Colo(u)r Your World: Mango Tango

A part of the Color Your World Blogging Challenge, which I may try to participate in off and on. Most of my Colo(u)rful posts will be on a different blog site, but this gives a glimpse of my current winter life, so I like it being here, too. 

To be edited extensively one day: Written much past my bedtime and proofread almost nil.


retro-wmf-cromargan-orange-coloured-handled-cutlery-knife

The bright-handled fork was orange. Mango Tango, to be exact.

I have to admit: I looked around for the colour. Nuur had an orange headband, but it was a different orange. There was orange on Hashaan’s shirt, too, but again – not the right orange. Not “Mango tango.”

I did notice the orange cutlery (that’s Canadian for silverware, by the way) when the cake on plates was first set in front of us on the low brown coffee table, but my mind wasn’t on blogging then.

I was thinking about cake, rosewater, and tea; and language and culture and the child to my left bouncing the bright blue balloon.

Earlier today I had skimmed photos in a hair-pullingly mindless class or something related to “Mango Tango” but nothing of the right orange stood out. Uninspired, I was. On so many levels. I needed a change of scenery.

School has been bland, to say the least. The weather too. Routines have been difficult to create and stick to. Friends seem to take work.

So when there was a chance to go be a guest (with a friend who DOESN’T take work 😉 ) at a new family in town’s house, it was refreshing.

They live in the centre of my town, only 15 minutes away but stepping through their door is stepping further than one might expect.

Marhaba, I say. Hello!

It’s one of about 30 words I can say in Arabic. My first word was dib, which means bear. A very Canadian-Arabic word.

My friend Sarah and I brought cake and ice cream, just because. They will offer you Mate, (mah-tay) Sarah reminds me before we arrive. It’s okay to say no, or drink tea or coffee. She knows caffeine will keep me up, and it’s 7pm when we arrive. Mate is full of caffeine.

Syrians are nighthawks. By my standards, anyways. “At home, it’s normal to stay up till 2am!” Sarah would tell me last spring. “People would come over at 10pm all the time; it’s when we get social.”

So tonight, we drink tea. And we eat chocolate cake, because we can. Nuur, who is six, tosses the balloon in the air and catches it on the couch beside me. She watches me closely, and keeps the balloon close, guarding it from snatching siblings who come to tap it out of her hands.

Mustafa’s wife (whose name I will remember in an hour or so) is beautiful, with bright eyes and a quick, full smile. “She makes the best desserts,” says Sarah.

Mrs. Mustafa is young – 28 maybe – but I wonder what she’s lived through. I don’t know. I don’t ask, either.

Tonight is for happy visiting. Mustafa is telling us the story of coming to Canada. It has been 3 days and 11 months today that they arrived. Sarah translates bits and pieces for me. There is lots of laughing, and I recognize another of my words – MashjnoomehCrazy.

The talk shifted to marriage and relationships. They compare Christian and Muslim dating in the Middle East. The balloon escapes and nearly hits the teapot, but Mrs. Mustafa quickly flicks it away. I ask how Mustafa and his wife met, as the kids swarm around cross in and out of the tiny living room.

They all laugh. “They must tell you!” Sarah says. It sounds like a good story.

And it is. All three versions – for Mustafa has two – and his wife, though shy and laughing, shares hers as well. Their daughters listen and I smile big (khibeer) while eating cake – both chocolate and coconut with rosewater something. Sarah translates through laughing, all with teacups and orange forks in hand, and a balloon interrupting us from time to time.

It was a lovely night. The night of a big blue balloon and the Mango Tango forks.

Tomorrow we are going back, for some Mat’louva.
I hear it’s served best with orange forks.

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Easy Lake

 

A memoir written in the style of Sarah De Leeuw, whose book Unmarked is based on short descriptions of personal experiences in various towns along Highway 16 in Northern British Columbia. Her style is descriptive, location-based, and first person narratives; full of run on sentences, commas galore, and the not-infrequent use of alliteration.

Written as an English course assignment in the fall of 2015.
I’m still not sure how I feel about the whole thing.
____________

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One of the last remaining placer gold mines in the province of BC is located at Easy Lake. If you trace your finger along the map North, you will see the highway veins stretch out through endless miles of trees and isolation, a whole day’s journey from the family farm I knew to be home. The journey started each year in the spring when we knew the ice to be off the lake; so at four in the morning while the day is still dark and kids are heavy in slumber, they are hauled from beds to be buckled in car seats and placed back seat of a faithful pickup; Fourwheeler on fifth-wheel trailer, fifteen Rubbermaid bins filled with everything from pampers to pickles to hipwaders lego lifejackets propane oatmeal and novels enough to last a summer all packed carefully among the cargo.

