some sort of middle ground between aggressively trying to make things happen and sitting back and smiling dumbly, nodding passively as behaviors remain unchanged.
As I try to settle in and determine my role in Morrumbala, where I am decidedly the outcast, I feel constantly thwarted by socio-cultural differences that make my efforts seem useless. When I go to the market to buy my own groceries instead of having the cook go for me: The 12 year old cell phone credit sales-boy tries to overcharge me; the guy who sells me vinegar tries to overcharge me; and the guy who sells me coconuts allows me to buy 2 that turn out to be perfectly putrid on the inside. I try my hardest to see things from their perspective – “white skin = money, and I need money, therefore I’ll do what I can to get it” – but it makes me feel as rotten as the coconuts.
I also have the sneaking suspicion that I’m driving everyone at the office crazy with all my questions, but how am I supposed to figure out how anything works around here if they’re not forthcoming with information? For instance, I asked a woman at the office today if there were any markers around that I could use to make a presentation for the Junior Farmers I’m finally supposed to meet with tomorrow. She said no. A couple hours later, I walked into the office and saw a big box of markers. I picked them up right in front of her and said “huh, markers! Whose are these?” She said they were World Vision’s, that they specifically belonged to the Ocluvela project that I’m here to work on. Naturally I asked to use them and she, unable or unwilling to hide her frustration, said that we had to ask the owner first (who, of course, is nowhere to be found and whose name she couldn’t even give, I guess for fear of….marker subterfuge?) and that if I used them without permission they would get upset. THEY’RE MARKERS! Not personal hygiene items, not even a favorite t-shirt, and yet the owner might be angry if I used them, even for a presentation for the children I was specifically brought here to work with! I smilingly stated that that seemed like a lot of protocol for markers, and was met with a blank stare, then a tart retort that she would ask. I don’t mean to insult, or infringe upon a system I clearly don’t understand; all I want to do is the job I was brought here for, which seems clear on some days and foggy on others.
Interactions like these leave the impression that my colleagues are more perplexed by my energy and inquisitiveness than actually happy to be working with me. I’m beginning to feel that, while I desire a career that will allow me to affect social change, I might be better off going the academic route as opposed to working in the international NGO arena, or as an individual development worker at the community level as I was in the DR. I know I’m still new to the game, but it seems to require patience, determination and optimism to the nth degree, whereas I feel my temperature cooling suspiciously. It might be a long year in Morrumbala. Or just a long day.
I imagine the man we visited yesterday, with his unprepared land, felt similarly helpless. As an auxiliary worker, he is paid 50$/month for which he is expected to organize and mobilize the presidents from 4 local farmers’ associations to employ conservation farming techniques in their fields. The “due date” as it were for him to have 5 plots completed is Friday; we discovered yesterday that he has done nary a one. I also discovered, while he was being verbally chided by my colleagues for his lack of progress, that he has several malnourished children who spend the day gnawing on sugar cane, and that the plots he is responsible for are at great distances from one another. The frustrations of my colleagues seemed to be based in the fact that the farmer had misrepresented to them the amount of work he had actually accomplished, and upon our arrival, the falsity of his claims was self-evident. The vegetable patch we visited was completely overgrown with weeds, giving the impression that it had not seen a visitor since the seeds were sown. They gave him one last chance to fulfill his obligations, and because his family relies on the 50$ a month he earns, he might manage to get it done. But even knowing that these were his responsibilities to fill based on the job description, I left feeling much more sympathy for the man than did my Mozambican colleagues, hardened by field experience and the simple fact that to them, this is life. You either build a mud house, or you build a straw one.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
To Drink or Not To Drink
The party dynamic. It’s an elusive concept that differs slightly from city to city, hugely from continent to continent, taking months if not years of immersion to fully comprehend. I’ve been in Mozambique less than 2 months. I’ve been in my site a total of 8 days.
October 1st marks, along with my little (a term that refers solely to age these days) brother’s birthday, the beginning of the fiscal year for World Vision Mozambique. Accordingly, a huge party was planned. Accordingly, many cases of beer were bought.
