Mareijke's Courage Chapter 1

He either fears his fate too much,

Or his deserts are small,

That puts it not unto the touch

To win or lose it all …

James Graham, Marquis of Montrose

Standing on the hot sand sheets of the Sahara, Mareijke silently acquainted herself with the parched personality of the forbidding desert.  The sand-laden wind burned her soft skin as she scanned the dunes in front of her. She knew she could stand there for days with the ever-migrating landscape staring back at her, always a foreigner.

The caravaneers with whom she was travelling were used to the harshness of the Sahara. Unlike them, Mareijke was sensitive to the dry land and wind-blown sand. Her breath burned in her throat. Who could possibly live in the Sahara for a lifetime, she wondered, as she looked at the barren string of undulating dunes?

Watching the camels lope past on their gangling legs, Mareijke longed for the cool Atlantic breeze in Agadir. The thermometer had burned at 54 degrees Celsius on their arrival at the oasis, but now the sun was setting on amber and pink dunes and her blistering day was finally coming to an end.  Her reverence for the open space that stretched out all around her strengthened her appreciation for water, a scarce and frail resource for the denizens of the arid and mystifying Sahara.

The isolated oasis itself was nothing like any picture-book impressions she had ever seen. Humbly keeping its ground beneath the tormenting sun, it lay camouflaged against the sand-tolerant land. Stripped of all dignity, the oasis was vulnerable and unprotected from the ravages of the desert.

Other than the few miserly scattered date palms to warrant shade and dwarf variants squatting nearby, there was a mud-dried house with thick walls.

“Ta’alay ma’ee,” an elderly woman said, beckoning Mareijke to follow her.

She took Mareijke inside the house. Entering the cool interior, Mareijke was glad to escape the glare and heat of the day. Even though water was scant, she was able to wash off the sand that had stung her skin. Her reddened green eyes hurt, even when she closed them.

With night and temperatures falling fast, Mareijke found life tolerable again. The greatest relief was that the humming fly-swarms had all gone off to rest. Leaving the house reluctantly, she joined her travelling companions in a nomad camelhair-dining tent. She sat down on a beautifully woven rug and accepted the warm bowl of soup given to her by the elderly woman. She ate slowly. There were flour-cakes dipped in a fruity olive oil, couscous, meat, vegetables, bread and fruit. It was a colourful array of dishes, but with drained energy Mareijke had no desire to move and even less to eat.

After dinner, they left the carpeted tent to sit beneath the fresh and clear night dome. Mareijke looked at the distant deckle-edged mountains painted black against the fiery canvas of sky, while the melancholic cry of a lone fox lingered eerily in the silence pervading the air. Too exhausted to enjoy the company of the caravaneers on her first night in the desert bivouac, she quietly bade them goodnight and crawled into her tent to find solace in sleep. Mareijke fell asleep almost immediately. Not even the laughter and intriguing conversation of the caravaneers could keep her curious mind awake.

The night was long and even though she had hoped to wake before dawn to enjoy some new morning air before the intense heat of the day stumbled in, consciousness had evaded her. By the time Mareijke opened her eyes, the heat-evoked day was upon her quite unexpectedly and her skin already damp with perspiration.

It would have been more desirable if they had left the oasis before the sun had made its eastern ascension on the whitened horizon, but Mareijke’s travel guide had postponed their travels so that she could get all the rest she so desperately needed.

Hesitant and despondent, Mareijke listened to the activities outside her tent. Preparations were underway for their departure. She sat up and dressed in the small confined space. Like most of the native women, she covered much of her body puritanically with fine woollen clothing.

She emerged from the tent with strained eyes. The glaring day came as no surprise; there was sand everywhere. Mareijke had a sudden burning desire to take refuge beneath the surface of the sand, anything to escape the omnipresent blinding light.

Had the morning occurred during any other period in time, Mareijke may have found herself marvelling at the vast openness that spread out in front of her. Unfortunately, life had dealt her a tragic blow and her suffering now blinded her to the beauty of the desert.

“Good morning,” her handsome travel guide greeted affably. “You have rested well, but we must eat and leave before we swelter in the sun.”

“How much farther do we have to travel?” she asked, inwardly berating herself for her restless desire to end the jaded journey.

“It’s not that far, but we travel slowly.”

