At midday today Matti went peacefully from our lives, with dignity and class - the two qualities that most exemplify Matti and wonderful personality.

He’s always been the head of the dogs in our household, bossing them up with a simple look. Sometimes, when Chewy got a bit over-excited Matti would walk up to him, and rest his head on Chewy’s shoulders, as though admonishing a naughty child. Until recently he and Jabba used to play-fight with each other. Jabba would strut around Matti on four stiff legs, his tail wagging furiously while Matti would nudge his protagonist with his chin on Jabba’s back. .

I made the arrangements yesterday with the veterinarian and the kennels, weeping all over the kennel’s owner when I asked him if we could bury Matti next to his sister Indi. Omur was understanding; he is a dog lover, and arranged for his vet to carry out the euthanasia. Yesterday evening, last night and this morning I went through hell - making an appointment to end your pet’s life, even when that pet has no quality of life left is traumatic to say the least. So helping him to his bed next to Ivan’s side of our bed last night, taking him outside so he could relieve himself this morning, giving him his breakfast, bringing him his water bowl after breakfast and before we carried him to Ivan’s car for that last journey... knowing it was the last time I’d be doing all these things for him made me cry. I've cried a lot over the past 24 hours.

At the kennels he was dignified to the very end. After the vet gave him the tranquiliser we sat with him, feeding him little pieces of the beef/lamb cocktail sausages he loved so much. He ate them calmly and happily as we stroked him, told him how much we loved him and thanked him for sharing his fourteen and a half year long life with us. When he had relaxed the vet gave him the final injection, and some minutes later Matti went to meet the rest of his dog family at the Rainbow Bridge; Tigue, Shorty, Tobi, Savage, Sable, Purdy, Chewy and his sister Indi are all there to welcome him.

Although Matti’s physical presence has gone, I’m still looking for him. It will take a while for that feeling to fade. I found a poem by Rudyard Kipling yesterday which expresses my own feelings right now far better than I can.

In April 2003 Ivan was offered the job that saw us leave our home, our family and our friends to move to Greece’s second city Thessaloniki. I panicked, worrying about our four dogs: my German Shepherds Matti and Indi (litter brother and sister) and the Giant Schnauzers Chewy and Jabba - brothers from different litters.

Ivan is as much of an animal lover as I am, and we agreed that our dogs are our family. We may not have had human children, so one could probably say the pets are our substitute. So our dogs travelled with us to our new home, flying from Harare to London and on to Athens, before travelling by road north to Thessaloniki. Chewy and Indi flew over on the same flight as me, with Matti and Jabba following two days later.

Our dogs have helped us come to terms with our ex-patriot lives during the last six and a half year. When we were transferred to Izmir we made three trips, driving the ten hours from Thessaloniki and over the Turkish border before travelling along the Turkish coast to our new home. First trip was with Jabba and Chewy, with Chewy treading anxiously every time he needed a pit stop. Jabba would sit up every time the car slowed, peeking out of the windows as if asking: “Are we there yet?” I’m thinking of Donkey in Shrek 2 here...

The second trip we brought Matti and Indi. Both GSDs were classy, chilled out dogs - we stopped at the pit stops Chewy had selected during the first trip, and both German obliged. The final trip was me, Ivan and Kit - my little Citroen Saxo - and much of our household stuff. The day after the last trip we collected our dogs from the kennels, and began our new lives in Turkey.

In September 2006 we lost Chewy, and Indi left us in December 2008. Today we have two rather elderly dogs left; Jabba is soon going to be eleven years old, and Matti is fourteen and a half years old. These last few weeks Matti has been sick, with intermittent diarrhoea. His back legs are weakening, that horrible affliction that strikes so many senior dogs, especially German Shepherds.

I’ve been at the vet with Matti - four trips to the vet last week for intravenous transfusion of electrolytes. When the vet expressed concern about his legs, enquiring if he was in concern I told him I doubted it. I know my dogs, and while Matti’s back legs are not good he doesn’t cry when he gets up, and his wonderful nature is still as fantastic as it was the day I collected our six week old puppy in Harare back in 1995. The vet suggested I try Rimadyl, and gave me some tablets to give him over the weekend.

The tablets made no difference - in fact one of the side effects of Rimadyl is partial paralysis, and during this weekend Matti’s legs have worsened. I gave Matti the tablets on Saturday and Sunday morning, and then stopped. This morning I asked the vet if the tablets could have caused this problem. She acknowledged the side effect, but said the dose was too short and insufficient to have any effect. Instead, she said this is something we can do nothing about - Matti is a very old German Shepherd, and would not be able to withstand an operation. And any medication to improve his hip problems will not have any effect - all we can do is make sure he’s comfortable.