The formal celebration was a daytime affair, involving lots of singing and dancing, a swarm of children who all felt the need to touch me and were eventually shooed away by a shyly smiling adult, prayer and goat stew which tasted to me like moldy cheese at best, but which I guiltily choked down as everyone around me ate with great gusto (walking through the market the next day, I passed a herd of live goats and got a nose-full that smelled exactly like the stew had tasted…)
And then the party. Scheduled to start at 4pm, it finally began at 10:30pm after all the food had been prepared (by none other than the cook with whom I struggle daily through language, etiquette, and ingredients to strengthen a tenuous kitchen-based bond) and laid out in an impressive display, the crowning feature of which was a cake with GLITTER (which unfortunately looked much better than it tasted). After the blessing, and a cryptic warning that everyone, in serving their plates, should try to remember that others would like to eat as well, the locusts descended. I stood a little bit back, in awe of the food fervor, and allowed my plate to be occasionally graced with the passing samosa or scoop of potato salad. I didn’t even look in the direction of the grilled chicken, as there was a dangerous swarm around it from the moment of its uncovering until the last thigh was nibbled down to the bone. I couldn’t help but feel, whether condescending or sensible, that they had more of a right to it than me. Me, who has eaten well her entire life, who can afford to buy chicken whenever she wants. Me, who has never had to fight for food, nor stuff herself to popping as a strategic plan for the next few mealtimes.
Once everyone was finger-lickin’ full, the beer, which had played merely the supporting role to food’s lead, suddenly appeared center-stage. I turned down several offers for a drink, feeling awkward being one of 4 women present and, as always and forever, the only white person, until it became apparent that 95% of the group was drinking, and at 100 yd. dash rather than marathon speed. It’s always tough to decide what’s best in these situations, where you hardly know a face and certainly don’t know the culture – Do they want me to have a drink? Is it weird if I don’t/do? Do women even drink here? – but everyone seemed to smile in relief when I finally accepted a beer. Or they were making fun of me. Who can tell? As I looked around, none of the other women were drinking. But I’ve long since given up trying to fit-in with any demographic here. I’m going to be watched no matter what, so I might as well make them smile. I’m not a tee-totaler, so why pretend to be if not to some social or professional end? After one drink, I shook hands all around and headed back to the compound, luckily not a 3 minute walk away. It was, after all, several hours past my bedtime.
As with every party where you don’t really know anyone, it was a relief to escape to the safety of my own space. As I write, I can still hear the celebration, and the music seems to be getting louder by the minute…
October 1st marks, along with my little (a term that refers solely to age these days) brother’s birthday, the beginning of the fiscal year for World Vision Mozambique. Accordingly, a huge party was planned. Accordingly, many cases of beer were bought.
The formal celebration was a daytime affair, involving lots of singing and dancing, a swarm of children who all felt the need to touch me and were eventually shooed away by a shyly smiling adult, prayer and goat stew which tasted to me like moldy cheese at best, but which I guiltily choked down as everyone around me ate with great gusto (walking through the market the next day, I passed a herd of live goats and got a nose-full that smelled exactly like the stew had tasted…)
And then the party. Scheduled to start at 4pm, it finally began at 10:30pm after all the food had been prepared (by none other than the cook with whom I struggle daily through language, etiquette, and ingredients to strengthen a tenuous kitchen-based bond) and laid out in an impressive display, the crowning feature of which was a cake with GLITTER (which unfortunately looked much better than it tasted). After the blessing, and a cryptic warning that everyone, in serving their plates, should try to remember that others would like to eat as well, the locusts descended. I stood a little bit back, in awe of the food fervor, and allowed my plate to be occasionally graced with the passing samosa or scoop of potato salad. I didn’t even look in the direction of the grilled chicken, as there was a dangerous swarm around it from the moment of its uncovering until the last thigh was nibbled down to the bone. I couldn’t help but feel, whether condescending or sensible, that they had more of a right to it than me. Me, who has eaten well her entire life, who can afford to buy chicken whenever she wants. Me, who has never had to fight for food, nor stuff herself to popping as a strategic plan for the next few mealtimes.
Once everyone was finger-lickin’ full, the beer, which had played merely the supporting role to food’s lead, suddenly appeared center-stage. I turned down several offers for a drink, feeling awkward being one of 4 women present and, as always and forever, the only white person, until it became apparent that 95% of the group was drinking, and at 100 yd. dash rather than marathon speed. It’s always tough to decide what’s best in these situations, where you hardly know a face and certainly don’t know the culture – Do they want me to have a drink? Is it weird if I don’t/do? Do women even drink here? – but everyone seemed to smile in relief when I finally accepted a beer. Or they were making fun of me. Who can tell? As I looked around, none of the other women were drinking. But I’ve long since given up trying to fit-in with any demographic here. I’m going to be watched no matter what, so I might as well make them smile. I’m not a tee-totaler, so why pretend to be if not to some social or professional end? After one drink, I shook hands all around and headed back to the compound, luckily not a 3 minute walk away. It was, after all, several hours past my bedtime.
As with every party where you don’t really know anyone, it was a relief to escape to the safety of my own space. As I write, I can still hear the celebration, and the music seems to be getting louder by the minute…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)