IF YOU HAVE A GOOD HEART
YOU WILL SEE THE GOOD IN PEOPLE
Hello. Continuing with the stories of human kindness that I’ve encountered over the years on the road, this one comes from the same penniless trip around Europe that I embarked upon back in 2007. I still get emotional remembering this guy.
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I STEPPED OUT of Warsaw station into the icy night air, just as the clock on the tower opposite struck 11. I blew on my fingers and saw my breath. Today had brought the first snow of winter but it hadn’t fully settled on the ground. I navigated my way through the scattered huddles of drunk homeless folk, rowdy and aggressive, that prowled the area directly in front of the station. I followed the directions on the piece of paper and, with the help of a few taxi drivers, found the bar where I’d arranged to meet my Couchsurfing host: an Englishman called Jon, and his group of mates.
The table space in front of me quickly filled up with pints of beer and shots of Polish Vodka—everyone felt like buying me a drink. I downed everything in front of me and was told that we were heading to a club. I’d only eaten some crackers and a can of mackerel all day, I felt weak and exhausted, but I couldn’t bring myself to dampen my new friends’ spirits so I asked what I should do with my luggage. They spoke to the barman. His name was Max and he said that I could keep my stuff in the downstairs cellar and pick it up the following morning. Apprehensive as I was about leaving all of my possessions with a stranger in a pub, I didn’t feel like I had much say in the matter.
I went out with my new friends. It was an interesting experience. The club was a mosh-pit packed with bear-sized men with skinheads and women with mohawks. There was no cloakroom—you chucked your coat over wooden beams on the ceiling. A fight broke out between some neanderthals. We left after the music stopped.
I woke at 2 the following afternoon. I wanted to shower and brush my teeth but couldn’t, as my belongings were still in the cellar of a pub I had no idea how to reach. A hungover Jon jotted down vague directions on a scrap of paper.
An hour of walking later I was lost in the city centre, going around in circles. People rushed past me in all directions as the snow fell relentlessly. The streets were rammed with people celebrating Polish Independence Day. Young men dressed in WWII military uniforms paraded up and down the main street; old tanks and cannons lined the side of the road; and all around people drank vodka and toasted national heroes. I began looking around for a taxi driver to point me in the right direction when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I span around to see Max standing there smiling broadly. He laughed when I told him I was searching for the bar. He said we were nowhere near, but he was on his way there now and I could walk with him.
We walked and talked and the subject of why I was in Poland came up. Max loved the story and as soon as we got into the bar he instructed the girl behind the counter to make me a cup of tea. After I had warmed myself, Max said that he would like to invite me to eat with him in a Chinese restaurant just around the corner. After barely eating for the past few days, my hunger had been replaced by a numb feeling all over my body. The offer was too kind to refuse. We walked to the small restaurant and sat down at a table. Max ordered two starters, two cans of drink and a large plate of fried chicken with noodles for my main course and then began to tell me his story. Originally from Sierra Leone, he had been forced to flee the war-torn country and build a new life for himself in Europe. He had endured so much hardship and pain but he explained to me his simple philosophy for life as follows: “If you are a good person and have a good heart, you will get what you deserve. If not in this life, then in the next.”
Then he gave me a concrete example.
“When I was a young boy in school, I was always kind to everyone in my class. I was popular because I was a good kid. One night years later, when the war was happening in my country, a group of rebel soldiers came and took me away. They beat me badly before holding a gun to my head. They were going to kill me. Then the leader of the group turned up. He looked at me and asked, “Max. Is that you?” Through my badly beaten eyes I looked at him but couldn’t recognise the face. “Max. It is you. I went to school with you. Remember me? How are you?” The leader then ordered his men to let go of me before saying, “You were so good to me in school. When I had problems with my studies you were always the one to help me. I am so sorry for what my boys have done to you today. Listen, Max, for your own safety you have to get out of Freetown. I can give you a pass to get through. If anyone stops you, you just tell them to call me. But you have to go. It is the only way I can save your life after you helped me so much in school.” And that was when I escaped my country and came to Europe.”
For the umpteenth time on this journey, I was rendered speechless. Sat in front of me was someone so positive about life, so optimistic, who worked so hard for so little money, but who had seen the worst side of mankind. How did he remain so upbeat?
“If you have a good heart, you will see the good in people and in life,” he said.
The food was brought over, I looked down at it, picked up a fork and realised I had no appetite. My stomach had shrunk and I couldn’t eat. I chewed on the first piece of chicken for an eternity as Max demolished his meal in no time. I was embarrassed. He had brought me here and spent money on my dinner and now I couldn’t eat it. I tried harder to force some down, but it was as if I had forgotten how to swallow. I just felt sick. I apologised and he told me not to worry and that I should take it away in a doggy bag and just try to eat little bits of it slowly throughout the evening. I did, and after a few beers back at the flat managed to get it all down just before bed.
Thanks for reading. If you missed the first story from this series, you can read it here.
Nice one Kris
Wow!