Small town girl leaves home - Saxmundham and home
We settled on the pavement for our first night as homeless people. It was a terrifying place to be, sandwiched between the glass window of a fancy store and a small bench offering us some protection. At one stage during our sleepless night a man approached us asking for caramel. ‘Caramel?’ we asked. We had nothing more than a green pepper and 4 pita bread between us, wanting to save what tiny bit of cash we had left.
TNT is a free magazine which comes out every Monday morning in London, advertising jobs and housing and giving a little news from South Africa and Australia to its loyal readers. We stuck it out, sitting in the bus station by day and behind the bench by night, waiting in anticipation for the magazine to come out. Midnight Sunday we ran across the streets of London, looking in the bins where the magazine could be found and finally managed to get our hands on a precious copy. By morning we had found a job offering free accommodation on a potato farm and had circled it, ringing first thing in the morning and securing a position. It took the last of our money to get there and the final rattle along a tiny country lane saw us arrive at a green farm shed, which was the local bus station. The paint peeled lazily off the corrugated walls, held together by rusted nails and worn wooden posts. We were met by a man in a van who took us to our temporary accommodation for the first two nights before he could secure us housing with the other farm workers.
The stove was crawling with flies, some drowning and forever preserved in a thick black layer of sludge, the oven covered in grease and grime – not that it made any difference – we had no money to buy decent food. We bought a packet of spaghetti which cost 11pence and ate plain pasta for the first day, the second being our first working day. Our new home was a sleepy village that overlooked green fields in the distance and was scattered by old, thatched houses which were home to a tiny bank, a rowdy pub and a dusty bookstore. Sadly I never got to explore those shelves which beckoned to me every time I walked past, the big 'CLOSED' sign glaring from behind the tightly shut door.
They had arranged to fetch us at 4:30am. 3am my mobile, finally charged, rang, waking me from a deep sleep. ‘I know you are leaving the country. I know you have my passport. I will be waiting for you at the airport with the police.’ The line went dead. He had found out I was going home. I could not fall asleep again and was awake when the van pulled up at the front of the house.
The first ride to the work fields was a romantic one. The sun was stretching and yawning its way up into the sky, mist curling around the bare trunks of lone trees which lined the deserted country roads. Bales of hay dotted the empty fields, freshly rolled by a tractor which lay quiet and silhouetted in the growing light. Out of the shadows the stone walls of tiny churches appeared, their steeples housing silent bells that would have sung out joyous tolls on happy days and sombre moans on tearful ones. I sat in the back of the mini van listening to the sounds of those around me as they woke up, leaning my head on the cool glass of the window which framed this beaitiful scene. My thoughts filled with wonderful ideas, scenes from movies where I had seen happy travellers laughing and singing in the fields as they plucked juicy grapes from curling vines and plump olives from fertile trees.
We had no food and no water for that first day, thinking that they may have provided us with at least something to drink. We still had no food. Bundled into the back of a covered trailer where potatoes rolled past us over a conveyor belt as they were dug from the ground, our hands were soon filthy with the smelly sludge of rotting potaoes. We had a few seconds of relief as the tractor changed lines, our job to keep the good potatoes on the conveyor and throw the bad ones down the chute by our side. Four people could fit in the back, two on either side standing opposite one another. Rotten potatoes are like a mass of sticky goo and smell worse than you can imagine. Dead rats sometimes rolled over, all sorts of insects and once a dissected shoe – we had mind-numbing hours ahead of us and really got to know each other as they was little more to do than chat.
The first week passed, we moved into our new digs and shared with three other boys – two of which picked carrots and one corn. The only food we had to eat was potatoes we brought home each day and soon a barter system was worked out – we traded potatoes for carrots and corn. Life lasted like this for three weeks, the day for my departure growing ever closer and my excitement growing at the prospect of leaving this place and having some normality for a while.
It was Sept 11th 2001 when I when I left the farm, the day before I was due to leave for home. I was sitting in a bus stuck in a traffic jam on the bridge that overlooks Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. The driver was listening to the radio and I could just make out the news. The news reader announced that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Centre.
A few minutes later breaking news announced that another plane had crashed into the second tower.
A few minutes later further breaking news announced that the Pentagon had been hit.
Shortly after, an announcement sounded out that Downing Street was being evacuated for fear of a similar attack. I was still stuck in the traffic jam. I was getting on a plane the next day. My family did not know I was coming home, it was supposed to be a surprise. My phone rang. It was my mother. ‘Stay out of London. Have you heard the news? Terrorist attacks!’
‘Mom I`m due to fly home tomorrow. It was supposed to be a surprise!’
‘Under no circumstances are you to get on a plane, you hear me?’ Panic was rising. ‘Promise me you won’t get on a plane?’ Evidently she was crying.
‘Mom I don’t know what to do!’ Still looking at the Houses of Parliament.
‘Phone your father. I don’t want to know what you do. Don’t tell me’
‘Bye mom.’