Less enthralled to hear that they would be crawling at tortoise pace across the foreboding sand, Mareijke swallowed her dismal apprehensions. She had barely arrived in Morocco and was already living the life of a sloth, dragging herself from one heat-impaired moment to the next.

Fortunately, the wet rest stop had made it possible for her to regain some of her sapped strength. Her parched throat welcomed the cool liquid that tumbled gently into her empty stomach. She had no idea what she was drinking, but the cool sweetness quenched her daunted nerves.

After breakfast, the ineluctable journey started again. The heavily loaded camels got up onto their spindly legs, whining and moaning very loudly. Mounted on one of the camels, which was part of the camel-train south, Mareijke watched her travel guide lead her away from the oasis. He had warned her that travelling across the wide-open plains would be dangerous. Yet, the perilous journey had to take place.

As the sun mercilessly scorched her view, Mareijke took a mental journey back to the early hours of that morning when her flight had departed from Cape Town.

It was a twelve-hour flight to London. Mareijke hated every minute of it. Throughout her life, she had never liked confinement. She had liked neither sitting inert nor waiting. Being stuck in the aircraft with its limitations made the flight an indolent tumour in her mind. The plane seemingly made little advancement across the stretch of sky and her thoughts charged up and down the aisles of her exhausted mind like little raging bulls in a china shop, shattering all optimism as far as they went.

The painless minutes sat on the face of her watch, lethargic like most of the passengers. The less Mareijke wanted to think, the more she was bound to thought. Her deep concerns about the Moroccan assignment became constant companions throughout the flight. It was the uncomfortable idea of travelling alone across the vast and isolated territory with an assigned travelling guide that weighed her down the most. Mareijke based her fears on her knowledge of Arabian men who dominated their women with disrespect. She knew the travelling guide was neither Arabian nor Moroccan. Yet, the thought of travelling with the stranger who had spent a lifetime in the company of these perceptions – against equality and women – was very discouraging.

She arrived at Heathrow Airport, pleased to find herself on hitch-free flight schedules to Casablanca and Agadir. Mareijke disembarked from the airplane at the Al Massira Airport feeling depleted and amort. The long procedure of entering the foreign country prolonged her meeting the travel guide, but after entering the terminal in Agadir, Mareijke’s mental metamorphosis became clear when she saw Béch Rousseau for the very first time.

Mareijke realized that he was nothing like she had expected. She found herself mesmerized by the stalwart man who stood against the rail in pensive mood. His white shirt enhanced his dark brown wind-tussled hair and bronze tan.

Béch stepped forward and inquired, “Mareijke van Staalduinen?”

“Yes,” she replied and wondered for the first time what impression her own dishevelled appearance was making upon the young man. She was comforted by his warm disposition: the glimmer in his light brown eyes, and his suave and cultivated voice. Her self-inflicted fears diminished within seconds, leaving her less reluctant to endure what lay ahead.

“Welcome to Morocco,” he said warmly. “I’ve booked a room for you at one of the hotels here in Agadir.”

“No!” she exclaimed imperiously.

Almost immediately she was embarrassed by her injunction, but her embarrassment evaporated quickly when an amused expression flickered subtly on Béch’s face. Mareijke was infuriated by it. Exhaustion was making her emotions mercurial and she realized she was in danger of exposing her vulnerability.

“You need to rest. The journey will be difficult and …”

“We must leave immediately,” she interrupted.

Their eyes locked. She was convinced that there would be a play for power, but Béch stepped back.

“I will see what I can arrange.”

For a moment, Mareijke was disappointed. She expected him to flout her orders and was prepared to take him on, but he gave in so easily. She watched him as he walked away. There was an air of supremacy in the way he walked. She continued to watch him until he disappeared from view.  Having no strength to dwell on his subtle act of surrender, Mareijke walked towards the bathroom to refresh and again, like so many times before, considered her father’s testament.  

Dawid van Staalduinen had instructed Mareijke, his only child, to travel to Morocco to retrieve three specific artifacts he had left behind the year of her birth. She had to return to Cape Town with the artifacts in order to receive her inheritance. Through the written testament, Dawid had assigned Béch Rousseau to assist her in her travels across the desert. After reading the testament to her, the executor of her father’s estate had arranged the entire journey. 

