There's not much to do in the bush once you've finished work. You go through a lot of movies, games and series, but besides that, there's not much else to do other than taking a walk around. Even walking around is limited, because of the dangerous snakes that inhabit the region and, y'know...the whole thing about landmines being everywhere off the beaten path.
Having grown up catching snakes, legavaans and all other manner of creatures, I wasn't too deterred by the wildlife and would take regular walks in the afternoons. You get to see the place in a different light when you're out there alone, and I've seen some things that put such a huge contrast on my life and left me with a slightly different outlook.
You honestly don't know how good you have it until you witness true hardship for yourself. This is a country, ravaged by war and corruption, with very little infrastructure to 60% of the population. The result is a populace of impoverished, uneducated masses with absolutely zero job prospects or any kind of future with room for growth. Yet the small villages you see out here, 3 hours from anywhere, have more sense of community than I have ever seen.
We laid down 46km of 32" carbon steel piping, going from a manifold that receives gas from well-heads around the region to a CPF. It's not as simple to do with large-bore piping as it is with small-bore, so the trick is to plan ahead. Trenching team is a week ahead of the mechanical crew, digging a huge trench for the piping to snaked into once welded. Snaking is a process where the 6m sections of pipe are welded above ground in 32m lengths (2 x double-ended) and is gradually dragged into the trench by the weight of the pipe welded itself. Think of it as zipping up a giant zipper. Sort of. Okay, not really.
The pipes (which come in 6m lenghts) had to be brought in ahead of the mechanical (welding) crew, so there would be no delay in welding while waiting for piping. These guys worked alongside the trenching crew, laying down batches of pipes as they dug the trench. These lengths of pipe come with giant end-caps on them to prevent foreign objects from entering the piping and ultimately being welded inside. The end caps are basically giant plastic lids that go on the ends of this piping, sort of like the plastic lid you would find on the lid of an instant coffee can.
A peculiar thing happened during this process. We noticed that by the time the mechanical crew reached new batches of piping, there would be no end-caps on the pipes any more. Every single cap was missing and we were perplexed as to where they went.
It was only on a late afternoon walk some time later that I discovered where the end-caps went, and only by coincidence. I would some times take my guitar on a walk and find a nice place to sit, smoke a joint and play guitar without worrying about bothering my neighbors in the congested camp. I sat on a section of pipe and began playing. It must have been about 20mins of playing before I noticed two kids come out of the bush. Like, literally appeared out of the bushes like children of the corn. They came and sat by me while I played and seemed to enjoy the music. After a song or two, the eldest of the boys grabbed my arm and told me to follow him,
We went through the section of the bush where they came from and after some walking, ended up by their homestead, which consisted of 4 or 5 huts in a circular "kraal" fashion. They had a few goats and chickens, but what drew my eyes the most was the plate full of fish that was left out in the sun to dry. Only, it wasn't a dish, but one of our end-caps. The kids rushed excitedly into the huts and called their siblings and parents and I sat there for about an hour playing guitar for the family. They gave me a type of local beer made from baobab that was extremely bitter and chunky and offered me what little they had before I made my way back.
The following day, I told one of our local laborers about the end-cap and he started laughing at my story. Turns out that the kids go out in the late evenings and collect all the end-caps from the piping and distribute them to every rural "village" in the area. They use the end-caps for a number of different things, from carrying water, to using them as plates and trays. They would put the end-caps over steel drums and make rudimentary drums for music, or children would fashion a wheel-like-toy out of them and have races. It was like a scene from The Gods Must Be Crazy, because something so trivial for us wound up being such a versatile and useful item to them.
What stuck out to me the most was not their ingenious use of the caps, but rather of their hospitality towards me. By our standards, these people had nothing. Their clothes were worn and tattered and must have been handed down often. Out of the family of 6 or 7, I'd be pressed to find two pairs of shoes between them, if that. Some goats and chickens consisted of their livestock and besides that, they lived off the land. However, they showed no hesitation in offering me what little they had and making me, a total stranger by all definitions, feel welcomed into their home.
Thinking about it made me realize that it's very unlikely that something like that will happen at home. How often will you invite a stranger to your home? To eat your food and be around your family and young children? We live in a society where it's encouraged to be wary of strangers out of fear. Fear that they may take what or who you love away from you.
It's sad that we have so much and give so little, yet these people with little-to-nothing can give so much.
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