S P R I N G 2 0 1 2 / / P A G E 1

spring 2012

S P R I N G 2 0 1 2 / / P A G E 2

Before deciding you hate me,BEST YOU GO FOR A

Need to think of a good standfirst to go here. Something

about KERRI SACKVILLE finding out that all hate mail is

not the same and something something something that is

much better than I can come up with because my brain just

isn’t working tonight. And I am not good at this stuff anyway.

S P R I N G 2 0 1 2 / / P A G E 3

THE OTHER DAY I

received some hate mail.

Now, this was unusual

for me. I don’t usually

receive hate mail, nor do I

get trolled. As a writer, I’m

just not that controversial.

On the scale of zero to

Alan Jones, I rate about

a two. I write funny

anecdotes about my kids,

the occasional story about

grief, and, more recently,

a book about my struggles

with anxiety. Not really the

stuff of shock and outrage.

Still, the other day, there

it was in my inbox. Amongst

the latest deals from Ouffer,

blog comment notifications,

feedback from readers and

correspondence from my

editors was a bitter rant from

an angry man named Ray*.

Ray, apparently, was not a

great fan of my work.

“I picked up a copy of your

book When My Husband

Does The Dishes,” he wrote,

“and when I read about your

issues I wanted to vomit.”

Vomit? Really? I felt my

shackles rising.

“I understand that in your

life the worst drama that

you may have experienced is

wearing the wrong dress out to

dinner with your husband...”

(oh please, I thought, T and

I haven’t been out to dinner

alone in months) “but you are

so completely out of touch

with reality.”

Huh? Was he kidding? Me,

out of touch with reality? Me,

who writes about the gritty

truth of modern life? Okay,

now I was furious. My fingers

hovered over the delete key.

But then, as I glanced back

over the text, I caught the

words ‘lost everything’ and I

continued on reading.

Ray, as it turned out, had

picked up my book at one of

the country motels he visited.

He was a travelling salesman,

having lost his business

in the global financial

crisis. His wife had

suffered from extreme

depression, one of his

three kids had a chronic

illness, the bank had

foreclosed on his home,

and he’d been deserted

by many of his friends.

“Have you ever known

what it’s like to eat at

quality restaurants one

year and be forced to go

to St Vincents to feed

your family the next?” he

had written.

And just like that, my anger

disappeared.

I wrote back to Ray,

expressing my sympathy for

his plight, because I really

did feel for him. The guy had

suffered terrible misfortune,

and was obviously in pain.

However, I did correct a

couple of his misconceptions

about me. Partly, I knew,

this was because I still felt

the irrational need to defend

myself to a complete stranger.

Partly, however, I genuinely

felt that it would help him. I

honestly believe that everyone

can be helped by knowing the

truth about other people.

*names have been changed

I honestly believe that everyone can be helped by knowing the truth about other people.

S P R I N G 2 0 1 2 / / P A G E 4

No, I told Ray, I’ve never

had to seek help from

St Vincents, and yes, I

acknowledged, my first

book was light and fun.

But he needed to know that

my life certainly wasn’t.

I’ve known as much pain

and sadness and despair

as any other person. I lost

my sister - my only sibling

- when she was just in

her thirties. I have a child

who, for many years, had

special needs. I have two

medical conditions I don’t

speak about in public, and

an anxiety disorder that I

frequently do.

My marriage has been

challenging. Finances are

often tight. And there are days

when I’ve woken up in the

morning and thought, how

the hell am I going to make it

through till bedtime?”

I needed Ray to know what I

think everybody should know

- that no-one’s life is perfect.

Of course, some people’s lives

seem far easier than others’,

and to a certain extent they

really are. I could never, for

example, compare my own

experiences of suffering to

that of my Jewish relatives

murdered in the Holocaust.

Furthermore, no matter how

limited my weekly budget can

get, I will be rich compared to

the hundreds of thousands of

people starving in the Sudan.

But ultimately, there is

not one person alive whose

life will be untouched by

hardship. They may look

from the outside like they are

living a perfect life, but walk

in their shoes for a year and

everything will look different.

You will see the childhood

abuse that they hide from the

world, or the physical

pain, or the cloud of

depression. You’ll see

the marital problems,

or the problem child,

or the extreme anxiety,

or the dependence on

alcohol.