Only when I watched the footage on the evening news did I cry. Only then did it all sink in. I got on the plane the next day. The boy was not waiting there with the Police for his passport. I told him where it was when I got home and I never got my money. It was a long and terrifying trip, almost eleven hours of the worst turbulence I have ever encountered and at every second waiting for someone to jump out of their seats and announce that the plane had been hijacked. I kissed the tarmac of Johannesburg airport and cried when I got off the plane, running into my fathers arms at the airport. My mother was shocked to see me there when we got home, she only found out I got on the plane when I walked through the door.
Growing up can be hard. It can offer you the best and the worst experiences of your life. I don’t, for one single moment, regret anything I did. I was stupid, I was reckless, I was naïve. I also thought I knew everything and lived each moment as it came my way, never stopping to listen to anything anyone told me – I knew better!
That 6 months taught me that life is an adventure, that you should live each moment as it comes and appreciate the small things. You never know what Fate has in store for you and even the best laid plans can turn disastrous at the last moment.
But that’s life. And you will meet people who are older and wiser who sometimes know what they are talking about! Sometimes you should listen to them instead of being stubborn and taking the hard road. Whatever you decide, just enjoy the journey, take everything that comes you way with a laugh and a smile…
Thanks for joining the journey and thanks to Lilla for starting me off on it. (I apologise for encroaching on your idea, I just thank you for the inspiration and the journey down memory lane, it was very therapeutic!)
TNT is a free magazine which comes out every Monday morning in London, advertising jobs and housing and giving a little news from South Africa and Australia to its loyal readers. We stuck it out, sitting in the bus station by day and behind the bench by night, waiting in anticipation for the magazine to come out. Midnight Sunday we ran across the streets of London, looking in the bins where the magazine could be found and finally managed to get our hands on a precious copy. By morning we had found a job offering free accommodation on a potato farm and had circled it, ringing first thing in the morning and securing a position. It took the last of our money to get there and the final rattle along a tiny country lane saw us arrive at a green farm shed, which was the local bus station. The paint peeled lazily off the corrugated walls, held together by rusted nails and worn wooden posts. We were met by a man in a van who took us to our temporary accommodation for the first two nights before he could secure us housing with the other farm workers.
The stove was crawling with flies, some drowning and forever preserved in a thick black layer of sludge, the oven covered in grease and grime – not that it made any difference – we had no money to buy decent food. We bought a packet of spaghetti which cost 11pence and ate plain pasta for the first day, the second being our first working day. Our new home was a sleepy village that overlooked green fields in the distance and was scattered by old, thatched houses which were home to a tiny bank, a rowdy pub and a dusty bookstore. Sadly I never got to explore those shelves which beckoned to me every time I walked past, the big 'CLOSED' sign glaring from behind the tightly shut door.
They had arranged to fetch us at 4:30am. 3am my mobile, finally charged, rang, waking me from a deep sleep. ‘I know you are leaving the country. I know you have my passport. I will be waiting for you at the airport with the police.’ The line went dead. He had found out I was going home. I could not fall asleep again and was awake when the van pulled up at the front of the house.
The first ride to the work fields was a romantic one. The sun was stretching and yawning its way up into the sky, mist curling around the bare trunks of lone trees which lined the deserted country roads. Bales of hay dotted the empty fields, freshly rolled by a tractor which lay quiet and silhouetted in the growing light. Out of the shadows the stone walls of tiny churches appeared, their steeples housing silent bells that would have sung out joyous tolls on happy days and sombre moans on tearful ones. I sat in the back of the mini van listening to the sounds of those around me as they woke up, leaning my head on the cool glass of the window which framed this beaitiful scene. My thoughts filled with wonderful ideas, scenes from movies where I had seen happy travellers laughing and singing in the fields as they plucked juicy grapes from curling vines and plump olives from fertile trees.
We had no food and no water for that first day, thinking that they may have provided us with at least something to drink. We still had no food. Bundled into the back of a covered trailer where potatoes rolled past us over a conveyor belt as they were dug from the ground, our hands were soon filthy with the smelly sludge of rotting potaoes. We had a few seconds of relief as the tractor changed lines, our job to keep the good potatoes on the conveyor and throw the bad ones down the chute by our side. Four people could fit in the back, two on either side standing opposite one another. Rotten potatoes are like a mass of sticky goo and smell worse than you can imagine. Dead rats sometimes rolled over, all sorts of insects and once a dissected shoe – we had mind-numbing hours ahead of us and really got to know each other as they was little more to do than chat.
The first week passed, we moved into our new digs and shared with three other boys – two of which picked carrots and one corn. The only food we had to eat was potatoes we brought home each day and soon a barter system was worked out – we traded potatoes for carrots and corn. Life lasted like this for three weeks, the day for my departure growing ever closer and my excitement growing at the prospect of leaving this place and having some normality for a while.