Her father had always spoken about his adventures in Morocco. The Arabs had brought Islam to Africa many centuries ago and for Dawid and some archaeology students from Stellenbosch, it had been a challenge to visit Morocco and preach the evangelistic message. It was on their travels through Casablanca at the start of the nineteen-eighties that Dawid had met Béch’s father, Armand Rousseau.

Armand had been working on an archaeological research programme at the time. Upon learning that the young missionaries were archaeologists, he had invited them to join him in his travels to the more remote areas around Casablanca. The young archaeologists had worked quite eagerly with Armand on his project, while Dawid preferred to spend his time preaching to the nomads. Béch spent his early childhood years growing up around the archaeological sites where his father and Dawid had worked.

Béch had turned six years old when Dawid van Staalduinen returned to South Africa to take over a family export business. Mareijke was born a year later and raised in Cape Town. While Dawid had spoken of Béch Rousseau many times, she had never met him. His visits to South Africa were rare, mostly because her father had preferred to do all the travelling.

Her father trusted Béch implicitly and had assigned him the mission because he knew Béch would keep Mareijke safe. But to her, he remained a stranger. With this thought hanging in her mind, she slowly returned to the air terminal. And there he was, waiting for her – as if he had never left.

 “Well?” she prompted.

“I have made several enquiries,” Béch informed her. “There’s a helicopter pilot here at the airport that may be able to help us. Would you like to wait here while I speak to him?”

“No,” she said quickly and followed him closely to where the pilot was waiting.

The French communication that took place between the two men was as incomprehensible to her as her father’s written testament. She didn’t understand why her father wanted her to personally retrieve the artifacts. He knew how she felt about travelling and his business. She didn’t know why having the artifacts would qualify her to inherit the business.  It would have been so much easier just to give the artifacts to Béch. Surely he would be more interested in them.

Mareijke watched the pilot intensely and soon discovered that he was not particularly well-disposed towards helping them. The pilot’s phone rang and he excused himself. She continued to watch him. The telephone conversation appeared to be very argumentative and the pilot’s unhappiness was evident, but then quite unexpectedly he looked at her. He listened, agreed to something and ended the call. She felt extremely uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny. He returned to Béch and agreed to take them to the designated oasis in the desert.

Béch’s foresight had made him send his caravaneers on the long trip to the oasis a few days prior to Mareijke’s arrival. He knew exactly what Dawid’s testament stipulated, which required them to make the journey by camel. While the experience was one that Dawid had believed would be appreciated in years to come, Béch was more concerned about the risks involved.

Times had changed and desert travel had become hazardous. With Mareijke being a woman, the stakes were higher. A newcomer to the desert region would also find it difficult to endure such a harsh journey. Dawid had been living in Morocco for almost seven years and was well acquainted with the desert and climate when he first joined a camel-train to the south. They also had more time in those days to travel the treacherous distance to the mountainous region.

In present times, given the circumstances, time was an archenemy on the vast open desert plains and Béch was unable to make it easier for Mareijke because his camels could only travel as far as 30 kilometres per day.

The helicopter flight seemed endless. Mareijke was too tired to enjoy the landscape and wished they would reach the oasis. She had no idea what to expect, but wanted the flight to end. Suddenly, the pilot received an urgent summon to return to Agadir. Béch understood the message clearly.

“He has to return to Agadir, Mareijke,” Béch informed her.

“How far is the oasis?”

“Not close enough, I’m afraid.”

“We can’t go back,” she said.

“Did you see the camel train that we passed a few minutes ago?” Béch asked.

“Yes,” she answered.

“It’s travelling in the same direction as the oasis,” Béch continued. “The choice is yours. We can return to Agadir or travel with the caravan.”

“We have an agreement. He can’t just leave us here in the middle of nowhere,” Mareijke exclaimed.

“I don’t think he has much of a choice, but we do. Do we go back or travel with the caravan?”

“I’m not going back,” Mareijke said adamantly.

The helicopter had turned and was already heading for the coast. Once Béch spotted the camel train, he asked the pilot to land on a dry stretch of flat land. The pilot waited for Béch to reach an agreement with the caravaneers before lifting into the sky and leaving. The friendly young men welcomed Béch and Mareijke very warmly, but she knew their hospitality was misguided as soon as Béch started handing out wads of paper money.

As they approached the camel on which Mareijke was to travel, Béch warned her of the animal’s anti-social tendency to spit. She approached it with even greater care. It was the first time she had ever seen a living camel. She found nothing attractive in the way the tall beast stood sneering down at her with its enormous yellow teeth and breath that had been hung out to die. It was potently pungent.

