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“It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream - making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams. No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence - that which makes its truth, its meaning - its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream - alone...”
― Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
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Just before I left Africa, I noticed a divot in the base of the nail on my left ring finger, origin unknown. As my nails grew over the summer, I had this one funny deformed nail, all ridgey and bumpy. The bump’s creeping along up my fingernail was a reminder of how long I’d been back. It finally reached the end of its race; today I clipped my nails, and along with it, the funny little reminder bump.
It was just a dumb deformed nail, but it seemed to represent to me all those things about Africa that were slowly growing out and would soon get clipped off.
“Oh my God how was your trip?!”, “I can't wait to hear all about it!”, “Tell me everything!” Sure, I'd love to. But I can’t. Not really. I can give you facts, and events, and details. But I can't tell you how it changed me. How does one describe a being, a feeling, a knowing? Like trying to describe that inescapable feeling imparted by a dream, it's simply impossible for words to incarnate the inner experience of one to another. We try, but in the end, we fail.
Three months isn’t so long – it’s shorter than a semester, it’s that summer that goes by so fast, it’s less than the mild panic about income tax deadline after new year’s. But it still managed to change me. I want to write about all that inner change here, but it all sounds contrived and dramatic, and in the end, would fail. I think every day about going back.
Sure, some of it was escape. And in some ways it probably will be when I go again. But then, is it escape if it’s in some ways a life that you prefer? If escaping the pandemic materialism and amassing of riches and image solely for the sake of riches and images is less appealing than living a simpler life and learning new things about myself every day, staying in touch with how most of the rest of the world lives, is that escapism? I had drinks on Sunday with Deo, the founder of Village Health Works, the reason I went to Burundi. Every time I am with him, he utters these profound little nuggets that turn my head upside down a little. On Sunday he just drops: “my escape is another person’s misery.” I have had this thought before.
Upon my return, little things throw me. I scald myself repeatedly at the sink. The heat and intensity of my shower’s water and its pressure actually make me anxious. Every hug concludes with my reaching to shake the person's hand, met with puzzling looks. A gas station attendant reaches through my passenger side car window for my credit card – without thinking, I extend my hand to shake his and greet him.
I don't turn on the tv for days. I don't carry an umbrella when it’s supposed to rain. I don't dry my hands after washing them. I don’t dry my hair anymore, ever. The over-air conditioned stores and restaurants irritate me. I don't care whether I have a towel at the pool. I heartily greet everyone I encounter and ask how they are, reaching for a handshake. I don't care that I've worn that dress the last three times I've seen the same people. I haven’t bought one new thing in four months. Somehow, none of that matters. Sawa sawa.
I miss the clink clink clink that was the soundtrack of my mornings in Kigutu ... the spoons rapidly making rounds in mugs of tea, in an effort to dissolve way too much sugar. I miss the faces that line the triage porch, first with suspicious eyes, followed by bursting smiles when I greet people in Kirundi or Swahili and reach my hand to shake theirs. I miss the bustling market and the chaos of the bus station. I miss being able to hold up my hand and hail a motorcycle to my destination for a $1, my hair blowing behind me in the warm African sun. I miss the ladies selling pineapples, avocados, tomatoes, mangoes, green clementines, and passion fruits by the roadside. I miss the tiny feet protruding from the hips of women carrying babies on their backs. I miss the stunning and vibrant African textiles that envelope and adorn the lovely women of Burundi; I love how those selling goods at market tuck a corner of the fabric wrapped around their waists, and skillfully tie up their earnings. It’s summer here in NYC, and there are many bright colors. But soon enough, we’ll all be in black again.
Fast forward to December. Have I really been back six months? Hard to believe. And none of those things is weird anymore. Like the bump on my nail, it all just sort of grew out. I don’t reach to shake everyone’s hand, I cherish my long hot showers, I wore all black today. I do, however, continue to scald myself at the sink.
The holidays are here. Call me Scrooge but it’s the time of year I like the least. I so dislike what the celebration of the birth of Christ has turned into … the Black Friday stampedes, the stores now open on Thanksgiving, the buying of masses of unneeded things just to have to something to give to someone who needs nothing. The gag gifts that will end up being tossed. The pressure, the expense, the clock ticking down. I have come to dread it.
There is something so tragically ironic to me about the wasted money – money that could be redirected to so many in need, maybe in east Africa – spent on throw-away gifts, that will soon end up in a landfill … maybe in east Africa.
How do I spend holidays with family and friends without silent judgment, make changes without being extreme, recognize the tragic irony without picking fights? How do I use my frustration and criticism (and hypocrisy) to make things better, not worse? I continue to feel like I’m living with one foot in two worlds.
Everything is changing. This summer, a neighborhood friend died – he was the personality of the street, and his passing has left a huge community hole. Friends and fellow community-garden members are stepping down from the board on which we sit, selling their places in the neighborhood, moving out of state. My favorite Singaporean restaurant on the next block was suddenly a Mexican restaurant one day. The block behind mine, to which mine backs up, has been bought by developers – the pre-construction noises wake me some mornings, and the workmen I occasionally see with my groggy waking eyes walking around on the neighboring rooftop just outside my window makes me feel exposed; my quiet private nook in alphabet city will very soon no longer be those things.
I’m not great with such change. It makes me want to escape. It doesn't stop the change, but it maybe removes me from it for a while. I do plan to go back to Africa, maybe sooner than I thought. Maybe it will be an escape. Maybe it will just be a new adventure. Maybe it will be a little of both. But whatever it is, I do know it will be a blessing - a blessing that will change me, resistance and all, once again.
