The chaos of sound.

The happiest day of my life (this far) was when a big production company at home told me they want to buy a radio documentary from me. A documentary about children slavery in Mauritania.
Oh My Word how I was jumping around laughing to myself for five minutes. Then reality struck me. I have never made anything close to a radio documentary before. A few short reportage’s, sure, but forty minutes one subject exciting interesting gripping….. no.

It’s ten to three in the morning and I’ve got some sort of flow of nightly creativity in my mind and body. From a chaos of hours of sounds and interviews a small stream of words is finding the shape of … of what?

Challenges enrich our lives.

Cook some food!

I will donate a recipe. It’s Mauritanian food inspired by my friends and experiences.

For one person.

1 large potato
1 small onion
a tin of 70 grams tomato paste
oil
salt
water

Chop the onion fine and heat the oil gently in a pot. Add the onion and salt and cook until the onion is soft.
Add the tomato paste and chop the potato. Stir a bit before adding the potato and enough water to cover the potato pieces.
Cook for ten to fifteen minutes. When the potato is soft it’s ready. Add some more spices if you want to, but I like it pretty plain. Great with some bread and big glass of water.

You can add corn, carrots, aubergine or whatever vegetables you like. But this is a nice base to start with.
Enjoy!

To curse in hassaniya

“I curse the day when your father switched off the light and your parents’ hair mated and magma shot out of your bum!”
It’s can’t get any worse. The one who does not get cold shivers from that one has a thick skin.

Cursing is often one of the first thing you learn in a new language, and sure it can be grateful in some situations. Not to know them, but to recognize them. If someone is cursing the day when you pooed magma it’s not very grateful to stand there and say “eh’e, eh’e!” (yes, yes!) with a smile on your lips.

Like in my country, Sweden, most of the bad words are about cursing, with the difference that here it is God who curses (“may Allah curse the day that…”) instead of “cursed shit!” as many of us say in Sweden, or “fuck this shit” as you might say if you speak English.

(I’m so sorry for my bad language in this post. But it is interesting.)

I found paradise

The ocean is glittering as if a million hidden diamonds decided to come up to the surface all at once. The peaceful splash from the waves calms the soul when they sweep over the sand dunes and wash small squids onto the beach. Dunes stiffened by the salty sea and shaped by the wind circles small beaches; hidden from wind they provide a welcoming shade and the sand gives the bare feet a soft massage. If this is not paradise then I do not know where I have come.

This is the pride of Mauritania. Banc D’Arguin. The nature reserve stretches along the coast between Nouadhibou and Nouakchott. Forget about small 4-people’s tents where you can’t stand up straight unless you are 7 years old or very short. Here are big traditional nomad tents places in small groups right on the beach with thick mattresses and carpets. Every morning you will wake up to the sound of the ocean, far away from the bustle of cars and close to camels, ocean and semi-dessert. Here is no electricity, no toilets, no nothing. Just the quiet beach all to yourself, isn’t that what we all dream about? It’s paradise. It can’t be anything else.

The nature reserve is 12 000 square kilometers, another word is huge. It’s the largest breeding place of birds in the whole world. Who knows, maybe the grey heron you saw last summer is right now preparing to leave its nest in Banc D’Arguin to come back?

Yoga in Nouakchott

Stretching up towards the sky, then going down in Lizard pose I felt a lot of no no no from my body. Poor yoga and a different diet has made my body weaker since I left home, and I struggled a lot with some of the poses. Others went better than before, as downward dog. Heels perfectly on the ground and bum up in the air the pose felt only comfortable.

A few days ago I found out that there is a woman in town who gives yoga classes in her free time. For a small donation anyone can join in the class which lasts for about one and a half hour. It’s for the expat community by the expat community, which is a really big one.

I went to the Canon store in Nouakchott today, asking if they could fix the camera. “No, but by the market there’s the small photo shop. The guy fixes camera.” the man told me, and in’shallah I will go there tomorrow and hopefully he can repair it. On Monday and Tuesday I’m meeting two very strong women to talk about the situation for women in Mauritania. It’s gonna be interesting, and it feels good to finally get something done. Although I wont have any photos of them, at least I can hear what they are saying.

“You’re my luck!”