If you trace your finger up the highway and find the finger-like lake, you’ll see Easy Creek two miles more, still following North. The creek cuts the lake in two, spilling out an ice cold sluice in a wide delta of soft sand. It is this point the moose swim to, land jutting out just enough to make a difference in the distance across the lake. In the late night mist the massive forms of these long-legged beasts look not much more than dark shadow-shapes paddling towards the shore. Charcoal outlines, bold heads bob with each thrust of hoof underwater, heading steadily for delta. It is us – the little bodies of my brother and I snug in lifejackets, tucked on the tin boat floor, parents in warm hats and windbreakers, seeking out the shore in foggy night – it is us who are the trespassers here.

This is the North. A wilderness of spruce pine and poplar, the smell of juniper and cranberries, rushing water and ancient graves left by the Tahltan people and outcasts of gold rushes before. A decrepit cabin tucked in the bush, rotting, roof fallen in, a police outpost of a century earlier. The name of Begbie murmured, Chinese coins, ancient nails, found in dirt. These are the remnants of the people-history here, evidence of souls come before.

My five-year old imagination is active and I am caught often looking over my shoulder, watching for faces peering out of the woods. I am sure they are there – the rugged characters of the gold rush, outlaws hiding in the bush. I see the dancing shadows, softened by plush moss that grows deep underfoot and the whispers of poplar leaves in the wind, white limbs extended high and exalting, embracing the sun. The birds stay silent but the trees still whisper. Moose rubs and porcupine chews are the signs of life now, yet juxtaposed with the ever-present growl of the excavator and persistent hummm clank of the washer, as scoop after giant scoop of gravel is sifted in search of that luxury mineral – gold.

Yet it is not this gold that remains in my memory. Easy lake is the place of treasure and lore, but apart from the search for iron pyrite in the gravel-spread path to the rickety outhouse set back in the trees, past the shrub that catches shadows in the corner of your eye to look exactly like a black bear ambling among the mossberries – apart from this collection of fools’ gold selected by grubby five-year old fingers and hoarded in an empty mayonnaise jar, there is no eminence placed on the gold. There were flakes found, yes, and some nuggets too, but the precious stones are no match for those moments of soggy raincoats and gumboots, squatting by cesspools to carefully swish the silt and brown water from a gold pan, child and pan cradled between the knees of the man who was my father. Big hands, chaffed from the rain and spray from the washer, burly in coveralls vest logger hat to keep warm, and me. Petite and scrawny, garbed in plastic blue rainpants pigtails kitty shirt and rainjacket too big, sleeves falling past little fists, then rolled up for panning.

“I don’t want to wait until I’m sixty and retired to do what I want to do.” he told my mother the year before I was one. The year they first looked at the claim. “Why wait?”

“We could do this.” he said.

And so they did.

They packed up each spring and left family, comfort, warmth, electricity. Three kids and a dog crammed among spare parts, a sluice box, and powdered milk packed to avoid the sky-high northern prices. We were isolated, but warm. Together, tucked away in the vast wilderness in a cabin that smelled of fresh bread and pine smoke, where we fell asleep to my mother’s voice reading out loud by candlelight. Our days were measured not by events such as birthday parties or ballet recitals, but by the time the wolverine was stuck in the tree, the day the generator broke or we visited the delta, the Thursday the grizzly circled too close. It was not adventure. It was a way of life.

The summers before I was six, spent where the only lines on the map are a highway and some rivers crisscrossing the mountains. The map free from dots of cities and towns and markers of civilization. Clean. Sparse. Vast. Yet teeming with detailed life and abundance. The years free from cities and towns and hospitals, before the scent of machine oil and fresh bread turned to disinfectant and Vancouver streets, the lingo of bush kids turning from F150s and sluicing to oncology, radiation, lymphoma. Those were the golden years, shining like fools’ gold among the gravel.

