Sunday in the bush

In the bush everybody wakes early. We are no exception and we are rewarded by the beauty of Africa and its shining sun, blue sky, red soil and the endless plains of the Masai land.

It has been raining and our Land Rover skates in the mud, crosses creeks, climbs up and down the Mara trails. Great driver, John.

Lions and hyenas are not difficult to spot today, but the highlights are the very close encounters with a leopard hanging down a tree just above our heads and with a sleepy hippo during the walk along the Mara river. Following a cheetah during hunting was not bad either. As were the endless herds of placid gnus, tail-shaking Thomson gazelles and hi-definition zebras (their stripes, at least).

And stunning landscapes and excellent food. What else can we ask for?

As the red sun sets on the Mara and, totally exhausted, we go to sleep accompanied by the sounds of wildlife around the tent, we still feel in our mouth the taste of this perfect day, maybe one of the most beautiful in our lives.

This time a bit less rough

Compared to Tanzania, luxury stay.
I could do also without the pool in the bush.

Let the trip begin again

On the go again. Time to expand the sky above and the horizon ahead. Time to disconnect from many things - especially the Internet. Time to go mobile blogging.

One full day travelling to get to Nairobi and be escorted to a hotel guarded by armed men at all corners. A new type of holiday feeling.

Friendly Joyce welcomes us and takes care of us until we confess that we would really get some sleep.
So, here I am again at the edge of the cradle of human kind, the edge of the Rift Valley and the edge of the territory of Somali unrest.

And, coincidentally, Edge is the only mobile broadband technology available - with a bit of luck - in the Maasai Mara. Which also means no photos for now.

Out of mind

You think, you decide, then you take action. Or, at least, that is what we believe.

Scientists have tried telling us a different story, that is that you do not really decide what you do.

Then, tabloids tried to sell us that if you (a woman) take too many decisions for somebody else (your man), thou shalt suffer by means of sex deprivation (nonsense, it was just the usual mysoginist scam).

Station House Opera's play shows, instead, what happens if the decision to act is taken out of your mind.

What does it look like when someone else is spelling out loud the action you are going to perform (make a cup of tea)? What if that person is telling you not just what you are going to do or say but also what you are going to think? It becomes too slow, or too hectic and confused. Surely it becomes surreal (and therefore arrives in Brussels). Can you not like the rules of the game? Of course you can. Just like the lady-in-red-dress in the play: some external voice is telling you to be happy ever after with the blue prince you just found, what if somehow this does not look right? Not a problem: let the voice talk about love and family life but you push the guy into a jute sack bag, tying the knot (literally) around his ankles and disappear from sight.

Sunday glow

I love the wind.
It's blowing through my hair, when I'm on a boat in the middle of the Mediterranean heading towards the next beautiful island, or we are riding in an open jeep in an African park to reach the top of the crater to watch the dramatic sunset from above.

I hate the wind.
It's blowing through my hair when I am crossing the big boulevard to get to work, it's making us freeze on a wide grey beach on the North Sea, it's passing through several layers of warm clothes making me curse the day I went north of the 42nd parallel.

I love the rain.
It's pouring on a Sunday morning and I'm in bed, warmth and softness around, listening to the melody of its hitting the roofs, or it's washing up a muggy summer day and making the air fresh of oxigen again.

I hate the rain.
It's pouring incessantly from a sky of lead, it's soaking my feet, ankles and legs, all the way up to my soul, feeding rather than washing up pain.

I love the sun.
It wakes up my day, my house, my grandma. It wakes me up. Me, my spirit, my body, my memories and my imagination. My glow.

I do not think I'll ever hate the sun.

Parole parole parole

An old Italian song has a woman fed up by the soft, sweet and empty words of a man.

"I can always talk my way out" someone said to me once.

"Talk is cheap because supply exceeds demand" was written in a footnote of my microeconomics textbook.

What's in a word?
I use words to entertain people with stories. I use words to make my point through logic. I use words to share my feelings with people who care about me (well, even if this is supposed to be a woman thing, so what?).
But I (try to) choose words carefully. After they have been spoken, words get a life of their own, they have consequences.

"If you did not exist, one should invent you", "Moonlight and violins I hear with you" said the man in the Italian song. "I love you" is a very easy thing to say if words do not weigh much.
And lies are not lies anymore, perhaps, and they won't hurt anymore.

"When I use a word,' Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, 'it means just what I choose it to mean — neither more nor less". Was Lewis Carroll describing not an absurd but the reality? 

But the woman in the song is fed up by now: "Your moonlight and violins just keep me awake when I want to sleep". Empty words do not weigh much indeed. Cheap talk just became too cheap.
And lies will always be lies and will always hurt someone.