Bushpig’s Home – Ramblings of a Ranger in Africa

Getting Frisky!!

This blog will mostly contain total and utter crap to most people out there. But while I am in Uganda and in the bush for that matter I will write about my experiences. If you want to read them then read them. If not- then dont! I am a totally useless writer and dont have a creative bone in my body but read on if you like.

ASTA!

It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly… who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shal never be with those cold and timid souls who have never known neither victory nor defeat.

TEDDY ROOSEVELT

 

Kidepo-Uganda (N. Wessel)

WITHIN MY SOUL

Within my soul, within my mind,
There lies a place I cannot find
Home of my heart. Land of my birth.
Smoke-coloured stone and flame-covered earth.
Electric skies. Shivering heat.
Blood-red clay beneath my feet.

At night when finally alone,
I close my eyes – and I am home.
I kneel and touch the blood- warm sand
and feel the pulse beneath my hand
Of an ancient life too old to name,
In an ancient land too wild to tame.

How can I show you what I feel?
How can I make this essence real?
I search for words in dumb frustration
to try and form some explination,
But how can heart and soul be caught
In one-dimensional written thought?

If love and longing are a “fire”
And man “consumed” by his desire,
Then this love is no simple flame
That mortal thought can hold or tame.
As deep within the earth’s own core
The love of home burns evermore.

But what is home? I hear them say,
This never was yours anyway.
You have no birthright in this place,
Decendant from another race.
An immigrant? A pioneer?
You are no longer welcome here.

Whoever said that love made sense?
“I love” is an “imperfect” tense.
To love in vain has been man’s fate
From history to present date.
I have no grounds for dispensation,
I know I have no home or nation.

For just one moment in the night
I am complete, my soul takes flight.
For just one moment……then its gone
I am once again undone.
Never complete. Never whole.
White skin and an African soul.
-Anonymous

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