The woman who lived in a shack

I once knew a woman who lived in a shack made up out of assorted poles, planks of wood and bits of tin, all held together with nails and plastic bags.  Large stones kept the rusted corrugated iron roof in place.

She was a woman who had waited all her life for something significantly good to happen to her, however, raw sewage ran down the narrow pathway in front of her shack, and rats as big as small cats roamed around.  Even the mangy dogs with their rib cages sticking out would slink away into the cluttered informal settlement when they saw them.

She was a woman who had experienced the hard side of life in all it's varied forms, even to the point of being raped by some of the young men who lived there.  She lived from hand to mouth, and had no idea what to do with more money or provisions than would take her just from one day into the next.  Her rantings and cries of despair only brought scorn and derision from her neighbours.  No one took her seriously or bothered too much with her.  They all had enough of their own issues to deal with.  Life was far too difficult in that seething mass of humanity.

She began to attend a church nearby in a more affluent suburb.  She always smelt a mixture of stale sweat and unwashed clothing.  Once she was given a sizable amount of money, which she received with a bemused look on her face.  After a lifetime of living with just enough and sometimes not quite enough for the day, she would most probably have recklessly given it away to everyone around her in an effort to gain some recognition and respect.

Each year the church went away for a weekend on what was known as the family camp.  Everyone who wanted to be there was included, regardless of lack of finances, and so with her few belongings placed carefully in a plastic bag, she arrived at the camp.  That night she seemed to wander around in a bit of a daze, but by the next day she had settled in.

Things that I had taken very much for granted all of my life, took on a whole new meaning through the eyes of this woman.  Taking a shower which I would never even think twice about was pure luxury for her.  The shower curtain was half open when I walked past the next morning.  There she stood soaping herself all over, allowing the water to stream over her old, tired body.  The customary bucket of water, heated over an open fire a distant memory as she revelled in the steamy warmth of the shower cubicle.  Making my way back after having showered and dressed, I discovered that she was having another go at soaping herself all over from head to toe.  Ten people could have showered in the length of time she took.  I could imagine that no matter how long she stood there under the water, it could never wash away the decades of abject poverty, or the the brutal abuse or the stench of raw sewage.  However, it did give her a measure of delight and satisfaction for having once in her life been let loose in the steamed up candy store.