I remember...
All those moments, fragments, anecdotes
They roll around like marbles in a basin.
I take great joy in mulling over them,
attempting to translate them into words on a page
Sentences form.
I remain unsatisfied
until a word springs to mind
dripping in meaning, depth, vibrancy, description
The discovery of the word, of the perfect phrasing of an idea,
is like finding a jewel in a toy chest
the forgotten coin in the pocket of a coat
As I have travelled I have spent much time
alone and wrapped up in my own thoughts
writing poetry in my mind to be shared
with my eager inner critic.
Poetry is a special form of expression
One does not need to scratch deeply to find it
it is always there
it lingers within us
but it does not often end up on paper
we become satisfied with simply battering it around
in the inner theatres of ourselves
But just don't let me forget
all the amusing smiles I wore
as I wandered slowly through busy city streets
all the evenings where I 'got by' eating strange combinations of food
Canned corn and a piece of bread.
I didn't even take it from the can
just ripped off the lid
drained the juice in the bathroom sink
and ate it with my plastic spoon.
Or the night where I was staying in a hostel
that did not have a kitchen for guests.
So I attempted to cook pasta by turning on the hot tap in the bathroom
and let it cascade over my plastic container of pasta
until it was as ready as it could get -
or perhaps out of my amused shame and embarrassment
I just didn't want to wait any longer.
And I chomped through that meal
Trying not to get distracted
by the constant feeling of swollen, watery, yet still uncooked pasta.
I remember all my cultural fauxpas
You learn to recognise them quickly -
suddenly the person's face will transform
from a neutral expression
to one of
horror
or
fits of laughter
I remember the look of absolute terror
on New Year's Eve
in Uganda
as I was having my handbag checked by a security lady at a jazz bar.
I was fiddling with the bag zip to get it open
when suddenly
my phone started ringing
On the cat miao ringtone I had chosen.
The security woman stared in disbelief and horror
at my miaoing bag
I assured her that there was no cat in my bag
but I'm not sure she was fully convinced.
I remember all the jokes with friends
stereotyping 'muzungus' (white travellers) and everything they wore
and the squeals of delight
when we would spot a muzungu
living up to the stereotype completely.
Khaki pants or hareems
Expensive and ugly practical hiking sandals
Head scarf
Neutral tones. Always neutral tones.
So casual and slovenly compared to the Ugandans
in their impeccably neat ironed shirts
and colourful fitted dresses.
I remember the warmth in the eyes of my friend's grandmother - her Jaja.
In the village in Mbale
when she turned to me and said
"We love you so very much!"
and I felt like I belonged.
I remember the fondness of arriving at each airport
With all the familiarity of home
The feeling of being in transit
Halfway to somewhere
but at some odd place in between
Sleeping on the floor on a corner of carpet
in an empty boarding gate
or propped up on my backpack on a chair.
Walking monotonously
on the travelator
backwards, as if it were a treadmill
Passing time.
Or that time I filled up my drinking bottle
at a water fountain
and then taught the little old lady beside me
how to turn it on
and how to drink from it.
Or the time I freed a woman trapped in a toilet cubicle
Or crying my eyes out
on the floor of the dirty bathroom
in Brussels airport
when they confiscated my Swiss Army knife
and I fully mourned its loss like a child losing a teddy.
Airports carry all the memories, the highs and lows
of coming of age
of adolescence becoming adulthood
the entire spectrum of emotion
is enacted at airports
such strange and fascinating places they are.
Bus stations and train stations
simply do not have the same effect.
While waiting for my flight
I take the opportunity to people-watch
Where have all these people come from?
Where are they going and why?
I sit awkwardly on a bench
I am in Guangzhou airport, China.
They are boarding my plane to New Zealand
I remain seated.
I watch as each passenger shuffles past the flight crew
Nodding obligingly in a friendly non-threatening manner.
I observe them with intense curiosity.
These are 'my people'
from 'my land'
Suddenly two years seems a lifetime
Do I still fit with 'my people'?
Can I still identify with the,?
I feel like a foreigner entering a new land
Like all the other times before
that I have stepped out onto the tarmac
and felt the winds of each different continent
flutter past my cheeks.
But this time is different
for these people are my people and this land is full of love.