The camel dropped gracefully onto its haunches to accommodate her. Béch told her that the camel’s ascension from the ground would occur in phases and explained in detail what she needed to expect and how she would have to react to prevent herself from falling. She climbed onto the leather saddle quite easily, but when the camel got up onto its spindly legs, she was lurched forward and thrown back. As it ascended in its phases, the whole procedure of being thrown forward and back was repeated. Alarmed at the prospect of losing both her balance and dignity, Mareijke was relieved to find herself still seated in the swaying saddle by the time the camel was up and standing on its broad feet. The camel-train then moved forward and Mareijke was gently lulled into the swaying rhythm of the camel’s gait.

“The money will prevent us from being marooned on this vast ocean of sand,” Béch said.

“That’s a relief,” Mareijke answered.

“I know that landing in this desolate area is not part of our plans,” Béch said warily. “But if I have to be honest, I prefer it.”

“Why?” Mareijke asked.

“There’s just something about the pilot I don’t trust.”

The only thing that comforted Mareijke at that point was her knowledge that the caravaneers at the oasis were Béch’s companions. They were people he trusted.

While trust did not come very easily for Mareijke, it was her father’s high opinion of the young man that had formed the basis of her trust in Béch Rousseau. It was the only reason why she had embarked on the journey in the first place.

Mareijke had no desire to travel across the desert to look for the artifacts her father had left behind.  Long before arriving in Morocco, she had already decided that she would not like the heat and discomforts that desert travelling offered and she preferred to stay true to her initial instincts.

Having rested at the oasis gave her new perspective and now, travelling away from it on a different camel, Mareijke sat quietly in awe of the vastness of the desert. She was living her father’s dream. She was experiencing the same immense infinity of sand-swept terrain as he had done so many years ago, her thoughts constantly shifting with the sand.

“Your mind is never in one place,” he had said. “Different thoughts filter through it on such a long and unique journey. It’s a journey, my child, where you learn to discover your true self.”

As camel hooves padded comfortably across the soft sand, a perfect line of dunes with endless red curves loomed on one side. A sea of sand on the other side swallowed Mareijke’s fears and thirst. She knew Béch would not make another desolate stop because of the contingent dangers that lurked behind the dunes.

As if anticipating danger, she looked up to the top of the nearest dune where a line of metal predators intruded on her thoughts. Carefully scanning the length of territory invaded by the unexpected visitors, Mareijke turned to look at Béch. He was wary of their company. He looked at her and his visage acknowledged his concern.

“Unfortunately, this is open territory,” he said calmly.

Mareijke’s imagination was given reins. It was the genesis of being preyed upon without safehold. They had nowhere to flee. They weren’t moving along a given track. They were mere specks of dust on the surface of the desert’s scale, yet visible and victim to a much greater force: the power of knowledge. The enemy had known about their journey and patiently anticipated their arrival.

The unsubdued sea of sand glistened as the Saharan light danced on the metallic pack of land cruisers.  She was given no time to contemplate an outcome as the sudden sound of engines tumbled down the side of the dune, vehicles in pursuit. There was no point in moving forward and Béch brought the camel-train to a stop.

Mareijke looked up at the cobalt-blue sky and left a prayer on the wind as she watched their assailants approach with noise and swirls of sand.

  

Who is right?

Like many Christians, I, too, can throw Bible verses around to try and win an argument; but, I don’t want to argue my way through life. For every argument, there is a counter-argument and living a life that’s based on debating isn’t my idea of fun. Arguments tend to become hot under the collar.

People should learn to respect one another. We all look at the world from our own windows. No one shares the same window, so the views are different. Each person has his own perspective and opinion as to what is acceptable and what is not acceptable. If, for example, you are fully convinced in your mind that what you esteem is better is indeed better, then who am I, fully convinced in my mind, perhaps that it is not better, to argue with you? My soul purpose here on earth is not to judge, condemn, force my opinion onto others or to control and master where others stand or fall.

When we live on earth and focus all our time on the ENERGY within and around us, there is no time to worry about small things, like what someone else is wearing, driving, eating, or drinking. People make choices on a daily basis according to their mood, health, attitude, circumstances, unforeseen situations, status, and the people in their lives. The list of reasons for our choices is endless. No one can tell another person how to live because they don’t share the same emotions or experiences. They don’t have the same levels of energy. Some people are inclined towards optimism and others are pessimistic. Why, then, do we want to manipulate or convince others to think the way we do? An opinion is an opinion. A fact is a fact. What is it, then, that drives us to demand homogeneity?

