The beginning of the post-African adventure

I made it through all the goodbyes in Africa and in a matter of six hours I went from living in the second most undeveloped city in the world to the number-one visited city in the world. I would say it feels like two separate worlds but it doesn't. Not really. People all over the world are more or less the same at their core. The culture shock will probably come later.

My general impression after one full day of seeing Paris is that it is really beautiful, busy, cold, and there's no end of the stuff to see! Oh yeah... and the internet is crazy fast! 

we're not in Africa anymore!

My Last Saturday in Central Africa

Sannu sannu! As-Salaam-Alaikum. Bala-o! Bonjour.

I heard all these greetings this morning. And I understood them all although it’s not difficult to pick up on greetings. Reading body language and paying attention to non-verbal communication is something you learn when you’re surrounded by people you can’t speak to.

Alima, me, and ananas seedlings

My first Saturday in Central Africa was spent in the rice fields at the Project Hope and Charité widow gardens. It was harvest time. I only knew a couple words in Sango then—greetings mainly. It seems fitting that my last Saturday was also spent in a rice field. This morning I went along with Wilfried to help one of his Fulani friends prepare his rice garden and to spend time with the women in the Fulani community near there. I have been to this community several times and have been building relationships with the women but I still only know a few words in the Fulfulde language—greetings. It proves a very humbling point that even after living in Central Africa for eight months my knowledge of the country is still miniscule.

So this morning I found myself back in a similar situation as I found myself in eight months ago: observing an African lifestyle I know very little about.

Here are a few pictures from my observings:

Ibrahim, his younger brother, and Wilfried working in the rice garden

washing dishes

doing laundry

I wasn't the only one doing observing

My first Saturday I spent harvesting rice that had been planted long before I arrived. I observed the Christian widows as they did what they do on Saturdays. Today I helped prepare a rice field that has yet to be planted and I observed Muslim women doing what they do on Saturdays. I am an observer and a learner taking part in only a small period of work. Many people have labored here before me and there is much work to be done after me. This is what I have learned from my first and last Saturdays of my internship in the Central African Republic.

nôrməl

I think I’ve forgotten what is supposed to be normal. Normal? You ask. Yeah, you know… normal. That adjective that means “usual, typical, or expected.” nôrməl. Those things you do and see that seem so natural you don’t think twice about them. After 7 ½ months of living in Africa I think my standards of normal have shifted. Maybe. But who am I to say what is "usual, typical, or expected."

When I say normal I mean this:

• Living at a mission station with a high fence around it and a guard at the gate.
• Sleeping under a mosquito net.
• Morning runs past the president’s palace, along the river where the sun is rising and over a crowded mountain trail full of goats and Africans headed to work.
• Greeting everyone with a handshake and the subsequent questions of how they slept and how they and their family are doing.
• Skirts. Everyday.
• Sweatshirts and winter coats when the temperature drops below 80 degrees Fahrenheit.
• Ants. Everywhere.
• Sifting flour before cooking to get the bugs out.
• Having fresh fruit and vegetables brought to the door every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
• Hairdos that stick out all over.
• Blaming upset stomachs on worms and parasites.
• Squishing seven people (sometimes more) into a taxicab to get home from work.
• Bartering.
• Mangoes that cost 5 cents each.
• Powdered milk in a can.
• House help that does all the cleaning, laundry, and dishes three times a week.
• No electricity between 5am and 9am, 3pm and 6pm, and sometimes between Wednesday and Friday… give or take a few hours.
• Generator noise.
• Soldiers standing around with machine guns slung over their shoulders.
• Getting stared at for being white and staring at other people for the same reason.
• Using filtered water from a bottle for teeth brushing.
• No air-conditioning or TV.
• Eating peanuts out of a whiskey bottle.
• Palm trees, a mango tree, and a flowering plumeria tree outside my bedroom window.
• Daily trips to the swimming pool at the US Ambassador’s house.
• Potholes. Little boys standing beside potholes holding shovels and tin cups begging for money. And more potholes.
• Words that begin with mb, ng, and nz.
• Missionary parties that you have to bring your own food to and leave before 9pm.
• Kids with ripped clothes and 17-year-old mothers with naked babies.
• Ditches full of green slime.
• Grapefruit soda in glass bottles.
• Belgian Google.
• Stories about pets accidentally getting killed for food and stories about annoying flights with extra long layovers at sketch hotels in Cameroon all because an African tried to catch a free ride in the wheel well of the plane and got crushed to death by retracting landing tires wrecking the chance of the plane's smooth landing.

This is Africa. This is my normal… at least for a dozen more days. I’m forgetting what United States normal is. Sometimes I go into my empty kitchen pantry and flip on the light to remind myself what used to be my normal. The light is the only light in my house that comes on the second you flip the switch. Sometimes I turn it on and off several times really fast for the pure novelty of it. It’s hard to believe that in a couple weeks I’ll be back in the land of instant light, clean kids, dogs with leashes, and boneless-skinless chickens with price tags on them. Normal? The more I think about it, the less I know what normal is. 

Soccer, Soldiers, and I Shook the hand of the President

Sunday. 5 June. A day for being proud to be a Central African.

Starting early in the morning I could hear vuvuzelas and see Central African flags parading down the street towards the crowded Barthélémy Boganda Stadium. Why? Sunday was the third round qualifying soccer match between the Central African Republic and Tanzania for the African Nations Cup. It was a pretty big deal because Central Africa has previously competed in this tournament, well… um… never.

Pre-game: Tanzania in white, CAR in blue

Central Africa, currently 113^th in the FIFA world rankings, pulled off a 2-1 win over Tanzania. They deserved it because they played well (even if it wasn’t all completely fair... not counting Tanzania's second goal was payback for getting unfairly beat by Tanzania in March I guess. Apparently playing on your home field with your own refs makes all the difference when it comes to winning matches between these two countries.)

Being at the game with thousands of Central African fans watching soccer was exciting enough but my serendipity of the day was sitting in the same row as President Bozize and getting to shake his hand. I can now check that off the list of things I need to do before heading home.

With high profile people attending the packed out game and recent unrest in Bangui, the military presence was anything but inconspicuous. The minute the final whistle blew, a crowd of camouflage-clad military men and women carrying big guns stormed onto the field.

Post game: Central African military lining the perimeter of the field

Victorious, proud, and well behaved. That’s how I’d describe Central Africa on the evening of June 5. I’m pretty sure that regardless of the various facial expressions (jubilant faces of fans, angry face of man getting shoved in a crowd, stern faces of soldiers, emotionless face of the president) every Central African in the Barthélémy Boganda Stadium was proud to be Central African.