I asked her if she would consider euthanasia, remembering how reluctant vets are in this part of the world to put a suffering animal to sleep. She told me to phone her when I am ready, and she will do it for me.

Naturally I’ve spent the afternoon in tears. Matti is a gentleman - the kindest dog I have ever known. He’s never attacked or bitten anyone or anything... not another dog, a cat or even a human being. When his breeder chose him for us she said he was the gentlest of all the puppies in the litter, and because of my disability she wanted me to have the nicest-natured puppy. Matti never even had to be housetrained. He’s always had a wise head and a sweet nature. The only times he ever needed treatment at the vet - other than annual inoculations - was to remove his testicles which never descended, and to drain a haematoma he got in his ear while we on holiday.

I don’t know how much more time I have with my Matabele dog. We are going to Zimbabwe for ten days during the last week in March, and we will not put him in the kennels in this condition. He’s still eating heartily, drinking water and getting up to greet Ivan and I when we come home. His eyes are still bright golden brown, without the filmy look so common in old dogs. I will watch him closely, treasuring what time we have left with him. I don’t know if he is ready now; maybe he is. Selfishly I want to keep him with me as long as possible, but not if he is in pain or uncomfortable. Am I unreasonable? Perhaps, but this goodbye is going to be one of the hardest we’ve ever gone through.

 

There has never been a movie like “Avatar”. And I’m not saying that simply because it is the first 3D movie I’ve ever seen. Neither is my love of the fantasy genre the reason I’ve seen this film TWICE in three weeks. “Avatar” is unique, and has set a benchmark for future writers/producers and directors of this genre - a benchmark that is not going to be easy to meet.

Before I continue - my apologies for another review. I’m getting back into my writing mode, and “Avatar” has had a big impact on me. I need to get my thoughts out...

As stories go the basic outline of the film is one we’ve seen countless times before: a disillusioned/weary man interacts with a group of foreigners/aliens, representing the interests of his own corporation/country, which are going to be detrimental to the foreigners/aliens. As he grows closer to the foreigners/aliens he begins to see the horrible truth behind his corporation/country’s intentions, and is caught between the loyalty to his corporation/country and his empathy with the aliens/foreigners.

Nothing new there - right? Sure, but writer/director James Cameron has never been a man to follow the rest of the herd. He has taken the age old, tried and tested formula and revitalised it into entertainment for the 21st century. This may be a fantasy/sci-fi film, but it is believable. The most recent scientific developments are included in this film, and when one considers how many of the characters/creatures in older science fiction films have, in time, moved from fantasy to reality (cue “Space 1999” - living on space stations: today astronauts stay on the international space station) then many of the features in ”Avatar” make the film very probable.

The attention to detail is evident in every single frame of the film... from the footprints that glow briefly on the forest floor the moment the foot is raised to the insects on the tree trunks. Avatar is nature at her finest - the Tree of Souls is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen on screen. The tree the Na’vi tribe calls home is wonderful, and a tribute to the strength of nature. For me this tree symbolises mankind’s lack of consideration and respect for his own planet, and at one point I got pretty upset at the way the humans treated the tree.

What I found most interesting about “Avatar” is how cleverly the film highlights some of mankind’s worst traits and our current issues. I have to be careful here, because I don’t want to give out any spoilers for anyone who hasn’t yet seen the film.

Destruction of Earth’s Environment is never detailed nor documented. However, during the second half of the film the hero tells the Na’vi people that there is “no green left on earth”. Given that the film is set in 2154 it’s safe to assume there are no more forests, trees or wildlife on Earth.

Greed is the predominant human flaw highlighted in “Avatar.” Human beings discover a rare and very valuable mineral on Pandora, a moon of a distant planet in the Alpha Centuri galaxy. They move onto Pandora, and when all efforts at “peaceful” negotiations fail the corporation authorises their security unit/mercenaries to kill and destroy everyone and everything preventing their access to the mineral. This indicates a lack of respect for any other species - to be expected since by this time we’ve obviously killed off 99 percent of the species on Earth.

Arrogance, brilliantly portrayed by not only the tough, archetypical general in command of the militia “protecting” the scientists on Pandora but also by the whiny pen pusher representing the mining corporation - he, not the soldiers, is the most abhorrent human being on Pandora. And he, not the general, is the man in charge.

A few more points help make the future depicted by “Avatar” a bit more believable:

Cigarettes still exist, and have not changed one bit by 2154...
The main hero is disabled through an injury during his service with the Marine Corps, and although medical science has evolved so his paralysis can be reversed he cannot afford the treatment...
DNA is very much in use, and the Avatars used by the humans are created using Na’vi and human DNA...

