A little over two years ago, I was enjoying what I knew to be my last Colorado spring until at least 2009. I loved being asked the redundant question, "So what are your plans for Summer?" for I could respond with a boastful nonchalance, "Me? Oh, I'm just moving to Africa..." I loved the myriad responses that would come my way, ranging from ingenuous envy to jubilant support to looks of confusion or even concern. In the days and weeks leading up to my departure, I couldn't help but wonder if this or that would be my last this or that for the next two years. My last hike in the mountains. My last taste of Mexican food. My last encounter with a self-checkout machine. I tried, desperately, to take in my surroundings. I found myself appreciating carpet and cross-walks, things I was certain I'd be without for the two years to come. June 3rd 2006 was the big day in which I said goodbye to my family, my friends, and to Colorado. Goodbye to a culture that is decidedly familiar. A transition from a life in the United States to two years in Africa.
As my time passed, I started to lose sight of the big picture, the two years aspect. At some point, the strangeness that seems to encapsulate Burkina Faso became normal. The foreign is only strange to the foreigner. As the months carried on, I became less and less a foreigner and―who would've thunk it―things got easier. But no amount of time spent in this country will make me fully understand what it is like to be African. Even if I was here definitively, I would always be a stranger to a certain degree. Knowing that my time here has a beginning and an end makes me all the more a stranger.
So here I sit, weeks before I am to hop back onto a plane, and I have commissioned myself to write a genuine, almost all-encompassing piece that can shed some light into the thought processes of someone that is about to return home after two years away. But up until now, I have been unable to do so. I would sit before a blank screen for hours. I would write a paragraph or two before deleting all, frustrated and unsatisfied with all that I have written. I want frankness. I want so badly to throw a net over all my past experiences, compartmentalize my anecdotes, my misadventures, my ideas about development, culture, Africa (all of which are in constant flux), and present my findings in an accessible, meaningful fashion. But I can't bring myself to write the piece I want everyone to read. I want everyone to read and understand what it is like here. Maybe then, I tell myself, people will begin to understand some of what I have experienced. Maybe then my return home will be a little bit easier.
Which is more difficult: Leaving home for two years or returning home after two years? Moving to a strange land where seemingly all ways of life are different or returning home, only to find that you are a stranger in a familiar place? Our culture and common understanding are spun from common experiences. Will the 23 years of life that I racked up before journeying to Burkina Faso be a sufficient counter-balance to the rather intense two years spent away from home? I haven't the slightest clue. But much like I was anxious to dive head first into Africa, I am very ready to reacquaint myself with America. Much as I knew Africa would test my open-mindedness, patience, and immune system, returning home will be a uniquely challenging experience.
I do not look forward to the re-entry shock I am certain to endure, but one thing is certain: It was, is, and will be worth it. I don't miss Burkina Faso yet, but I know that I will. And I know I'll be back here again someday.
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