remembering the tinman, part 1

February 2002, setting the scene

I used to work in a farm in Africa. I don’t want to do a Baroness von Blixen-Finecke impersonation here but I don’t know how to tell this story without telling you about where it all started.


Zebediela is a citrus plantation in the Limpopo about 400 kilometres north of Johannesburg. Unlike the city of gold, though, Zebediela looks as if apartheid is not yet over even when the whole world celebrated its demise more than 10 years ago. While it used to be a booming citrus plantation boasting to be the biggest in the whole world, the whole community seems to be living in the quagmire of poverty, ignorance, disease and disempowerment.

To be truly accurate, there have been some changes. Black civil servants have replaced the white management a few months before I arrived. Still, the life of plantation workers seems to be in a time warp. The workers receive the same wages they used to receive in 1994 before the democratic elections. Extended families averaging in 7 people have to live in small dilapidated mud rondavels about 3 meters in diameter. TB, HIV&AIDS and skin diseases plague the community. They still address white people “Morena” – meaning Lord. Unfortunately that includes me. They talk to me in hushed scared tones refusing eye contact.

Having spent a good part of my youth as a student activist, the plantation should be ripe for what we used to call a revolutionary situation. It’s jarring to realize that sadly, for the people of Zebediela, the revolution passed them by.

I went to Zebediela as a volunteer to help uplift the lives of the people in the plantation. For somebody who has worked in the non-government sector demonstrating rural development models for more than a decade I believed no community should be too wretched as to not benefit from organized efforts.

I was naïve.

This shouldn’t be so bad. The opportunity of working in Africa alone is a chance of a lifetime. There were times that I still held my breath at the view of the majestic expanse of the Limpopo mountain ranges as I walk on my way to work. The myriad songs of birds wake me up every morning as sunlight pierces through the curtains of my bedroom window. Monkeys, snakes and other forms of exotic wildlife nonchalantly cross the street almost oblivious of my presence. And yes, the beauty of the sheltering African sky at sunset cannot be captured in words.


After six months of failed attempts to get the management and the workers interested in organizing efforts, the mountains started to look like prison walls. The sunlight is scorching. The birds emit cacophonic mockery of heralding another futile day. The wildlife once enchanting seems ominous, deadly. And the sunset is just another reminder of the days still to end without the comfort of home. I wanted to make friends, but nobody would even look me in the eye.

A fat, utterly disgusting Afrikaner told me once over dinner in a rare moment of social life that Africa was not for sissies. I was dumbfounded with outrage the first time I heard it. After 6 months in the plantation though I’m thinking - fuck, yeah, maybe he’s right.

I was feeling this way when this story started.



February 2002, the morning after

I woke up with a start feeling something has definitely gone wrong. A hairy muscular arm was resting comfortably around my waist. Slowly, I turned around and watched the man sleeping peacefully beside me. I smiled to myself remembering our frantic and sweaty fucking last night. I search for a sense of guilt about having cheated on E to whom I swore fidelity. My smile broadened when I found none.

I looked around and looked in amazement at our clothes strewn all over the bedroom. So uncharacteristic of the usual order and bareness. Our pants looked good together entwined on the floor.

My eyes were drawn back by his gruff handsome face trying to figure out how I got into this situation when he shifted, eyelids fluttering as if sensing and being brought back to wakeful consciousness by my wonder.

"What time is it?" he asked with a smile, his voice thick from sleep. His eyelids still heavy.

"It's 7 o'clock. Almost time for you to go," I whispered softly.

"Hmm." he moaned snuggling closer. I felt his hardness against my stomach. I was still looking at him when he suddenly opened his eyes wide, smiled and kissed me on the mouth. "Good morning."

I mumbled a similar greeting. I wriggled out of his embrace, stood up, reached for and started putting on my pants. All the while I was uneasily aware of being watched by a pair of sleepy eyes. I was never the one to know what to say the morning after. The harsh daylight seems to banish all the intimacies forged in the dark.

"Would you like to have breakfast before you go?" I asked before leaving the room on my way to the toilet.

"Nah. Tea will be nice, though." He said, looking around the room for his clothes. He found his gray boxers, reached for it and put it on while still in bed.

"How do you take your tea?" I asked, my legs shifting. I really need to go to the toilet.

"No sugar with a little milk. Just a little," I vaguely saw him making a gesture with his thumb and forefinger as I hurried to the toilet. There, I thought as I watched the golden arch of my piss making its way to the toilet bowl noisily, I now know how he takes his tea in the morning. I can claim I did not sleep with a person I hardly know. Somehow that gave me a deep sense of satisfaction.

Losing Rings

what are the things that bind us? it’s a question that all of us have asked ourselves at some point in our lives. at the beginning of this year 3 friends, [G], id and kiel decided to connect their blogs, in a way that a blogroll cannot. they decided to write about something around this very theme and let another introduce the post from a sympathetic perspective. to make things challenging, the question must be answered around a specific piece of jewellery: the ring. this is mine. for the full picture, take time to read [G] and id’s.

Introduction by [G].

If his dick was detachable, he must have lost it several times. Not that he doesn’t value that part of him; he was just simply not an ideal keeper of valuable things. Material things, that is.

Good thing it was just a ring that he misplaced several times. But then again, they were not just simple jewelleries consisting of circlets of precious metal. They were rings that were given by his life partner as a sign of being inside the same circle that binds them as a couple.

Not that he doesn’t value whatever those rings signify. He does, believe me. He was not just a keeper of materials things. But he does value the quintessence of the ring more than anything in his life.



ever since i can remember, i was good at losing things.

on different occasions, i have lost my passport, a number of IDs, mobile phones, monies, my dog and a car (alright, this one was stolen, but it was lost to me no less). heck, i even lost my way a number of times.

i always tell myself, this does not make me a bad person. i just don’t need to hold on to something as much as the next guy. when i lost my way, i somehow find another path to get me where i should go. in the face of loss, self-preservation kicks in, i let go.

when i say i was good at losing things. i actually meant i was good about losing things.

it’s one of those quirky things my family and friends love and hate about me.

but then i also lost 4 rings jp gave me as a sign of our love and commitment.

again that doesn’t make me a bad person, per se. just a lousy boyfriend.

last year i lost the giver of the rings twice. just when i thought i lost him for good, jp came back to me with another ring. this time it’s a chunky silver number with elephant hair weaved across, put in place by transparent resin. (did you know that animal behaviour studies show that an elephant never forgets?)


when he gave it to me, my terror at the prospect of another possible loss must have been apparent because he gave me this look. to me it was a look that said, ‘it’s OK, i know you get the message even if you lose it.’ i think it was a look that can otherwise be described as, well, love.

here’s the inevitable question:

will i be a good boyfriend this time and manage to keep this ring? or lose it like the 4 others before it and stay true to my nature of being good at losing things?

i can run rings around the question. but let’s face it. despite my most resolute attempts to keep it, chances are i’ll probably lose it again.

but this ring: it’s more than a piece of jewellery. it’s more than micro-handcuffs disguised as ornament detaining me to a relationship. it’s more than metal and animal parts and resin. i may lose the ring, but i will never lose what it stands for. nor forget the look on his face when he gave it to me.

for the first time, i think i need to hold on to this. if i can be true to myself, i just may learn to be good at losing being good at losing.