In my third novel, the main character swears profusely. Near the end of the novel, she meets up with the murderer in the story and the question comes to light: What is worse: to murder (a physical deed) or to swear (something that comes from the heart)? The main character tells the murderer that she can stop swearing at any time, but the person who was killed cannot be brought back to life. Many will argue this point. What comes from the heart is worse. Others will argue about the definition of swearing. Some people think that swearing is worse than smoking. They will even throw in a Bible verse to prove it: “It is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person, but what comes out of the mouth; this defiles a person.” Matthew 15:11. Does this only include swearing or is quarreling included? The very question leads to more quarreling.

We should not quarrel about our perspectives or opinions. We should learn from each other. We should endeavour to understand what others think, feel and accept to be right. We need to understand another person’s perspective. Only then, we will learn. If we cannot understand their perspective, then there’s something within us, not them, that needs adjustment. We are students for life. We are here on earth to live and to learn. There is no law on earth that insists that we must be right with regard to everything.

If we can acknowledge everything that comes our way with thanksgiving, regardless of whether we accept it or not, we are indeed greater in being sincere than those who constantly want to impose their perspectives and opinions upon us!

Negativity stays with you

We have a detention system at our school. Every time the learners break the rules, they get negative points on the system. When these points add up to a total of -40, they attend a detention class on a Friday afternoon for three hours and spend the time writing out the rules of the school. If they don’t attend the detention class, they get double the points that got them there in the first place, i.e. -80.

Some of these children do positive things, like cleaning the classrooms for the teachers, to get positive points. This has been acceptable, until more recently when the principal decided that the learners have to be punished for their wrongdoing. He made an interesting statement with regard to this. If you drive through a green traffic light every day of your life and then drive through a red light on a given day, you can’t drive through five green lights and expect to be pardoned for driving through the red traffic light. This simply means that the learners can’t do positive things to get positive points to counter-balance the negative points. No good deed can pay for a crime.

How do these learners get positive points? Well, there’s no specific plan in action. The negative points are captured on the system and they stay there indefinitely. If the learners continue to misbehave or avoid detention classes, the negative points accumulate. The only way they can reduce the number of negative points is to sit in the detention class. When they attend the detention class, they are given +40 points. At the end of the year, the negative points are carried over to the next year; the burden of having negative points is dragged on into the New Year. This makes the learners despondent because they cannot redeem themselves in any way, other than attending the detention class. Some may feel that this is unfair, but is it?

When you wash your hands with a hand sanitizer that kills 99% of the germs on your hands, you tend to feel clean. Have you ever wondered what happens to the 99% of germs that have been killed? They’re still in your hands. Just like those dead germs stick to your hands, negative behaviour sticks to you. You cannot sanitize your negative behaviour. Everything you think, say, or do stays with you. Just like those detention points that add up, so, too, your bad behaviour adds up; it makes you who you are. The same can be said for all the goodness that you emit. Every good thought, word, and deed adds up and makes you who you are.

As you grow older, your conscience tends to lean towards focusing on the bad things. You learn to regret your past and break yourself down in the process. If you always focus your energy on doing good, your conscience won't be so heavy. This is what we learn in Leo Tolstoy’s story, The Three Questions. The answers to the three questions in the story bear the light. 

1)    What is the most important thing you must do in life? You must do what is good.

2)    When must you do it? You must do it now.

3)    Who are the most important people in your life to whom you must do it? Every person who is with you now is the most important person in your life and you must do what is good for that person.

These three questions are purpose-driven. So many people are searching for their purpose in life. There's no need to look for your purpose. Your purpose isn't something that will be given to you; it isn't something you can achieve. Your purpose is within you. The answers to these three questions should be your purpose. When you learn to serve others and you are good to them while they are with you, you will be motivated to serve even more. It’s the golden rule of life: Do to others as you would have them do to you (Luke 6:31). Sadly, many people are negative towards themselves. They have negative thoughts about themselves and they have nothing good to say about themselves. They also harm themselves through their negative behaviour. This is called self-abuse.