And if they haven’t

yet been untouched by

misfortune, they will be

sometime in the future.

No-one gets to old age

without their share

of tragedy, and you

never, ever know what’s

around the corner.

I used to resent people who

seemed to be living perfect

lives. There was a girl, Talia,

whom I envied passionately

in high school. She was

gorgeous, bright, popular,

came from an extremely

wealthy family, dressed in all

the right clothes, and - worst

of all - was going out with

the boy I’d had a crush on for

three years. She seemed to

be leading a charmed life. I

would have done anything to

change places with her.

Talia didn’t marry my

childhood crush, but she did

They may look from the outside like they are living a perfect life, but walk in their shoes for a year and everything will look different.

get married, and ended up

having three kids. Two of her

kids are profoundly disabled

- the kind of disabled that all

the money in the world, all the

brains, all the fortune, can’t fix

in any way. It is desperately

sad, and it is a huge lesson for

me. There is no such thing as

perfect. There is no such thing

as charmed.

I wanted Ray to know

this. I want everyone to

know this. There is no such

thing as perfect. There is

no such thing as a life free

of suffering. Of course, that

doesn’t mean that life isn’t

wonderful, because it is. And

it doesn’t mean that we have

to constantly brace ourselves

for tragedy, because for most

of us, there is boundless

potential for happiness. I just

feel it is incredibly helpful to

understand that we are not

alone in our challenges. After

all, it’s hard enough struggling

through your own dark times

without believing the rest of

the world is dancing in the

sunshine.

Because no-one dances in

perpetual sunshine. And if

they appear to be, I promise

you, you’re just not looking

hard enough.

Need to think of a good standfirst to go here. Something

related to this story by BIANCA WORDLEY about her

adventures in the Sahara and Morocco and you know

what I am talking about and it is clear that I am just waf-

fling on now to fill this space.

S P R I N G 2 0 1 2 / / P A G E 7

I’D BEEN OUT dancing

when I was mugged in

Barcelona. I have vivid

memories of the moment.

The men pushing me back

against the bench, their

hands grabbing my neck,

the taste of bile in my

throat, my screams. I think

of the feeling of survival

and how travel from that

night was forever peppered with fear. I packed

that fear with me in my carry-on luggage and

took it with me around the world.

I took it with me across on the ferry to Morocco;

a place that always fills my thoughts when I’m

on yet another micro-managed family holiday.

It reminds of when travel made me feel alive.

While I traveled with my now husband, I

wore a $10 “fake” engagement ring to imply

“possession” in an attempt to avert the prying

eyes of the men who filled the streets and coffee

shops; the men who sat at crowded tables

drinking mint tea and smoking apple-flavoured

tobacco from water pipes.

The country heaved with men. Smells of

sweat, mixed with those of fresh bread, olives

and spices. Smells of dates drying in the sun

and the tagines they sweetened wafted from

doorways. The women were hidden, behind

veils, in kitchens and offices.

It was the men and

children who trailed

us though the twisting

alleys in the souks, in

an attempt to sell us

carpets. On a drive to

Essaouira, locals had

placed goats in trees and

were charging people to

take tourist snaps of the

docile creatures standing

in the branches. And children tried to thrust

glitter-sprayed rocks through our car window.

Much like travelling with your kids, in Morocco

you were seldom left alone to soak up the

atmosphere.

We hired the smallest two-door Toyota car

and smugly insisted we could drive it through

the sand dunes to the tip of the Sahara, to the

tiny town of Merzouga, en route to Erg Chebbi.

We were armed with a Lonely Planet guide with

directions that relied on pure hope. They read

something like: “Follow the track, making sure

the stobie poles are to your left, and when the

poles end then turn left and follow the sand

tracks until you reach the town.” Or in other

words, just drive until something resembling a

hotel turns up.

To look out at stretches of vast nothingness

was a welcome relief. Finally, we were alone.

Nobody wanted anything from us. We had time

The country heaved with men. Smells of sweat, mixed with those of fresh bread, olives and spices.

S P R I N G 2 0 1 2 / / P A G E 8

to soak in the vistas without being hassled or

stared at. We laughed as we drove through

the sandy landscape. We questioned whether

perhaps we should have hired a more capable

car. We were determined to make it.

