The surreal side of volunteering

The second time I helped a German family in exchange for food and accommodation, I expected all kind of excitement and energy, which I felt, but I wasn’t expecting fear and anxiousness as well.

The house was huge, self-built and its tree trunk walls supported a grass-covered roof that descended through a slope and joined the field. To the left I found the pizzeria with its beer garden where I was intended to help, next to a pirate-like game; and to the right, a Chinese styled red door that divided the property from the yellow flowered meadow that preceded the forest.

It was an offbeat place, almost magical and surreal, indeed. But why was I so scared?

It was not because of the sullen expression of my host, nor was because the dubious grey sky that darkened even more the porch blurred with tons of plants and odd pots, vintage leather couches, two cats and one dog.

It took me a while to realize that what I feared the most, was to experience, to live, to grow, and because at that point, I knew what was about to come.

Because the next ten days I stood there, I went through new routines, new environments, new ideologies, new languages, new food and new people. I learned new ways of doing things, new ways of thinking.

Because I rolled my first pizza there, chopped wood and collected mushrooms, because I laughed many times and also secretly cried once.

Because I could also share my ideas with a community whose driver is their sustainable way of living, the same driver that inspired them to create the Mützingenta festival since 25 years ago.

Because everything above was for me so admirable and imposing that scared me.

It was the last night of October, the last pizza night of the year and also my last night there. I was enjoying a beer around the campfire with my host, the other helpers and the people from the nearby caravans. I noticed how all of us stared at the fire at some point and get lost into each one’s thoughts.

I stretched out my legs to bring them closer to the fire and catch me wearing a pair of old, shiny pink pair of sneakers that I was about to throw away. I saw how ugly they were and I felt such relief to know that it was time to let them go along with many other obsolete fears and paradigms.

,,Auf das Leben, auf die Liebe, auf die Revolution”. That was the final yet meaningful toast we made: “For life, for love, for the revolution”.