A patchwork of greens.
The smell of lemongrass and raw leaves and rough bark and wet mud wafted as we rode the crude path. Up and down the jeep went, tilting this way and that. A solitary tree jutted out of the green sea. White froth shielded the far horizon, shielding the sky and the land as they kissed, shielding them from our prying eyes. Far off, the thick jungle loomed, a mass of nature- impenetrable and dark, the trees huddled together, protecting themselves and each other, hoping against hope that it was not their time to be cut down like the thousands who stood there before. The rolling hills painted in different shades of green stood in contrast to the cities I’ve seen. One feels like home. The other- a place trying too hard to please me, but failing. I haven’t been home in a long time. Why do men prefer tar and concrete over the sound of gravel and dry leaves crunching under their shoes? Huge empty houses over snug cottages with a view? Artificial decorative plants over nature’s gift of real ones? Skyscrapers over sky high mountains? Why live a programmed, routine life over one of wildlife and beauty and freedom is something that I do not pretend to understand. Yet, I was aware that in a few days, I would be back to the same, old life of traffic and deadlines. Back to the everyday life of waking up only to sleep again, with nothing new or exciting inbetween. This gloomy thought loomed over me as thick as the mist, that having swallowed hills whole, was fast approaching me. I stood my ground. I closed my eyes, savouring the smell of cold and the feeling of warmth and life. The whiteness, so white and pure, enveloped me, embracing me into its world of orderly chaos. As nature around me altered itself to perfection, things started falling into place- slowly and gradually, wrapping me in a cocoon of comfort and warmth.
For the first time in a long time, I felt complete. I was free. I was home.