Spend time in Africa and you’ll never be the same
Since my return from Accra, Ghana, in West Africa, reflections and memories seem as real to me now as they did when I first returned. It’s frustrating to know that when I speak of this country, the majority of my peers could not locate it on a map.
How can a place that so impacted my life be of such little significance to those around me? It’s always the small things I remember – the big picture seems to lose itself in such tiny moments – like the red dirt that would coat the bottom of the cheap, plastic buckets in which I did my laundry, the cassette tapes of Celine Dion blaring from nearly every taxi, or even making white chocolate fondue in a cut-off water bottle set out in the sun.
My life took a turn I had never expected, on a journey that still plays itself out in my dreams. Now that I have returned, I can never go back to the person I had been before I went. I find myself on a constant quest for ever-broader horizons, for a complete understanding of the global community in which we all play a role.
I originally planned to study in Pau, France, for two semesters, through the University Studies Abroad Consortium offered at University of Nevada, Reno. As the first semester came to a close, I couldn’t help but think about other possibilities for studying abroad. I had befriended another American in the program who told me of her plans to go to Ghana in the spring (also through USAC) and I was already looking forward to my new adventure. I only dreaded the phone call to my parents telling them their youngest daughter had just bought a plane ticket to Africa. I never expected the hardest part to be coming back home, coming back to a life I no longer wanted to be a part of.
It is impossible for me to describe my time spent in West Africa, for what can you relate it to? You, the reader, have touched the world with different hands. How can I possibly describe the humiliation I felt at seeing my soft and fleshy skin next to such bones, such wondering eyes? How can I explain my anger at seeing the blind charity that only served to perpetuate the stereotypical wealthy “white man”? How can I openly speak of the privilege that seemed to surround me, to follow me based purely on the color of my skin?
Memories of the legendary Timbuktu, roaming giraffes, beautiful women in vibrant colors, cold nights sleeping under the Saharan stars, goats riding on top of overcrowded buses, rainforests filled with butterflies, children dancing with their hearts full of life, the same pair of sandals that carried me through Togo, Benin, Niger, Ghana, Burkina Faso and Mali – and didn’t break until the day I arrived back home – all of this means nothing. You, the reader, have no idea what I am talking about. I have nothing to bring back for you, nothing to share.
These memories are in the creases of my skin, in the quiet songs I hum. These moments that I want so much for you to know, are on the tip of my tongue, in my taste buds, in the corners of my eyes where I’ll always see soulful women carrying their children, and the long dirt road stretched out before me.
I am still looking through that dirty window of a packed, rickety old car, trying to savor every second of the greatest freedom I have ever known … and maybe even instill that little spark of inspiration for those who might dare to make such moments of their own.
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on Tuesday, October 16th, 2007 at 12:48 am and is filed under Perspectives.
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October 26th, 2007 at 8:50 am
You seriously need to consider being a writer…
…beautiful article that captures vibrantly, a beautiful experience…
I hope you get to go back to Ghana.
-your secret admirer-
; )