Whoa. It feels like I was thrown out of a combi and onto an airplane. Probably because I was.
Me: I can't decide if I have a stomachache or not.
Mom: Maybe it's malaria.
Thanks, Mom.
My thought process: Oooh, look, sushi in the airport. No, it's like 9AM. Besides, I should finish my ostrich biltong first.
Saturday night, Simba held a braai for us. I was, erm, avoiding alcohol, but it was still fun. There was loud music and dancing. Also, watermelons.
The best part of the evening, though, was the combi ride home. We sang Christmas carols as loud as we could. Let me tell you, I can out-carol even Christians.
Simba said good-bye to all of us at the airport and I cried and consoled myself with a fatcake. (For some reason, I may not have mentioned fatcakes yet. They're fried dough balls, a staple in the Setswana diet. My classmates have been known to eat up to 16 of them in a day. The best fatcakes in Bots are sold across from the bus stop in Shorobe for 50t each, or about $0.08.)
In Jo'burg, I noticed the difference immediately. There were so many white people. I didn't stand out. No one stared at me. No one even made eye contact. It is not normal to greet every cashier or staff member with "Hello, sir (or ma'am), how are you?"
When the plane took off, I noticed that we were leaving the most beautiful place on Earth, and I cried again, but was was easily distracted by Megan's Rubik's cube. Oh, the cube.
Leaving Jo'burg, (with some ginger candy, ostrich biltong, UK Cosmo, Popular Mechanic, and Time) it was as strange to see the little plane icon leaving southern Africa as it was strange to see it approaching Dakar four months ago. Southenr Africa is (was) home. Northern AFrica looked foreign. And the U.S....
The only context I had for experiencing the flight is the memory of the flight 3 1/2 months ago. It's different, though. I'm different. We had TV's on this plane. I got my special lactard veggie meal.
It's a lot of the same, too.
I'm leaving home, a familiar culture. I'm leaving friends who have become family to return to family and friends who I fear won't recognize me. I'm leaving a high context situation and entering a low context one. I'll have to explain what's on my mind.
I'll have to explain why I stare at every white person who passes. I'll have to explain why I address everyone as "sire" or "ma'am" (or "rra" or "mma"). I'll have to explain why farting is funny. I'll have to explain that, no, I don't have chicken pox, I was attacked by mosquitoes this week. No, I didn't go on vacation, I got sunburned from walking the Main Mall in Gabs wihtout a hat. I'll expect to buy groceries at Spar. I'll separate cities into the Ex-pat Side and the Old Mall Side. I'll be amazed by cars and traffic lights and refrigerators and toilet seats and 2-ply toilet paper.
It would be easier to stay with the people who know these things already.
Once in Atlanta, I had to indulge in the culinary delights of the USA: Panda Express and Ben & Jerry's waffle cone (without the ice cream).
My body still thinks it's in Africa. I have to consciously remind myself that the signs read "Miami", not "Maun"; "Durham", not "Durban"; and "O'Hare", not "Harare". (Though I am suddenly amused by the prospect of "O'Harare": the half-Irish Zim.)
My parents met me at the airport with sushi. All is well.
I'm home.
I've started my new blog. It's called "Guided Meandering" and is located at:
http://robininprovidence.blogspot.com/
I hope you enjoy.
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