Un blog incompiuto – se desideri leggerne di più, lascia un commento qui giù. (In complete blog, if you would like to read more, leave a comment

The difficulty in putting something to posterity. I find myself at odds with the desire to write, because I too strive to do other things. Studying mathematics, learning to programme with R…, reading novels (I am reading En l'absence des hommes, La ciudad de la Bestia) and an enthnography Agor Medicine. But still I need to write.

 

I want to first of all say these will be very terse entries from now.

It is morning now, Monday morning, at home. My mother will soon be off to work and today there will be no need to make her a sandwich, as she will go off to a workshop on child labor where she will be fed.

 

Last Friday:

I collected applications for the United World College scholarships here in Namibia.

Cooked a bean and split pea soup for dinner – Shabbat dinner. I now fondly look forward to dinner every Friday because though I usually cook something that is far from Kosher (I am Catholic, after all) it still reminds me of the tranquility of the Shabat I spent at the CJL at Princeton with my friends.

 

Monday: Today I dreamt of a copy of the Flamingo before me, lying on the ground, and the magazine had a section about HIV in it. The Flamingo, in case you did not know, is the magazine of Air Namibia and I do freelance writing for them (for which they pay me well). My dream I think speaks to my desire to synthesize my writings about Namibian people with that of my interest in HIV. I did do that, in the last article I wrote about the Red Cross, but I long to do it again. My dream though also featured another man, with delicate skin. He was my lover and we kissed with the magazine in the background.

 

Samedi: Nous sommes allés, moi et ma mère, au parc national du parlement de la république de la Namibie. Comme on faisait toujours, on y jouait du badmington, un loisir qu'on pratiquait depuis mon enfance ici en Namibie. Alors qu'on jouait, il y avait un touriste, un homme, lequel s'approchait de nous, en descendant les escaliers qui menaient au parc ou menait au parlement en les montant. Il s'est attardé un peu au bout des escaliers à nous regarder. J'ai ressenti son regard sur moi et je lui ai donné aussi quelque coup d'œil, il était jeune, assez haut et blanc, vraisemblement…

 

Monday : I just got this message : Good morning Pancho. I was given your number by Mukariko [ I helped her prepare for GRE last year this time] I will be writing a GRE exam early march and she thinks you can help me pass the exam exceptionally. I am gunning for a scholarship so I really need to do very well. Can u help me? It would mean intense work and preparation.

 

Sure I can help her, provided she pays me a pretty penny for my efforts – after all if go to Spain this July (to do an intense course of castellano) I'll need the cash..

 

Si, certo che ti posso aiutare carinissima, anche se non ti conosco – se me paghi bene, ti posso aiutare con i tuoi problemi matemattici. Ne profiteremo tutti i due...

Una oración por Egipto

Dios ayuda el pueblo egipcio a lograr una solución a esta crisis. Protege a los miles de manifestantes que se congregan en las calles y huyen a los policías (y protege ellos también).

Amen

LGBT PICNIC MID JANUARY

Writing now is like a drop of rain on barren ground. For some days I have not indulged in my blog. I work on reading and learning the R computer language in the week and any writing, well I always some to think of it as of little import. But in fact it is quite invigorating, empowering and meditative. What matters little is what I cover in these posts: Whether or not I capture the essence of moments effervescent is trivial. Let I just write.

 

