Marmite - A British Treasure

Previously, I thought that marmite was a joke. It was the British equivalent to the spam joke. A food that people made fun of in conversation, gave as a gag gift, or put the label on the front of a t-shirt. It was not real food.

Then I met a British man named "Bob". I met him two hours after becoming curious in the grocery store. In that moment, I purchased the smallest jar of marmite, brought it home, tried a bit on toast, and washed out my mouth to rid it of the taste. "Bob" introduced himself and marmite came up in our conversation. I was scarred from the experience but he did not comfort me. In a fit of nationalism, he sided with the concoction and gave example of culinary uses for it. Small portions, that was my problem according to "Bob". This is why British "Bob" has an alias.

Enter another British friend who started to tout the virtues of marmite as a healthy product, full of vitamin B. Together they made an insufferable pair promoting the consumption of yeast extract the color of car oil. Marmite stayed on my mind but never again touched my lips.

Later, the product came back into mind on a quiet flight while reading a book. I was reading a history of cancer. In this book about a deadly and tragic disease came the mention of marmite. It was used by an British doctor in 1928 to cure anemia in Bombay, India that was caused by a severe lack of folic acid. This event was used to explain what cancer is and how it occurs in the body by explaining other cellular diseases of a similar nature. I smiled while reading the passage and highlighted it for further reference.

My marmite did not have such a noble purpose. In the cupboard of a friend sits the jar, mostly full. It does not need refrigeration and no one in the house is suffering from insufficient folic acid consumption. The jar is there to remind me of the conversation. After reading the passage about the medical use for marmite, I might one day reconsider trying it again. Until then, it will sit as a joke on a shelf, like spam.

Love of Lizards

I love the lizards. They are everywhere, literally everywhere. On the walls, on the ground, on the floor, outside, inside, under a book, or laying over a rock, the lizards in Liberia are plentiful. This country is a place for lizards so a healthy love of them makes life easier.

I debate as to whether they change color. The scales come in various colors and many times the skin coordinates with the background, but I've never seen them change shades. Maybe I think they change because I want them to be more than they are.

These lizards are simple creatures. Expecting them to suddenly change color is too much to ask. Perhaps a lizard with orange spots goes into the garden near orange colored plants. Be grateful that the lizard chose to match the surrounding instead of expecting them to change. They seem naturally drawn to the habitat that most suits them and adverse to spending time in areas that clash with their scales.

I love them for their fun. The lizards dart around in the sun. Almost irrationally afraid of humans, they scurry about when my footsteps are near. Ironically, I later catch the lizards proudly sunning themselves with a regal tilt to their heads. And five minutes later, I find one chasing the other like toddlers playing tag.

Lizards remind me of the small pleasures in life.

I love lizards.

Taxi Drivers

I have a new taxi driver. His name is Winsdom. He likes money and I like him.

My new driver came from the old driver bailing out on me. He texted one day to say he couldn't come. I replied with a "thank you for letting me know" and hailed a taxi home. The next day, he did not show again. Then he was gone. Four years calling the same taxi driver gone in two days.

The loss was enormous. Taxis, while abundant, have varying levels of comfort, driver, and dependability. Each day brought a new question of who would take me home. Several had questionable cars, then a few had questionable personalities, and lastly I was left to grind my teeth at night.

My savor came in the form of a new taxi driver. He liked the extra money from a charter fair and I liked him as a driver. Teeth grinding reduced by a good taxi.

Thank you Winsdom.

Overpriced Drinks

This is a $10 drink. Being a high priced drink, it is expected to have certain qualities about it. I paid for the qualities of having a martini glass in my hand and an unusual drink name. I did not pay for a professionally made drink or the luxury of describing a taste and having it appear in a glass with a twist of lemon on the side.

One day, I will be back in the land of proper bartenders. People who know liquor, mixes, and people. Ones who have skills, and not just high price. Real bartenders know people and drinks and how to make both of them mix for the best taste and tip.

It is lovely to have the services of an expert. Until then, I will order overpriced drinks to enjoy the stemware.

Gifts that Make People Cry

Sometimes, I do not know what I do.

In preparation to leave, my closet required weeding. For several years, I bought clothes in the summer and added them to my closet. I added and added and added. Once a year, I purged the clothes that I hated but the pile was never large. With my shopping restricted to the summers, I always worried about having clothes that I liked, so I never go rid of clothes that I didn't wear. It made me feel secure. The large closet made my lack of easy shopping options bearable, I would always have something in my wardrobe.

I was comforted by the amount of clothes, but it didn't help me get dressed. Shirts and dresses I did not wear go in the way of me seeing the clothes that I did. Image a dressing scene with 4 discarded dresses on the bed and a closet left to go.

Now imagine the weight of clothes. I am getting ready to move and weight matters. Clothes, while wonderful, are not a permanent fixture in life. A shirt, no matter how wonderful, will eventually get old. It can go bad because of repeated washing or tired from repeated wearing.

Either way, clothes are replaceable and I will replace most of mine.

Replacing means I need to get rid of my closet before I leave. Without a Goodwill or friends your own size, what do you do with the clothes?

My solution was to give them to a custodian at work. She does her job and is always very thankful for anything given. She has children and most likely supports more 8 - 10 relatives with her job. Her appreciation of gifts always got to me. She always made me embarrassed by her palpable gratefulness mixed with pride upon any offering.

