The Best And The Worst

I dislike singling out experiences as the most memorable, as every day, every hour there were events that I will remember for the rest of my life.

One place I think about often is Quetta. I stayed with Afghani refugees who had fled their homeland eight years before. They were Shia Hazara people and lived in fear of suicide bombers in their adopted home. They fantasised about escaping to Australia or Italy on an illegal boat. Their situation was grim but they welcomed me with perpetual smiles and taught me how to banish my woes and enjoy the simple things in life. We climbed hillsides, swam in freezing rivers, played checkers in apple groves and raced about on motorbikes. I now know that no matter how miserable my life may become I can gain solace from these peoples’ inner strength.

I don’t like to dwell on bad experiences. I find they are all too often used to misrepresent a certain place or people. Family and friends understandably worried for my safety. A couple of minor instances tested me but they were inconsequential compared to the positive. I had a confrontation with an unfortunate criminal in Austria, running battles with dogs in Romania and Turkey, met annoyed teenagers in Iran and bored policemen in Pakistan. They all taught me how to deal with certain situations more compassionately in the future. Had we been in reverse situations I can believe that I may have acted the same as they had.