This past week found me in Siavonga, where all of the cell-phone induced headaches were forgiven with a glance out the window, slipping onto the deck to drink in the vista.
The poinsetta trees and unexpected zebras also helped.
After work, I sat on the balcony by the pool, enjoying the weather-induced goosebumps (it is fall here, after all) and casually watched kapenta boats float out for nighttime fishing.
The majority of my time was spent tinkering with smartphones that community health workers (CHWs) will take into the field (the purpose of the training, by-the-by, was preparing CHWs to do mass screen & treat campaigns for malaria). A good portion of my free time, however, was taken up by a blog post that had popped up on my facebook feed. The question posed is a short, simple one. It fit easily in my mouth, was comfortable being rolled around and chewed like gum. The question is thus: Am I an island? This is the kind of question that lurks under the surface, hazy ripples hidden in the weeds. It's easily camoflaged, neglected until an outside source points it out.
I've spent the last 8 days or so ruminating on this post. The question has inserted itself - rather emphaticallly - into my life, and I can't seem to kick it. Let me assure you (honestly assuring myself...) that I don't think I am an island; more-so, I'm struck by the ease of detachment.
The weekend before last, I was talking to a friend about his recent sojourn into the bush. Among other things, he spoke of looking forward to spending time with the local people there, really bonding and establishing connections. His excitement reverberated within me at the thought of immersing oneself in a community, remembering weaving together friendships in Feremuna, the way it felt when I realized Djelikat and Drissa were no longer strangers or babysitters, but family.
In the time that I was really working at a grassroots level, working with small, arguably insignificant groups (I would strongly argue that any group is significant, but that's for another day), I was so very, inextricably connected. There were long nights sitting around a fire, sipping tea, and drawn out afternoons shucking corn, beating millet, sweeping rice. These activities on their own are mundane, but they were done together, surrounded by laughter of friends and family. I think that was part of what I fell in love with out here -- in America, we're so self-focused, so independent so detached. In Africa (yep, sweeping generalization), I've found collectivist societies, lived and breathed what it means to negotiate privacy and personal space in order to embrace the undercurrent of being a part of something. Not that I'm good at letting go of privacy.
As I move forwards and upwards (hesitant use of the word), focus on a bigger picture, it becomes that much easier to detach. I am thrilled at my prospects, my heart beats with nervous anticipation at thoughts of the new future, of my own forward projection. But without a family, a village I claim roots to, it's simple to disconnect, to leave market interactions on an impersonal level, beg off social visits. It's been a relief, in some ways, to step back like this. But I was so easily reminded that by pushing myself into those situations, I learned so much more. Experiences were more vibrant, saturated with emotion.
Some time ago now, I wrote of asking the simple question "Can I come?" (3rd post in, if you're interested) more often, of finding myself remorseful that I didn't ask it more. At the time, I swore to myself to be more open to... well, everything. Really experience it. Something I failed to recognize - ignored, truly - is that this requires conscious attention and effort. So here's my recommitment to that attention, 'case I know putting in the energy will be more than worthwhile.
Unrelated, I loved this post being part of the Marine Corps and the Peace Corps.
Peace & Love
Elyse
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