She had one other great quality, she does not work at my home. I have had friends with this problem and have had it myself in Liberia, giving to someone who works in your home can lead them to look at your objects as future possessions. It starts to melt the line between ownership, especially when living in a country with a dramatic difference in lifestyles between the employers and the house staff. I had a month left to give, sell, or decided to pack items and I wanted that decision to be all mine.

The custodian started to cry at the four bags of clothes. It was a teary, quiet cry from a woman with burdens.

Not knowing what to do, the repetition of "sorry" came to mind. This use to annoy me in Liberia, but now I understand it. "Sorry" is used for any time you wish a thing did not happen. It is not just for regret for personal actions, but shows sympathy for others and their problems. The word means compassion more than regret. A person does not need to own the hurt to be "sorry" about it.

"Sorry" said for a cough.

"Sorry" said if you are late.

"Sorry" said if a child cries.

'Sorry' said when an accident happens.

This time I found my heart repeating "sorry".

"Sorry" I am leaving.

"Sorry" I will leave you.

"Sorry" I will leave this school.

"Sorry" I cannot help you anymore.

"Sorry" I made you cry.

"Sorry" I am not crying with you.

In this mess of emotions of sadness and guilt, an error was made that cannot be undone. I weeded out my shoes down to the essential. My only pair of black shoes lost a mate. This means I cannot comfortably, and in good fashion, wear certain outfits. I have no other black shoes to wear.

During the purging of my closet, transfer into bags, or trip in the car, I lost a shoe. Having searched everywhere, the one shoe is gone from my home and life. The only place it could have ended up was one of the bags I gave away. A bag that is now out of my possession.

"Sorry" I lost my shoe.

"Sorry" I cannot bear to ask for it back.

I did not know what I was doing at the time but by rushing to give away clothes, I made more available for donation.

Waking up to Sound

I woke up again to the sound of rain on the roof. Lying in bed, I willed myself to stay awake and enjoy the mist of sound that threatened the roof. It is a peaceful place between life and dreams, dry and wet, to know that the option is possible.

Poor Kitty

My poor cat will have to travel soon. She will go from being a cat who has ridden a car four time to an international traveller. Poor kitty cannot conceive of a world outside of her apartment, let alone a world in the air nor one on another continent.

It was traumatic enough to ride to the vet for her shots. She meowed for mercy while being in the borrowed carrying bag. Unhappy to get in the bag, severely unhappy while being lugged on my shoulder, quietly content in the car, and reluctant to jump out, each trip did get a bit better. Now, she has her own bag which makes the ride easier.

This weekend, I tried out sedation medication to see the effect. The effect on her was drooped eyelids, calm behavior, and an inability to walk straight. The effect on me was guilt. I am a guilty pet owner. Thankfully, the effects of the sedation wore off and she was back to her normal, kitty biting ways.

I hope my cat will like her new home. I am too guilty to leave her here and feel terribly guilty about the drugs, plane, and hours in the bag.

Rain

My new home has a tin roof. The rain becomes amplified by the metal and can produce a soothing or scary sound. I take comfort in that the geography of West Africa where I live does not lend itself to ANY major natural disasters, tornados, hurricanes, earthquakes, and lightening strikes are rare, blizzards, droughts, floods, hail, or even damaging winds occur very infrequently. Nature is kind to this part of the world and leave the disasters to the people.

While the sound of rain soothes my sleep, it causes anxiety in others. During conflicts, people came to the capital for safety and food. Years later, many have stayed and live in shanty houses. Made out of found wood using pieces of old tin roofs as walls, they are found in areas lacking basic sanitation, clean water, toilets, and drainage systems. Placed on the ground, the rains mean flooding in the homes. Rain, trash, and dirt fill up the houses and neighborhood. Misery can be spelled "living-in-water".

Either way, loving or dreading the rain, the country has some of the highest amounts of rainfall in the world. We all live with the seasonal rains, under tin roofs or in shanty homes. Rain effects us all.

Strange Pictures of Dreams

Picture the dreams played in a brain. The thoughts coming together for just a fleeting moment between long pauses. Images play out roles and their purpose is hidden. Flashes of the subconscious mixes with thought produce a circus of ideas.

I have been dreaming a mixture of cartoons and reality, and hoping they reveal something about life. Turned out, they just told me to stop watching TV shows about crime before bedtime. But strangely, the rain amplified by the tin roof has not entered the sleeping world. Taking up a dream dictionary, I cannot find reason with any of it.

Also, I cannot remember taking this photo. It must be from the water in a pool, but when? The edge of the pool leads me to think of my old apartment, but the style of the barbed wire leads me to think of a friends place. Either way, the picture looks like a dream to me.

Crabs in the Kitchen

Mr. Crab spend the morning tolling in the water looking for small animals to eat, then spied a hunk of meat, and found himself in a cage. No liking the small space, Mr. Crab certainly did not like sharing it with others. Scrabbling about, he searched for a way out. The Crab family would be missing one at the table that night. HELP!!!!!

Mr. Crab ended up on a large platter with others of his kind, resting on top of a woman's head as she walked miles to sell him. Eventually, he was bought and taken from the head, put into a bag, and finished up in a kitchen near a boiling pot of water.

You know the rest of the story. Yummy Mr. Crab.