There are moments when things seem a bit hopeless and impossible: nothing seems to move anywhere, the medical centre further from being ready than ever, people difficult to work with, untrustworthy, lazy, not interested. A huge cockroach runs over the just cleaned kitchen floor; it’s too hot to do anything without sweating profusely; the person you needed to speak to is incredibly late again; the telephone line is dead once again. The family next door has just bought a new generator and sound system and insists on playing the worst possible techno music as loud as possible. The car has a problem that no one seems able to identify and fix. Tomatoes have again gone up in price and all shops in town have run out of soap (or mineral water, or toothpaste, or toilet paper). Will this place ever progress, ever change, ever get even slightly better? And, most of all, what does it mean to "get better”?
And then something happens: a kid rides by on a bike that’s far too big and smiles and waves. You become aware of the incredible shades of green of the trees against the amazingly blue sky and the rich, red earth. A gentle breeze refreshes the air and carries the smell of mangoes ready to fall from a tree nearby. The sun drops at the horizon in one of those glorious sunsets that seems unreal and gives you goose bumps. You see two women chatting with each other, while smoothly walking along and carrying their babies on their backs, wrapped in colourful textile. The neighbour finally runs out of gasoline and in the following silence you hear a bird sing, a distant group of people rehearsing church songs, clapping their hands and playing the drums. The mind goes quiet, forgets to be angry and hopeless and decides once again that being here is the best choice of all.
