Out of Africa [pictures galore]

What strikes me the most, as I sit wide-awake in my office at 4am (cat on lap, African dirt still caked into the soles of my feet), is the separation between “in” and “out”. At Chimfunshi, one was always outside to some degree. To go to the toilet, I had to walk outside. To fix a meal, I had to walk outside to the kitchen. To type on this (now filthy) computer, I had to wander outdoors to the Education Center. To teach one of my classes, I sat on the hard packed ground under a grass roof in a hut with no walls. The windows in my room were never fully closed. The outside was never not in.

And yet back “home”, I just awoke from jetlag not aware of the outdoors, but rather in a hazy cocoon of my own trappings. My fan was blowing to block the noise of neighbors, who woke me at 2am Saturday night/Sunday morning with their drunken cell phone conversations appropriately convening on their back deck for all to hear. My window shades were drawn tight against the porch lights of those who live feet from this cozy coach house. The outside very purposefully kept out so that I may attempt sleep. Whereas in Zambia, the sounds of the night were my intoxicating lullaby.

I’m lucky enough to have a roof top deck in Chicago. As soon as I realized I was awake for the day, I escaped there to see the moon. Just waning now, it was full and breathtaking at Chimfunshi. The city crickets sang their song in the predawn hours as my cat came to see what I was up to on this particular insomnia jaunt. He sprawled on his back for a belly rub, ready to soak up much needed attention from my two month absence. For him, I’m happy to be back. For me, I’m neither here nor there.

I didn’t say goodbye. I said see you later. Exiting Chimfunshi was hard, but only because it will most likely be many months before I can return and I hate leaving my students for that long without support. Although a stack of materials remain for them to use, independent study is hard without accountability. Those who work there already have their hands more than full, and taking on additional teaching duties is not their job. Yet here I sit, stateside, because there are bills to pay and an unfinished chapter to complete.

The return trip was smooth and sad. Going to the airport felt like I was simply going into town and would return later that night to greet the sanctuary dogs and abundant starlight. Instead, I sat in the Ndola airport feeling displaced. Six weeks was long enough. I learned in Indonesia that your friendships back home don’t change: you do. The city remains the same: you do not. All part of the learning curve that comes with traveling. Those who do probably all experience this. Bottom line beneath the clichés: I was so happy there. The challenge now will be not allowing place to dictate self, even if it already has been significantly altered.

Don’t get me wrong: efficiency can be quite pleasant. Returning to the country via the Washington DC airport, I was taken aback as I encountered automated customs machines. You still had to have a human stamp your passport, but prior to meeting the immigrations officer without having slept, a till scans your documents and asks you questions about your travel activities. I was stunned at how slick the process now was. How well lit and clean the space. Everyone sounded like me and looked like me and this bothered me. I felt like I was on a film set. The process so polished. The people so similar. Commence reverse culture shock.

But then the world is small. The morning after I landed I managed to get myself to my local coffee shop in full zombie form: still wearing the t-shirt from the plane and a greasy head of hair concealed under my cap I found my way down the street breathing and walking but not quite awake. The woman in front of me couldn’t understand the cashier’s accent. They were both from other countries. I jumped in and asked her, “England, or Australia?” She looked at me. “South Africa, actually.” Feeling quite daft but blaming it on jetlag, I told her I’d just passed through there yesterday. She asked why, and I explained where I’d been. “I’ve been to the Copperbelt. I used to work in their mines”. I shit you not.

As I adjust to my former world of convenience and ease, I think about the looks on my students faces when they saw their writing in type written format for the first time. For one of their assignments, I asked them to tell me their future goals and dreams (utilizing certain verbs we’d be learning). Over a few days time, we edited their paragraphs and I typed them onto my computer, printing out copies for each individual to keep. They don’t know how to use a computer themselves, and were fascinated by my nine-year-old fossil of a MacBook. For them, going to the Internet café can be a four-hour journey and cost the same amount of money to feed their family for a day. Thus, when I handed them back their revised words on paper, neatly typed in black ink and Times New Roman font, they stared. I expected them to read their work, of course, but I caught them glancing over and over at them during class with something like awe.

Recalling moments like that fills me with gratitude and I have to thank those that allowed part one of this project to happen. Thank you to the School of the Art Institute for the Faculty Enrichment Grant. I’m honored to be a faculty member at your institution and I have loved working with such talented teachers these last eight years (and will do during the following four months). Thank you to the Pollination Project for your support, both financially and in the public relations/media departments. And finally, a deep thank you to the forty generous souls who donated via my online Gofundme campaign. Without you all, I’d not have been able to write these words or take the photos included in this post. Thank you high speed internet for allowing me to post so many photos in under two hours, and thank you to modern phones for having cameras in them since my little camera is no longer with us.

Before I end: the big question. Will I return? Most certainly yes. The bigger question is when. That depends on forces outside my control. Until then, I’ll return to the wonderful jobs I’m lucky to have here and the home I left behind. On weekends, I’ll be working my tail off to write grants so that I may become a full time teacher at Chimfunshi, if they’ll have me. I fell in love with the place and the people. I feel like I’m stepping into something huge.

Stay tuned, dear readers. I’ll be back.