I'm back in Zim now and have been for a week. Spent a good week in Howick and a night in Durban and visited the Midlands Meander, rested, walked in the rolling hills and caught up with my friend from Switzerland, Fia and her Husband.
Won't lie, it has been a little depressing returning to Zim, as everything seems very run down and struggling to keep going. It has been good to see my Mum though and friends and my dogs were very happy to have me return.
I have some work that I've come back to. I continue with my Grade 6 student and then I now have a student from Azerbaijan. I got all excited thinking I could use my new CELTA skills but it turns out he is more fluent than I thought and wants to work on IGCSE English. Oh well, can do that too. I also might have some work with the Wildlife and Environment Zimbabwe group till I go over to Oxford.
Unexpectedly The Globe Theatre is doing a world tour and they did a one night only performance of Hamlet last night at 7Arts. It was really good. Tonight I'm going to the Improv Show at Reps which should be funny. Met up with a French photographer through Couchsurfing on Wednesday who is documenting people's living space in different countries. The HIFA or Harare Festival of the Arts program has just come out and is available here.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?—To die,—to sleep,—
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die,—to sleep;—
To sleep: perchance to dream:—ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,—
The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns,—puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
