It's in the dead of summer here, clear
skies stained watercolour blue, the days are long and full, aches and
pains have receded from the chill of winter, it's the time to relax,
slumber away the days, have a picnic, go to Whole Foods and scrape
clean the scrumptious salad bar. I purr like a cat at the very
thought of summer, it's a kind season, and I used to wonder why it
couldn't last forever.
What I remember most about summers past
is ice cream and watermelons, but I'm in a part of Africa where summers aren't like I remember back home---good ice cream
doesn't exist, there are no salad bars, and not only are the
watermelons grown here stringy and pit ridden, they are way to
heavy to carry back on a hot kombie, then lugging it back and stumbling to my house
with people gawking that I have something edible to eat. So what to
do, I decided to grow my own watermelons thinking they would do so
nicely here in the heat, and I tried to grow other summer veggies
like zucchini. I honestly thought that I didn't have a bad
relationship with plants, but these assholes here seem to hate
me---we just aren't compatible. In fact, I helped several neighbors
start a garden, shared my organic seeds from home, and I wonder why,
100 feet away from me, their crops weren't killed by the lightening
storms or intense heat of summer as mine were, and why one woman comes to my door
holding a gigantic, beautiful, mouth watering zucchini, saying “now
what.” I wanted to grab the thing away from her, telling her it
was to big to eat, and she better give it to me now before I kill
her.
Longing for something edible, I take the long trek to Gabs in
hopes of getting some decent fruits and veggies, even if they aren't
organic, and some good juice to quench my thirst in the sweltering African
heat. I noticed in the past few months I finally found something that
says 100% Orange Juice---alright, I'm in big business now. I check
the labels, it's all good, I buy, I'm happy. The next time I go to
Gabs, the label on my 100% OJ changed a little---now it's 100% OJ but
with mixtures of pear, grape, and “other fruits.” Hmmm, I wonder
what those other fruits can be? But at least the labels say no
preservatives, no added anything bad for you. I'm good with
this---but then I went this past week, and I see that the label changed
yet again, and I'm starting to have one of those incidences that have
given me personal pause for thought. I swear, whoever put these
labels on are really trying to spoil all my fun. Why can't I just
get a really cool African Basket and put farmers market produce in it
and be happy.
Ok, so even though my dopamine receptors are off now because I don't really have my 100% OJ, maybe I'm not taking the time to celebrate what is here. It's not exactly like I'm some the classic middle class, menopausal woman in my expensive bohemian cardigan clutching wine at 3pm. Labels schmabels---who cares, it just causes problems anyway when I bring food into my village. People here aren't starved like in some parts of Africa, but they are hungry, they don't like having to eat porridge all the time, or having to run all around the yard chasing a skinny chicken just to get a little protein. So I sit here, living on the level of the locals with my reconstituted OJ, or whatever it is I'm drinking, and thanking my lucky stars that I even have the opportunity to drink this junk on this amazing journey called the Peace Corps.
No comments:
Post a Comment