Last year Manfred got a 600 dirham fee for speeding in the dessert. This year Flavio got 62 Euro fee for not stopping in time by the police checkpoint in Western Sahara. But it was clear that he’s Italian. He understand bribes and corruption in a way that I never could. Quickly he had turned the fee into 30 Euro.

The sun had set and the darkness embraced us. Far to the right we could glimpse the lights of Dakhla, to the left only an eternal black hole, stretching all the way passed the nomad villages in Algeria, Libya and Chad to Egypt.
I fell asleep in the car, dreaming I was in a bed. Every now and then I woke up, tilted the seat backwards, fell asleep again. As I opened my eyes once more the sun was up, we were bathing in a yellow shine in the dessert and a french woman was walking by with her dog. She waved good morning to me.
I stepped out of the car and realized we were standing in a long line. In the front was the border station.

They said it would open sometime around eight or nine. By half past ten the first cars started driving across the border, and by twelve we could get our passports stamped by the Moroccan staff. But with all the hassle by the border, many bribes paid to make it smoother, the time was past three when we could finally look at the Mauritanian stamp in our passports and get moving towards Nouakchott.

While driving through Mauritania the polices by the check points made us stop every single time. And every single time we had to give away copies of our passports, though I was the only one who had it. I wrote Flavios details on my papers, “ici monsieur, c’est pour l’homme.” we told the polices and we could drive by. Ibrahim in the car behind wasn’t as lucky. He had no copies, and at one stop the military made him take out everything in the car. He had a lot of things.
“You’re my luck!” Flavio said as we passed the controls, “thank you thank you, saved a lot of trouble.”

So remember, bring lot’s of copies of your passport. We had to give away at least ten just during the drive Nouadhibou – Nouakchott. Also, having a woman with you always makes it smoother, just because it’s a woman. Yes, IT’s a woman.

The real Starwars

Tantan; the city where Luke Skywalker grew up. But also the city where Morocco’s occupation of Western Sahara first becomes visible. The former sporadic checkpoints by the police are now in every entry and exit of the cities and they check all passports thoroughly. “Where are you going? What’s your profession? Where do you come from?”
It’s clear that it’s no cultural or social occupation. It’s about money, nature resources. The cost is human dignity and the suppression of an ethnic group.

We passes the city early morning. The last thing I remember from the night before is the sky over Tiznit. The sky bestrewed with stars seemed eternal, and sure the stars must have paired themselves with each other since I saw them last? They didn’t seem to be this many the night before.
When the crescent moon had sunk below the horizon it left a white glow like a glimmer in the sky. As an open diamond mine with a shimmer reminding of the existence of the universe.

Let go, and free yourself

Running across the street. Ten taxis, two cars. Me in the middle. The sound of the prayer from the minaret is overwhelmed by the traffic turmoil. Then, I stop. The clementines coloured as the midnight sun hang among thick green leaves on trees framing the streets. People walking by are happy, salesmen greet me in French when I pass them and I return the greeting in Arabic. They smile and I smile back.

Morocco’s capital is the most peaceful town in the country, although it is easy to be swept away by the daily lives which are as hectic as in any other capital. You can easily walk in the medina without the hassle, people are kind and no one will stalk you or ask you for marriage. It’s easy to get around: taxis are cheap and there’s an even cheaper tram. Five dirhams and it will take you across town. A ten minute taxiride is usually about fifteen or twenty dirham.

The vegetables at the markets are fresh and there are lots of good restaurants. As my french gets better life becomes easier and I could definitely live here for a while to learn it fluently. I love this life, but still. Traveling means meeting a lot of amazing people, who also travel. They aren’t staying and neither am I. You can always come back to the couch surfing hosts and meeting awesome people doesn’t mean you have to stay in touch with them forever. To meet a good friend and then let go is often much easier than staying in touch. Because how could you ever stay in touch with everyone you meet on the road? No matter how much you like them it’s better to use it as a comfort: there are millions of fantastic people out there. You don’t need to be with all of them. Just be one of them.