Charity begins at home. Learn to be good to yourself first before you are good to others. Everything you do, for yourself and others, will come back to you. Focus on what is good. Just like negativity stays with you, so, too, goodness stays with you. Be the light that shines, even in the shadows, and make a positive difference. It will change the way you see life.

The lunch walkers

I went to work at the University of Limpopo for nine days. Now, you must know how extensive a university campus is. There are many paths that meander in numerous directions. Getting lost became part of our daily routine. I’m not one to stretch the parameters of my comfort zone easily, so getting lost is really quite undesirable. 

Imagine my despair when the group of ladies decided to walk to the lunch venue. Just the thought of it made me perspire mentally. I don’t walk much unless it is necessitated. For example, I will walk away from an offensive vile smell, a burning building or if I’m exposed to pending danger, like a lion that’s loose on the premises. Walking to a lunch venue at midday, in the insufferable Bushveld heat, is not my idea of an option when there are cars available to take us there. 

They mentioned that the venue was not very far, but you know how it is with people. One person’s definition of far is alarmingly different from that of another’s. Nevertheless, not wanting to be a killjoy, I joined the lunch walkers. 

Going to the venue, we walked quite briskly – not because of hunger, eager enthusiasm, or team spirit. Our pace was set because we were walking downhill most of the way and also because some of the walkers actually participate in regular physical exercise. 

Breathless, with a heart palpitating in my unfit chest, I reached the restaurant every single day and went up the steps with flaccid legs, relieved to be alive. I ate my lunch because I was there. My hunger had been curbed from the long walk. After lunch, we were faced with the exhausting journey uphill back to the lecture room. In a sense, it was very educational because I discovered that I have more muscles in my legs than I have ever been aware of. 

Will this experience inspire me to start exercising, walking, or running? Will I enroll in a boot camp? No, no! Let’s not be silly. Just enjoy the photos, will you? If you’ve read all of this, you might as well stay a little longer and look at all the photos. These photos were taken from the restaurant, Glenda's Take 5, en route to the lecture room.

 

Existing for a greater purpose

We have many problems. The world is filled with problems. Many people turn to God and pray that He will give them a positive outcome so that problems will end. God did not create these problems. Yet, people want Him to take responsibility to solve them.

Each one of us goes through life unable to come to terms with it. Life hits us with all kinds of experiences, good and bad, and we don’t know how to cope with any of them. Our decisions, our choices in life, determine our direction and problems in life. All our decisions impact our lives and we suffer. One decision leads to another and it is impossible for all the consequences to always be good. As imperfect people, we make mistakes. Even the people in our lives and our circumstances act as enablers or catalysts for our problems and we suffer.

Everyone has some specific burden to carry, whether it is cancer, a broken relationship, loss of a loved one, or financial worries. That’s why we turn to God and pray so that He will help us. We ask Him to end our problems or strengthen us to cope with our problems. What we desire, we expect Him to fulfill. That’s Grace, right? Wrong! Grace doesn’t mean that we can talk to God and ask Him to solve problems He didn’t create.

Our lack of knowing how to control our lives, our emotions, and our circumstances are the reason why we suffer. We need to learn to be responsible. We need to learn to think for ourselves. No one on earth can breathe, think or make responsible decisions for us. No one on earth can make us feel fulfilled. We need to find inner peace and accept our imperfections as well as the imperfections of others. Only then will we grasp the concept that we can never fully understand life and eventually accept it for what it is.

Imperfection is the heaviest of all burdens we carry. Therefore, we all carry suffering within us. Knowing that we carry this suffering within us should motivate us to focus more attention on ourselves than on others. We need to make time for quietness with ourselves so that we can attempt to understand ourselves. We can only be complete and whole when we realize that if we want something, we alone need to work hard to achieve it and not rely on empty prayers of desire, imperfect people, or worldly power and status to gain it. 

Nothing on earth will go the way we want it to go. Nothing on earth will bring us happiness. The laws of the universe are not governed by us. The sun doesn’t rise because we are alive. The ebb and flow of the tides are not set in motion because we exist. Instead of always expecting life to revolve around us and flow in the direction we desire, we need to pray for wisdom and courage to continue existing for a greater purpose: humanity!

