Tonight I am sleeping in a police station in a small town in rural Limpopo called Vuwani.
While I was waiting for the room I am staying in to clear, a boy of about 7 years old sat tentatively on the chair next to me and I greeted him in the little bit of Venda that I know. Quietly he looked up at me and nodded a badly bruised head. The combination of bruises and a police station can lead one to a pessamistic view on the origin of bruises, but I hoped that he had fallen while playing soccer or something and only looked so dazed because he didn't know quite how to react to this scruffy white guy sitting next to him. The lady who had greeted me earlier in English smiled and asked if I knew Venda, and I explained that I had just started learning. The little boy asked me something in Venda which she translated as, "Where is your car?!", I laughed and tried to explain what I was doing in English while the lady translated. He milled this over for some, then asked again, "But where is your car?!". The lady and myself just laughed...
The room cleared and I went down to where I would lay my sleeping mat on the floor and spend the night. The officer explained that the room I am staying in is used for counseling victims of domestic violence. We headed back to the main building of the station so that he could show me where the bathroom was. As we were walking I asked the officer if there is a big problem with domestic violence in the area, to which he replied, "A very big problem! This lady for instance is a [victim] of domestic violence." and pointed to a woman who was laying down her blankets, much like I was about to do, to spend the night on the concrete floor of the police station. She had one child strapped to her back and her oldest stood next to her with that dazed look that I had hoped was just out of suprise at seeing a white hobo in his small town. But the dazed look wasn't because of me and the bruises weren't from falling during soccer or some other fun thing. As I lay my sleeping mat down on the concrete floor in the counseling office I realised that I was doing it out of choice, that boy's mother was doing out of necessity.
That just added a little perspective to my night and my lifestyle in general. I suddenly have a far greater appreciation for my freedom of choice.
Feet are feeling better by the day and looking forward to another good days walking tomorrow! By choice.
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Hey Kyle, one doesn't have to look too far to find reasons to be grateful for our own particular slice of life, however hard done by we might be feeling. I often think, considering how many choices we have to make in our lives, that it's a pity we aren't taught more proactively about choice; leave some schooling for us to do on a need to/want to basis on our own later. Seems to be a bit back to front, no? Love you, GP/xxx
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