James Cameron first conceived the idea for “Avatar” back in 1995, but waited until the right technology was available before undertaking the project. I’m so glad he did, and I admire his ambition and patience, because he has given the world a unique celluloid vision and experience.

Last week I read an internet article about cases of “The Avatar Blues” - a number of people have left the cinema feeling depressed because they want to move to Pandora. They are apparently depressed because they now realise what we’re doing to our planet and feel helpless, despairing and, in the most extreme cases, suicidal.

Does this mean “Avatar” just might encourage us to actually start caring about the environment, the way “An Inconvenient Truth” tried to do a couple of years ago? Or have we just become so desensitised to our surroundings that we not longer care, and depression/wishful thinking are the way to deal with it? Me - I’m simply glad to have seen such a fantastic film, and in my own teeny tiny way I do try to do my bit for Mother Earth.

Some years ago my friend X recommended a book she’d just read. The book was widely discussed, and positive reviews had kept the book on the bestseller charts for over a year. I’d enjoyed several of the books X had lent me, so when she handed over her latest book I started reading it the following evening.

It was well written, with good character development and clear detailed description of the settings. The plot was horrific, and I’d be less than honest if I didn’t say it probably has some bearing on the way I feel about the book. It took me several days and nights to finish reading, and when I gave X back her book she asked me my thoughts on the story.

Since we’d only been in Thessaloniki a few months and I didn’t want to offend my new friend I said it was interesting. I was too much of a coward to tell her I hated a book that had won its author several awards, and sold in excess of one million copies.

The book was Alice Sebold’s “The Lovely Bones”, which has been made into a film by Peter Jackson, the man responsible for bringing the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy to life on celluloid. Jackson is receiving a lot of negative press for the way he’s handled the story, but I don’t believe any director could have successfully transferred “The Lovely Bones” to a feature film.

For anyone who hasn’t read the story it is set in the 1970s and narrated by Susie Salmon, a 14 year old girl who is raped, murdered and dismembered by a paedophile. After her brutal death, which is described in awful detail, she goes to Heaven. After dismembering his victim, Susie’s killer put her body parts into a safe, which he then dumps in a sinkhole. All that is ever found of Susie is her hat and her elbow.

Susie watches her family grieve, with each one coming to terms with her death in his/her own way. From her vantage point in Heaven Susie also follows her killer’s life, and is able to see his abusive and difficult childhood. She begins to feel sorry for him. Susie’s body is never found, and over the years her family grow older. I remember Susie’s sister got married, and named her first child after the sister she’d lost. Susie’s parents got back together after her dad suffered a heart attack – they’d split when her mother got involved with one of the policemen investigating Susie’s disappearance/murder.

And then there’s the scene at the end of the book.

When she died, Susie’s spirit briefly touched a girl called Ruth. In this scene Ruth is standing near the sinkhole which holds the safe containing Susie’s body. With her is Ray, a boy who had asked Susie out on a day just before she died. During her musings in Heaven she often mentions her sadness that she never made the date. Seeing Ray and Ruth near her body she is so overcome her spirit swops places with Ruth’s, and while she is in Ruth’s body she has sex with Ray. Afterwards she goes back to Heaven.

So why did I hate this book? In reflection I think there are several reasons, Susie’s horrific rape and murder at the hands of the paedophile being the main one. I hated reading about the way her family suffered and grieved for her – how dreadful to know your child is dead, but with only one piece of her body to prove she will never come back, never mind the nightmares any parent would experience wondering what their daughter went through and why she was dismembered. The book was set in the early ‘70s, so forensic science was not as evolved as it is today, and I was frustrated at how the very obvious forensic evidence was seemingly disregarded.

I also hated the sex scene between Susie and Ray, because I felt Susie in Heaven never aged or changed from the age she was when she died, while her family and friends all aged naturally. The idea of a 14 year old Susie having sex with a now 26/27 year old man made me cringe. I think perhaps Sebold wanted Susie to know sex could and should be a loving act between two people who care about and respect each other, rather than a violent, bloody act that ends in murder. As Sebold herself was victim to a very violent rape some years before “The Lovely Bones” was published perhaps it was cathartic for her?

The mere fact that the book got me thinking in this way means it had an effect on me, and the emotions it aroused made me think. And that is surely a commendation for any writer – she made an impression on me. But the fact remains that I didn’t like “The Lovely Bones”, and I would NEVER recommend the book to anyone. I don’t like the subject matter, and although I am sure anyone who lost someone they loved the way Susie’s family lost their daughter perhaps the idealistic, comfortable view of Heaven the book offers is some consolation. But the Old Testament Sarah – fire and brimstone, retribution etc – is upset Susie’s murderer never pays for his appalling crime, and quite honestly I found Susie a sad, lonely figure, which made me angry. She didn’t deserve her fate.

