Global Classroom Creative Writing Anthology 2015
Arusha, Tanzania
The spinning wheel threw up the powdery dry soil from the road creating clouds of dust that stuck to any surface they could descry. Dust sat delicately on my eyelashes
making me squint and almost preventing me from keeping the stiff sliding window open to let the dense, warm air caress my skin. The vehicle shook and bounced over the
bumps, threatening to collapse at any moment, but the driver’s years of experience let it continue on its rickety way.
The road was no larger than the smallest of European rural roads, yet this was one of the busiest roads in the continent and stretched from Egypt to South Africa. The colours
around us were rich and bright: russet brown tree trunks lined the road, their deep emerald leaves gently stroking the roof of the bus as we passed. We saw groves and
orchards full of trees heavy with bright yellow bananas or the shiny avocados. Above these lands, dark silhouette of mount Meru, second tallest in the continent, balanced
the azure coloured sky atop the peak. The summit seemed to swallow the surrounding wisps of cloud, transforming them into the river-like cracks that trickled down its sides
and surveying the lands beyond the city of Arusha like a benevolent old god.
In the city itself, home-made shacks and unfinished buildings were packed tightly together, as sunrays danced across the glimmering iron sheets used as roofs. Globalization
reflected off the faded signs for soft drinks and American products that were packed between buildings of every shape and form, above narrow paths leading to mysterious
places I would never see or experience. People hurried about their daily routines, most wearing worn out flip flops and carrying heavy bundles. When the bus slowed down,
raggedly-dressed children waved and screamed at us in excitement, their huge gleaming smiles lasting long after we had waved back. They laughed and giggled at my failed
attempt to pronounce ‘Jambo’ and continued to be mesmerized by our alien appearance. An elderly woman simply stood and stared at us until we waved and smiled back,
her joyful face a map of lines and cracks. People were everywhere: the traditional Masai, dressed in crimson cloaks, walked their cattle across the city in search of sufficient
water; women sat at the roadside to sell herbs, pottery and jewellery; I could hear the happy cries of young children, the hammering of construction, the constant buzz of
traffic at the rush hour.
There was so much to experience that it subdued us all and silence claimed the bus. You could not help but observe and experience: it was enticing, picturesque, imperfect,
and impressive without a single ounce of showiness; despite the poverty, it was rich beyond my wildest dreams.
Written by Zahra Dry, Year 10, The British School of Warsaw
48
Colombia
While clutching the red crayon with her clumsy little fingers, and drawing what seemed to be a stick-figure family, the girl dangled her feet to and fro to the melody of her
own humming. Her tongue was sticking out slightly as she devoted all of her attention on her masterpiece, occasionally stopping to fix the messy strands of hair covering
the top of her eyes. Upon feeling my eyes immersed on her, the girl looked up with timorous eyes and met my gaze. I felt the lump on my throat tighten as I reminisced
through all the years I had also spent as a child in long airplane flights next to my family, waiting to be reunited with the soft and warm touch of my grandparents. The girl
suddenly released her grasp from the crayon, as her mouth slowly curved and her eyes widened in disbelief. She tried to look past me, towards the window by helplessly
pushing her tiny hands against the seat handle. All around me, nostalgic smiles and glimmering eyes were present in all of the passengers’ faces. Feeling the eyes of
everyone against the windows, I followed their radiant gazes towards the view.
It was as if there was no physical barrier between the window and my body; I was hit by the welcoming smell of coffee beans, and the bursting smell of joy flowed
through my body, soothing out even the last of my worries. My eyes trembled in awe as they observed the beauty beneath them. Just like in a Garcia Marquez novel,
yellow butterflies and benevolent birds soared through the sky, as the sun showed its affection towards the mountains by caressing them through its soft and delicate
beams of light. The mountains hugged the city, and the splatter of houses smiled at the sight of the speckles of colourful and colossal flowers lining their way down the
streets in thousands, frolicking and twirling to the buoyant sounds of Carlos Vives. The trees swayed and cheerfully waved at us, and as the plane came closer to the
city, we could see radiant people dancing and bouncing to the rhythm of abundant laughter and joy. A passionate gust of wind made a euphoric flag beckon its radiant
colours at us, and the tropical weather made the street vendors have prickling droplets of sweat running along their soft olive skin. Children whizzed through the streets
on their bicycles, and the air made their hair soar passionately through the wind. As we came closer and closer, I could hear the crackling sound of arepas heating up on
the stove, as well as my grandparents’ blaring laughter echo through the city.
I caught sight of my reflection on the window and felt the heat rise to my cheeks as I noticed my dumbfounded look. I turned around and smiled at the sight of the girl’s
clumsy little fingers adjusting her seatbelt strap. Her trembling lips, unable to contain her emotion, flashed a gleaming smile at me, and her hands then wrapped around
her mother as she stuffed her head in her shoulders. The plane, ecstati