This wasn't in a stadium in some glamorous or legendary city. No, this is a place less known. The only road to it is long and unpaved, marked by stalks of corn, precarious bridges and silence. This place was one of the most warm and inviting places I have ever been to. And I felt like I could have stayed in its midst forever.
The village is called Manfilani and when our jeeps approached this wonderful place, its youngest inhabitants had lined the road ready to meet us. As we got out of the cars they cheered, giggled and ran towards us, their anticipation finally over.
Mine was too.
I saw hundreds of smiling, perfect faces. Faces that looked just like mine. It was like I had been on a long trip and just came home. Not one person had forgot me, they were just happy I was back. I don't know how else to describe it.
We sat as honored guests as the entire village of 900 sat around. We were greeted with a performance. I didn't know the tradition or the symbolism behind it, but I know how it made me feel. Overwhelmed, happy, blessed. A. Part. of. them.
I felt like this is where I was suppose to be, and gosh I wish I had come back sooner. I could have cried for a long time in that moment. And if I was with someone I knew very well I probably would have.
Instead I let a few warm tears escape my hands and hit the ground beneath me. Hoping that when they touched the earth this would send a memo to God, the universe and Manfilani that I was grateful.
I still am.
Perdita.
