Gwen: Delivery pizza.
Ellen: Margaritas.
Amanda: Norton (her dog).
I like having these conversations. I like reminiscing. I like nostalgia. But I had some problems participating in this particular spat of missing. Sure, I missed delivery pizza (especially from Pizza Shuttle via Lawrence, Kansas -- pepperoni and cream cheese), but oh, well. I could do without. Sure, I also missed margaritas (but mostly I missed Bloody Marys), but gin and Fanta could (and did) suffice. Sure, I missed my dogs, but I always miss my dogs.
Of course, I don't want to be insensitive. It's not as if I had completely disappeared and forgotten and erased my life that I had only left for a month after all. But it was difficult for me to determine which materials or lifestyle mechanisms I missed. I had found a new home. And suddenly I realized -- well, of course! -- I don't need those things anymore.
People. I missed people. I missed a whole bunch of the inspiring, stimulating, rambunctious crew members I call my best friends, boyfriend, family, pets (see above). I missed (and still miss) two of my lovely, adventurous babes, Alex and Emma, who also hopped on an overseas flight at the beginning of summer to search for self-actualization, for meaning, for sparks -- to feel lost and enlightened because after all, we must always search for more.
Emma started a blog, too, to capture her experience first in Morocco and now in Europe. (I highly, highly suggest checking out her introspective and entertaining blog.) Alex has hopped from Central America to Cuba and now to South America, where she is working on a farm and mastering Colombian hip-sways.
Because they are beautiful and brave, here they are in their international elements. First Emma, then Alex.
Now I'm having the conversation again, but with myself. It's a party favor, I suppose, included with The Existence of Reverse-Culture Shock, where I feel uncomfortable (more uncomfortable than usual) and over-stimulated in Wal-Mart, overwhelmed by paved roads, storefronts (especially frozen yogurt establishments) and crowds (which are dissimilar to why crowds exist and what crowds are in Rwanda). Granted, these sticky feelings are fading, and I'm able to once again interact with customers at work and people I bump into on the street.
Person: "Hey! How are you? How was Africa?"
Me: "Oh. It was amazing. It was amazing."
Person: "Yeah, I bet!"
Me: "It was...it was, wow. I just had so many experiences. It was...amazing. Yep."
.
A little bit of silence.
Me: [Apologetic. Why am I so awkward??] "I haven't figured out a way to explain it, yet."
Person: "I bet."
Now, I'm self-diagnosed. I'm in a reflective state of mind. And I miss a lot about Rwanda.
I miss Emmanuel.
I miss our conversations and the way I would constantly correct his English pronouns because the Kinyarwanda language does not distinguish gender. I miss how he would always refer to Emelienne as "he."
I miss the babies. I miss the way the children in Rwanda never seemed to cry or fuss or whine or complain. They were as much apart of the environment and discourse as their mother, or another woman, or a man, or another child. They were composed. They participated in daily activities and when they did not, they smoothly occupied themselves with their imaginations.
I miss brochette. I miss Fanta Citrone.
I miss 75 degrees, no humidity.
I miss the affection among friends and strangers, something I noted earlier in my blog, here. I miss maneuvering through streets and watching friends strolling with arms entangled, not sure if these two strangers were lovers or pals, then realizing that discernment didn't matter because when someone cares about someone else, that someone should be able to express him or herself through touch without sexuality being questioned.
I miss the lush, lush green.
I miss the clothes. I miss the unisex scuffed sandals, the elaborate skirts, the sports t-shirts, the vibrant head scarves.
I miss the women. I miss their integrity and their humility and their dedication to each other and the entire country. How can I explain it? To them it's like a "no-brainer" (to completely oversimplify). Emelienne, in fact, told me she had survived 1994 because she was meant to help restore the lives of those in pain. This is her belief. It is not necessarily religious. It is not necessarily spiritual. It is her human belief. I miss the women. They are true.
And, of course, this is just some musing, not a comprehensive list. I also miss the mayonnaise (although I brought some home and have about half a jar left) and the smell of the clay streets. I even miss being called muzungu (white person) and the stares. ("That is so rude," Emmanuel would say. "I don't like when people do that.")
So next time I encounter Person on the street, I am better prepared for a colorful and accurate answer to "How's Africa?" (First I will correct them, politely, of course: "I don't know about Africa in its entirety, but I can tell you about Rwanda.")
Well, let me tell you about Emmanuel, I'll say. And Fanta Citrone.
Yanna
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