It was a journey back to the homeland; a place where no direct flight dares to go, and apparently, where your checked bag doesn't either. Ten minutes upon touching down, we barreled through blackness somewhere between Little Rock and the middle of nowhere. Grandma sat shotgun, already lulled to sleep by the cadence of the interstate. The moon offered glimpses of farmland and rice fields that seemed to stretch for miles, and I felt an instant sense of place. The land felt foreign, and yet brought with it an overwhelming sensation of comfort. And I was so very thankful for so many things, not least of which was a Zimbabwean companion courageous enough to join me on this particular voyage.
The next 72 hours served up a dollop of joy: an abundance of Southern food (complete with pickled veggies and sweet tea), world record pole vaulting, cold beer, Spanish (err... Spanglish), Razorback football, redneck dancing, foot rubs, live music… all of which were surrounded by fabulous family and dear friends. And set to the soundtrack of James Taylor (at least, that's what played in my head). I saw myself desperate to take in every last bit of it, not stopping short with the last song heard on the radio before boarding my flight (you know there’s magic in the air when Mr Big, “To Be with You” tugs at your soul).
And of course… I managed to capture some of the spirit.
Pole vaulting 101 from world-class Olympians.
Imraan claimed the southern accent emerged just as fast as my sense of nostalgia. I say… that’s malarkey.
A trip to White Water Tavern.
And surprise visit to see Tony Roncketto at the Thirst and Howl. He has the moves like Jagger.
A quick game of the original Guess Who over brunch.
Until next time, ‘sas. You are quite the motherland. For that and all it entails, I am very, very #thankful.
