I just arrived back in good ol’ RDU after spending six months in Uganda. If you had told me when I left that I would be this happy to be back, I would have thought that you didn’t know me very well. I always thought I was the kind of person who didn’t have problems relating to people—any people, even if we only sort of spoke the same language, or had been raised in different cultures. I thought for sure I would love Africa and maybe just stay there forever. I didn’t buy a return ticket, because I didn’t know if I would need it.
At first, I adored Uganda. It was so laid back, so beautiful. Everyone I met was so nice, and so interested in me. I was ok with sharing a room with 9 other girls, and taking cold showers, and eating lots of carbs, because I didn’t have a job and got to eat fresh pineapples and mangos and dance to my roommates’ drumming. Everything was exactly like I expected it to be.
But as time went on, things began to change. Life began to get more difficult-- I began to get annoyed—what once seemed like laid back, slow paced living began to define itself as tardiness. I got tired of tripping over the beautiful uneven African roads as I walked everywhere. And I realized that people were interested in me because I was a foreigner, not because I was so witty and interesting. Bummer. After 3 months, I didn’t have running water anymore, and I got tired of getting water out of a jerrycan for everything from bathing to cooking to drinking. I was tired of Africa and wanted my mom. I was grumpy.
I started to have an identity crisis. I wasn’t the culturally flexible person I thought I was. To my horror (and I really don’t want to admit this), I even found myself smugly thinking that there were certain things that we do better in America. I began to think that maybe I shouldn’t be in Africa, and I bought my return ticket. I was ready to go home, get an office job, and buy an iPhone and a little house with a white picket fence, and never leave America again.
I played basketball for one season when I was like 12, and I was horrible. The game is too fast-paced for me, and I hated running back and forth up the court the whole game. I thought it was stupid, but my dad told me since I had chosen to play, I wasn’t allowed to quit. That season was hard, but at the end, I was really proud of myself for sticking with it, and I learned that I can stick with something, even if it’s hard.
Even as I waited to leave Uganda, I knew I will have to go back to Africa. I may not be the person I thought I was—I may not be able to just slide flawlessly into any role, but I’m not about to give up without a fight... a long one. I am not the person I thought I was when I went to Uganda,-- I have problems relating to people, adapting to new places—but I won’t always. Africa, I’m happy to be here now, but I’ll see you again. I still have lots to learn from you.
This post is part of an awesome synchroblog, The Creative Collective, that my friends and I write together. Read their entries here: http://synchrobloggers.wordpress.com
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