Lost and Found

I've left West Africa. I took the boat up from Ziguinchor, and it was supposed to dock in Dakar, which I'd heard was the cultural capital of West Africa. Where I am now is a cosmopolitan city the likes of which I haven't seen in over two years. Not even Abijan can compare to the wealth of this place. Downtown Dakar feels positively European, and it doesn't hurt that the peninsular city's sea breezes have made the weather not only tolerable, but actually beautiful. It's spring in Europe and America and in Dakar as well, with temperatures holding steady in the mid-70s and a chilly breeze at night. I'm not used to a place that combines mild weather, tropical sun, and virtually no humidity. Where am I?

The answer, for me, is that I'm slowly making my way north, away from sub-Saharan West Africa and the home I've known for so long. I guess, in a way, that this was the goal of the whole odyssey. I've been on the road over four months now, and I've traveled the length and breadth of West Africa. The places I've seen, the people I've met, the things I've done, they all fade into a past that is difficult to remember without the aid of my journal. At the beginning, my primary goal was one of slow readjustment to the Western world. Most immediate at the time was to avoid winter in the States. After two years in one of the world's hottest countries, I didn't think I could handle anything below 60 degrees. Here in Dakar, that's been confirmed and refined: I now can't handle anything below 70 degrees. Seriously.

More importantly, I've been hiding from the frightening readjustment to a life I've forgotten. Time is a commodity in the West. In West Africa, it's a quaint idea, kind of like treasuring silence in the vacuum of space. I've been hiding from the stress of a recovering economy, a career, grad school, and any number of responsibilities that one loses on the road. I'm slowly starting to pick up those pieces of life again. Sounds scary, but they've finally found me after two years in Africa. Responsibilities are a bit like the mafia, they'll always find you.

And it's actually a bit alright. They haven't broken my kneecaps yet, and, with luck, I'll be able to pay off that two-year debt I've accumulated in my absence from the West. After four months on the road, I'm starting to get a bit tired. Maybe it's just Senegal. After backpacking through Côté d'Ivoire, Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Guinea, this place just seems too easy. Easy but expensive. There's quite a bit to see and do, but I just feel like a tourist now. If I have to pay $15 for a hotel room, I appreciate that I have hot water, electricity, clean sheets, and a pillow, but more and more I'm realizing that I don't actually need any of that. I slept on concrete floors in Liberia! And it was free. And I'm fine with that. I used candles to illuminate my room in Guinea, and, eventhough the risk of an open flame in a thatch-roofed hut is very real, it's also very soothing and atmospheric. Much better that than some impersonal flourescent light.

Senegal's saving grace for me has been the Volunteers that I've met along the way. And, for me, this has marked an important turning point on this journey. The trip has become less about the sights (although the gargantuan Soviet-era, Social-Realist statue adorning Dakar's Mamelle district is lovely) and more about the experience. I don't feel as if there's been much news-worthy for the past couple weeks, as most of my time has been spent with other Volunteers doing very little other than experiencing Wolof, Serer, or Fula culture, meeting local families, and trying my best to relive parts of my own service. My camera is almost devoid of pictures from this country, my journal absent of my adventures, but I feel as if I'm experiencing more things that are difficult to put in to words. (Which is actually kind of embarrassing, as isn't that the point of a blog?) As the journey has continued to unfold, I find that the stories and experiences I've had just begin to pile up, and when people ask me, "What's been your favorite place?", I'm crushed under the weight of all the places I've liked. There's something in every country to appreciate, but I think what I'm realizing more and more is that it isn't about the place you're visiting, but the experience you have there. I, for example, loved Monrovia. Many have told me that I'm the only person they've ever met who has said that. I think Kedougou, Senegal, might be one of my favorite towns so far, but that is due entirely to the people I met there. I mean, I hurt my foot and was laid up for about a week, and it's not like the town of 30,000 is a cultural hotspot.

I think what I've found over the past four months is that I'm enjoying being a cultural gyspy. And in the process, I've become something for the people that I meet. I don't like to be seen as any one thing, but when people ask you about travels and adventure, it's easy to get caught up in stories and advice. I'm starting to have ideas about what I want to do and how I want to live my life. As much as I've taken from this trip, it's really starting to give back, as I look to transitioning to a different life, not my old one, but a new chapter of the same life. I can already tell that this is starting to go down a slippery slope that is best confined to other forums, so I'll wrap this up. Apologies because I can feel this post is quite scattered and covers many things. I tend not to write much when I'm surrounded by people, and I've been hanging out with Volunteers for the better part of a month now. I'm off to Mauritania at the end of the week (for the love of God, I won't get kidnapped), so I'll have some time again to write and organize thoughts. I promise the next entry will be clear, concise, witty, and whatever else you appreciate about this blog. Til then.