From the other side of Africa, the world through new eyes

One of my favorite readers* sent me this blog post recently, by a young woman who upped to Mali for a month after graduating from school. On the blogs I circle, we talk a lot about the relative value to Noble Goals of generalists and specialists and good-intentionalists, about the risk of havoc that lurks behind every well-meaning newbie’s trip to Africa.

Sophie is not afraid to claim the label of clueless newcomer — and her honesty is refreshing. I share part of her last post from Mali because it’s hilarious, it’s frank, and because I also seared my leg on the exhaust pipe of a moto and it hurt like hell. I also share it because it reminds me that those of us who weren’t born on this beautiful continent were all newcomers once, and we stayed not just for Noble Goals but because we fell in love with something that didn’t start out as ours.

I would never have thought of myself as the Africa type.

I don’t love hiking or backpacking or self-planned adventures. I don’t have any background whatsoever in development studies, medicine, disease, nutrition, politics… or Africa, for that matter. I traveled a lot as a kid, but to European countries, where we ate tea & sausages and spent days in museums. I love cold weather, especially snow. I have a deep fear of upset stomach. My hometown in Vermont’s population of black people – when I was growing up there, I’m pretty sure it was zero.

And to be blatantly honest, I came last August because I felt an obligation to have some exotic foreign art experience – I thought it might help me get a job. I distinctly remember, on the night of my arrival, I lay under my mosquito net, un-showered for fear of parasite-riddled water getting in my ears, thinking “only 28 more days to go. And then I never have to come back again.

It wasn’t all bliss of course. I pooped out my insides a few times. The malaria anxiety sucked. The malaria pills gave me weird bubbles in my throat and yeast infections. I seared my leg on the exhaust pipe of Djibi’s moto. I don’t like rice very much. It is very difficult to find popsicles, even though it is very, very, very hot. I spent many moments feeling incapable, rich, unhelpful, and not much of a real woman. One time, my sandal and calf got swallowed into a foot of water/trash/goat poop/human waste and the sandal disappeared. And some days, it just sucked to stand out against a black background.

But those days were few and far between. The strangest, most powerful part of Mali is the sense of belonging I feel. Even when my body and mind were confused, ill, frustrated, sad, tired, and sunburned, my soul has never been more settled. This country makes sense to me.

But check out the whole post.

—
* Like a mother, I love all my readers equally. But the ones who email me sometimes are definitely my favorites.