Crispy Mush.

My Dad says it’s okay now to tell you that it is he who has the multiple myeloma; the plasma eating cancer that sneaks in to nibble on white blood cells and nerves leaving mouse bite holes in various bones and causing havoc with the rather useful large organs. It is bloody painful and the treatment is extremely unplesant. He has been having a hard time of it and that is why I am here, in Lusaka, Zambia, extending my Xmas vacation by a few weeks to hang out with me Dad as he chews his way through hundreds of ghastly pills and tries each morning to figure out if it is going to be a good day or a bloody bad one. Xmas Dad/Elf: (c) T. Bush 09

However, as he is rather more stubborn then a mule with piles and braver then Attilla the Hun, he insists on going to work even when he is feeling ghastly, propping himself behind his desk so his patients can’t see his cane or the days when his hands tremble terribly (infuriating for a doctor famous for having the steadiest hands in the biz. Makes tying knots in fishing tackle bloody tricky.)

He won't stop. Last weekend he was honored guest at the Mother of Mercy HIV Hospice where he is volunteer medical supervisor. He insisted on leaping up to make a speech but they made him sit to do the presents.

He is rather marvellous.

He won’t want me to bang on about 'IT' though as he hates people worrying. At first he tried telling everyone it was just a ‘squash injury’. He upgraded it to a ‘ski jump accident’ when he started the chemo but now we have both decided ‘kite surfing incident’ has serious kudos and sounds much more glamerous .

Hospice Xmas Party: (c) T. Bush 09

My days so far have been focused on hanging out with Dad breakfast, lunch and supper and just being around when he is resting. I am not greatly useful but he doesn't mind. I've seen old friends too including a lovely Xmas dinner party complete with dramatic sunset and sun-downers overlooking the Southern hills, the dying sun burning my pale skin.

I do miss Grace of course and find myself talking to the space on my left where she should be, which makes people around me a little nervous, but have news that she is thoroughly enjoying her holiday and the snow back in UK which makes me happy.

When Dad is working I should be working on my manuscript for university but instead I have rejoined my old gym. I love my old stinky gym. I used to train here ten years ago and they still have the same towels and equipment, neither of them have been washed particually well since 1999. But I know where everything is and so even though it is boiling and the air conditioner has never worked, only leaked, even though they have fabulously bad Zambian TV on at the SAME time as blasting out Eminem's latest hits, even though the door to the ladies changing rooms is stuck open in such a way as to make getting in for a shower an extra cardio exercise and inside is potentially a bacteria ridden death trap, and even though I suspect one of the receptionists does her own version of ‘personal training..ehem’ in the massage room on occasion, even so I feel very comfortable there.

Anyway it is all essential for getting rid of stress …..or would have been except my old buddy EM was there. He recently won 3^rd place in the Mr. Zambia body building competition and can see from across the blinking gym that I am being half hearted about my crunches and press ups. I am cheerfully adopted and there is no escape. An hour and a half later and my lactic acid build up is through the roof. Me and The Incredible Hulk: (c) T. Bush 09

'Tomorrow,' says EM grinning hugely. He does everything hugely. Note the photo….

And I did this..went with my dear friend and her beautiful children to East of the city into the scrubby bush. Storm clouds towered several thousand feet high on the horizon but the sun blazed heartily determined to melt my 50 factor sun cream. I didn’ t have my jodphurs or boots but there was a jump and it just seemed the right thing to do. The horse was Amarula…a very appropriately named beast for me as the amarula is a little fruit which makes a delicious very potent alcoholic drink…

So for you readers, in various places and my friends and family snowed in and freezing, slipping on the ice and weary of the darkness, I send you some sunburn, the sound of creaking cicadas, the smell of distant rain and the sensation of sun burn.

And love, much, much love. We never know what is around the corner…live every day stuffed full with the stuff!

More soon. Cloud Ships: (c) T. Bush 09

X

Summer of '69.

I was born on Midsummer’s Day in 1969, which makes this Sunday a rather large birthday. I think I am finally on top of the dizzying G-force effect of hurtling through time towards an age which tops Zambia’s life expectancy....which occurs the first time you actually realise that no one will ever call you ‘young woman’ again ....and which gets you ‘that look’ when people ask you if you have children and you reply ‘not yet.’

I did initially decide to hide under my bed weeping for the year but luckily have been convinced a celebration of survival, friendship and family might be appropriate and would certainly involve more sparkling wine.

I had wonderful birthdays as a pre boarding school child. My mum and dad would organise amazing fancy dress parties with themed food and remarkable cakes. Once – when I was obsessed with The Arabian Nights – we had a party with Ali Baba and the 40 Thieves, Sheherezade (my own personal spelling) , Turkish delight, storytellers and pink and blue rice. My pal Sasha, dressed as Sinbad had a long wooden recorder attached to a huge stuffed snake in a man sized reed basket. He would play the recorder and gradually pull the string and therefore pull up the snake and we would all fall about with hysterics.

Sadly I don't have those photos but as a teenager in the late Madonna infested '80's there was the infamous 'Poseur and Tart Party' we threw one holiday....'High School Musical' it was most DEFINITELY not..but the less said about that the better...

ehmm...moving swiftly on...