Food to stay warm

After our lunch Cristian dropped me off by the lighthouse in Rabat. I strolled along the beach for a while and watched the fishermen. The sky was cloudy and the air cold. I’m wearing thick stockings and trousers, a t-shirt, shirt, fleecejacket and another jacket plus a big scarf. Still I’m cold every day. Morocco is nice when it’s sunny, but this cold is awful and inside the houses it’s even colder than outside. Lots of tea and warm soup helps for a while, but in the end of the day I’ve still been cold most of the time.

On my way home I stopped by a man selling vegetables off his carriage. A bundle of beetroots, a bundle of white beetroots, a bunch of dried figs and some ginger: six dirham, or fifty euro cents. That’s enough food for lunch And dinner for a very good price. That’s why I love shopping at the markets and small stands such as this one. It’s a great way to practice French and Arabic, plus here in Rabat there is no need to bargain. You’ll get the good price anyway. And another positive thing about couch surfing: you have access to a kitchen.
Dinner today: beetroot soup with ginger.

Another ride

This morning I overslept. I was supposed to wake up at quarter past five and go to the embassy, instead I woke up at quarter to eight and threw on the clothes before running to catch a taxi. In the car the driver and one of the other passengers said “she’s crazy to go to Mauritania now. You’re not staying there are you? It’s fine for transit, quickly through, don’t stop.” “Well I am stopping, I’ll be there for a month or so,” I said. “Crazy. Crazy.” the driver sighed.

By the embassy the line wasn’t as long as the other days, but still long. I met Cristian from Holland, a young guy driving his motorbike to Senegal. “You could have gone on the back, but there’s no space.” he said, but when the embassy closed he gave me a ride to the medina where we had a late breakfast/early lunch.
In the line I also met a man from Italy and another from Pakistan, the later one and myself will hitch-hike with the Italian to Mauritania tomorrow when we have our visas, inshallah. We’re meeting outside the embassy at four am.

Update on Visa

I stood in the line outside the embassy in Rabat at seven in the morning. At eight they opened the gate and let 60 people in, thereafter they closed it again. Some asked when they will open again, later today perhaps? “Inshallah” was the answer. At eleven o’clock officials told us they won’t open again until tomorrow, and let another 60 people in.
They have changed the way it works to get a Mauritanian visa in Rabat.

Until one week ago you had to wait for 24 hours and they surely let more than 60 people in. Now they don’t, but in return the ones who do get to go in through the gate and hand in their papers get the visa the same day.
How to become one of those 60 people?

Some Germans told me people started queuing by midnight, “so bring a warm blanket and a chair, make yourself cozy and sleep outside. That’s what I would have done.” one of them said. I won’t do that.
The man giving me a ride south tomorrow (Inshallah) is sleeping in his car outside the embassy tonight, so when I get there tomorrow early morning he is supposed to be standing in the line and hold a place for me. Inshallah Inshallah, right now it feels as though anything can happen. I might be in Rabat all next week too, that’s how I feel.

Happy thoughts.

Getting a Mauritanian visa

It is possible to obtain a visa for Mauritania in Europe, but it’s both cheaper and simpler to do it in Morocco.
Here’s a guide on how to obtain a visa for Mauritania in Rabat, Morocco:

What you have to bring:
– Your passport
– A copy of your passport
– Two passport sized photos
– About 350 Dirham

At the embassy you will get a form to fill in. There is a guy outside selling them for 10 dirham, but it’s also possible to get one for free in the small room by the counter. There are two sides to the form and both has to be filled in correctly. There isn’t any in English so if you don’t read French or Arabic you’ll have to ask someone there. Now there’s always lots of people there to get visas: Europeans traveling to either Senegal or Mauritania, Senegalese people with European passports who no longer can cross the border without visa and so on. There’s more people than one might think traveling through the desert.

Be there Early. The embassy opens at nine, but be there at half past seven or earlier. The line is long and they close at eleven no matter how many people are left. They might just as well close right in front of you.

Today I went there to get my visa. I had forgotten to bring two photos and went to the small photobooth down the road, right opposite the petrol station. It was broken. So I went down the road to the left of the booth and crossed another big road, then shortly on the right hand side there is Wafa Photo. The store normally opens just before nine and when I came in there were already five people waiting for their photos, and it took almost an hour for the printer to warm up so we all could have our prints. But its rather cheap, 20 dirham for eight photos.

