It all started with that little leather wallet I found in the ditch. The snow had just melted and spring was in the air. At first I thought it was just an ordinary wallet someone may have lost over New Years Eve but when I opened it up I realized that this wallet was the exact opposite.
Its content consisted of nothing but a dirty scrunched up piece of paper. I did not think much of it and was hoping to find contact information of the owner on it. Instead I found a note saying: “True happiness can only be found when experiencing the sorrow of the poor”. At this point of my life it didn’t have any meaning to me.
Its content consisted of nothing but a dirty scrunched up piece of paper. I did not think much of it and was hoping to find contact information of the owner on it. Instead I found a note saying: “True happiness can only be found when experiencing the sorrow of the poor”. At this point of my life it didn’t have any meaning to me.
I remembered the wallet one day in July when my own happiness left me. I had just lost my job, my husband had left me and my life in general was not going the way it should be. What had the note said again? Something about finding our own happiness when experiencing sorrow of the poor. Just recently I had seen a documentary about the poverty in Africa. These people did not have anything. No education, poor health and hardly any food. They still seemed happy. Somewhat content with the little things that were given to them.
It took me several weeks until I spontaneously went to the travel agency and booked a vacation in Burkina Faso, one of the poorest countries on the African continent. I left my beautiful Mediterranean looking house the next day with nothing but a little bag containing a few clothes and my little glass jar filled with “lucky water” I got from little sister years back. I never believed in anything like this but just the gesture of it made me carry it around constantly.
I landed in Ouagadougou 13 hours later. The first thing encountering me was a boy dancing around the tiny run down lobby of the airport. Growing up in Spain I was expecting him to be for money but when I tried to give my last euros he would not except them. He instead led me to a store outside of the airport and convinced me to buy one of the vintage table cloth at his family's store.
After I got done talking with him and his family I went to the hotel to get settled in. I did not believe my eyes when I saw what was supposed to be my "home" for the next two weeks. The hotel was not even comparable to an one star hotel back home. It was a old run-down building with broken windows and dirt all over the place. The only charming thing about it were the Chinese torments on each side of the main entrance.
To be continued
It took me several weeks until I spontaneously went to the travel agency and booked a vacation in Burkina Faso, one of the poorest countries on the African continent. I left my beautiful Mediterranean looking house the next day with nothing but a little bag containing a few clothes and my little glass jar filled with “lucky water” I got from little sister years back. I never believed in anything like this but just the gesture of it made me carry it around constantly.
I landed in Ouagadougou 13 hours later. The first thing encountering me was a boy dancing around the tiny run down lobby of the airport. Growing up in Spain I was expecting him to be for money but when I tried to give my last euros he would not except them. He instead led me to a store outside of the airport and convinced me to buy one of the vintage table cloth at his family's store.
After I got done talking with him and his family I went to the hotel to get settled in. I did not believe my eyes when I saw what was supposed to be my "home" for the next two weeks. The hotel was not even comparable to an one star hotel back home. It was a old run-down building with broken windows and dirt all over the place. The only charming thing about it were the Chinese torments on each side of the main entrance.
To be continued
No comments:
Post a Comment