 Dusty:Starlight:Culture
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it must be the exciting border crossings
2005-04-15 10:56 a.m. Once, at work, or more accurately, while we were at lunch, we played a game that involved listing things your co-workers liked. I suppose it was one of those motivational, how-well-do-you-know-x games. We didn't take it too seriously, though - when I got my profile back, everything ended with "Africa". ha ha. "What is your partner's favorite book?" ...and so on. My colleagues thought this was hilarious, but no more hilarious than some of the others that were equally as silly (at least mine didn’t revolve around Star Trek or WWII), so I wasn’t too embarrassed or annoyed at the exaggeration. Besides, since I love self-deprecating humor in people, I feel I should aspire to take jabs at myself every now and then. Is that not the mark of a truly confident person, anyway? And isn't that what we'd all like to be? I found this list the other day when I was giving my office a much-needed cleaning, and it made me think about why we love the things we love. It's true, I'm pre-occupied with and fascinated by Africa. Though I'm not too sure about the African food part - I ate kudu steak, warthog stew, banku, fou-fou, various kinds of spiny fish and big doughy balls of pounded cassava because I had to, not because I liked it (though Moroccan food is yummmmy) - I have to admit that I am drawn to other cultural aspects of various African regions, and I have no idea why. Figuring out where the travel/curiosity- about-other-places part came from is easy: My dad's family, as well as my dad himself, traveled a lot in their younger years. Some still do: his cousin emailed last week that he had just been in Guatemala for some time. As a child, I loved the little nesting dolls my Aunt brought me back from her trip to Russia, and I loved the little tin boxes my cousin brought me from England. I remember my mom telling me "your cousin brought this back from Japan, you know", when she was taking Christmas ornaments out of a storage box, one by one. All of these gifts from far away places held sacred positions in my room, reserved for the top shelves and protected against curious hands by me. I grew up around all different kinds of music, all different kinds of people, all different kinds of books. Summers, we'd never sit still; as a family we traveled all over the country and I think it's kind of funny that I can say I've been in North Dakota, Tennessee, and Kansas. But why Africa? No one that I knew had been there before I decided to make the continent such a hobby. Did I see something on Sesame Street? Did an elementary school teacher go and show us pictures? Was I a Nago farmer in a former life? Really, why? I have passing notions, brief glimpses of ideas. It's the open space. Growing up in Northern NJ in the early 80's, I observed a sad trend: any inch of open space was very quickly mowed down and paved over to make way for a strip mall, condo development, or McMansion. Africa is the antithesis: sprawling urban crawl is contained within city centers, and on the outskirts lay miles and miles and miles of open space, where one wouldn't dare compete with the elements. Or, sometimes I think it's the integrity that I observe cross-culturally in Africa - the willingness to help, the lack of arrogance, the rampant humility, the absence of entitlement that I wish was as prevalent in this country. Steve told me once he thinks it's my need to be challenged - Africa is nothing if it's not rough terrain and tough going at times; a little fear of disease, a little fear of sudden civil strife, a lot of sleeping on the ground and cold-water bucket showers (and having to eat kudu for a couple of nights in a row). Or maybe it is that past life after all. Sometimes I think about all my different experiences in Africa, I mean really think about it - and wonder why on earth I want to keep returning. When I first set eyes on Accra, which was the first sub-Saharan African city I visited, I couldn't believe how ramshackle it was. I couldn't believe where I had to go to the bathroom. I couldn't believe where I had to sleep. I couldn't believe that the sewer system was a series of cement indentations in the ground. I couldn't believe what I was expected to hop into for transportation. I couldn't believe how big people's smiles were. I couldn't understand why people were so nice, and couldn't forgive myself for assuming so quickly that we were being robbed the night three men insisted on helping us find a hotel when we were ready to sleep on benches. I couldn't believe how kind businessmen were to beggars in the street. I couldn't believe what clever scam artists the kids selling beaded jewelry were. I couldn't get over my fear of mosquitoes or the deadly strain of drug-resistant malaria that had been circulating West Africa that summer. And I couldn't, for the life of me, understand why I loved every minute of it, why I cried when we had to leave, why I had fantasies about bringing my young children to Ghana someday. "You must be big animal lovers", someone said when we announced our plans to go to South Africa. I'm sure I nodded, but that's not particularly true. I love animals, but not the way Jane Goodall does. I think unnecessarily cruel treatment of animals is atrocious, but I'm a big ol meat eater. I think fur is gross, but I most certainly love my red leather coat. It would be easier if we were nutty animal lovers, and donated all our charity money to the World Wildlife Fund or something instead of to NARAL and PFLAG. That would at least be an easier explanation for why I keep returning in my head and then eventually physically to Africa. It was amazing, thrilling, to see elephants, giraffes, lions, zebras, and cheetah cubs just feet from us. I wish I could say that was the motivating factor for our trip last year, but it wasn't. Sometimes I felt just as amazed to be in dusty Maun or Mkgadikgadi, in Botswana, on the side of the road having lunch and watching people talk, pump gas, or sell fruit. My brother says I watched Indiana Jones movies too many times when I was young. He also says he realizes now that it wasn't because I wanted Indiana Jones, but rather that I wanted to be Indiana Jones. And why not? When I grew up, Barbie wasn't going on Safari adventures yet; in fact, she was just barely "Dr. Barbie". I think the year they made the Barbie with the white lab coat and mini stethoscope I was too old to want one anyway. It was boys and men who had adventures; it was women who were the pretty sidekicks. I should consider myself lucky that I saw real women in my very real family doing real things for themselves and handling really tough, challenging situations really well, not too worried about being the pretty sidekick. "Why not me too?", I guess I wondered eventually. Somehow, I suppose that landed me in Africa for the first time at 21, annoyed as I was fascinated at Morocco and it’s overtly curious people. Well this year it's Peru - and I have some serious planning to do. xo
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