Things I will miss include; the smell of a freshly cut
eucalyptus tree as I pass along the road, the rustle of the wind in the frilled
banana tree leaves; beautiful night scented blossoms and frangipani
flowers. The incredible frog chorus that
takes place all night at the local swamp following heavy rain. The jaw dropping looks I still receive each
morning as I travel to school and the excited shout of “Muzungu!” and waves of
delight from children as they react to me like a child at home may react to
seeing a celebrity.
The way that fog can descend in minutes and obscure the
surrounding area so completely. The stars
that sparkle so brightly in the sky at night.
The friendly people of this country.
How people here manage to be happy and pleasant despite what little they
have. If only this happiness existed
back home. Here, I greet most people I
pass as I walk along the street (and in Africa’s most densely populated
country, this equates to a lot of people!) and if I know them, we embrace and
shake hands and have a conversation.
There is always time for a conversation with a friend, and if you are
late for your next meeting, then so be it.
I love watching children laugh and play, but they also have
responsibilities that children at home would be outraged by – they fetch water
and fire wood – hard, manual labour.
Children don’t worry about getting dirty or damaging their clothes. They run through mud and swing from trees and
make skipping ropes and balls from banana leaves. They run barefoot across uneven ground. They hold hands as they walk and run the
journeys between home and school. They
sit with their arms draped about each others shoulders.
I will miss lying in bed and listening to the rain hammering
on my tin roof. And how lessons have to
stop when the rain gets too heavy because no one can hear a word above the
noise of the relentless rain. Also, the
way this rain can dry up and disappear in no time at all and suddenly a hot,
hot sun is blazing in the sky and I find myself searching for sunglasses, where
only moments before I was covered head to foot in waterproof clothing. I will miss the delicate pitter-patter of
rain drops dancing across the smooth, fresh banana leaves.
In the mornings I will wonder where the sound of radios in
neighbouring yards has gone and the swiping sound of a brush being swept across
an already spotless yard. I will listen
out for the shouting and calling and laughter that passes up and down the
street beyond my gate as people go about their daily business. I will strain to hear the sounds of birds
which no longer populate my garden. I
will wonder why I am able to hear my tv programme so well and wonder what has
happened to the church goers behind my house, who have fallen so silent.
I will miss getting squashed into a bus and being pressed
into conversation with those around me as I try to practise my language
skills. And the warm laughter and smiles
that accompany this conversation and the delight that I am at least trying to
speak the local language. I will be sad
to get off a bus without it being appropriate to say goodbye to everyone on it
and will miss watching the bus pull away from the roadside without smiling
faces and waves seeing me off. It will
be a disappointment to go shopping for food and not have to haggle over the
price with some friendly banter, and to not have the staff in the supermarket
greet me by name and ask after my friends and family. I will miss the roadside conversations I have
with these same people as I pass them as we move about town.
I will miss my incredible moto commutes. Where I get to see a hundred shades of green
spread out across the hillsides and valleys we pass through. Or the deep valleys that are obscured below by
a thick covering of fluffy cloud, of which I am above. No more will I have to anticipate the route
ahead and be prepared to hold on tight as we traverse bumpy roads and I won’t
watch the road change shape as the weeks pass and the combined efforts of
torrential rain, harsh sunlight and heavy vehicles press and shape the soil to
re-shape the road so it is sometimes smooth and sometimes rutted and almost
impassable. There will be no opportunity
to exchange pleasantries with the one who will take me on my journey to work
that day and I will probably wind up in a crowded carriage full of people who
won’t make eye contact and certainly won’t want to talk to a stranger.
I will long for the possibility of walking out to my garden
and grazing. Picking beautiful fresh
green beans off the plant and eating a tomato before moving on to the passion
fruit vine to collect some fruit. I will
miss my bananas and herbs and peppers and avocadoes, rocket and lettuce and
mint and spring onions. I will miss
watching the shadow of the banana trees dance across my walls in the afternoon
sun.
No more will I spend time passing time. Waiting for a meeting, or a lesson to begin,
or a bus to arrive, or a bus to depart, or the rain to stop. Life will be put back on a timetable and will
be frantic and stressful and things will matter so much more. But this will make no sense as the water
still runs, the electricity still magically appears, health care is free,
school is orderly and well resourced, someone will look after you if you cannot
work and people can shop at anytime of the day.
Yet here, time is less important but life hangs on more of a knife
edge. There may be little food, the
water and electricity are often off (but many houses are still not connected to
a supply anyway). Daily activities here
are more vital to life than anything we do back home, so how will any of it seem
to matter? And despite the difficulties
and what we perceive to be hardships, people still smile and get on with it and
days pass and life moves on.