Just before I left Africa, I noticed a divot in the base of the nail on my left ring finger, origin unknown. As my nails grew over the summer, I had this one funny deformed nail, all ridgey and bumpy. The bump’s creeping along up my fingernail was a reminder of how long I’d been back. It finally reached the end of its race; today I clipped my nails, and along with it, the funny little reminder bump.
It was just a dumb deformed nail, but it seemed to represent to me all those things about Africa that were slowly growing out and would soon get clipped off.
“Oh my God how was your trip?!”, “I can't wait to hear all about it!”, “Tell me everything!” Sure, I'd love to. But I can’t. Not really. I can give you facts, and events, and details. But I can't tell you how it changed me. How does one describe a being, a feeling, a knowing? Like trying to describe that inescapable feeling imparted by a dream, it's simply impossible for words to incarnate the inner experience of one to another. We try, but in the end, we fail.
Three months isn’t so long – it’s shorter than a semester, it’s that summer that goes by so fast, it’s less than the mild panic about income tax deadline after new year’s. But it still managed to change me. I want to write about all that inner change here, but it all sounds contrived and dramatic, and in the end, would fail. I think every day about going back.
Sure, some of it was escape. And in some ways it probably will be when I go again. But then, is it escape if it’s in some ways a life that you prefer? If escaping the pandemic materialism and amassing of riches and image solely for the sake of riches and images is less appealing than living a simpler life and learning new things about myself every day, staying in touch with how most of the rest of the world lives, is that escapism? I had drinks on Sunday with Deo, the founder of Village Health Works, the reason I went to Burundi. Every time I am with him, he utters these profound little nuggets that turn my head upside down a little. On Sunday he just drops: “my escape is another person’s misery.” I have had this thought before.
Upon my return, little things throw me. I scald myself repeatedly at the sink. The heat and intensity of my shower’s water and its pressure actually make me anxious. Every hug concludes with my reaching to shake the person's hand, met with puzzling looks. A gas station attendant reaches through my passenger side car window for my credit card – without thinking, I extend my hand to shake his and greet him.
I don't turn on the tv for days. I don't carry an umbrella when it’s supposed to rain. I don't dry my hands after washing them. I don’t dry my hair anymore, ever. The over-air conditioned stores and restaurants irritate me. I don't care whether I have a towel at the pool. I heartily greet everyone I encounter and ask how they are, reaching for a handshake. I don't care that I've worn that dress the last three times I've seen the same people. I haven’t bought one new thing in four months. Somehow, none of that matters. Sawa sawa.
I miss the clink clink clink that was the soundtrack of my mornings in Kigutu ... the spoons rapidly making rounds in mugs of tea, in an effort to dissolve way too much sugar. I miss the faces that line the triage porch, first with suspicious eyes, followed by bursting smiles when I greet people in Kirundi or Swahili and reach my hand to shake theirs. I miss the bustling market and the chaos of the bus station. I miss being able to hold up my hand and hail a motorcycle to my destination for a $1, my hair blowing behind me in the warm African sun. I miss the ladies selling pineapples, avocados, tomatoes, mangoes, green clementines, and passion fruits by the roadside. I miss the tiny feet protruding from the hips of women carrying babies on their backs. I miss the stunning and vibrant African textiles that envelope and adorn the lovely women of Burundi; I love how those selling goods at market tuck a corner of the fabric wrapped around their waists, and skillfully tie up their earnings. It’s summer here in NYC, and there are many bright colors. But soon enough, we’ll all be in black again.
Fast forward to December. Have I really been back six months? Hard to believe. And none of those things is weird anymore. Like the bump on my nail, it all just sort of grew out. I don’t reach to shake everyone’s hand, I cherish my long hot showers, I wore all black today. I do, however, continue to scald myself at the sink.
The holidays are here. Call me Scrooge but it’s the time of year I like the least. I so dislike what the celebration of the birth of Christ has turned into … the Black Friday stampedes, the stores now open on Thanksgiving, the buying of masses of unneeded things just to have to something to give to someone who needs nothing. The gag gifts that will end up being tossed. The pressure, the expense, the clock ticking down. I have come to dread it.
There is something so tragically ironic to me about the wasted money – money that could be redirected to so many in need, maybe in east Africa – spent on throw-away gifts, that will soon end up in a landfill … maybe in east Africa.
How do I spend holidays with family and friends without silent judgment, make changes without being extreme, recognize the tragic irony without picking fights? How do I use my frustration and criticism (and hypocrisy) to make things better, not worse? I continue to feel like I’m living with one foot in two worlds.
Everything is changing. This summer, a neighborhood friend died – he was the personality of the street, and his passing has left a huge community hole. Friends and fellow community-garden members are stepping down from the board on which we sit, selling their places in the neighborhood, moving out of state. My favorite Singaporean restaurant on the next block was suddenly a Mexican restaurant one day. The block behind mine, to which mine backs up, has been bought by developers – the pre-construction noises wake me some mornings, and the workmen I occasionally see with my groggy waking eyes walking around on the neighboring rooftop just outside my window makes me feel exposed; my quiet private nook in alphabet city will very soon no longer be those things.
I’m not great with such change. It makes me want to escape. It doesn't stop the change, but it maybe removes me from it for a while. I do plan to go back to Africa, maybe sooner than I thought. Maybe it will be an escape. Maybe it will just be a new adventure. Maybe it will be a little of both. But whatever it is, I do know it will be a blessing - a blessing that will change me, resistance and all, once again.