It is Sunday today and I am just coming back from the park, from a picnic. There was much pleasure and all of it begins with the fact of me being gay. Put aside those thoughts of debauchery in the bushes, but think of me and two other friends on a blank spread on the grass. We told each other stories – our own and some invented – and lay the in the bliss of the afternoon in the shade of the palm. My palm caressed Detlef's head, passing my fingers through the smooth grey hairs he has left and his palm, in turn, caressed my leg below the knee. An exchange of affection, which I know by writing now, was nothing more than affection. I also earlier hugged Chris De Villers and Wimpy who greeted me with delight "Hi Wimpy, nice to finally meet you, give me a hug!". We spoke in Afrikaans, when the Afrikaans boys Chris, Wimpy, Jan and François came, but also in French.  We spoke of our lives, the inauspicious prospect of Namibian gay porn, eating Steers on a Sunday ("What so you don't gain weight on a Sunday? Chris asked Jannie), I sang Dancing Queen and danced to the last chorus to escape my destruction of the song, and later I read a Psalm. " O God, you are my God, earnestly I seek you, my soul thirsts for you, my body longs for you, a dry and weary land,…,On my bed I remember you, I think of you through the watches of the night,…your right hand upholds me" Detlef remarked it starts off like a story in Namibia, the dryness and bareness, but then ends up like something pornographic. Why? I asked, it need not be, just because of the hand. Eugene balanced my view on porn with his, saying you need not watch it alone. Perhaps it was the loneliness that was what caused the sin, or rather created the idea of the sin. But still I would not watch bodies comodofied and digitized. I rather feel the Spirit of God moving in me and bringing me to orgasm. Remember, there was no orgasm at this picnic, ok, it was the first picnic for support of LGBTI people that we had.

 

I am off to Catholic Church now. Hoped you liked this entry. Short and Sweet.

 

 

Mas de queso – una aventura que tuve en mediados de Diciembre 2010

Hoy ha sido el día – por fin – en el que he llevado a cabo mi deseo de reverte. Había olvidado tu cara porque al día de conocerte hace una semana – he perdido gradualmente tu imagen. A lo largo de la semana vine una, dos, tres veces pero no estabas, “ya se ha ido” me dijeron las camareras (¿o dependientes, como trabajan dentro de un supermercado que tiene un café?). Ahora sigo una de ellas, esa mujer es muy agradable y sin preguntarme mucho me dirigió “Venga, esta allí” gesticulando me dijo “sígame.” Tenía un poco de ansiedad “¿si no te reconozco?” O peor, ¿si no me reconoces a mí?

Pero al verte, el imagen borroso que tenía fue revitalizado y te reconocí sin problema. Como aquel día, ibas de cocinero, con el buenísimo vestuario que llevabas. Chaqueta blanca y botones negros que reflejaban el color de tu pelo – negro, pero mezclado con unos canosos. No puedes tener más de treinta años y por eso tienes que ser una persona especial a la que salen los pelos canosos temprano. Y tu cara madura y a la vez joven. Y tus ojos azules maravillosos bajo de cejas gordas me parecían místicas. “Peter, hay alguien que desea verte” te dijo tu colega y mi mirada te llamó la atención a ti, dejando de hablar con un hombre mayor, sin duda tu colega, sino tu jefe. Luego te acercaste a la salida de la baja pared que te definía una especie de despacho abierto.

“¿Si?”

“Hola Peter ¿te acuerdas de mí? Nos conocimos hace una semana…”

“Si, pediste el bocadillo con brie”

No te has olvidado de mí. Sí, te llevé el queso brie y te pregunté si era posible hacerme un bocadillo a partir de el, como no había brie en el menu del café-sito de Woerman brock. Ya sabía que podía pedir un bocadillo especial a una dependiente cualquiera, pero a los pocos momentos de verte, no quería salir del supermercado sin hablar con tigo o hacerte fijarte en migo. Y ahora, nota que conseguí. Sí, te llevé el queso brie y te pregunté si era posible hacerme un bocadillo a partir de el, como no había brie en el menu del café-sito de Woerman brock. Tu respeusta fue positiva y tu voz dulce y cutre. La atención que me prestaban tus ojos me robaron el corazón. Y por eso me encuentro aquí a delante de ti. ¿Por qué has dicho “gracias skattie a tu colega al agradecerla por hacer mi bocadillo? Esa es una expresión que solo un homosexual usaría ¿no? Pues, espero que seas como yo. Y por eso estoy aquí delante de ti.

