Returning to Africa was nothing like I expected it to be. I stayed in New York for four weeks and it wasn’t until the ride to the airport that I began to wonder if I could just melt back into that world. As I watched families on vacation towing eight foot campers stacked with bicycles and other symbols of leisure, I seriously began to consider the possibility of blending in to this lifestyle…becoming oblivious again and enjoying selfish comforts with my family.
I sat in the parking lot of a rest area, contemplating this. I was trying to convince myself that it didn’t have to be way I was making it out to be. The sun glinted off the cars, creating a dazzling rainbow of metallic colors. I gazed at a couple picnicking under a tree and searched for a different perspective of the American life overflowing with material wealth and abundant luxuries. Almost. I could almost envision a life basking in the Florida sun (I know I am not ready for another New York winter…) watching my children run and play and grow carefree. Before I could be completely seduced by this idea however, I realized it would only be a matter of time before my mind would wander across the ocean in search of something more.
More what? That is the question that remains….but I felt resolute and determined in my return. I had a clear image of how it would transpire. So I was surprised when I landed at Charles de Gaulle (if you’ve been there, you wouldn’t be…) and felt annoyance creeping up. Certainly, I had been traveling all night with two children in the smallest of spaces. It’s not a situation apt to produce cheeriness in the best of us. But things started to get to me.
Things like the mass of people that formed when boarding was announced. No orderly line of consideration and patience here. No children and elderly boarding first. Just a massive lump of people all rushing and cramming forward oblivious of each other. I felt slightly better once aboard the plane. Although there was a definite situation there (someone was being restrained and crying out in fear and terror,) people were concerned and involved. Suddenly, a community.
Flights to Africa are not quite like flights to any other destination (although, admittedly, I haven’t been to a wide variety of places.) You can always tell when you’re on the last leg of the journey. Passengers remain in their seats long enough for the plane to get into the air. After that, it’s more like a cocktail party. People mill about the cabin, visiting each other and getting drinks. A crowd assembles in the back near the snack cart. It felt familiar, comforting even.
But when we arrived at Ndjili, the aggravation retuned. I found myself bothered by bad breath and incensed by the inconsiderate ‘line.’ Even worse, this time we were meant to board small buses that would ferry us across the tarmac to the customs agents. I was actually nostalgic for the rigid military line we marched in during our previous arrival. The air was cool and I missed the warm heat I had anticipated would envelop me. As I shivered in the night, I imagined one of the boys making it on the bus and waving at me through the window with his face pressed against the glass as we were separated.
The customs line was long and slow but actually queued. We made it through with nary a glance, even a welcome hello. I was glad to see the school’s protocol waiting for me because after 24 hours of travel, I was definitely not ready for the battle of bag retrieval and customs bargaining. He took care of everything while we waited outside.
It wasn’t until later that I began to notice other signs. Sometime mid-day, completely jet-lagged and disoriented, I stumbled up to the main office to snag a car and stock up on some groceries. The fact that I could navigate the unmarked boulevard downtown without crossing into oncoming traffic despite my state of half-sleep was a sure sign that Kinshasa had grown on me. I even managed haggling for vegetables at the market. I began work in my classroom the very next day with a calm and relaxed, perhaps even distant, approach.
Sometime around the sixth day, while accompanying a friend on another grocery trip, it finally hit me. We were in one of our favorite shops buying $13 bags of almonds, which we were going to share until finding out how ‘reasonable’ they were. That freed us up to split a $25 bag of walnuts. She passed the freezer and murmured….”Look, $10 ice cream.”
“Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?” I asked her as I gave the bag of walnuts a violent shake. She nodded her head and laughed as I realized we were seriously afflicted with second year syndrome.
Tired of doing without, we promised to buy all the crazy expensive luxury items we had foregone…cheese and nuts and heavy cream to make my own desserts with. I could even imagine myself splurging on the occasional $16 pint of strawberries. Well, almost. We kept small francs ready to give to hungry children as we rode with our windows down. It felt so liberating to free myself from the shackles and constraints of money. I know it will catch up with me…in fact it already has a bit. The strawberries are definitely out, but I might splurge on the almonds again. They take granola to a whole new level. I’ve practically forgotten about the eight foot campers and the parking lot full of flawlessly painted vehicles. I don’t need to be whisked off on a vacation that costs more than most Congolese earn in an entire year. I have almonds. And for some reason, that is satisfying to me. I am happy to be returned.