The time was then quarter to ten and we all hurried back to the embassy. After another hour in the line they closed, and we have to come back tomorrow morning at seven. But the waiting wasn’t all bad. In the line I managed to organize a ride all the way to Nouakchott with a Frenchman driving down in his Renault. According to him we will have our visas tomorrow at three (the last thing I know is that it takes 24 hours, but he says not anymore). We will see tomorrow. Maybe we’ll leave in the afternoon, maybe we’ll have to wait another day. I’ll keep you updated.

Time to close this year

“But hitching didn’t die a natural death — it was murdered. And there’s little evidence that it was as dangerous as we think.”

Said the New York Times earlier this year. And during 2012 I have done a lot of hitch-hiking. My thumb has taken me traveling in Sweden, Denmark, Germany, Switzerland, France, Morocco, Western Sahara, Mauritania, Zanzibar, Malawi and Zimbabwe. All in just one year.

Most of the experiences has been good, only one man turned out to be over-sexual (and of course it was in Switzerland, where else but in the rich of richness?). During the year I’ve met people born into slavery and refugees trying to get into Europe, but failing.

While sorting out old diary-notes lying around I found this piece:

“I was sitting behind him on his bike. He was going so fast down the hill I couldn’t bare keeping my eyes open. ‘There’s Malawi!’ he shouted. ‘What?’ I screamed back, slowly opening my eyes. ‘There’s Malawi!’ He screamed again and pointed at the lush green hills in front of us. I was awestruck.”

Three days later I found myself trekking up the hill to Livingstonia, monkeys chatting in the trees for company and an old man who spoke no English to show the way through the shortcuts. There was more climbing than walking and at one point my backpack pulled me down backwards, down the cliff, and balancing on a root and grasping for another one to cling to, I was ok and got myself back onto the track. I will never forget than nerve-killing moment.

2012 was also the year when I got malaria for the first – and hopefully the last – time of my life and nearly died. I’ve met the best couch surfing hosts I’ve ever had. I got a bachelor in journalism at the Mid Sweden University, freelanced for radio and magazines, got my heart broken for the first time and I buried my cat who’s been with me for sixteen years. I was homeless and spent five months on couches and mattresses at different friends. I also found a home, a place to which I want to return to after trip after trip.

And thanks to all of you who has read my blog. You who has been with me from the beginning, and you who dropped by during the year. Thank you. Now I look forward to a new year with travels, challenges and friends. Happy new year!

Forbidden fruits

I’m supposed to write a report from my project in Poland, but somehow I got stuck reading about some small islands off the coast of Africa. The writer suggests some gifts to bring back home from the islands, they are as follows: “rum, spices, book about the volcano’s last eruption or some local fruits. Though the fruits might be forbidden depending on your country.”
Interesting, isn’t it? Any suggestions what those fruits might be? I’m getting really curious now, and don’t get that wrong. It’s simply a curiosity.

Time

Exactly six months ago I had a picnic with a good friend by the Victoria falls in Zimbabwe. It was my 24th birthday, the day bright and hot. We saw a triple rainbow and ran through the warm splash from the falls. I was a little tired but the day was still good. The day before we had been on a rhino-walk on the savannah in Zambia.

One week later I was admitted to the hospital in Bloemfontein, South Africa. The nurse told me I had malaria and the doctor said the infection wasn’t overwhelming and they would save my life. With a extra big and extra strong dose of antibiotics, “because there’s some really heavy stuff out there,” he said talking about the parts of Africa where I had just been.

I just realised how important it is to live life to the fullest every day. It can be ripped away from you at any point in your life. Sitting there by the waterfall with melon, bread and wine we had no idea I had parasites inside my body preparing to strike my organs. Preparing to kill. It is something that left deep wounds in me and I am still trying to heal. Life can be ripped away so easily. So quickly.

The forgotten people

There is still slavery in Mauritania.
Mbarka was born into slavery and forced to work every day from the day she learned to walk. As she gave birth to her daughter she decided to run away. Two years ago she escaped from her owners and got to a safe house in the capital where she lives today. But her mother and brother are still with the owners, not wanting to get away.
I met her earlier this year, and listened to her story.
Interpreter is my dear friend Rabia.

