Pyromania

It is as enjoyable to lie in one's tent listening to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata over the pattering of the rain as it is unenjoyable to throw everything around one's tent while trying to kill the ants that have invaded by chewing a hole through the bottom of the tent. And by "a hole", I mean "six holes".

Oh well, shits happen.

I've been thoroughly fascinated by the Maun ex-pat community and all its contradictions. In Maun, within the city, is a bubble of white, rich (by virtue of coming from any other continent or SA) ex-pats. They came to Bots to do research or work or otherwise save the world, but they manage to shop in different stores, drink at different bars, and avoid interaction with the locals. Somehow, it's a dichotomy that makes me feel so at home. It's the segregation of my home, of Long Island, but all the way across the world. This is not the real world. I'll never see the real world, I'll only see my nice happy bubble of a world transplanted elsewhere. No matter how hard I try to escape. I should stop worrying about trying to escape and focus on trying to use my magic bubble powers to help those outside of it. The efforts I expend trying to escape from my bubble helps no one, except perhaps to make me feel better about myself.

Still no idea what to do with my life. If I still don't know by the time I graduate, I'll travel. And write. Definitely write. That way I can pay attention to what's going on in my life. And if I need money, I can always play ambulance in New York for a while.

We left Sedia. Gone. Forever. It was sad. There's not a lot of time left here. I have to make sure to remember the following:
It's "hello", not "dumela".
It's "sir" or "ma'am", not "rra" or "mma".
It's not okay to start drinking at 10AM.
Fries, not chips.
Soccer, not football.
All (most) roads are paved near home.
It's not acceptable to stare at people who are different from you.
A taxi ride costs US$8, not P3 (US$0.50).
No combis.
Cold.
Snow.
I can't wear a bathing suit all day.
People expect you to shower at least every other day.
A shower includes soap and shampoo.
Washing machines!
I can plug my iPod charger directly into the outlet, without 3 adapters.
People sleep in beds, not tents.
No tin roofs!
Fewer venomous snakes.

I think I'm gonna stick to metric, though. Not only is it a much more logical system of measurement, but it means you can turn anything into a chemistry problem. (You have 200 ml gin and 800 ml tonic. A single shot is 35 ml. If the tonic is used in 200 ml increments, how strong will the resulting drinks be? Which would be the limiting reagent if each drink contains a single shot? Double? How many of each drink can be made? How long will my Nalgene smell like whiskey?) Yay science.

I'm trying to get back into a home mood. I was looking at pictures (on FB) of me, on several occasions, crammed onto a couch with many lovely people. I'm listening to homestyle music (Assassins, Abbey Road) and thinking about sushi. Mmmm sushi.

The night before leaving Sedia, we had a big breakfast dinner and bonfire.

Dave is funny.



















Will was pretty much responsible for making the fire every night.














Mmmm breakfast foods.















Campfire pancakes.














Just another night at Sedia, though our last.
















Nothing like a romantic, candle-lit campfire.















DEET + fire = fun (+ air pollution)















I can't believe I've never posted a picture of donkeys before. They're everywhere.














"Hey look, it's a penny. It's from the year I was born.
It's a sign!
I don't know how I know
But I'm gonna find my purpose.
I don't know where I'm gonna look
But I'm gonna find my purpose."
-Ave Q

It's like they know me.

So, I've left Sedia. It wasn't home, exactly, but it was familiar. At the end of freshman year at Brown, as my taxi was pulling away from Keeney Quad, I cried. Not an attention-seeking wailing cry, just a choked-up, teary-eyed cry. I don't think it was the leaving, but rather, the acknowledgment of the passage of time. The vague entity known as "college" was an object of my anticipation since about fifth grade. While trudging through high school, I kept imagining the shining city (Harvard then Columbia and finally Brown) where students are grown-up and classroom attendance is optional.

Then I got there. And it exceeded my expectations. But I had never thought as far ahead as the end of freshman year. I never really separated "college" into discrete intervals. Once one of these intervals was completed, I was forced to take one last look at the eternal party that is Keeney Quad, wipe my eyes, and look forward to the rest of my life. Or summer vacation, whichever came first.

(Sidebar: I was on the bus from Maun to Gweta, the site of our brief pre-Gabs excursion, while writing this, and I saw an ostrich running across the road.)

Africa was characterized by the same temporal ambiguity as college for me. It was a magical place where chimpanzees ran free and reaching Africa was the goal. Even as I packed my bags to go to Bots, a real country on the real continent of Africa, I was unable to see beyond December 24. The idea of returning to Gabs for dis-orientation week seemed so far ahead. When I decided in fifth grade that I wanted to go to Africa, I never thought about what I'd do when I got home.