Friend only to the undertaker

Remember Edwin Starr? Well, neither did I, actually. The guy’s name, I mean. His song has been playing in my head all day, though.

We decided to take refuge in Hippie Heaven Clil for the weekend. Booked weeks in advance, we thought it might calm our senses and give us a reason to come back here after our break in the Netherlands.

This time around, it was slightly less heavenly, though. Two events clouded the weekend over.

The yurt was still there, alright. But on the first evening, my husband took the baby on his arm and in to the swimming pool. To slip on the algae covered steps, fall backwards and injure himself badly. With his last strength, he held the baby up for me to take over. Crawled out of the water and couldn’t move for minutes. Then, he crawled back to the yurt, moaning and panting.

Believe me, I am the first to mock men and their ability to endure physical discomfort. After having birthed five babies, I do not envy the guy who tries to compare anything to my labour pains. But this time, it was me trying to look up medical websites. Cursing Clil for the poor internet reception on my cell phone. My man was in a very, very rough place.

A tiny ray of wifi told me bruised and fractured ribs are most commonly cured with pain killers and rest. And so, Cli was a little less relaxed than last time for me. My dear old husband could hardly move, so I ended up being super nanny and super nurse.

Super nanny by the favorite attraction of the place. The Pool. Let me elaborate: the pool where my husband seriously injured himself. With five small children. Three of them with no swimming abilities whatsoever. I think the kids would have voted a prison guard over my presence anytime.

Super nurse probably created the same wish. If patients get better sooner because of the ever grumpy, cursing, rough and cranky nurse, I might be the perfect candidate for any hospital. Our four year old learned a whole new array of curse words just over the weekend. 

Still, there were sparks of wonderful everywhere. The donkey and her baby in the field. The owner of Clil Café we discussed politics with. My tears when I heard a flute play a flute sonata by Bach. The fish that tickled my husband’s feet when he finally dared to wade through the pool again.

And then, half an hour of continuous thunder on a bright and sunny day broke loose. Just above our heads. Fighter jets, helicopters, back and forth. We could not make ourselves heard. Roar and thunder made conversation impossible.

Later, my husband explained IS is just behind the Golan Heights. No less than 40 UN soldiers from Fiji are held captive and nobody even talks about them. Israel is making it’s presence felt, making observation flights. Makes sure IS will not even think about entering Israel anytime soon.

I had to think of all these tons of fuel being burnt for nothing above eco village Clil. I had to think of the ongoing fight that will not bring peace.

And that’s why, from that moment on, I couldn’t get good old Edwin Starr out of my head anymore.

War. What, exactly, is it good for?




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