Destinies

As I was looking for inspiration, facts and the general state of the world the other day I came across a document showing the destinies of some refugees who died while fleeing their own countries. I’m gonna share some of them with you, and I believe it is important we all remember that it’s not our fault but we can do something to change the future.

A young man from Afghanistan died from smoke inhalation from fire lit in tin can to keep warm inside an abandoned truck.

A 32 year old man from North Africa was tortured and shot by smugglers. He was found outside Thriassio Hospital.

A 16 year old boy from Syria was killed after a car chase in Evros. The Greek border police and FRONTEX officials were involved.

A 25 year old man from Sub-Saharan Africa drowned. He was found in port of Ceuta in an advanced state of decomposition.

An Iranian person, the sex is not known, died in an accident. The smugglers’ car overturned as they tried to avoid a police road block.

An unknown person died instantly after being run over by a train near Feres while walking along the railway.
Khaled Khodena from Iraq was murdered due to his religious beliefs after deportation from Sweden, his asylum claim was rejected.

An unknown person drowned. He/She was pushed off a jetski when the smuggler saw coastguards approaching in Andalusia.

An unknown man was murdered, shot by Frontex officer while shooting at boats crossing TR-GR border by the Evros river.

25 men from Sub-Saharan Africa suffocated while traveling on a boat with 275 others. The SOS was sent 35 miles from Lampedusa.

A 23 year old man was crushed to death. He was found in the wheel-bay of an Iberia passenger plane in Spain.

The past week I have been researching how refugees are treated around Europe and I’ve been trying to find out more about Frontex and their work. I heard many stories about them when traveling in north west Africa, but in Europe no one seem to know them and the governments doesn’t want to talk about them. Frontex is the company that keep unwanted people from entering Europe. Unwanted by who? I ask. No answer. Yet.

I have also been trying to plan my trip to Sudan in December, and I have come to the conclusion that I can’t go this time. Instead I am looking at the possibility of going to Latvia and do my photo-project with the stateless people living in the country. It’s been done many times, but I believe it’s a story that has to keep being told.

“I’ve got a gun. I want to use it.”

“This fucking country, it’s gonna be good to get out of here. Just you look east African and people discriminate you. I tell you, this fucking country!” the man told his friend. I was looking for a carpet in a second hand shop in central Malmö for my new room. The men were standing not far from me and the one talking was very upset. It seemed as he had just been declined residency permit and was going back to the country of his birth the same evening.
His friend smiled and he looked a little nervous, but in the same time pleased. He knew that he wouldn’t have to go back, and despite his friends’ anger with the country he was happy that he could stay. “It’s gonna be fine, you know that. Just you get on that plane tonight it will be fine.” he told him.
The angry man looked in my direction. “I’ve got a gun, shall I use it?” he asked his friend who tilted his head towards me and said “she looks tense, don’t.” the angry man looked at me, I avoided his eyes. Why? Because I got scared.
“I want to use it. Shall I use it here? I need a shirt, shall I grab a shirt and go up to the counter and show them?” he asked his friend. I grabbed the green woven carpet I had been fingering for a while and slowly moved in the direction of the counter. I was too scared to just run and too stubborn and too believing in the good of man to believe that he actually would shoot me. But somewhere inside of me I was terrified.

The woman at the counter gave me a small discount, even though the carpet was already really cheap. I thanked her a lot and wished her a good day before leaving the store, quickly biking to my new home. As my heart had calmed down and I sat on my bed with a cat pondering on whatever cats are pondering… I asked myself why I had not told the woman at the counter something, why didn’t I call the police?

I kept an eye on the news the rest of the day and since nothing special seemed to happen (over here it’s a Big thing if someone gets shot) I relaxed and hoped the man had a good flight back, and I wondered what would happen to him. And, even more, wondering where he came from and what he had been through. I was thinking about it in the store, to ask him about himself and his life. But with his eager to shoot someone I didn’t dare to. But I still wonder. Who was he?