Mind Storms

When I was a child, about eight years old, I used to have nightmares. I was in a maze of high hedges (all black and white – no colour), frantically looking for my mother. She would appear at the end of each passage calling my name: Karin, Karin, Karin! Loud at first and then softer and softer until I couldn’t hear her anymore. I would run and run and run, nauseated with a hypnotic spiral feeling in my mind. By the time I got to the end of the passage, she was gone. She would appear again at the end of the next passage.

When I was older, very much awake, I would have the same occurrence, the nauseated feeling, and the hypnotic spiral twisting in my mind. I know why I had those nightmares back then. My father had wanted to put my sister and me in a boarding school. I didn’t want to go and was scared of losing my mother. Even at an older age, whenever I felt that my mother and I would be separated, I would have the recurring feeling – wide awake, though. I never dreamed of a maze again, but I remain fascinated to this day with labyrinths. Guess who loves Alice in Wonderland and The Maze Runner?

Many years later, as an adult, I had different nightmares. Whenever my mind was troubled, I would dream of dark water masses. Again, I know why I dreamed of water. When I was 18, going on 19, I nearly drowned at Umdloti beach in KwaZulu-Natal. On the north side of Umdloti, there is a large natural rock formation that creates a tidal pool. It would seem the perfect swimming area, providing shelter from onshore currents. In effect, it’s a very dangerous place. My friend and I went for a swim one morning. We didn’t know about the rip current, which had no mercy for us and pulled us deeper into the sea. It was so strong! Within seconds, we were trapped in troughs behind walls of waves that kept breaking towards the beach. This experience not only initiated my fear for masses of water but also my fear of heights and claustrophobia. My friend, Charon, convinced me to try and swim against the tide. It was a useless enterprise.

Charon kept telling me to kick like crazy whilst swimming. I was so tired at one point that I stopped swimming. She came back for me and motivated me to carry on. We swam again for a while, but I was done! Charon then linked arms. She told me that we needed to swim through the wave. Instead of going up with the wave to the crest and being pushed back into a new trough when it plunged towards the beach, we would go halfway up and then swim through it. She counted to three and we went through the wave. We tumbled out of the sea, head over heels, onto the beach. My wise friend, Charon, then decided that we needed therapy. I was reluctant, at first, but followed her on jelly legs to the pool and we stayed in the water until ‘we’ felt better. Her therapy apparently worked for her – I spoke to her more recently and she couldn’t remember the incident. As for me, I still fear water masses at night. I also dream of dark water when I have a troubled mind. This happens very seldom, but the fact that it does honestly tells me that the pool therapy didn’t work for me.

Dreams don’t occur much in my life, nightmares more seldom. Perhaps my brain is too tired to dream. Perhaps it’s too academically wired because I work all the time. I cannot imagine that this is good for me, but it’s what I do. I work, work, work. I suppose I'm too tired to dream about unprocessed information. Then again, what do I know? I’m not a neuroscientist.

More recently, I dreamed that I was on my way to … well, somewhere. As I came out of a double-story apartment, one I cannot remember ever seeing in my life, I looked up and saw three tornadoes behind the mountain. I ran to my car thinking that I needed to find my children. As I ran around the building, I saw another three tornadoes on the other side of the building behind another mountain. Potgietersrus is settled between two mountain ranges. So, the mountains make sense. As I looked back in horror at the first three tornadoes and again at the three in front of me, the tornado in the middle lifted into the air and made three prong-like fingers (like a fork) before sinking down again behind the mountain. My greatest concern was for the safety of my children.

I woke up and remembered the dream quite vividly.

Not long thereafter, I dreamed of three tornadoes again. This time, I was at school on the sports field. I saw the three tornadoes in the exact position as the previous nightmare, behind the mountain. I started running towards the school. I ran towards a huge tree, like a strong Oaktree. As I passed it, I saw another three tornadoes behind another mountain. It was exactly the same as my first dream. The only difference was that in my first dream there was no wind. The sun was shining and the sky was clear. In my second dream, I was running against a strong wind towards my car. The sky was filled with sinister-looking clouds. While I was running, my son came running from out of nowhere and we ran together. I shouted above the sound of the wind that we needed to find my daughter.

When I woke up, I remembered the dream vividly. I remembered the first dream, too. I even compared the dreams. 

