The luxury of leaving
I left Africa for five days last week and checked into the Novotel. My mom, who never ceases to surprise and impress me, decided to come to Benin for the sole purpose of seeing me. I was certainly excited at the prospect, yet I was also apprehensive. What would my mom think of this place, of my living conditions, of the moto-scooter we bought back in June, of my personal hygiene? Did I smell and did I fail to notice anymore? Clearly, I needed to prepare for her arrival.
I informed my landlord ahead of time to make sure he payed the electricity bill enough to keep power on during her stay. I swept and mopped the entire apartment. I hand-washed the sheets in hopes of getting rid of that oppressive smell of humidity that hovers above my bed and seems to have impregnated every item of textile in my room. I stocked up the fridge with multi-grain bread, low-fat butter, and instant decaf coffee to make the place feel slightly more like home, at least in the mornings. I did it all... all that was in my control, that is. But running water, it appears, is not at all in my control. I was not too worried when the water went off the afternoon of my mom's arrival - the government tends to do that in the middle of the day (clearly when no one needs water) and turns it back on by 8pm. But the water had not come back by the time we went to sleep that night and woke up the next morning. We waited for the 24-hour mark, and when that inevitably hit, we suddenly thought a short hotel stay entirely justifiable. We packed and we left.
And I had my first hot shower in over eight months. And all the CNN I could ever ask for. And sheets that felt and smelled clean. And no mosquito net. And no mosquitos. And silence... precious precious silence at night. We had a view of the ocean from our hotel window. I could stand there and watch from a distance families, friends, lovers, heading to the beach. I wasn't the immersed field-researcher living with and among the people anymore. I was the removed scholar watching them from my third floor window (My advisor would not be proud). I could even take my very own computer down to the lobby and instantly access the internet: no cyber cafe, no USB sticks, (almost) no sporadic internet connection, no sudden power outages. It all seemed so luxurious and yet so normal at the same time: that's what my life usually looks like after all. It hasn't been like that at all over the past eight months, but it's been like that otherwise and it will be like that when I return (except maybe for the CNN part). It was so easy to forget what that felt like and so easy to fall back into it as well.
As much as it pains me to admit it, maybe the kids here are right to scream out "Yovo!" every time they see me; hard as I try to blend in, I don't. I sweat more than everybody else, my skin turns white to red to brown to red again, my hair dances uncontrollably in the wind and, at the end of the day, I can always just leave this place.
I took my mom around on the little moto-scooter. We played tourist for a few days, visiting old European slave trade forts and cities on water, zooming through the open market without really stopping, buying over-priced gifts even after negotiating down to half the original offer... and at night we retreated into the Novotel, enjoyed decent wine and stimulating conversations, and I pretended I wasn't in Africa anymore.
My mom left too soon and I went back to my cold showers, my mosquito net, and that smell... but the transition back wasn't as difficult as I feared after all. That Novotel escapade must have been revitalizing in many ways. Or maybe we are a lot more adaptable than we think...
... which is fortunate if true because I am taking my backpack and that little moto-scooter on Monday morning and I am heading North. One local and trustworthy chaperon, two bottles of sunscreen, one pair of kick-ass H&M sunglasses, one helmet (yes yes, I am wearing a helmet), two Bradt guides, one pair of rain pants, one bottle of Cipro, one big backpack, one week, one thousand kilometers.
Seriously, how else was I going to get myself up to Niger?
I informed my landlord ahead of time to make sure he payed the electricity bill enough to keep power on during her stay. I swept and mopped the entire apartment. I hand-washed the sheets in hopes of getting rid of that oppressive smell of humidity that hovers above my bed and seems to have impregnated every item of textile in my room. I stocked up the fridge with multi-grain bread, low-fat butter, and instant decaf coffee to make the place feel slightly more like home, at least in the mornings. I did it all... all that was in my control, that is. But running water, it appears, is not at all in my control. I was not too worried when the water went off the afternoon of my mom's arrival - the government tends to do that in the middle of the day (clearly when no one needs water) and turns it back on by 8pm. But the water had not come back by the time we went to sleep that night and woke up the next morning. We waited for the 24-hour mark, and when that inevitably hit, we suddenly thought a short hotel stay entirely justifiable. We packed and we left.
And I had my first hot shower in over eight months. And all the CNN I could ever ask for. And sheets that felt and smelled clean. And no mosquito net. And no mosquitos. And silence... precious precious silence at night. We had a view of the ocean from our hotel window. I could stand there and watch from a distance families, friends, lovers, heading to the beach. I wasn't the immersed field-researcher living with and among the people anymore. I was the removed scholar watching them from my third floor window (My advisor would not be proud). I could even take my very own computer down to the lobby and instantly access the internet: no cyber cafe, no USB sticks, (almost) no sporadic internet connection, no sudden power outages. It all seemed so luxurious and yet so normal at the same time: that's what my life usually looks like after all. It hasn't been like that at all over the past eight months, but it's been like that otherwise and it will be like that when I return (except maybe for the CNN part). It was so easy to forget what that felt like and so easy to fall back into it as well.
As much as it pains me to admit it, maybe the kids here are right to scream out "Yovo!" every time they see me; hard as I try to blend in, I don't. I sweat more than everybody else, my skin turns white to red to brown to red again, my hair dances uncontrollably in the wind and, at the end of the day, I can always just leave this place.
I took my mom around on the little moto-scooter. We played tourist for a few days, visiting old European slave trade forts and cities on water, zooming through the open market without really stopping, buying over-priced gifts even after negotiating down to half the original offer... and at night we retreated into the Novotel, enjoyed decent wine and stimulating conversations, and I pretended I wasn't in Africa anymore.
My mom left too soon and I went back to my cold showers, my mosquito net, and that smell... but the transition back wasn't as difficult as I feared after all. That Novotel escapade must have been revitalizing in many ways. Or maybe we are a lot more adaptable than we think...
... which is fortunate if true because I am taking my backpack and that little moto-scooter on Monday morning and I am heading North. One local and trustworthy chaperon, two bottles of sunscreen, one pair of kick-ass H&M sunglasses, one helmet (yes yes, I am wearing a helmet), two Bradt guides, one pair of rain pants, one bottle of Cipro, one big backpack, one week, one thousand kilometers.
Seriously, how else was I going to get myself up to Niger?
posted by cla at 10:30 AM
3 Comments:
ahem. my helmet had better also make it to niger. mahalo!
Wah. She's SO demanding. ;)
Seriously, I hope that you have a great ride.
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