And then it happened. We got bogged. We

tried digging away the sand from the tyres,

but still they’d spin without traction. The sun

bore down on us. And as we started to give up

hope, a man emerged from a nearby bush. I

was immediately anxious. I was immediately

fearful of being robbed again. Yet, instead of

threatening us, he started to dig. In return, he

asked for a lift to the nearby village, the same one

where we were struggling to get to. He couldn’t

have planned been it better himself. My fear of

being robbed was immediately overturned by

my fear of dying from dehydration or having to

eat my boyfriend.

So, as we drove through the sand with a

djelleba wearing, bearded stranger in the back

seat, we begun to wonder if we’d been had.

And when he directed us to his “cousins” hotel,

we knew we’d been had. Pushing money into

his hand, we drove away leaving him angrily

shouting profanities at us.

We had our already-booked Kasbah to find.

But, after our fourth circuit through the small

town, even the local children had given up

chasing the car and were instead back playing

soccer in the sand. We were lost again and

we’d had enough. We were tired and needed

some respite. In one last ditch effort, we drove

further along the sandy track until like an oasis

in the desert, there stood our hotel, a traditional

Kasbah.

Moments later, our luggage was propped

in the corner of our room. Brightly patterned

pillows piled on the bed, velvet curtains blowing

in the light breeze. The place was bursting with

colour. Our refuge was straight out of a film set.

As the golden hues of sunset spread across

the desert, we wandered past the resting sand-

blown camels and we climbed the sandy hill.

Holding hands we sat and watched light glisten

on the dunes. This was what travel was about -

an adventure, blind faith and sharing your tiny

Toyota with a charlatan.

Sam

DC

ruz /

Shu

tters

tock

.com

gatherTHE WOMEN

Need to think of a good standfirst to go

here. Something related to this story by

LINDY ALEXANDER about this article

that she has written about waffle waffle

trying to fill in this space to give an idea of

what it will look like.

S P R I N G 2 0 1 2 / / P A G E 1 0

IT’S BEEN A month since I arrived. One month

since I was covered in grime and dirt from

our long bumpy journey. I had travelled for

six hours through central Uganda with Nat,

another international volunteer, in a bus that

churned up small squalls of red dust. We had

passed women sitting out the front of mud huts

on the swept earth, shelling peanuts, nudging

hot pans over charcoal stoves and throwing

stones at bold chickens trying to steal the nuts.

By the time we arrived in the tiny village that

was to be home for the next seven months, the

chickens squawking near my feet, the dusty

boxes of soda bottles and the empty yellow jerry

cans were long gone. All had been unloaded at

earlier destinations. We were the last ones on

the bus. As we stepped down onto the warm red

ground a little boy riding an oversized bicycle

saw us and wobbled off the side of the road into

a small gully. He tumbled off his bike with a big

grin and a wave yelling Jambo. Jambo we had

called back.

One month and it already feels like my

previously singular understanding of this place

has broken wide open, finding me right here;

content and still in the heart of Africa.

Most days now before the sun starts to slide

below the horizon, Nat and I walk from our small

brick house, across our yard to a little wooden

table that has pyramids of small tomatoes and

onions balancing. Our neighbour Harriet sells

these few things most afternoons. She lives

on the edge of the trading centre and sits on a

brick step that leads into the front room of her

two-roomed house. As Harriet watches the day

settle into dusk, she hopes her tomatoes will be

sold before night darkens the trading centre. If

she needs to light her lamp the cost of the oil

will steal some of her profits. We ask Harriet

how her day has been and she smiles, just fine,

she says. Alon, her eldest son whose dimples

bracket a cheeky grin peers at us from inside the

house. We call to him but his head quickly jerks

back from the door. One eye slowly reappears to

see whether we are still there. He is shy, Harriet

says.

His reaction has been typical of the children

in the village, startled at our pale skin, our

difference. However, as the weeks have passed

some of the children have been unable to contain

Hector Conesa / Shutterstock.com

S P R I N G 2 0 1 2 / / P A G E 1 1

their curiosity and as we pass their huts, we

can hear their excited yells to each other. Soon

enough their round-up calls bring other children

out of their homes and most days we have a ready

group of admirers trailing

us on our walks. These

are the children who are

not yet brave enough to

visit our home, but in a

crowd they are confident

and cheeky. Some try to

communicate with us.

