remembering

to be back in africa has awakened that special piece of my heart – the piece that inexplicably loves having dirty, dirty feet and can handle eating baked beans on toast every day. i wouldn’t enjoy either of these things in the absence of the beautiful zambesi river - flowing quietly less than 10m from my verandah - which is where i now sit.

i knew i was excited to come back here, but i had somehow forgotten the depth of love i have for mwandi village, zambia. today, i remember the million things i love about this place, and my heart is happy. my feet are filthy, but my heart is happy.

getting to mwandi was an adventure. i flew into livingstone ready to pick up some groceries and jump on a bus, squeezing my hips next to what i assumed would be an african mama suffering from the same over-sized hip condition as me. but a phonecall from my friend fiona left me with slightly different travel plans. (side note – fiona is the incredible australian woman who set up and runs the feeding/education project i will be working with for the coming months – she is one of my heroes.) fiona told me i had to go to her mechanic in livingstone and pick up her 4WD/tank and drive it out to mwandi. as an afterthought, she added, “there’s a 30km stretch of road just outside mwandi where the potholes are really bad, so be careful.” a few rough calculations in my head confirmed the fact that i had about as much off-road driving experience as a toddler, so i replied, “no problems mate, i’ll see you in a few hours.”

i buckled up and hit the road. the first hour of driving was without incident. the second hour was not. the potholes snuck up on me like little zambian ninjas. i said a few rude words to the ninjas, swerved off and on and back off the road like any toddler driving a tank would, and found, surprisingly, that i was still alive. this scenario repeated itself  an alarming number of times during the proceeding 30km. “how did you go mate?” says fiona when i arrive. “really good. no problems at all,” i reply as i discreetly try to remove any remaining gravel and mud from between my teeth. big. fat. liar.

i went to say hello to all my friends at the feeding centre shortly after i arrived in the village. i was hoping they would remember who i was. upon walking through the gate, a bunch of kids began screaming and singing a song to me which i had written and taught them 3 years ago. they remembered. one of the volunteers from the project ran to me smiling and wrapped me up in a huge african hug. she remembered. today, i remember the million things i love about this place. i remember the many times i have visited here and been changed by the lives of the poor. i remember that we cannot live by bread alone, so we must buy baked beans and tinned soup. i remember that hot running water (after 2 months of showering in a bucket) is as beautiful to me as a gilmore girls marathon on a saturday afternoon.

sometimes, to simply remember and be remembered, is the sweetest thing of all.

ps. i totally got my nose pierced the day before i left india. i look like a pirate. a nice pirate. the kind who would sing cheerful ditties about the ocean. not the kind who would steal your jewellery or terrorise your womenfolk.