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the truman show

The clocks won’t keep time here.  Six little words that sum up life on the compound, actually.

After a while, it starts to feel like an ongoing debate your house is having with… itself.   The cordless phone claims 3:20, but the stove clock counters with 3:26.  The microwave, diplomatically, suggests splitting the difference at 3:23, while the alarm clock maintains they’re all getting ahead of themselves: it’s clearly 3:18.

You think I’m kidding.

Cornucopia at work!
Cornucopia at work!

This went on for the first three years here.  I’d notice the clocks all wonky every four or five months, shake my head, and quietly reset them.  After the fourth year experiment, in which I left them alone to see how much spread would develop (16 minutes, ladies and gentleman! 16 minutes!), I sighed, set them all back, and posted something pithy on Facebook about the time-warping vortex that is this place.  About ten friends on the compound chimed in:  “Hey, my clocks do that, too!” “I thought it was just me.” “Crazy! I reset mine every month.”   And then, half an hour later, a longtimer saw the post and cleared it all up.  It’s the electricity, the weird surges and burpy handling of a 110v compound in a 220v country.  This prompted a collective “Ahhh,” from the rest of us, a private thank-God-I’m-not-crazy sigh of relief.

It still makes me chuckle.  Which is the only halfway-appropriate response to life here.  It’s a place where weekends are Thursday-Friday for several decades, until the day the King decides, mid-week, to shake things up a little.  It shall be Friday-Saturday, the man says on a June day in 2013, and we wake to the school and company calendars miraculously changed.  One can do such things overnight, in one’s artificial world.

This is what we mean by those tongue-in-cheek references to “the Magic Kingdom.” We’re drawing a comparison to Disneyland, yes–but not to any theme park sense of endless fun and adventure. We’re talking about the way life on camp feels distinctly, well, unreal. Like a careful construct of someone’s suburban utopia. We’re saying it feels an awful lot like The Truman Show.

 

 

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An irrigator, eyeing his sprinkler settings. Grass from sand, baby.  Eat your heart out.

 

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The proverbial riot of colour.
The proverbial riot of colour.

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Watch the wind for three minutes.
Watch the wind for three minutes.