Partir, c'est mourir un peu.

To leave is to die a little. That is what my friend, Allyson tells me. I think it is a saying in France. Leaving Africa, now 7 months ago, was very difficult. I almost didn't get on that plane. But I did. Now, I'm trying to return. People ask about first impressions, when returning to the States. After all, reverse culture shock does exist. And I did experience it. My impressions. Sprawling. Telephone lines everywhere. Unkempt clothing. A lack of simple living. An unchecked sense of need. Frigidly cold. (There is nothing like the shock of November temperatures on a body that had been basking in the equatorial sun the day before.)

I do realize these are sweeping generalizations, but they have some veracity. American culture tends to fight to mold life to fit their desires, even to the point of suing. We are an extremely litigious culture. Africans in most countries like Congo and Zim, just accept what comes to them. They barter for everything, negotiating for a scrap of bread. They have many children because they hope one or two will outlive them. Daily tasks in Africa can take two or three times as long (hence the maid), but you just enjoy them. It isn't helter skelter hither thither and yan. There is more of a sense of being in the moment and enjoying the beauty or pain of that moment. Americans often have this "what you see is what you get" attitude about themselves. Not so in Africa. They keep face. Things are never as they seem. That is not necessarily bad, when you are aware of it and strive to be sensitive to the fact that you may be mistaken in your perception...grossly mistaken.

Knowing this, I came to love the people in my daily life - the bank security guards who would watch me hop off my moto taxi and cross the street and welcomed me every morning, Ingace who welcomed me home every night, Shelagh, Sarah, Adelin, Susan, and the many others I would take my lunch with, etc.

The hardest goodbye was Chantal, our housekeeper. I had packed my bags the night before. I came home and I found this card on the foot of my bed. It was a hideous pink card, but when I opened it it was inscribed with the signatures of all of Chantal's children and a little note from Chantal...as well as one of her own necklaces. My eyes still well up with tears at the thought of it. She gave me one of her own necklaces - one that I probably said looked so very pretty on her. I love that hideous card, the tacky earrings and the pretty little necklace so much. It is a picture of the warmth in the heart of woman who, over those months became so dear to me, who gave generously from the little she had.