So there’s my confession; I hated “The Lovely Bones”. I won’t be going to see the film, so Mr Jackson won’t have my negative reviews about the way he treated what some have described as “a beautiful story”. Having put my neck on the line I have a question or two for you:

If you’ve read “The Lovely Bones” how did it make you feel?
Are there any other critically acclaimed books that you read and disliked? (Dan Brown, anyone? )
 

Whenever I go back to Zimbabwe my parents drive up from Bulawayo to see me. Mum always says it’s easier to be the party leaving, because at least they can look forward to returning to their home and their pets. For those left behind there’s a bit of an emptiness... a restlessness that takes a few days to dissipate. For the past six and a half years Zimbabwe has not been my physical home, so this is perhaps why I've not really understood what Mum means.

I always felt Mum said this to try and make me feel better about saying goodbye. I know when I go down to Bulawayo to see them she takes a few days to settle down after I leave. I used to put this down to her soft Piscean character, and tried not to feel sad when she told me about her dogs looking for me in my old bedroom. After having said goodbye to the Malawian contingent of our family after a three week visit that ended last Friday I can now empathise with Mum – it’s more difficult staying behind as the host/ess than leaving as the visitor/s.

In the six years we’ve been in Thessaloniki and Izmir we’ve hosted and eclectic bunch of family and friends at our home. During our three years in Izmir my brother Bryan and his family, our nephew Nigel and his wife Sian, Ivan’s brother Denis and his partner Denise, our friends Roy and Victoria and now Ivan’s sister Heather, her husband Dermot and our niece Courtney have visited us. Each time I’ve played tour guide, showing them the sites in and around Izmir. And each time I’ve seen each place through their eyes, which in turn has helped me gain a new perspective on places like Ephesus, Saint John’s Basilica, Virgin Mary’s house and Pamukkale. Even the Izmir Bazaar has now given me a few more shops to visit whenever I venture there.

We ate seafood next to the Aegean Sea at the port of Kuşadasi , discovered pomegranate syrup (delicious!) at Şirençe, toured Ephesus and Saint John’s Basilica, visited Virgin Mary’s house, took the ferry across the Bay of Izmir to Konak, lost the Malawians in the Bazaar (found them an hour later!), bought the most glorious bath towels I have ever seen in a massive shopping complex next to Izmir’s newest hotel (forgot the name ), toured Aphrodisias, watched the Malawians swimming among the Grecian pillars in the warm waters of Pamukkale’s antique pool and laughed as they tentatively walked onto the site’s world-famous calcified shelves that look so much like snow. We ate plenty of traditional Turkish food and finished more than a few bottles of red wine. Some evenings we drank Malawi gin with bitter lemon (my favourite) or tonic (Heather’s favourite) for a change.

Heather cooked and glazed a delicious Christmas ham. We bought fresh seafood at the fish market; I served baked salmon with dill on a bed of onions and rice, Heather grilled delicious prawns. We watched ten minutes of fireworks explode over the waterfront at New Year, after a lovely dinner at Izmir’s Chinese restaurant. We went to see “Avatar” – the first time I’ve ever watched a 3D movie. We all loved it – a fantastic film. I took my Malawians to Manisa, and after driving to the summit of Mount Spil and discovering some lovely Alpine-style cottages at the peak we saw Niobe, the rock from Greek mythology representing a weeping woman’s face...

So on Friday Ivan and I found ourselves at Izmir’s domestic terminal waving goodbye to our family. We returned to a quiet house and Jabba hurried to the car to greet our guests. The look on his face when only Ivan and I emerged reflected our own sense of sadness. Mum was right – it is lousy being the ones left behind.

The Malawians got home safely, and have settled back into their routine. I’ve had to add some pretty intense exercising to my routine – all the wining and dining piled on a couple of kilograms! But it was worth it. I’d do it all over again in a flash if I could. The next big thing in our lives is a trip back to Zim towards the end of March... and I need to get back into my writing groove again. One month off has been good for me – this is the second piece I’ve written this year! So a belated Happy New Year to you all, and I hope your inspiration and love of writing thrives in 2010.

 

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We’ve just gone through Turkey’s second Ramazan - four days of religious observation preceded by the mass sacrifice of sheep. Although I accept the religious practices and rituals of this country as an animal lover I find it heartbreaking.

