itinerant and indigent

Australia bans booze, porn to save Aboriginal children

I was having a beer with a acquaintance the other night. He runs a tool shop. After a few comments about this and that, he said,

‘So Phil, what’s happening in Africa? Is it getting any better, or is it all just natural selection?’

 How do you answer a question like that? What does it even mean? Does five years in Afghanistan make me an expert on Africa? Is it  because they both begin with the same two letters? Because they are both regions of the world in crisis? (Although Afghanistan is not a region, and not all of Africa is in crisis…)

I tried to marshall a response. My friend continued, ‘I know you’re probably the wrong person to ask about natural selection.’

Eh? Why? Because I am a person of faith? Does that make me a believer in fiat creationism? How does that particular pre-scientific faith concept fit with modern day African security, epidemilogy and development politics? If I’m a person of faith, does that mean I can’t think?

I finally worked out what to say, and murmured, ‘Ahhh. Errmmm’. This probably was the best thing to say, in the circumstances.

I know there hasn’t been much worth reading here lately… for those interested, here’s why

-  I have chronic, severe back pain presently,

- I laid about 50m2 of concrete on Tuesday (may be linked to above),

- Night times I have been writing project documentation on shelter and housing for one of the aid groups I consult for,

- I don’t generally write about my average days, because there are plenty of other blogs that do that better than me, and

- I have had a bit of a creative dead space. Usually I will see things, events, accidents, exchanges and follow them, either imaginatively or in real time and develop a piece around it. That hasnt happened recently.

So there.

I am sitting in a cafe, looking out across the street. Cold wind in the morning sun.  From the fast food restaurant beside me a young woman and her children emerge on to the footpath.  

‘You fucking get here. Stop that mucking around.’ The mother hits her daughter hard across the back.

The daughter skips away, then turns and screams to her younger sister and brother back in the restaurant. ‘Come ON. Get here now. ‘  The younger sister comes out, and in turn, screams at the boy. The boy is perhaps two years old, and cannot walk so fast. He is carrying his shoes and a small plastic horse. 

The mother has already crossed the road, pushing the pram with a furious anger, the daughters skipping behind her. The son trails, hop-footing on the cold pavement. On the other side of the road, the mother turns again.  ‘Fucking get in the pram.’ 

With care, the little boy moves around to the front of the pram, but as he climbs up, the mother jerks the pram in impatience, and he drops the shoes. The mother pauses, and throws her head back, and then, with a sudden, snake like intensity, strikes the boy across the leg. She seizes him, pushes him down into the pram and grabs up his shoes, moves quickly after her daughters.