There are countless things to prepare and organize for our first extended trip to Kahkabila, so postings have been set to the backburner. Items to collect and pack so far include: rubber boots, solar panels, buckets of dried goods and spices and oatmeal, teaching materials, LED flashlights and soldering equipment, machete, medical kit, toolbox, raingear, extra diesel, turbine monitoring equipment, rehydration salts, chlorine, and spare buckets.
In the meanwhile, Ken has been trading off rum-monitoring duties for occasionally getting some writing done in the evenings, and (as a few of you have already heard) recently got a short short piece of fiction accepted to an online journal, elimae. It will be posted around the 15th of next month. Given time restraints, the contraints of flash fiction have proven useful.
Below is something that hasn´t been published (an earlier attempt at the short-short form) and that, having been posted here, discounts it from getting published elsewhere and allows him to let it rest appropriately. Ali will post pictures from over the weekend (including a Nica friend´s birthday festivities) over the next few days, to maintain a semblance of balance.
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21 June, 2006
by K. M. Weaver
Only once have I fully experienced irony expressed in another language. The road heading to Marrakech could have gone elsewhere, past melon vendors, past pushcarts (past children riding horseback, pulperias, past Louisiana lean-tos…), seated beside her while she thumbed a book: "The Art of Listening." We paused at a roadside stand, where the pepper sauce could have sterilized the water and an attendant stood waiting with her bucket to wash away one's shit. GPS and cameras: hidden in the trunk. After they'd gone in, I was approached outside by an old man grinning widely and toothless, speaking only his native tongue. I spoke none. Most things here couldn't be understood with a thousand years. But, he continued: our shoes know the way, everything suggests that woman's bucket will keep her employed, and behind you there is absolutely nothing to fear.
...
In the meanwhile, Ken has been trading off rum-monitoring duties for occasionally getting some writing done in the evenings, and (as a few of you have already heard) recently got a short short piece of fiction accepted to an online journal, elimae. It will be posted around the 15th of next month. Given time restraints, the contraints of flash fiction have proven useful.
Below is something that hasn´t been published (an earlier attempt at the short-short form) and that, having been posted here, discounts it from getting published elsewhere and allows him to let it rest appropriately. Ali will post pictures from over the weekend (including a Nica friend´s birthday festivities) over the next few days, to maintain a semblance of balance.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
21 June, 2006
by K. M. Weaver
Only once have I fully experienced irony expressed in another language. The road heading to Marrakech could have gone elsewhere, past melon vendors, past pushcarts (past children riding horseback, pulperias, past Louisiana lean-tos…), seated beside her while she thumbed a book: "The Art of Listening." We paused at a roadside stand, where the pepper sauce could have sterilized the water and an attendant stood waiting with her bucket to wash away one's shit. GPS and cameras: hidden in the trunk. After they'd gone in, I was approached outside by an old man grinning widely and toothless, speaking only his native tongue. I spoke none. Most things here couldn't be understood with a thousand years. But, he continued: our shoes know the way, everything suggests that woman's bucket will keep her employed, and behind you there is absolutely nothing to fear.
...
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