“¡Si! Fue yo, ¿Y cómo te lo acuerdas?...el brié y sobre todo quedé impresionado por tu servicio agradable y profesional y pues es muy difícil conocer a alguien en terreno laboral y por esto quiero invitarte a salir a tomar un té frío conmigo…” ¡Ahora me doy cuenta que en realidad tus ojos eran marrones! Y en seguida, antes de que mi ansiedad pudiera crecer has destruido mi otra ilusión. Levantaste tu mano mostrando el anillo argente que llevaba tu cuarto dedo y dijiste:

“Es que estoy casado” desvolviéndome la sonrisa que tenía en mi cara para esconder qué tal nervioso estaba. Me echaste una mirada caliente y así no me daba vergüenza de tomar la palabra otra vez.

“Bueno imagino que le dabas alegría a tu mujer ¿no?”

“¡Sí! Y tuvimos nuestro primero hijo este año.”

Increíblemente, no tenía la sensación que la gente estaba pendiente de todo lo que decíamos – continuaban haciendo la compra mientras tus colegas siguen hablando entre ellos detrás de ti. Pero estabas más buen fuera el despacho, no exactamente al lado, pero tampoco dentro, es decir, habías salido del espacio formal para hablar conmigo. Entonces le pregunté

“¿Y no estas ofendido?” Se suponía que entendieras lo a que me estuve refiriendo. “No, al contario, es un piropo”

“Muchas gracias, por haber entendido”

“De nada, y bueno, ofrecemos siempre servicio bueno a nuestros clientes” añadiste.

“Bueno, pienso que ahora conviene que vaya a buscar el brie…”

“Vale, y te podría hacer un bocadillo de brie si quisieras”

No he respondido a tu propuesto ya que estaba dirigiéndome hacia los quesos y no quería decirte “no está bien, no hace falta ya que no me te puedo traer a mi”

Y así pasó mi intento de ligar con alguien que trabaja como cocinero en un supermercado en el barrio más pijo de Windhoek. ¿Quién podía saber que iba a ser tan agradable y majo?” Al salir de la tienda, le estreché la mano a él saludándolo y me desvolvió el saludo. Un historia que se acabó bien, decimos ¿no? Bueno tengo muchas ganas de conocer los chicos por venir.

Gatekeeper Dance Review 2010

Dance is supposed to leave something behind. After a performance is long over, I think back to the images of moving bodies that remain etched in my mind. So it is after more than three weeks since the performance of “Gatekeeper” by “The First Rain Dance Company” that I write my reflections on the performance.

I remember seeing the dance open on the proscenium stage. People at different spaces doing different things. A woman at the fore turns one leg and reaching forward to go around while her back leg tails in the air behind her. A young ballerina? A man sleeps, another woman stomps backwards furiously and comes down to the hit the ground with her fists, while another lets her chest jut to the floor while her back legs goes up like a scorpions tail. All the while a tall man walks around these characters, enclosing them in a rectangle of a sand trail along his path. What is going on? Then one by one, starting with the ballerina, they begin to walk with long legs, plodding each of slowly in front of the other. Very much aerial, they move like a line of slender giraffes to one corner of the stage. I guess this animalistic feelings unites these diverse characters, as well as there black roman soldier style skirts and red ribbon around one leg.

The musical accompaniment to this opening section is a mere array of sounds, clicks, whines and myriad of other articulations of the mouth, by Lize Ehlers. Quite original and unheard of in what was meant to be a dance performance at the National Theatre. That is why I say it seemed the dancers were doing something and I would have loved to see that story develop. Instead, what followed was a series of dances to set musical accompaniments, where it was evident they were dancing. I saw pyramidal formations, of dancers shift through space in hops, skits and slides typical of modern dance. Somehow it evoked the dances of Jerome Robbins in West Side story, and I wonder whether the choreographer of Gate Keeper, Hamisch Olivier, found inspiration in Robbins. The only thing that reminded me of that captivating opening was the way things were often done in series. They would do a movement, like rolling backwards, one by one. And I noticed differences – while some rolled with long legs end in feet as sharp as still, others had softly bent knees and relaxed feet. Why such a difference? Was there a meaning to these differences, or where the dancers just performing it differently? Did some just loose their balance on leg before the others or did Olivier want us to notice the differences in how long they held one foot up their behind the other knee, before coming down? Beats me.