I hate the days leading up to this Ramazan. About four weeks before it begins huge tents are put in places at different places around the city. The tents hide the actual slaughter of the animals, but the sight of the large stainless steel containers and the fencing where the animals wait to be chosen is enough to cause me to avoid even driving past them. On Thursday Ivan and I went to Bornova Forum for lunch. En route we drive through the village of Űlüçak, and passed a small fenced off area in front of the local hardware store filled with unsuspecting sheep, happily munching away while several men leaned over the fence selecting their animal. Of course I got upset, and even when Ivan reminded me that half a world away many turkeys had met a similar fate for another holiday it didn’t help.

“At least in The States they don’t have the same ritual sacrifice,” I snapped. What a paradox - I’m happy to eat meat and lamb is one of my favourite dishes, but when I think about how the animal reaches my table...

This month is going to be nicely hectic for us. Our Malawian family - Ivan’s sister Heather, her husband Dermot and our niece Courtney - arrive on December 20 for three weeks, and I’ve started organising our "Izmir Tourist" schedule. We also got stuck into the junk room on Saturday, tidying up while packing away the things we don’t need right now, like fans etc. I’ve also been putting the summer clothing into vacuum seal bags, and I cannot believe how much space I now have in that room. I need to clear the bedroom which houses the cupboards containing our clothes and bed linen for my niece, hence the current tidying up spree.

As for writing - well, the thumb has healed well, and I’ve been frantically tapping out articles for Suite 101. Regrettably I am two articles behind yesterday’s deadline, but the editors have been so helpful I think I’ll be okay, and should have then done by tonight. I have also joined a writing critique site, and posted one of my older stories on there. I had over 100 views on the first day, and five “comments” - all very varied. None of the comments was discouraging, but what was interesting was just how different people read a story.

I was a bit shocked at first, because the reviewer was so blunt - the story is no longer visible on WDC, but it features an African dictator’s encounter (guess who ) with the Archangel Uriel. This reviewer said she felt I should have tried harder to give my dictator some redeeming qualities... well, during flashbacks between Uriel and “The Old Man” I tried to show how many times the dictator had been given great opportunities, and how he’d chosen one direction over another! Another writer felt I used too many “ghosts” to tell the story, but he enjoyed the “Old Testament” terror and retribution featured in the story!

Right, off to finish the housework. I owe so many blog visits... be there soon!

I’ve been trying to find a different word to describe the nostalgia enveloping me this week. There are a few reasons for this, so consider yourselves warned because this is going to be a “Me Myself I” entry. You might want to walk away now...

Tomorrow marks the third anniversary of our move from Greece to Turkey. The idea is thoroughly depressing, because living here over the last year has been very depressing - when is that bastard Allen Stanford going to stand trial??? I wish I could celebrate, but sadly I can’t. I don't like living here. The solution? Focus on the positive: visits from my Australian nephew and his wife, my brother and his family, Denis and Denise, Roy and Victoria, Arthur AND the three weeks my Malawian family will be with us from December 20.

Tomorrow is my brother’s 40th birthday. He and one of his best friends from school are hosting a huge party at Harare Sports Club. My parents drove up from Bulawayo this morning, and are staying with my mother in law. It feels weird to not be going, and talking to mum this afternoon I realised it’s the first time she’s stayed in my house in Harare without me. Focus on the positive: no hangover Sunday morning.

My friends Jules, Kate, Alberta and Cathy all had lunch today. We did a few lunches when I went back to Zim in September, and it was great. I so wanted to be there today, because it’s Jules’ 50th birthday on Sunday, and today’s lunch was for Jules. Focus on the positive: good memories of the last lunches, and hopefully not too long before I enjoy another lunch with my girlfriends. Oh, and no after-lunch hangover.

This morning I learned a friend’s father passed away last month, and we didn’t know because our friend is on a farm and has had no telephone for the last two months. His dad developed a heart problem, and just faded away. This news made me think of Joy, Ivan’s aunt who died while we were in Zimbabwe, having endured eight months of chemo for bone cancer and been given the “so far so good” story. She died 48 hours after they discovered the cancer had spread to her brain. Focus on the positive: my friend’s phone is working. Hmmm, that’s all I can get, because I haven’t had the guts yet to remove Joy from my Skype contacts. It has to be done, but seems so final.

It’s not all doom and gloom: Wednesday I took my Greek friend Antigone around the Ege shopping centre. We had a great time, found some delicious chocolate, drank some great coffee and bought some nice clothes.

The doctor’s receptionist in Zim who mixed up my blood test results with another patient’s finally got the right results. After confirming I didn’t need an ECG for my doctor in South Africa she told me my cholesterol has gone down from 6.3 to 5.6... okay, it needs to go to around 5.2, but at least it hasn’t gone up!

My thumb is much better, and thankfully it was on the left hand, so my love of Bejewelled and Farming has flourished because I am right-handed and could use my mouse with ease. Oh, and I also finished my article on Amethyst mythology.

