Wandering Star

There in their home

sophiew — Sat, 3 May 2014 16:50:00 GMT

When she smiled at me for the first time, my stomach twisted and something rushed up into my throat that made me feel like I was choking. I blinked and realised my eyes were wet. Not the emotion I was hoping for.

'Shap!' she said to me, lifting her tiny charcoal hand up towards mine. Her hand was clenched and just her thumb protruded out the top, making a 'thumbs up' sign. I had heard this many times before in the townships - 'shap' was actually 'sharp', it just sounded different with a Xhosa accent. Kids used the sign and the word as a token of understanding and welcoming, almost to let you know that they approved of you being there. There in their home.

'Shap!' I said back, joning my thumb with hers. She giggled and reached up to pull on my hair. For some reason, the children loved playing with my hair. I guessed it was because it was a different colour and texture to theirs. Suddenly, there was a gaggle of them around me, tugging on my shirt, wrapping their tiny arms around my legs. I sat down to be closer to them. The little girl with the smile immediately climbed into my lap, her fingers still laced in my hair. And as I touched their skin and they touched mine, we bonded. We giggled and high fived and hugged, me and the dozen toddlers, and I felt so content I could have stayed there forever. There in their home.

But, just under the surface, that horrible feeling stood firmly in my throat, its moat in my eyes. I longed for it to leave me alone to be swept up in the happiness of the children's laughter and the beautiful innocence of their smiles. But it wouldn't. I felt desperate and anxious. I wanted nothing more than to take them all with me, to fill them with love and good food and give them the lives I felt they so deserved.

Music started to play from outside the school and almost on cue, they all jumped up. Singing along to the tune, they shook their bums, stamped their feet and clapped in unison. The teachers came in, leading the dance and the energy elevated to an infectious level. Soon, the music could hardly be heard as the little voices drowned out the melody. Before I had time to decline, I was shaking my bum too, trying as best I could to keep up with the amazing rhythm of the kids. I was useless - out of time and absolutely clueless as to what move came next!

The little girl came over and held my hand. We danced together for a while, spinning and twisting, stamping and wiggling. She looked up at me and smiled again and I felt something shift inside me. My throat opened and my eyes dried. Lifting our arms for the chorus, I looked around at the colourful menagerie and realised that there really was no sadness here, only hope. There in their home, I too, was in mine.

Wander, Wonder

sophiew — Sat, 3 May 2014 16:43:00 GMT

Hapiness eludes me

No matter the place

The vocation

The person

The lanuguage

The light explodes

My heart sings

For a brief moment

And then

No more

Sobbing for it

My lungs hurt from nothing

That there is nothing

Where is my home

If not within,

then where?

Find me home. Find me.

Beauty of the beholder

sophiew — Thu, 24 Apr 2014 20:32:00 GMT

'Come in', she said. Her hands were old and crinkled, the henna sunk deep into the cracks around her nails and the divets of her fingers. I sat down across the table from her and she took my hand in hers, all the while never meeting my eyes.

'What would you like?' she asked, still averting my curious gaze. Her face was beautiful. Full of smile lines that were set into her cheeks, around her eyes and mouth. Her hair was silver and thick, a long plait hanging down to crack of her bottom.

'Something on my left hand and arm,' I replied.

She reached over to her modest art table and picked up a brush and some black ink. She began to draw. The ink was refreshingly cold in the 40 degree weather and it tickled my skin in a way that made all my fingers unfurl and relax.

'Are you from here, from Udaipur?' My intention was to get her to lift her head and look at me. Instead she shook her head, making her long silver earrings jingle.

'My family lives just outside Jaipur, I live here now,' she whispered. I could feel the energy change in the room, her sadness tangible.

'I'm sorry.'

Although I had no idea what life in a class system must be like, I had tasted the poverty in every town, city and village I had visited. The rule of thumb in India: if you could get work, you took it, even if it meant being away from your family.

She continued to draw and we sat in silence. My emotions fluctuated from anger to sadness to extreme empathy to guilt. Here I was, sitting in a tiny room off the side of a market in Udaipur, treating myself to a henna tattoo with the only worry in the world - which curry to have for lunch today. I suddenly couldn't take it anymore.

'Thank you,' I said stiffly, trying to move my hand away.

'No, not finished!' she cried, mortified that I would consider leaving with only half of her art completed. 'Please, sit.'

I sat back down and reluctantly stretched out my arm. She picked up her brush and continued with soft, generous strokes across the top of my hand. We sat in silence for a long time.

'You make us happy,' she spoke more confidently this time. 'Having people like you with white skin and blonde hair, you make us have work.'

'Tourism,' I managed.

'Yes,' she looked up at me and smiled, her eyes never wavering. 'Tell me about your country.'

Photos: Living it up in luxury

sophiew — Thu, 24 Apr 2014 20:05:00 GMT

Photos: Mud, trenches and polytunnels

sophiew — Thu, 24 Apr 2014 20:02:00 GMT

Photos: Hiking amongst turquoise waters

sophiew — Thu, 24 Apr 2014 19:50:00 GMT

Photos: Snow, lakes and mountains

sophiew — Thu, 24 Apr 2014 15:48:00 GMT

Photos: Out of Africa - love my country!

sophiew — Thu, 24 Apr 2014 15:33:00 GMT

Photos: Spices, cows and kindness

sophiew — Thu, 24 Apr 2014 15:29:00 GMT

Photos: Camino de Santiago

sophiew — Thu, 24 Apr 2014 15:03:00 GMT

Broken feet, happy heart

sophiew — Thu, 24 Apr 2014 14:25:53 GMT

'Follow the call of the shell' he answered nonchalantly, dipping greasy churros into liquid swirls of dark chocolate. His beautiful Spanish accent oozed over the English words.
'But, what about the yellow arrows?' I fumbled around in my backpack, ‘my guide book mentioned something about yellow arrows!?'
'Chiquita,’ he reached out and touched my arm, ‘one thing you will learn fast on the Camino: there is no need for guide book. Here, we let St James show us the way.' He tucked a five euro bill under his empty mug and pulled on his backpack.
Sweat puddled in my armpits as I realised my first and only friend was about to leave me. 'And, um, where exactly do I find this St James person?'
'Todas,' he smiled and turned towards the door, ‘everywhere.'
I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. He could have been speaking Spanish. In fact, he should have – at least I’d then have an excuse to turn around and go home.
But instead, I was in the middle of a foreign country with nothing more than a backpack. The weight of my worldly possessions held me down like an anvil, and I suddenly realised how grossly unprepared I was for an 800km hike across the north of Spain.
'Buen Camino!' someone shouted outside the café.
Hanging from the back of the girl's pack was a large white shell adorned with a red cross.
Instinctively, I felt my feet move. My mind had no time to question the decision.Out the door, onto the cobbled street and into the humid Spanish air. Before I knew what was happening, I was on the outskirts of the city, heading up a hill towards a row of trees. Trees turned into fields, fields into forests, forests into towns and towns into cities. My only indicator of time was the movement of the sun – I had entered into a walking meditation, my feet as my guide.
‘Chiquita!’ a familiar voice broke my trance. The sun was fading and the air was getting crisp, I hadn’t even felt the cold until now. ‘You made it! Your first day and you walk 32km – wow! Now, you real pilgrim.’
My friend stood in the doorway of what looked to be an old church. Above his head was written the word Albergue, which directly translates to Refuge in English, the places where pilgrims stay while walking the Way of St James. As my Spanish amigo opened his arms to embrace me, I noticed a shape on the wall. It felt like I had seen it a hundred times before: a small blue tile engraved with a beautiful scallop shell.
And for the very first time in my life, I let go.