“Would you go back?” they inquire. Would I chase that highway north, park by the gravel pit and cross the boat in the mist, shivering in a lifejacket once again? I would go, I say. I would go to smell the juniper, say hello to the neighbours, catch up, feel the jade, take off my shoes and walk in verdant moss. But I would go no further than the police detachment, that rotting slump of logs, overgrown but still vivid in memory. I always was suspicious of that place, convinced that if I peered through the crusted window the carcass of some long-forgotten convict would still be inside. But more than that, I would be always looking over my shoulder, feeling watched, waiting for a small face to peer back at me out of the woods, pigtails high, curious, with a grubby jar of fools’ gold held tightly in her hand.

 

No, You Don’t.

“I want my daughter to be like you.”
he said.

 “No, you don’t.”
was my reply.

Thankfully, I didn’t say it out loud. The response was blurted in my head. The speed at which the thought came astounded me.

“Well thank-you…that’s a pretty big compliment.”
is what I think came out of my mouth, as I stuffed my defiant thoughts aside.

I was in grade 11 or 12. A teacher took a moment to speak some encouraging words. To this day I value it as one of the highest compliments ever received, but I admit I took it with blaring cynicism.

I held my tongue, held the bitterness back.

“No, you don’t.” I wanted to say. “You don’t know what you are saying. You don’t want her to be like me – for to become like me she’d have to face hard things. No parent chooses my family’s ride for their kid.”

Anna Baby sucking finger 2

To be like me she’d see loss. I pictured the daughter he spoke of with her round, 6 year old face. I knew her name and glowing, breathless smile.

6 years old. My age when my dad died. Old enough to understand the physical happening; too young to understand the life-altering implications.

To become like me she’d navigate a blended family and major lifestyle shift. She’d cry for siblings left behind when attending a 15 year old’s funeral. She’d grieve for lost opportunity and ask big Why questions. 

She would comfort friends with sick brothers and dying moms and do a horrible job at it too. She’d learn cancer terminology and sit in the ICU. Her normal would not be normal.

To become like me she would learn frustration. To become like me she’d be resilient. Because she would have to be. She’d be stubborn. She’d be faced with decisions.

She would decide between bitterness and praise.34047_1438281571387_1663450531_976311_2089451_n

She would decide how to live her life now.
At age 11. At age 14. 15. 20.
Today.

Because today is all we have.

She would decide not if to test for the cancer gene, but when.

She would have to decide what would make life count.

She would learn to recognize growth, healing, and God.

She would learn
the hard way.

Experience.

But that’s not what you dump on someone who’s showing care. How does one express that without sounding bitter? I’m not sure you do.

You just smile a little, say thank-you and walk away, a little shaky inside.

And resolve again that if kids will look up to you, if parents will look up to you, you’d better make your life worth looking at.

It’s not about the experiences. What matters is how you choose to react.

Love and a Cuss

A year ago today we held our first youth group. You can read about it here.
I guess I grew to love them…

Pulled from the archives.

April 2013

I had an interesting little session with God this weekend. I had to go for a walk and sit on a hill throwing pebbles at a pile of dung, hoping the noises the cow over there was making were not as disgruntled as they sounded.

The last thing I wanted was to be mauled by a mad bovine in the Mongolian countryside.

When you’ve packed 26 kids and their baggage into a bus for a weekend outside the city, there is more stuff there than backpacks and sleeping bags.

No one thinks about the MK who cuts. No one knows just how much of a social stretch this is for the kid who is sitting on their left. No one knows which pair of siblings is holding the secret that their family is moving in a month. Not across the street – across countries. Across the world.

What do you do with the girl who’s grandma just died?

What do you do with the boy who’s just been rejected by his best friend and girl of his dreams?

After about lap 6 around the hasha (the typical fenced yard) in the wind it’s become difficult to talk any more, I’m shivering so hard, but that’s okay because I don’t do much talking anyhow. I’m hearing the fears of moving to America or returning from a year in Canada. I’m hearing about best friends who were supposed to come back but now plans have changed. I’m hearing about parents who work hard. I hear about families that fight, brothers that have left and left wounds.

I hear 4 kids in a row tell me the hardest thing about living in Mongolia is that people come and go, but mostly they go. Families are on separate continents. Friends don’t stay. ‘Home’ is a confusion and fantasy.

These kids are incredible. They have a grit they do not know, and unique is too cliché a word for them. I see God’s masterpieces here.

And so after holding a kid in the wind for about the seventh time and organizing an impromptu game for the umpteenth, it was about time for my own walk. So I sat on a hill and said “shit – shit – shit” while bawling my eyes out for these kids whom I love.