Still, it’s going to be a tough weekend. I hate being homesick. And melancholy. And nostalgic.



 

NoNaNo

Yesterday afternoon I put an end to my NaNoWriMo hopes for this year in the most brutal manner.

I’d been for my weekly grocery shopping, and included in my purchases was a fine metal knife - the one with the handle and the blade fashioned from a single piece of steel. After unloading the car I put away the shopping. After deciding to cook the beetroot for dinner I set about preparing the vegetable using the new knife.

While liberating the leaves from the fourth bulb I felt the knife touch my thumb. I glanced down... when I saw the knife had slid into the flesh at the top of my thumb as easily as a blunt knife would have delved into soft butter I let out an almighty shriek, and lifted the knife, dropping it on the table.

It was a nasty moment. There was no blood straight away, but I knew when it did come it would be like Victoria Falls - Zimbabwe’s equivalent of Niagara Falls. I grabbed a clean dishtowel, some ice from the freezer and crushed it in the towel. I should have shoved the thumb under the tap, but the gash was a slit, and it looked like a small mouth. I wrapped the finger in the towel, lifted the hand in the air and went to sit down. I didn’t want to phone my husband, so I waited.

The pain was pretty bad, but more from the ice than anything else. When it got really sore I carefully unwrapped the towel... there was blood pouring out of the slit, which lifted with the towel. Now I wanted to pass out, and felt like ing (where’s that wonderful Skype vomit emoticon when you need it???) so I went back to the chair and lay down.

Fifty minutes later the blood had slowed somewhat, and I stupidly went onto the Internet. No consolation there - all the suggestions involved getting to ER and having tetanus and stitches. I had a tetanus jab about seven years ago when I stood on a dog’s bone in my garden in Zimbabwe. I decided to phone my husband. Here’s the conversation:

Me: Good news or bad?
Husband: Good... I think
Me: The new Sky card for the satellite TV is now working.
Husband: And the bad?
Me: I’ve cut through my thumb and it’s still bleeding nearly an hour later.
Husband: Is it still on your hand or have you cut it off?

He rushed home, and we figured it wasn’t too bad, so we dosed with antiseptic and plastered it. Thankfully I bought dinner while shopping, because I couldn’t have cooked last night. After three neat scotches (which didn’t help) I ignored all rational medical advice and took a large 600 mg Brufen tablet before going to bed. Waking up a few hours later I’d found I’d been sleeping on my arm, which was full of pins and needles. I had to run my right hand don my shoulder to find my arm, pick it up and put it on my chest. I hate it when that happens.

And today has been hell. I have bumped this thumb while mopping the floor, vacuuming, putting away laundry and making tea. I managed to shower without too much hassle, but I was being extra careful, and trying not to wet the plaster. I suppose we’ll have to remove it tomorrow, but I’m afraid... I’m imagining the most horrible picture under the plaster.

The most annoying thing is that I am now very far behind in Nano, and I have accepted that I won’t be able to complete 50,000 words by November 30. I’ve been writing articles for Suite 101, and a international gemmologist from India picked up on a piece I wrote about rubies, and has linked it to his website - he gave me a second option, offering to pay me $20 for it, but as that site gets its revenue from advertising I chose the linking option. It's a confidence booster, and as I am contracted to produce nine more articles by 30 November and am starting to earn from my writing on that site I suppose I need to prioritise my writing.
And then there’s the thumb - it’s taken me around eight hours to write this because the bloody thing is so sore. But there is a bright side to the injury - the juice from the beetroot made the sliced thumb look even worse than it was! I couldn’t have picked a better vegetable to injure myself with than a beetroot!

On that cheery/painful note I wish you all a wonderful weekend!

 

I’ve just finished writing from a man’s POV in Nano; here’s the last few paragraphs:

I filled her in on some of the mundane details of the evening, deliberately avoiding any mention of the woman who stood silently in the room with us, visible only to me. Desperately hoping she would leave I ate quickly, and finished my second glass of wine. Beth was wearing black jeans and a very woolly black polo neck jersey. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders. She’d kicked her boots off when we came to the lounge, and now her feet were tucked under her.

“Wow, you were hungry,” Beth commented as I put down my plate.

“I still am,” I said, and reached for her.

Later, in my bed she slept curled up against me. My arm was around her shoulder. I couldn’t sleep. Beth breathed softly against me. I stared into the darkness, and all I could see was the face the woman who ran away from me earlier that evening.

