The Interconnectedness

I am the river, the river that runs through the town. The desert river. The desert town. Significantly dry. There’s nothing wrong with me, nothing, that is, that isn’t wrong with the whole town. That isn’t wrong with all the people here. I am in the people. The people are in me.

I’m messy. Sure. As are the people. I never was back then. Then, Those Who Knew Me Best held me sacred. They held everything sacred. Every little thing. Every big thing. They wouldn’t have dreamed of messing me up, old Lhere Mparntwe. Not back then. No means.

Curious people advanced. On horseback. Heads held high, no invitations necessary. Invasion is like that. They brought things. New products. New packaging. Oppression. Concepts of superiority. Flavours and colours and ideas thus far unknown. To me. Spilling over from the township They were building. Spilling onto me.

 “Out of town after dark,” They ordered Those Who Knew Me Best. I became a borderline.

 Invaders shit foreign seeds. Colonisers. Weeds. Spreading through the country. Whoosh. Wildfire. Adaptors. Ruthless survivors. Altering the habit to suit their needs. Altering me.

 The people on horseback shot Those Who Knew Me Best. “Put up or shut up,” They barked before firing their carbines. That shut them up. No choice. Those Who Knew Me Best fought back with spears and the fury born of injustice. Both sides were maimed but spears and The Law can’t match the firearms of the military. Blood spilt onto my sands.

 Some people hate. They might go on hating forever. Others traced each other’s profiles, moved forward, embracing. They nursed each other’s infants, laughed at each other’s jokes. Found the common love. Over tea or rum or biscuits or honey ants they rejoiced. Sometimes, with gay abandon, they threw away the packaging and sometimes it landed on my sand.

 I am the river. What you do to each other you do to me. What you do to me you do to each other. What you do you do to everything. Every little thing. Every big thing. Such is the interconnectedness.

 Citizenship came for all. I was no longer the divide. The boundaries spread. VB flowed more freely then to fill the empty gaps in people’s souls. To drown the heartache. Some spilt onto me. “Angkwele” Those Who Know Me Best called it, meaning sweet, and it is. Fatally sweet. As sweet as a Molotov cocktail, as sweet as cyanide.

 I see the rape. I see the murder. I feel it but my lips are sealed. I cradle the tortured bodies. Their souls lift up and drift away, free at last. Genocide, once begun, can be left to carry on with its own momentum.

 Lovers love, dreamers dream, develoers develop. Urbanisation, once begun, can be left to carry on. Like cancer. Even on the flood plains at the feet of the MacDonnells. Even through the Yeperenye Caterpillar. We look on. Astonished and perplexed.

 Bring on the tourists. Sell them lies. Happy, lala tourists. Nobody wants to buy the truth. Send them home confused and broke with a little relic to treasure of something that no one would help them understand. Peace of mind in a material world.

 Another new idea. To dam me. A little north of the town. Dam the old dry river, damn the old dry river. To protect Their lifestyles? To extend Their lifestyles? They seem to be like that. They’ve never seemed comfortable here with things the way they are. Those Who Know said no and fought for me. They were fighting for themselves and they were fighting for each other as well. They were fighting for the whole damn lot. They won that time and for the time being. They won that little battle. Laughter and liquids of celebration flowed and spilt onto me.  I laughed too and lapped it all up and just kept on rolling along.

 I do roll along. I’m magnificent. Honestly. Unashamedly. Magnificent. I’m the creamy white sand that forms, indefinitely, into new patterns. Walk on the sand. Feel it scrunch and squeal beneath your feet. Roll on the sand every which way you like. Rejoice in the madness. Only then can you get up and brush it off and head back. Only then. Anything goes, anything that can be restored. How much can be restored? We wonder.

 I am the home of the great River Red Gums. They’re as stately and gracious as God Save the Queen was before we came to understand. They make the honey for the insects, hold the nests for the birds. They are the keepers of the secrets of time passing. They are a home and I am their home. My jewels, most naturally, are stones and rocks and branches you might use to make your fires. Use your discretion. You’re welcome. Anything that can be restored.

 I am the river. I am full of broken glass, empty bladders, broken dreams, packaging, shit, piss, blood and decomposing bodies. I’m full of weeds too, numerous and increasing exponentially.

 The green shirts clean me up these days. They’re from the jail. Low-risk detainees. Allowed out under supervision. Green shirts, brown skin. Of course. Drunken driving. Motor vehicles unregistered. General irreverence. Whistling as they work. I’m happy to see the green shirts. With the black garbage bags. They clean me up. But they can’t take it all. You can’t fit a broken dream into a garbage bag. And they don’t do the weeding. The green thumbs do that but they can’t keep up.

 There’s nothing wrong with me. Nothing that won’t be righted when all the people remember that I and everything else in their world is sacred. Every little thing. Every big thing. When heaven returns to earth.

 Until then, if you want a pristine river, go downstream. There’s a connection between the distance you are from the township They built and my state of disrepair. Keep going. When you can’t hear the laughter, you can’t hear the dialogue and you can’t hear the pain. Keep going. There’ll be no more sweet substances to share. No more roly-poly warmth. No attempts to understand. Keep going. Away from the whinny of the horses to where the flies from their shit aren’t sticking to your face. Keep going. End up all alone, standing naked in the desert. The only sounds you’ll hear will be the wind whistling through the desert oaks. The leaves whispering in the River Reds. The sound of your own heart beating. That far downstream, you’ll find I’m pristine. Such is the interconnectedness. Keep going.

©Linda Wells