As I worshiped at the Nkhoma Church this morning, it occurred to me that, barring some en route delay, the next time I worship in church, I will be back in my home church, Grace Christian Reformed Church in Chatham. This choked me up a bit – it hasn’t been all that long, and yet, this has been a lengthy experience. I was able to listen in on a few home services, using Skype, back when I was in Lilongwe. And it has been comforting to know that people in my church have been keeping me and my mission here, in their prayers.
Am I ready to come home? Yes – but as Friday approaches, the day I am to fly from Lilongwe, to Johannesburg, to Paris, to Detroit, I am becoming more pensive, and trying to hold onto as much as I can from here – to wring as much out of every experience as possible. I think that’s why I have been writing to much this weekend.
I am told that many travellers experience a form of culture shock when they return. Will that happen to me? How will it feel, returning from the land of want, to the land of abundance? I try to imagine it, memories of my home, my church, my workplace, and the family and friends who inhabit these physical spaces, as well as the spaces in my mind. What will they want to know about this trip? I’ve tried to bring people along with me, through this blog. But to experience Africa, you need to be here, because there’s a lot that I can’t capture without feeling like I’m exploiting the experience, acting more like a tourist and less like a volunteer – being a voyeur rather than a guest.
The sights, the sounds, the smells, the tranquility, the countless markets and roadside stalls, the people, sitting, lying on the hard ground, walking, biking, riding the roads, going about their daily business, women carrying infants and others, bearing heavy loads on their heads, and the women who do both! And some of the infants aren't so small, either! I'm sure I've seen three year olds being backpacked around!
The rolling hills, the blue skies, the goats, the chickens, the children, waving and calling out “Azungu! Azungu!"
How does one understand another country, another culture? Two months of experience and a bit of reading – I sure don’t understand it.
As I walked through the hospital grounds today, a small boy came up to me, looked plaintively at me, and said, “No father.”
What does he want from me? Money? Sympathy? I just looked at him and said, “Is your mother here?” We stared at each other, and I walked away. Even worse – the day before, as I walked home at lunch, I ended up behind another boy, slightly older, maybe 9 years old, who seemed to be struggling not to cry. I approached him from behind, and said a few words of comfort, patting him on the shoulder, wondering what was wrong. He didn’t seem to speak English. I felt helpless – how to help? Was he sick? Scared? Lost? Grieving? Ultimately, I walked away – assuring myself that there were plenty of adults around who could speak to him, find out what was wrong. And sure enough, I heard an older boy call to him.
But still, it bothers me that I, who have so much, can do so little.
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