Later my birthday was always mid exams…until my third year and my 21st birthday when my beautiful friend (she of the barge) bought tickets for Glastonbury. My parents sent a side of smoked salmon and two bottle of champagne and we guzzled them in most unhippy fashion in the Fiat Panda stuck in the three hour-long queue to the entrance. We arrived in the dark and I, desperate for a pee, leapt out and ran to a corner of the field and squatted down just as the battalion of parking attendants directed the next slew of cars to my very spot. In a thousand headlights my bare bottom was lit up like the full moon. My friend nearly stopped breathing she was laughing so hard….

When I turned 30 there was a total eclipse of the sun. In Zambia, in the bush on dad’s hill, with a motley collective of marvellous friends and several tourists weighted down with binoculars, cameras and special glasses, we waited and sure enough at 3pm in the afternoon a huge eagle and flocks of birds suddenly flew towards us to roost and the sun was eaten. It was a mind blowing, terrifying, humbling three full minutes of unearthly shadows and the strangest silence and even the dogs stopped howling. As we gazed at the blackened sun with its flaming, exploding aura there was a slight coughing sound and then a man behind us started singing ‘Happy Birthday.’ Dad had chosen that very moment to light the candles of my melting birthday cake.

The sun came back (phew) and the euphoria carried us for weeks.

Tomorrow my big sister is preparing lovely food, my Mum and John will be over from France and the garden will be full of friends and family. In the evening those still standing will go to the pub.

I will, at some point, toast Teelo and other absent friends and have a bit of a wail but someone will pick me up, brush me down and hand me a shot of tequila and onwards and upwards to more adventures, more love and maybe many more birthdays! A toast to all my readers and if any of you are near Cambridge this weekend do come along!
All images (c) T. Bush and family

Fiddling with the Truth.

I know my last post was a little frugal when it came to profundity. This is the thing: my grandparents on my father’s side were 2nd generation East End London Jews. They came from (my Grandmother) Russia; near Odessa and (my Grandfather) Poland, Krakow. Originally my father’s surname was Shimansky, a name with great history, meaning and magic. The Shimansky’s were healers and wise people.
My grandfather was working in Shepherd’s Bush market when the Second World War broke out and was advised by the British Government, as were all East European Jews in the forces, to change the name to something a little..less..well obviously ‘yid’.

The family looked around and said, ' Oy, so we have a shop in Shepherd’s Bush Market called Bush Stores..lets keep this simple for the punters already,’ and my father became a ‘Bush.’

Note; this was my father.

The Jewish line is matrilineal and my mother was to the immense fury of my grandparents, not one of the Chosen people. This means I am only Jew ‘ish’ in the way that woman is a member of a golf club i.e. I can partake in the festivals and hang out at the reform synagogues but am not expected to really understand the implications of the religion.
I do feel a deep connection nonetheless. My genes jangle when I listen to a cantor’s singing, when I hear the ancient blessings, when I break bread on the holy days. I know almost all the words to Fiddler on the Roof.
(On the other hand I also know all the lyrics for Jesus Christ Superstar and will regularly sing it with my Jewish cousins at Passover. We draw the line at ‘Evita’.)

Many of my relatives disappeared into the fires of the holocaust and this resonated with my father’s generation and down the line to us. I am chilled to the bone by what happened only 65 years ago. I understand why Israel needed to emerge like a phoenix from the ashes of The Final Solution. I can still smell the fear and my subconscious is riddled with the cancerous images of concentration camps and mass graves, exterminations repeated endlessly through history and slamming into the present; Eastern Europe, Rwanda, Congo, Sudan. It is what the fundamentalist fringe of the Muslim world claim they want to do again to the Jews. Exterminate them and those connected to them. Would I and my family once again be faced with death for being Mischlings (semi Jews)? If you were faced with people screaming for your blood would you not, given the historical precedent, arm yourself to the teeth and fire first, over and over and over again?

On my mother’s side, my grandmother dabbled in all kinds of Christian based faiths including Christian Science. She ended up a Christina evangelist living out her days in a bizarre commune in Zimbabwe. She gave all her possessions away to the commune including any responsibility she might have had for her children, (others in the family may read that differently but that was the impression I had as a child.) She praised Jesus with every breath and I hope she found happiness doing it but I couldn’t be sure. The commune made people confess and repent in public a lot and even as a grubby child I felt that it was used as a form of bullying and control. Everyone judged everyone all the time. How tiring that must have been.

At my C of E boarding school the churches we were forced to attend each Sunday were huge, impersonal, cold and painfully, dreadfully dull. My class learnt to swear in sign language as we were not allowed to speak to each other through the service. My older sister found something deeply moving and personal in them though.. My older sister is now a vicar in the Church of England.

So what exactly do I believe in? The Force, of course, Narnia, Rock and Roll and the fact we really haven’t a bloody clue about what is going on or why we are here. I’ve been evangelised by Scientologists, The Jesus Army and worse. I’ve seen people running from witchcraft, healed by magik, comforted by atheism and made stronger by a profound belief in dark matter, quantum physics, Ganesha, Buddha, and the number 42. I need to believe in the power of constancy and kindness and yep..sorry..but I do very much have to believe that love is vitally important because otherwise someone will start building those gas chambers again. It is bound to be someone who purports to be religious too…so one thing I don’t believe in… I don’t believe in religion..