Getting Here, Pt. 1

I'm in Africa now.  Or on the African continent, specifically in Nigeria.  It seems like it took forever to get here, a constant waiting game.  Waiting to be accepted into the IFESH volunteer program.  Waiting to tell others.   Waiting for my VISA.  Waiting for my final destination.  During this waiting period life went on.  I took a leave of absence from work, sublet my apartment, found a temporary, loving home for my birdie, fell in love, and experienced the trials and tribulations that happen as one tries to maintain balance in separating from one way of life and opening up and embracing another.

Part of my waiting involved three weeks sharing a teeny, tiny room with my brother, his huge TV and the contents of bags of luggage at my parents’ house.  While extremely grateful for having a rent-free place to live, the three weeks offered an uninvited flashback to adolescence.  Mother daughter competition.  Being in trouble.  Blame in the interrogative form.  “Amy,  what happened to ______________?” or “Why did you ____________________?” or “Who ate ______________________?” or “Where’s the/my ______________________?”  All minus the grounding AND the lectures  (save for one…and it was a little well-deserved).  After about two weeks, things sorted themselves out and we parted ways in a cum-ba-ya sort of way.

I didn’t realize how much this journey scares some people.  The response I get when I tell people what I’m doing can be boiled down to disgust, curiosity, enthusiasm, fear, support.  Some people view being sent to Nigeria as indentured service in Hell, while others can’t be excited enough for you and wish they were doing it themselves. My parents fall into the category of fear, mostly.  They fear I’m going to turn into a Muslim  (God forbid!), be kidnapped, killed, or persecuted in someway.  While some fears are understandable, all can be devastatingly consuming.  This is not to say that I don’t have fear. Today, while waiting for my connecting flight to Kano I became very anxious.  "What am I doing?" "What am I thinking?"  I had these same thoughts on the flight to S. Korea years ago when I last ventured abroad for work.  "What am I doing going to a place that I know nothing about?"  "How am I going to get around?"  "I am alone."  Those thoughts caused me to whip out my Fodor’s guide and learn as much as I can.  That probably lasted about an hour.  This time around I don’t have a Fodor’s guide…yet I do have the support of those around me to guide me.  I’m counting on their help of others and my sharp wit and wily ways to make a memorable, growing life experience.