I’m sitting on the ground in the middle of a school courtyard, surrounded by students. The concrete is still warm from the morning sun. A teenage boy sits beside me, a guitar resting on his knee. He plays one of his own songs for everyone.
Then he turns and hands it over.
He shows me where to place my fingers. I try. I miss the transition. He smiles. A few girls sitting a little further away smile too. Another one asks if they can take a few photos with my camera.
Of course.
At some point, it starts raining. The air cools. The music continues.
My camera lies next to me. I pick it up from time to time. A boy playing guitar. A group of teenagers laughing. A quiet moment between songs.
Towards the end of my journey in Southeast Asia, I spent a few days in the north of Bali, documenting daily life in a children’s home.
I left carrying something else.
There was a calm there. A softness in the way they looked at me. A simple curiosity. They asked me about the mountains in Switzerland, about my life. Nothing complicated. Nothing forced.
For a few days, nothing else seemed urgent. The noise of travel disappeared. The pressure to move on faded. I adapted to their rhythm without realising it.
So far from home, and yet, during those days, I felt more at home than I had in a long time.
Philippe
This post was written after spending time with the children at ANAK Bali.