It seems with each piece of music, the dances attempted to show something different. They can follow the music, even if means stomping their heels close to the ground to keep with the time and languidly stepping in a zig-zag pattern that ballerinas would do in lightning speed. There were jumps, some of them high with jagged legs curving behind the back of the dancer. But I have seen people jump higher and break the stillness of the air at the top. In short, I’ve been there, seen that. What is that this company, that aims to integrate contemporary dance with Namibian dance forms, brought for me? In the ending, I see a return of the animalistic sense, where some dances creep away while others walk with those long giraffe like steps. And the last dancer to leave caught my eye as she darted her head from one side to the other, her writs limp and hands held as paws, like some mouse-like creature, before running of stage. Here was something intriguing. I would have like to have seen it developed along the lines of Netherland Dance Theatre’s “Journey to the Stomping Ground” where the dancers mimicked different animal movements inspired by Australian aboriginal dances. I think that would have been interesting for the director of the French Cultural Center, who commissioned Olivier to create “Gatekeeper” as a Namibian contemporary dance work. I doubt he would want to see a replica or mediocre imitation of contemporary dance of Europe or the Americas. After all, the aim of French funding is to develop local art for the purpose of bringing local and world audiences something unique. I did see something unique in that performance and that is what I have chosen to remember.

Endnote:

“Gatekeeper” performed at the National Theatre of Namibia show titled “Fractures” on December 6^th, Windhoek, Namibia

Stephanus Chirche Mid December

“You’re so beautiful” said the Damara man, this black Namibian man, as he smiled at me. “Thank you, you too, “ I replied rather flattered, not knowing what to say. Just a few moments later I gave him a hug and he embraced me, his arms clutching at my torso the way a woman hugs. I could tell that he was of my persuasion. He wore tight blue genes and I could see red, chapped nailpolish on his toes that protruded from his sandals. It was a summer morning that we met, so we both wore sandals. I needed to encourage him, he had walked all this way from Okandja park just to where we stood in KleinWindhoek. He was searching for donations.

“Why do are looking for donations” I yelled behind him as he walked away. He turned and smiled “For what are the donations?” I ask again and he approaches me. I came to understand that it was for his Church “ Paulus //Gowaseb” in Okahandja Park. That place is a shanty town on the edge of Windhoek, I think to myself. And this gay man goes there? I was not certain of whether he was gay. He may have been transgender or perhaps bisexual. But from the way he spoke English and his whole demeanor, he fit the mould a Damara gay – the stereotypical black Namibian man. They needed donations for a trip to Swakopmund on Christmas day – just over one week away. “How do I know this is a real Church and you are not just collecting for yourself?” I interrogated, but with a smile on my face. “That is why I have this cellphone,” he said holding an outdated green screen phone. “You can call this number” he said pointing to a name of a donor – some man with a German sounding name – and a landline number. He tried to explain to me his reasoning, but I could tell from the way he spoke in spurts – starting and stopping – that the problem was English. So I asked him in Afrikaans and he gave me quite believable explanation. I barely understood it, because I bet he used the Afrikaans words for “trutworthiness” and “accountability”, which I do not remember right now.

I cannot even remember this man’s name. He was no older than 25 and he had gone to Church that day in Okahandja park. Thereafter, he promptly walked more fifteen kilometers at least from Okahandja park – on the Western outskirts of our city – to the eastern suburb of Klein Windhoek. Klein Windhoek is like the upper east side of New York city in the sense that people that high flying financially live there. He was not alone, there a girl with him, but she stood a little ahead of us, close to the Nandos take away. “…She has the pen..” he answered when I asked him if I could sign my name on the sponshorship form..” but I told him to not bother with that. What was two dollars anyway? To me there was just change, but I am sure to him they meant much.

“Not even one dollar” he uttered with a touch of desperation, after I said “no” to his request for donations. I was reading my newspaper on the corner of the service station and why did he have to come up to me? Just another one of those skelm beggars. But wait, I see from the sway in his stride and the contour of his legs inside those jeans that this man is moffie, just like me! Moffies don’t cheat! So I decided I to run after him and find out more about these donations he wants.