This divided world

”Ten writers won’t make Sweden overpopulated, it’s half empty anyway” he said. “But Sweden and Norway are great at supporting writers, so don’t misunderstand me. I’m just pointing out a few cases.”
I was in the audience at the Malmö Exile Forum 2012, speaking was Ghias Aljundi from Syria. He is working for Pen International for freedom of expression with the focus on the Middle East and North Africa. Today was about the writers who live in exile, what it is like to be a writer living in exile and how to tackle the issue with writers having to escape their home countries and start a new life in a new country with new way of life. How can a journalist from Syria or Bahrain keep her audience and her name in a whole new society? As one of the writers said: “I didn’t lose my audience. I regained them by facebook.”

As we sat in the room the terms “west” and “the rest of the world” kept on appearing. I got sick of the division we always make of the world, why can’t we all just be one? It’s always this “us” and “them”. I feel not as many answers were given today as questions were asked. But the discussion is up and will keep on going.

And I grabbed the opportunity and will go to Jordan to meet Syrian writers hiding in their neighboring country. When? I don’t know, as soon as I can. With a new course in photography starting this week my time is limited though.

Full moons

“Tonight is a blue moon” our host said. I looked out the window and saw the big moon, “it’s because it’s the second full moon this month” she said. I suddenly remembered how I calculated my time in Africa by full moons.

My first African full moon I was in the dessert, the second one in the Mauritanian capital Nouakchott. When I in Malawi looked up at my forth full moon I could easily remember the other ones; where I was, what I was feeling, who I was with, what we did and it gave me a perspective on how much time that passed.

Right now we are in Nyborg, just finished a fantastic dinner with homemade hummus, scones, chilli marinated mushrooms and salad. Entering Denmark gave me one of the strongest feelings ever of coming home.

As we entered the country the five Scandinavian flags greeted us welcome home. Home sweet home. Though I could stay in Denmark forever, Nyborg is amazing with all it’s history and sweet people. During the Kalmar union it was even the capital of Sweden.

Bonn!

We just arrived in Bonn, an within an hour I will meet my long missed South African friend Katherine again. We haven’t seen each other for eight years, but used to study together at Parktown in Johannesburg.

We got here through car-sharing, for 20 euros each Michel brought us all the way from Freiburg. With us in the car was Wolfgang – a man in his fifties with dirty shorts, a big open shirt and bare feet. He had brought his homemade tea from herbs he picked himself and it was one of the best cups of tea I’ve had. Inspiring man that we had not met if it was not for car-sharing.

Michel is an artist and make his own music. When asked what kind he replied “strange music.” He’s working on an album that he wants to release digitally this year. I think I’ve changed my mind about this sharing cars, you Do meet interesting and exciting people that way, somehow I thought you had to hitchhike to reach the excentric ones. But no. We might just car-share tomorrow as well, we have a very long distance to move. Bonn to Flensburg. Wish us luck! The next day might just be home sweet home. If I ever find one.

Off we go!

I’m living ahead of my time, I will have another week of work before I head to Milano to meet Emma. But our preparations has started. Emma has bought a new backpack to get a good feeling for it before our trip in Africa starting in January. We have made a plan for where and when to hitch-hike on our way back home from Chamonix, this is what it looks like (though it might change as we get there):

Sunday (19th august): flight Copenhagen – Milano then hitch-hike Milano – Chamonix
Saturday (25th of august): Chamonix – Lausanne.
Sunday: Lausanne – Luzern – Zurich (lunch and afternoon in Luzern)
Monday: Zurich
Tuesday: Zurich – Freiburg
Wednesday: Freiburg – Bonn (dinner with my long missed Southafrican friend before she smuggle us into her room)
Thursday: Bonn
Friday: Bonn – Flensburg (it’s gonna be a long day…)
Saturday: Flensburg – Copenhagen (almost home!!!)
Sunday: home sweet home, and the travel abstinence will have a new beginning.

Google vs. Reality

Sometimes I dream away in front of a google map. Let the mind wonder around the world for a while. Today I was logging my dive in Malawi in my log book, and as I couldn’t remember what the island was called I looked it up on google maps.
This is what (apart from the name which is as easy as Kande island) I found:

Another good reason to get out there sooner than soon. The reality is so much more exciting. This photo is from when we walked up to Kande village from Kande beach to have dinner. During the day we had been diving in lake Malawi.

Clean conscience!