A few nights later, I had another dream about a tornado. It was night time and there were people outside in the garden, socializing. I walked out of my house and saw a huge purple and pink hourglass spinning in the air. It wasn’t big. It hovered above the trees, slowly spinning in the air. My mother came outside, was horrified when she saw it, and said it was a tornado. She ran inside the house and I was left standing, confused, on the patio. It didn’t look like a tornado at all and the people, somewhere in the dark garden, didn’t seem to be aware of it. They were talking and laughing as if nothing was wrong.

At the end of August, a few days after my first nightmare, Bennette Riekert died in a road accident. The truck he was travelling in had veered off the road and rolled. When I heard about his death, I remembered the tornadoes in my dream. I couldn’t stop thinking about the tornadoes, which obviously led to the second nightmare of tornadoes. A month after Bennette’s death, Louis Ruytenberg died in a road accident. His vehicle rolled just outside of town and he was thrown from the vehicle. Again, when I heard about the accident, I thought about the tornadoes.

Both Bennette and Louis attended the school where I teach. They were in my English classes from 2012 to 2015. They were in the same class as my son and sat alphabetically from 2013 onwards: Riekert, Ruytenberg, and Steyn. I feel compelled to say that I don’t believe in analyzing dreams, accidents happen, but this was a strange experience. I dreamed of the tornadoes long before each accident occurred. 

Now, all I can do is think about the tornadoes. All three dreams are very lucid in my mind and for the next few weeks, or months, until I’ve ‘reprogrammed’ my brain, this will be my small obsession!

I wrote a poem about my sea experience back in 1984 (my way of working through the trauma, I guess):

where were the sharks

let us swim she said

and i was keen

as the waves

danced

on the beach

and                                                                

we raced each other

through the water

both laughing

at

the sunny

day                             

and stopped from tiredness

and turned to see

our bright towels

on

the sandy                             

beach                                                            

where we had left them

i was shocked to

see them gone

and

i scanned the

beach                                                

till I found them far              

from where we had             

begun to                               

swim                                      

in dancing                            

waves                                                

high on the crest we                       

bobbed up and down         

treading dark                        

and                                        

thick water

salt concentration                           

treading dark dark               

and thick thick                     

salt                                         

water in                                 

awe                                                    

for we were warned of

the warm currents

the same day

we

swam from the

shore                                     

we were caught in a

trough with the walls

of the red

sea

on either

side                                                                

looming like a force

of doom and then

she said to

me

just kick like

mad                                                               

and i did as we

swam along the

trough against

a

mightier

force                                                  

much greater than my

will and tired

jelly legs

so

i stopped and

thought                                 

it useless to try

and swim against

the strength of

the

sea current

then                                       

she came back and said

hold on to my

ankles and

kick

the best you

can                                        

and i did but with

no strength left to

carry on

and

she knew me

well                                                    

enough to know that

she was fighting

more than just

a

sea current

so                                           

she linked our arms and

smiled at me and                 

suddenly                  

gave                          

me courage                          

not                                                                 

to just give in but

to give it one            

more chance and    

i

waited for                              

her                             

to tell me how to                  

tread the dark and               

thick thick salt                      

hell    

in which we                         

were                                                              

she waited for the

wave to build and

take us to

the

crest again

but                                                     

intervened with the

force saying that

we swim through

it

through the red

sea                                         

wall towards the beach

two arms linked tight

side by side

and

started to

count                                                             

three two one i heard

and went head first

through the wall

ripped

from her by

a                                             

powerful force while

tumbling tumbling

head over heels

and

heels over head

to                                                                    

be spat out on the

sea sand sea strand

spat out like

the

man jona

through                                                         

the enormous mouth of

the sea to lie

there alive

on

the sandy

beach                                                            

two friends side by side

no strength had i

but up she

got

and took me

to                                                                    

a swimming pool with

water feather

light and said

let

us swim a

while                                                             

it is therapy

and it would take

away the       

fear                

for the sea                            

and                                                    

the deep dark salty

death-spent minutes

we both had             

just

been to been           

through                                             

i listened to her                    

wisdom and thought                      

about the                  

day     

and wondered                                 

where                                                            

my wisdom was as 

i was stunned to

silence all

the

time she was

there                                                              

saving my life and

hers but my life

came first and

i

never thought

of                                                                    

showing gratitude

as i was stunned

to silence all

that

night and for

the                                                                 

rest of my life and

now as twenty

five years have

passed

i still dream

of                                

treading the dark and                     

thick salt water

and wake and

wonder

where were the

sharks                                   

where were the sharks