Normal is a relative term that recalibrates frequently. At first glance, my normal life when I’m away is basically the same as my normal life at home: I eat, go to work, sit in an office, come home, and try to have some sort of social life. On the surface, not that different. It’s all the little things that make my away normal unrecognisable from my home normal.
Sometimes it’s ok to have a bit of a shit run. They don’t last forever, but in the midst of one, it can be harder to recognise the beauty of a country that has let you be part of daily life.
Climbing the highest peak in Timor-Leste to greet the dawn with about 300 people, who, upon reaching the summit, prayed for fertility. I participated in the ritual, whispering a quiet prayer for stabilisation of the country’s booming population growth.
With a big smile at the heavily armed chaps, I try to look non-confrontational and more harmless than usual. I hold up a bag of chickens.
Yes, of course I’m very fond of you, and I do like your company. But when you casually swipe a low-walking gecko off the kitchen wall and crunch crunch crunch it in half, it’s a bit off putting.
My memories of this place will forever be of listening to the personal personal stories of a brutal war, told with shocking honesty by a quiet man who came back to this place by accident.
As the dawn is even now about to pierce the night, so let their memories inspire us to work for the coming of the new light.