Today i got a text-message saying “the drivers licence has arrived – thank you so much!”
Here is the story behind the message:

When I arrived in Nouadhibou (in Maurtania) I met a Swedish man living in the small fishing-village. A month or so earlier he had met another Swedish girl living with her boyfriend in Senegal for a while. She had forgotten her drivers licence in his house, and since I was on my way to Senegal he asked me to bring it to her. “Make sure it gets to her, if you don’t meet in Senegal maybe you can meet in Sweden later. She stays in the east, it will be a nice trip there for you.” he said.
So I put a strangers drivers licence in my backpack.

Now, I never made it to Senegal in time. I sent her an e-mail, but we just missed each other. She was in the Gambia for another week before heading back to Sweden. My flight went to Zanzibar and with the licence in my bag I travelled through southern Africa, thinking about it every now and then wondering when I would have the opportunity to give it back. Was it a mistake to leave it in my hands?

I arrived back in Sweden, sent her another e-mail. She asked me to send it to her adress, but I was away without my bag and the little pink card was still in the small black pocket. Then, last week, I finally got the opportunity to take it out, walk to the post office and put it in the yellow box. Now it was up to the mail man to deliver it, but still I did not relax until today. When she sent me the confirmation – she once again has her drivers licence in her bag. The little pink card has spent some time on a table in Nouadhibou, then it has been through a long journey all the way to South Africa and back home. Sweet home.

Remember the worms?

Remember the worms?

I’ve finally remembered to bring the tabletts. The tabletts I bought at the small modern pharmacy in Malawi that are supposed to kill the worms I might have growing under my skin, waiting to crawl up to my liver, heart and lungs and eat it.

It sounds really bad, so I keep telling myself it’s ok, but I will take the pills just in case. When I had finished all subscriptions I got from the doctor when I had malaria the thought of taking more pills were horrifying. I didn’t want to swallow another one for the rest of my life. The worm-killing ones are six, first three and then another three some hours later, and large. Huge actually. And there might not even be any worms crawling inside of me.

 

Sweet memories.

I just remembered something. The sugar pieces we got in Morocco with the tea, they weren’t normal sized sugar pieces. They were gigantic. Take a normal piece of sugar and multiply it by ten, then you have a Moroccan piece of sugar. And people put it in their tea, and then they actually drink it.
There should be a lot of work for dentists over there, and doctors specialized on diabetes and researchers doing research on the effect of sugar on the human body. I liked it when they prepared the tea for you at the cafés, but when they started serving just hot water in a teapot with the mint leaves and sugar on the side I started to realize what it was we actually drank.

Cheers for mint, but thumbs down for the sugar combo. Mint tea is perfect as it is, without sweetening. No wonder I got addicted to that stuff.

Lingering.

Suddenly I found myself in Dalarna, the province that often is cited as the best for celebrating the Swedish summer. I was not going here though, and I won’t stay. I was sitting on the train from Sundsvall to Stockholm when we suddenly stopped in Gävle and the train hostess said “the rail is broken further on, we have to take a detour to Dalarna and for you who are going to the airport there is a taxi waiting outside ready to bring you there.”

We stood still for a long while. I walked along the platform in the bright sunshine and went back to the train when the hostess called us. It was quiet. Peaceful. Someone in front of me was sleeping deeply, breathing heavy. Behind me a clock went on and on “tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tack”. To my left a woman called to make arrangements to fetch her newly passed away fathers belongings at the nursing home in Stockholm.
Everyone’s lives were continuing, despite the train standing still on the platform. But my mind was stuck in Africa, my thoughts always lingering on different moments. As when I met my friends in Joburg again, or when I sat behind the bike-taxis in Malawi, or when I climbed up to Livingstonia and nearly fell backwards off the cliff because my backpack was too heavy for me… or when I sat in all the sand in the Sahara, singing. There are so many memories, and every day I am remembering more things. When I had the malaria, I lost a big part of my memories from the past years. But it’s all coming back, one moment at a time.

We arrived in Stockholm about two hours late, and my thoughts went back to the bus ride to Mbeya in Tanzania. Driver: “we’ll be there at five pm.” Then there was the breakdown. “We’ll be there at six.” At six pm: “we’re almost there.” At eleven pm: “we are in Mbeya ma’am, thank you for choosing our company.”