It was Sept 11th 2001 when I when I left the farm, the day before I was due to leave for home. I was sitting in a bus stuck in a traffic jam on the bridge that overlooks Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. The driver was listening to the radio and I could just make out the news. The news reader announced that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Centre.
A few minutes later breaking news announced that another plane had crashed into the second tower.
A few minutes later further breaking news announced that the Pentagon had been hit.
Shortly after, an announcement sounded out that Downing Street was being evacuated for fear of a similar attack. I was still stuck in the traffic jam. I was getting on a plane the next day. My family did not know I was coming home, it was supposed to be a surprise. My phone rang. It was my mother. ‘Stay out of London. Have you heard the news? Terrorist attacks!’
‘Mom I`m due to fly home tomorrow. It was supposed to be a surprise!’
‘Under no circumstances are you to get on a plane, you hear me?’ Panic was rising. ‘Promise me you won’t get on a plane?’ Evidently she was crying.
‘Mom I don’t know what to do!’ Still looking at the Houses of Parliament.
‘Phone your father. I don’t want to know what you do. Don’t tell me’
‘Bye mom.’
Only when I watched the footage on the evening news did I cry. Only then did it all sink in. I got on the plane the next day. The boy was not waiting there with the Police for his passport. I told him where it was when I got home and I never got my money. It was a long and terrifying trip, almost eleven hours of the worst turbulence I have ever encountered and at every second waiting for someone to jump out of their seats and announce that the plane had been hijacked. I kissed the tarmac of Johannesburg airport and cried when I got off the plane, running into my fathers arms at the airport. My mother was shocked to see me there when we got home, she only found out I got on the plane when I walked through the door.
Growing up can be hard. It can offer you the best and the worst experiences of your life. I don’t, for one single moment, regret anything I did. I was stupid, I was reckless, I was naïve. I also thought I knew everything and lived each moment as it came my way, never stopping to listen to anything anyone told me – I knew better!
That 6 months taught me that life is an adventure, that you should live each moment as it comes and appreciate the small things. You never know what Fate has in store for you and even the best laid plans can turn disastrous at the last moment.
But that’s life. And you will meet people who are older and wiser who sometimes know what they are talking about! Sometimes you should listen to them instead of being stubborn and taking the hard road. Whatever you decide, just enjoy the journey, take everything that comes you way with a laugh and a smile…
Thanks for joining the journey and thanks to Lilla for starting me off on it. (I apologise for encroaching on your idea, I just thank you for the inspiration and the journey down memory lane, it was very therapeutic!)
Kalikapsychosis
You know, on that day, my mum came and woke me up. Man I had the shits! You interuppted my precious sleep to tell me the world trade centre got hit? Why do I care? I dont live there!
Something told me this was not the freak out event everyone thought it was. I just didnt care. Oh, I cared that peoples lives had been ruined, it was tradgic, but I didnt think it was going to change the world or anything.
I still dont think it did!
Glad you got home safe!
Australian Traveller
Flashes of memories
I don`t think that memory will be far from many peoples minds. I think it set the trend for a lot of changes around the world especially travel related. I also think that it can be used for a lot of panic and control of the masses by creating a little fear in others hearts - I have a GREAT documentary coming over from the UK soon - let me know if you want a copy of it, it`s not the kind you can grab off the video shelf, if you get my drift!
It only fully had an impact on me when I watched the footage and knew that in less than 24 I had to get on a plane.
Thanks for taking the ride K! I~ll be over at your to catch up soon!
Ash
Killer Beats
Ramble On
Hipnotherapy
I have been on both sides of this
And you will meet people who are older and wiser who sometimes know what they are talking about! Sometimes you should listen to them instead of being stubborn and taking the hard road. Whatever you decide, just enjoy the journey, take everything that comes you way with a laugh and a smile…
Amen sister!
Mis
Australian Traveller
Flashes of memories
~chuckle~ I know what you mean about being on both sides - sometimes older does definitely NOT equal wiser!
Thanks for joining the ride!
Ash
Kalikapsychosis
And the documentary sounds like essential viewing to me! Always looking for evidence of THEM who rule the world....
Australian Traveller
Flashes of memories
I`m hoping that the DVD will arrive soon - you should the evidence that they have gathered - it`s MIND-BLOWING! Once it comes in the mail I`ll get a postal add from you and send it to you.
Ash
Australian Traveller
Flashes of memories
I just posted the video - I didn`t realise that it`s on YouTube.
Happy viewing
Ash
Kalikapsychosis
Rugby World Cup 2007
Wow.
Caramel??
Australian Traveller
Flashes of memories
No worries as soon as I get it I will get a copy to you!
Ash
Australian Traveller
Flashes of memories
I know ~rolls eyes~ just the sort of thing you want to hear at a ridiculous time of the morning by a stranger whilst you try to snuggle in to your bit of pavement!
Ash
Love Speaks
Food Slate
But that’s life.
Australian Traveller
Flashes of memories
Life certainly does get interesting with all the possibilities that are laid before us... hopefully we don`t take too many wrong turns too often!
Ash