Killing time people watching :
Woman covered from head to toe in austere black – eyes not even visible
Sitting next to fair skinned ‘mature’ lady wearing very short shorts, shoe string strapped top not covering much and slip slops
The contrast – imagining what each makes of the other – assuming they have even noticed the Other
I read the papers daily and make the appropriate sounds of indignation, anger, sadness but the Emotion which is engaged is one of resignation and mild detachment.
I meet my friends, enjoy the exchange rate that makes eating out easy – ( although the cost of living is much higher than previous visits)
We worry about the drought – but as an intellectual observation because ‘we have a borehole for our garden’
I see past the beggars, looking ahead at the robots (lights) as though there was
something very significant about them that demands my total attention.
I drive like a local – aggressively, fast (as opposed to Very fast which is the norm and I am sure my next step) always alert to ‘the possible’ – hi jacking, window smashing theft etc.
I feel the hair rise on my arms and my breathe tighten as someone suddenly stops, swerves in front of me, drops a stone onto my windscreen (and I nearly didn’t pay the extra for insurance 😂), appears unexpectedly alongside my window – and then enjoy that strange sensation as your body realises all is well and slowly reverts to ‘normal’
‘Normal’
I’m back, like the proverbial frog and the hot water story, to normal enjoying this still remarkable country
Like ‘Home,’ ‘Normal’ is a question of definition 😜😂
Adieu to an interesting part of Africa
And so the end of an amazing and exhausting adventure and Home beckons
‘Home’ to friends who mean the world to me and know me to my core and still chose me. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart.
“Home is where the heart is”, is for me, too simplistic.
Perhaps there comes a time when one must just accept – ‘Home’ isn’t always there for everyone. Fate conspires for many, and quite arbitrarily it seems, to confound the idea of ‘Home’ – whether through physical loss or rejection .
When we look at returning to the old ‘Home’ or staying in the new, Lady Macbeth comes to mind : ‘Returning were as tedious as go o’er’; so we end up with a foot in each camp – a wobbly somewhere.
Precious memories and links to our old ‘Home’ that keep us chained by a golden thread and special loving kind friends in our new ‘Home’ where we try to create memories that are spun too of golden thread – all very fragile.
I see it in my girls, in quiet moments when the earth is still – a certain look, a longing to ‘belong’, to be part of the rituals of a ‘Home’ – celebrations, mournings, laughing, weeping. I see it and I know it – it’s been my search too.
The joy of seeing my special ‘old friends’ will always be tempered by the knowledge that I must say good bye to them again
And That sadness will be softened by the knowledge that I will see my daughters and my new dear friends
And still we’re luckier than some – I met some Rwandans who have no threads at all – who got married with strangers celebrating with them – who could not go back to visit old friends and who have to start new traditions – alone
And that’s just for starters ….. Syrians, Somalis, Iraqis, Afghanis, seems
Home is certainly not available to everyone 😥 so perhaps in this life it must be after all wherever the heart is, pending the next place of rest ❤️
Thanks Uganda , Rwanda and Kenya for a great experience
Brave New World of Blogging 