They run alongside us on

the road’s embankment

trying to impress with a

few rote English phrases

gleaned from older

siblings. They shout, How

are you Madam, Give

me money Madam and

the ever hopeful plea for

lollies; Sweetie, Madam,

Sweetie. If Nat or I break our stride to go over to

them, they shriek and scatter. Alon is also at the

wide-eyed stage, inquisitive but not enough to

risk actual contact with us. His eyes are intent

watching from behind the door.

As we give Harriet money for one of the piles

of tomatoes, she asks how we are enjoying

living in the village and when we tell her that

the welcome has been quite overwhelming, her

shoulders lift as if to say, well, this is Uganda.

Nat goes on to say that we are hoping to gather

some of the women together, to see if we can

do something for and with them in the next

few months. I look over

at Harriet and ask her

what she thinks.

At first she is unsure

what we mean. Nat

explains that we have

the time and energy to

dedicate to looking at the

women in the village and

supporting them if they

wanted specific things.

I cut in, like HIV/AIDS

testing, information

about their health and

their children’s health,

a sort of support group.

Harriet is nodding

slowly as we talk. Her

eyes are sparkling. She tells us she thinks the

women will be keen to come, that some of them

have been talking for some time about finding

a way to come together and support each other.

But, Harriet goes on to say; some of their

husbands may not think it is such a good idea.

They are suspicious of you, she tells us. She

goes into her house to look for change. Nat and

I look at each other but are silent. When Harriet

They think you are complicated and that you are going to complicate their lives. They are afraid.

S P R I N G 2 0 1 2 / / P A G E 1 2

comes out she says, these men

here, they are worried what

you will tell their wives and

their daughters. They think

you are complicated and that

you are going to complicate

their lives. They are afraid.

She hands us our change and

puts the tomatoes in a small

clear plastic bag.

I am puzzled. I think about

what the men have seen of

us so far. Although we dress

modestly in the village,

ensuring that our shoulders

are covered and our knees

do not see the light of day,

perhaps some of the local

men have seen us returning

from Jinja in clothes that only

they wear; trousers. It is as if

the division of our two legs

by a thin strip of fabric also

signifies the divide between

‘their’ women, and us.

It is also traditional for

females here in the Musoga

region to show respect by

touching both knees to the

ground. We greet everyone

eye-to-eye and do not kneel

when addressing the men as do

their wives, sisters, daughters,

mothers. I have heard that

some international volunteers

have followed tradition and

kneel when addressing males.

But my discomfort extends in

all directions. Since arriving

in the village I have seen the

full age range of women kneel

and greet men. It does not

matter that they may have

a jerry can full of sloshing

water balanced on their head

and baby on their back, nor if

they are old enough to be the

mother of all those they greet,

they must show deference to

even those they have born. As

soon as young girls find their

feet, they are pressured from

behind the knees to kneel.

I am terribly uneasy with a

culture and tradition that

manages to pay one person

so much respect and pays the

other so little. And so I don’t

kneel.

But surely that doesn’t make

S P R I N G 2 0 1 2 / / P A G E 1 3

us complicated? The men

have seen that Nat and I have

gadgets; cameras, phones,

drivers’ licences, bank cards,

and the means to make our

way in the world without

relying on what we grow. We

are mobile and not bound to

the land and seasons as they

are.

Perhaps the complication

that Harriet refers to comes

firstly from being strangers in

the village, then from being

white and then lastly because

we are women who are both

strange and white. After male

and female, we seem to be a

sort of third sex. We are people

who don’t have a history,

tradition or a role within the

village. Our difference makes

us unpredictable and no one

knows quite what to make of

us yet. Especially the men.

I take the bag of tomatoes

from Harriet, and say, the

men don’t need to be afraid,

Harriet, we are simple. And

so is what we want, she replies

with a sad smile. She looks at

our faces, and leans on the

table, her palms flat. She can

see that we are disappointed

by what she has said. Don’t

worry; she says as she dusts

off her hands, I will come. A

little voice flickers from the

darkness behind her. And I

will come, echoes Alon.

Our first supportive male.

I am terribly uneasy with a culture and tradition that manages to pay one person so much respect and pays the other so little. And so I don’t kneel.