Earlier that Sunday morning I had just come from Stefanuschirche. I spoke with the woman pastor or priest, as a man from the Church told me earlier. “When she is in the service, she is a priest and I guess when she comes out she is a pastor.” He explained when I asked him about the Church. Does this women actually play two gender roles during and after the service or what exactly did this man mean? Perhaps in German they have two different words to describe a clergy(wo)man during and after the service.

This woman was very much like a priest and I understood what she was doing, even though she recited in German. As she went through the motions of holding up the small white circle bread body of Christ, she uttered German words that filled the room. Her voice was most soothing to listen to. Unusually, she made German so peaceful, the words coming out in mellifluous streams, with zzzs and kks and rrs that were soft and non militarized. So here I am in this Church and I realize that life is beautiful. The room is beautiful in its entire gay splendor. Purple and red smoke intermingled on the walls and before us was an image of Christ on the cross in a blue green hue. Him on the cross on red brown hill, while his spirit like image in warm yellow hues that meld into the warmth of a sunset looks straight at us.The whole room exudes soothing cool colors like the freshness of her German words. German is cold and really refreshing. Who says that just because I had all planned out – to go to Spain or France next year and study in those languages was God’s Will. Oh my Jesus, let your will be done. What if I were to learn German?

I came to the Stefanuschirche in search of a man. I heard that this was an open minded Church from my gay friend Fanni Dorling – a choirmaster – and I believed him. When I entered and found only a handful of people, most of them old women with just one young, albeit, straight couple, I knew I would find my man today. But this Churched was definitely for us queers, just by looking at the people who led the service – three women clad in white and blue priest like attire. Well, might as well stay and see what I can discover.

Writing around Christmas 2010

“Write Pancho, Write” she said as I watched “Anchor Away” on the TCM channel, focused on the scene of a several pianists playing furiously at the same time

I noticed she said write – I remembered then that I had wanted to go and write before the TV grabbed my attention.

“Write? Write what?”

“Write whatever draws you” was the response, but of course we spoke in Bulgarian and my translation is but a mere approximation of the meaning of what she actually said. (pi6i tova koeto te vulnuva, mi kaza tq I neznam koi e na tochnia prevod tuka, mojebi “whatever excites you” ili “impassions you”)

So here I am, typing away. What will I write? I have quite a number of things I penned down in notebooks over the past few months, especially during my trip to the North of Namibia the last two weeks. But I think I will start by writing my story of seeking a man at a local (or actually quite distant) grocery store and the outcome. But in Spanish.

Perhaps one of you can translate it.

Or I will write about the suicide that happened in my neighborhood. On my street, on a house on the same side as ours. LIBRA. In large black capital letters was the first thing they showed on the news after reporting on the suicide. That was the street sign on the corner of our street. Then they showed the wide open street, with our house on the left, before they moved to show the house where it occurred. Yup, surburbia. Urban decay.

And this happened just two days before Christmas day! Tomorrow, I will bake a cake and bring it to the like a good neighbor should. That is what good neighbors do. So I will omit my mistake of going Christmas caroling just outside their house on Christmas Eve singing “Feliz Navidad” as people started and turned away from inside the yard or just gave me a quick expressionless look as they accompanied friends to their cars. That was I guess a mistake. Nonetheless, a young man came from the house to greet me. He affirmed the importance of what I was doing, but made it clear that people were not going to appreciate it, not now. He was calm and warm. “Yeah she committed suicide” he said quite coldly. Why was he visibly calm? How could he even talk to me? Were I a family member, I would not even be able to face the world.

Tonight they had a real big memorial service. Cars parked outside our house, on the other end of the street, round the bend of Andromeda street and right to the end of Libra Street, where the house is, right up to the dead end – the cul de sac. What does the house being close to a dead end have to do with it? Nothing.

I planned to be terse in this post. I have rather been quite exhaustive.

Yet still brief. Life is what happens to you while you are making plans, John Lennon you were so right.