My word count is not too bad - at least I’m ahead of where I should be. Reading these paragraphs back it seems like this could be a ghost story - but it’s not. My hero is in love with a girl, and he’s unintentionally hurt her. And he feels lousy about it, because now he’s been with his sometime girlfriend, but understands there’s no future with her. He likes her, but it’s more a physical than a mental connection... but then this probably doesn’t make sense! Not even to a guy. I’m quite happy with this love scene, though... or lack thereof! It leaves a lot to the imagination, especially after writing about how he feels after the “rejection”, and in the shower before his girlfriend arrives!

This afternoon I read back through some of my very first entries in my first blog on the site. It’s quite depressing to realise how much I found to write about then, and how my blogging has changed since those early days. On one entry all the people commenting are no longer active members of the site - all are basic members. I wonder what has happened? Perhaps I became too focussed on blogging... I love blogging, but I need to get my blogging groove back.

I wrote an essay on Zimbabwe’s incredible Minister of Finance Tendai Biti for the last round of Project Write World. To my amazement - because the other entries were excellent - it was placed first. I had some help from my friend Belinda, an MDC activist in Mutare in Zimbabwe. She read the piece through for me, and gave me a few details about Mr Biti’s character. Sadly, things in Zimbabwe are deteriorating, but a few very brave people are trying to put the country back on its feet; and none more than Mr Biti. If you interested and want to read about a seriously brave man here’s the link:

ID: 1608592   (Rated: E) Title: The Most Difficult Job in the World  Description: How Does One Man Revitalise the Economy of One of the World's Most Brutalised Nations? By: Sarah

There are some excellent figures for people doing Nano - it’s really encouraging reading and seeing how my writing buddies are doing on the official Nano site AND here. I’ve been posting my writing in my portfolio here, but it’s a shocking mess, so it’s private. When I looked at it this evening I wondered how on earth it’s ever going to make sense...

Well, I need some sleep. I wish you all a great weekend, and whether you’re Nanoodling, writing blog entries, prose or poetry... may your Muse be inspired and the words flow from your pen/keyboard.

Have a great weekend!!!

 

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I am in awe of cross-cultural relationships. I have great admiration for those who make a commitment to build a life together; it takes courage and determination to overcome racial, religious and linguistic differences... not forgetting the possible diversity of each person’s cultural and traditional background. And then there’s the relatives, who view any liaison with someone outside the cultural/racial/religious group as The Ultimate Transgression.

A couple of weekends ago we got the chance to witness first hand the ugly side of a cross cultural relationship. Arthur, one of our friends from our years in Zimbabwe, was over here on business, and on Sunday we arranged to meet him at his hotel. We decided to go to Eko Bar, the most popular pub for Izmir’s ex-pat community. Arthur now lives in England, and had flown over for a week of business.

After parking the car, we strolled down to Eko, which is one block away from the waterfront. We were able to see the sea from our table - it was still warm enough to sit outside. As we arrived Arthur greeted a young girl who’d flown over on the ‘plane with him. We’ll call her Sally - she actually shares her name with a famous British singer. She was with her fiancé, a young Turkish man I’ll call Umut.

Sally was probably the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. She was petite, with long straight ash blonde hair falling over her shoulders. Her blue eyes were so clear they sparkled, and her gaze was confident and direct. Her lovely figure was emphasised in a long, yellow t-shirt dress which reached mid-thigh. Black leggings encased her legs to her calves, and on her feet were a gorgeous pair of diamante sandals. I remember admiring them, because unlike most sandals I admire these did not have a thong between the toes, so I could have worn them. Sally had a lovely accent, and she laughed a lot.

We sat with Arthur all afternoon. As the designated driver I had a few glasses of red wine. Ivan and Arthur drank the local Efes draft beer, before moving onto to whiskey (Ivan) and vodka (Arthur). We ate a late lunch of calamari and prawns with a delicious cheese and potato salad. Sally and Umut sat near us, talking and laughing with each other, sharing the occasional kiss and holding hands. They were a great looking couple, and everyone in the bar was watching them. They were drinking white wine.

Early in the evening they came over and sat with us. Umut was sitting next to me at the head of our table. Sally sat opposite me next to Arthur, and Ivan was on my other side. Umut was impressed with my very limited command of the Turkish language, and when I told him that after three years in his country I should have some knowledge he frowned.

“Sally doesn’t know any Turkish, and we’ve been together 18 months.”

I told him I was sure she’d pick it up once they were married and she was living full time in Izmir. He frowned. His next words sent chills through me.

“I can’t wait until we are married, because when Sally becomes a Muslim I can make her stop smoking and drinking.”

Fortunately Ivan and Arthur were laughing at Sally, and didn’t hear him. Umut is serving in the army on the Iraqi border, one of the most dangerous places in the country - it’s where the Turks are fighting the Kurdish PKK group. I looked at him, and suddenly this exotic, dark haired man didn’t seem terribly romantic. His eyes were almost black. I’m always mindful of the fact that I am a foreigner here, so I chose the path of least resistance.

