Tell me what you see

What are you doing right now? Um, I’m driving. Tell me what you see – what you’re looking at right now.

Oh, okay. It’s just started getting dark. I’m pulling up to a road block. I’m staring at the giant metal spikes in the middle of the road ready to puncture my tires. As a private vehicle, I can just go around and don’t have to stop at the police check to pay a bribe like the matatus (public minibuses). Now I’m turning off the highway and onto a dirt road towards my friend’s house. I see a guy in uniform with an AK47 hanging off his shoulder. He must be a guard or solider. And now there are three teenage schoolgirls walking towards me. It just rained so it smells like wet dirt – that earthy smell that hits you as soon as you arrive in Africa but slowly fades into the background until it rains and reminds you. Now I’m turning down a really bad road to my friend’s house so I have to hang up and pay attention to my driving.

It all seems so normal to me now. I don’t notice how a snapshot of my life here in Kenya is so far removed from my life back in the U.S. until a friend from thousands of miles away points it out to me with the simple request that I describe what I see one random evening.

I’m returning to the U.S. in a couple days. It’s been eight months. I just assumed that the transition back would be easy. I’ve gone back and forth between the U.S. and East Africa for eight years now. I should be used to the culture and reverse-culture shock by now, right? But maybe I’m not.

In fact, maybe it’s getting harder. The toggling between two lives in some ways makes it increasingly difficult to fit in anywhere. After living in Tanzania for two years, I was able to see how I could carve out a life in East Africa.  Now, after living in Kenya for another several months, I am able to see how that life will always be on the periphery. I will always be an expat and treated as such by the people here – no matter how long I stay here, no matter how much I try to assimilate. That doesn’t mean I don’t belong but I have to recognize that this is not my home. But then I go home, and I’m again relegated to the periphery. I’m the girl who runs off to Africa. I’m not going to settle down into a stable, normal life, job, or relationship. My regular stints in Africa make me “interesting” but set me apart and awkwardly interrupt my American life.

As I prepare to return ‘home’ again, I’m preparing for the happiness of seeing my friends and family again, but I’m also preparing for the sadness of seeing how much I missed while I was away. I gain so much by coming to Africa but I also lose a lot. It’s invigorating and it’s painful. That’s what I see. That’s what I’m looking at right now.