rivers and roads

In the little village of Tshani, next to the winding Mdumbi River, overlooking the warm Indian Ocean, I would wake up in the little hut I called home for the last two months.


Waking up early rewarded me with the sun rising over the sea and slowly casting its warmth over the sleepy village.




I’d have a quick, cold shower to wake up before walking down to a little deck in the forest, overlooking the ocean where I would do yoga. Very often a school of dolphins would swim past, distracting me from the pose I was in.

Summer is the rainy season, and all the gardens grew with such fervour. Spargs, the old man who owned the backpackers I was helping at, would be in the garden before I even started yoga.


Nothing gave me quite as much joy as cooking with the produce freshly picked from the garden.

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If one has a spectrum where at one extreme each individual produces everything they need, and at the other end each individual only produces one highly specialised product for use in society, I believe city society has moved too far to the one extreme.  If only we could all work a little less and have the time to avoid pre-packaged foods, the time to fix a broken item or make something new, the time to grow some of our own food, the time to care for our hearts and souls and those of the people around us.

Time moves in a different way in the village. There is always time to greet someone you pass in the road. There is time to cook with love and intention. Time to breathe slowly. Time for gentleness, time for patience. Time for the small things that bring us joy and make our hearts sing.



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