“I’m sure she’s just celebrating with you, because she is flying back on the 9 pm flight and you’re going back to the border tomorrow.”

“She’s not going back tomorrow,” he said angrily. “She says she doesn’t want me to leave after her, so she is wasting 1,000 lira and buying another ticket. She’s so stupid. She doesn’t care that some people here take two months to earn that kind of money.”

By this time Ivan, Arthur and Sally heard our conversation. Sally told him how much she loved him, and how she wanted to leave Izmir after him. He laughed, but without love or mirth, and told us this proves how stupid and wasteful she was. Embarrassed, I told him she wasn’t stupid, but in love. And love makes us do things that sometimes seem irrational.

We managed to change the subject. As the evening wore on more alcohol was consumed. Umut became more assertive and aggressive, and Sally laughed more. When she leaned over to take his hand he suddenly seized her slim wrist, tightening his grip so he pinched the skin between his thumb and fingers. Her laughter died down, and she drew a breath, catching her lower lip between her teeth as she stared at him.

Arthur and I stared in horror. Ivan reacted immediately: “Hey, don’t treat her like that. Let her go.”

Umut relaxed his grip, and apologised to us. “You should be saying sorry to her,” Ivan said, angrily. “You don’t need to hurt her.”

I turned to Ivan and quietly told him to back off: “It’s not our fight.”

Only then did I see a couple of small, coined-sized bruises on Sally’s upper arm. But I said nothing. Later Ivan and Arthur said they’d noticed them too.

Sally continued drinking. About an hour after the wrist-grabbing incident she got up to go to the toilet, and was so unsteady on her feet I helped her negotiate her way through the tables and patrons inside the Eko pub. I had to help her sit on the toilet, and waited until she’d finished before leading her back to the table. Everyone was looking at us. Thank goodness I was sober... or maybe not. I felt ashamed.

Sally continued drinking, and when she next got up she tried to come around the table to hug me, and promptly fell over me and Ivan. Umut’s lips tightened, and I told him she’d tripped over the umbrella stand, which was right next to my chair. Sally got up, weaving her way through the tables, staring ahead and smiling at nothing. I stood up to follow her. Then the most embarrassing part of the whole evening happened.

A group of middle-aged Turkish men were sitting at the table next to us, enjoying a few glasses of raki. They’d obviously been watching us, because one on them spoke to me in broken English.

“Excuse me, madam, but don’t you think you should take her home? She is very drunk.”

I wanted to tell him she wasn’t our responsibility, but then what were we doing with her at our table? I suddenly felt ashamed... we were in a foreign country, sitting with a girl who clearly has no idea of how most of the citizens of this country view foreign tourists. Sure, Sally was letting her hair down and having fun with her fiancé and a few friends. But that man underlined and emphasised the differences in our cultures and classes.

I told him her fiancé would take her home as soon as she returned, and hurried after her. Sally was slumped on the floor outside the ladies room, a waiter kneeling beside her trying to help her. I got her into the toilet, helped her wipe her face, and the waiter and I virtually carried her out to a furious Umut. He threw some money on the table to pay for their share of the drinks, and put his arm around Sally to support her. Telling us he loved her, he promised Arthur to invite him and his wife to their wedding. He told Ivan that Ivan should understand he loved Sally, and would always take care of her. They left, Sally staggering along the street to the taxi which would take her and her fiancé home.

We left shortly afterwards. I keep thinking about Sally, whose beauty is so obviously one of the reason Umut loves her. But what about the girl under that beauty? Did he not fall in love with her personality? Her quick mind? Her sense of fun? Her intelligence? Or is she just a trophy? What will happen to her if Umut turns her into his idea of a wife, so she looses the spark and individuality that first attracted him to her?

My youngest nephew married a Muslim girl last year. There are serious issues and problems with her brothers and her mother - my 21 year old nephew converted to Islam in order to marry his 25 year old wife. My nephew currently lives in Sidney while his wife studies for her third university degree in Brisbane. My own family is divided on the marriage, particularly his brothers, who watched the entire relationship unfold, and were on hand when she told my nephew she was due to be married off in an arranged marriage. When Ivan told his Muslim boss of the marriage he was appalled, and asked Ivan: “What virus did your nephew catch?”

I want to believe that love can indeed conquer all... but when I think of Sally and Umut and her blind love for him and his determination to make her his I have to wonder. It may be possible to overcome racial, ethnic, linguistic and some cultural differences. But I don’t know that it can ever flourish when two such different people with such different religions and traditions want to be together, especially when one is as staunchly relgious as Umut.

I hope I am wrong.