Turn and Face the Strange

What did you expect? I already had a post titled, "Changes," so I just needed to go along with the next part of the famous line by Bowie. Turning and facing the strange may be more of a commentary on America after three years gone, but in this case, the "Changes" will refer to me. It's interesting to see how other people look at you after such a long time away. When I returned home, I hadn't seen my parents in over two and a half years. When I left, I had just turned 23 and was setting off for something completely unknown. Until a few weeks earlier, I hadn't even heard of Niger. Now, at 25, having lived in this previously unknown country for two years, and traveling all of West Africa in the meantime, I'd returned to my home town, to my old house, to my old room, to my old bed.

The bed still squeaks. The house looks exactly the same. The room still has posters up from when I was in high school, and the town, well, there isn't much that can change on you in rural Indiana. But had I changed? Everyone said I looked taller. Did you grow? How tall are you now? Boy, they must have been feeding you good in Africa.

I don't really think they were. Was I taller? I still haven't measured myself properly since I've come home. Personally, I don't think I'm any taller. Don't we stop growing after a certain age? Hadn't I passed that age? Who would have been able to really tell me? My friends in Niger had never met me before January 2008, and we'd all grown together. Any obvious change in personality could be chalked up to Mefloquine, and any physical change, well, that could probably be attributed to any number of intestinal parasites or the recovery from said parasites:

"Wow, you look like hell."
"I have giardia and three types of intestinal worms previously unknown to science."
"Nice job, biological pioneer! You want a beer?"
"I'm not supposed to drink on these meds, but yes, yes I would love one."

"Hey! You look great!"
"I know! I just got rid of my tapeworm last week!"

I don't think I'm any taller. However, I think that once you've completed something arduous and personally challenging like the Peace Corps or any kind of voluntary service, you come back projecting a bit more confidence. As humble as I've tried to be, playing down living in another country, dealing with scorpions, snakes, heat, sandstorms, bush taxis, angry market mamas, internal parasites, mosquitoes, Mefloquine, corruption, disruption, terrorists, corruption, poverty, hunger, feeling blessed by smiles, song, children, tea, tradition, Tabaski, teaching, learning, sharing, speaking, and ten thousand other things that are impossible to relate to someone who's never experienced it, you project all these things and more. You've pushed through the bad, held onto the good, and it raises you up in some small way. My friends in London didn't notice a difference, but that's because they only knew me for a short amount of time, and that had been nearly four years ago. But my family, the people who had been with me from birth to toddling, running cross-country to running off and joining the Peace Corps, could tell that something was different. Something had grown, and the easiest way to chart that growth was through a possible increase in height.

It's hard for me to chart the changes myself. Leaving Niger, I left behind a whole group of people, less than 100, who know anything about my time in Africa. Now they're spread out all over the place, and I feel as if I'm a bit spread out with them. It's hard to go home, that's for sure, and I feel as if home is this disconnected place that doesn't even really apply to me anymore. Home will always be home, but I feel as if I've been transplanted here, and, like any other transplant, I feel a bit weak after being uprooted from my life as a traveler.

There are few in Carroll County, Indiana who have ever left the country. There are even fewer who have lived abroad for a significant amount of time in a developing country. I don't fault them that in any way, but it's difficult to connect with people. There are the rare ones who just have so many questions that the day becomes a blur as stories buzz through the air, but even with those who are most interested, I feel like I'm holding back. It's hard to know if telling the dysentery story is going too far. It's impossible to try to recreate a culture totally foreign to the listener without getting bogged down in ethnicity, history, and language, things that took me months to learn and be able to differentiate. Things that become common knowledge, words like "Maigari," "dala gu," and "solani," suddenly get blank stares. It's incredibly isolating, being unable to get into the heart of an experience. I often feel like I'm only skimming the surface of all that I would like or could say. But then I run up against a personal boundary of not wanting to be "that guy," the one who's always trying to dominate conversation with his experiences in Africa, the insufferable friend who keeps talking about poverty and hunger when all you want to do is order a pizza.

I guess what I have to learn, and what I've actually learned quite well as I moved through West Africa into Europe and back home, is that the experiences that I have will never leave me. They'll always be there, and every once in a while, I may be able to talk with a friend from Peace Corps and relive some of our shared experiences. Skype is great for that. But now that I'm away from Niger, it's kind of like that moment when you're a teenager, and it's time to put your old toys away. You keep them around for old time's sake, but you always kind of hope that you'll be able to bring them back out again. For now, I'm content cataloging my memories through my journals and blogs and hoping that I'll be able to relive them in the future and make new memories if I ever become a field worker for an international organization. It's not the exact same experience, but you need to mix it up every once in a while, right?