Foreign Lands and Lovers – Bringing It All Back Home

Schipol Airport, Amsterdam, December 24, 2006

On my final night in Dar, I linked up with Jessica, a Canadian girl I had met in Kendwa on Zanzibar. She was visiting some family friends for the holidays and I was on my way out, and since neither of us knew anyone or anything about Dar, we decided it would be better to explore it the company of a new friendship. So, on Saturday night she cruised by my hotel in a taxi and we headed out around ten to the “Q-Bar,” a bar that was recommended to us by her local friends.

The Q-Bar was a partly open-roofed bar not too far from the beach and consisted of a mix of Tanzanians and expatriates who were prostitutes, hustlers, businessmen, travelers, aid volunteers, students, and dancing Masai tribesmen. There were two bars in the confines of the premises, one outside and the other under an enclosed roof, and the walls were decorated with the jerseys of various African and European soccer clubs. On the four or five televisions sets around the place, soccer or cricket matches added to the background ambience. It was a festive evening and the patrons seemed happy to be out and about drinking, dancing, listening to live music, and playing pool.

Jessica and I had dinner and started drinking Konyagi and bitter lemon (Konyagi being the drink of Tanzania) and almost immediately started talking about the loss of our Fathers, which was the topic that had originally drawn us together as friends while swimming in the Indian Ocean. It was not too long however before we became distracted from the heavy topic by the great band that was playing, a band consisting of 10-12 musicians rotating in and out. The band played a lively mix of reggae, traditional African songs, and also covered various other African artists such as Oliver Mtukudzi, while mixing it up with covers of Tina Turner, UB40, and Bob Marley. Bob Marley always seems to bring out the best in people. I think almost everyone in the place at one point was singing, “Singin’ don’t worry, about a thing…cause every little thing gonna be all right!” During this song I was looking around the bar and noticed a sad, lonely Charlie Brown-lookin’ Christmas tree in the corner. I had been traveling for a few weeks and avoided mostly large cities so for the majority of the time I was completely oblivious to the fact that we were in the grips of the holiday season. It was in that moment the reality hit me that I would be heading to New Jersey the following day by way of Amsterdam, and that only a few days after that I would be heading back to Seattle into a life of uncertainty.

For the second or third time of the trip I made it out to the dance floor. I was a bit stiff and self-conscious with all the people groovin’ around me, but then I remembered dancing is about letting it all out and not giving a fuck, providing you aren’t a total wreck and embarrassment to yourself and your family like Elaine in that episode of Seinfeld. While on the dance floor I ran into one of the people from the birthday party on my first night in Dar three weeks prior. I stared at him for a while trying to place him and then it finally hit me. He recognized me after I introduced myself and we chatted for a while about what a great and unexpected night his birthday was, and what a kind, joyous group of international people were present. It was startling to be in the middle of an African city on a dance floor and run into someone you know but things like that always seem to happen when you are traveling. For some strange reason there are certain people you run into time and time again.

Towards the end of the night, Jessica and I waited outside for our driver as the band played Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry” and we watched the pimps and purveyors of prostitutes work deals while “John’s” heckled over the value of these poor women’s bodies. Everything is negotiable in Africa. We watched one poor fellow actually get rejected by a prostitute and sent home in a taxi. When you can’t even land a prostitute, it might be time to throw in the towel, or pick it up; it was as sad as it was comical. We watched another Frenchman in his superior French accent yell at a prostitute, “Shut up you fucking bitch! Shut up you fucking whore! Get out of my face!” Prostitute, prince, or pauper, I am always amazed at the audacity and superiority some people exercise over other human beings. I usually find those people who are trying to assert their superiority over someone else to be shallow, insecure, arrogant pieces of shit. Do I have an opinion? I always watch how people treat others in the service industry, whether someone is talking to a waiter or a prostitute. I find it is generally a pretty good way to judge character.

On the way home that night, I heard a song in the taxi that took me out of Africa and so clearly into the previous summer. Music truly is the soundtrack of your life and has a mystical way of transporting you to different places in your life. It was so real I could see and taste it. Fueled by Konyagi, I was compelled and determined to reach out to this person. As was typical in Africa however, the Internet at 2:30am, much to my chagrin and typical of my experience while traveling, did not want to cooperate with me and so I went up to my cool, air-conditioned room and passed out drunk and disappointed.

I woke up the next morning in a state of disbelief that I was finally living my last day of this African experience. I had breakfast and then slowly packed my bag while watching something nameless on the Discovery Channel. I sat on the edge of my bed, looking out my large hotel window across Bibi Titi Mohamed Road at the greens of the Mnazi Mmoja Grounds. While peering out through a steady, warm December rain in Africa, I tried to wrap some words around a sad melody I was picking at on my guitar, words that would somehow sum up how I was feeling about not only leaving but going home, but to no avail. After all of the great experiences I had encountered and all of the incredible and inspiring people I had met, a day that seemed so far off in the future when I had arrived at the orphanage and was consumed by the arms and legs of children was finally upon me.

The plan that day was for me to take a taxi to Jessica’s friend’s house because we were going to go shopping for a few final items. Checkout was at noon and I was waiting all morning for her to call because on top of having someone to do something with for the day, I needed a place to stash my bags since my flight wasn’t until 11:00pm that evening. As the clock approached noon I started to think about devising another plan figuring she was blowing me off for some reason, but alas she called at 11:50am. I took a taxi to her friend’s place across town, which took almost an hour because of a lack of power for the traffic lights, and finally arrived around 1:30pm.

Down a cratered and almost impassable road, a huge metal fence surrounded the house like most of the others in this part of town, with a guard at the gates to let cars into the driveway. The house was palatial by African standards and it was evident that these people were not in need.

Paul’s story was that he had earned an MBA and was working for a multi-national cigarette company and his wife had the luxury of spending her time doing volunteer work. Born in Swaziland, Paul’s father was a high-ranking government official but they were forced to flee at one point and landed in Tanzania where Paul was fortunate enough and wealthy enough to receive a private education. We talked a lot about art, culture, and life in Tanzania, and he seemed grateful for the fact that he could be afforded the luxury to think about these things, because he was very well aware that the majority of Tanzanians are focused on the basics of survival; procuring food, clothing, and shelter on a daily basis. He had several Tanzanians working for him, which he said he didn’t need but these people had families who needed to be supported. It seems to me that Africans are much more aware of the needs of others around them than we are in the United States, and that they make an effort to take care of their own people. Family is a loosely defined institution in Africa. It is much more inclusive and does not stop at bloodlines.

Jessica and I went shopping that day because I was on a quest to find my seven-year-old niece a “real African doll made by a real African woman.” I found the doll at the Shop-Rite shopping center where I had been a few weeks prior, the same doll that I tried to bargain for in Stone Town when a large rat crawled across the floor and died right in front of me. Yet again we ran into the man from the night before. He was quite the gregarious fellow but the intent of his communications was masked beneath a thick Portuguese accent so I simply and continuously agreed with him. We went home around five and I took a nap as Jessica helped Paul and his wife with dinner. I was packed and ready to leave Africa, waiting for my driver to pick me up at 9:15pm.

Much to my surprise, my driver picked me up at exactly 9:15pm. This was surprising, as punctuality does not seem to be the national pastime of Africa. I said goodbye to Jessica and Paul and his wife, thanked them for their generous hospitality, and headed out from the wealthy Micockeni section of Dar es Salaam to the airport. It was a typically warm, humid December night in Dar. The streets were crowded with people walking in every direction, pushing carts, selling trinkets, wood carvings, t-shirts, and crap you would only buy as a tourist in a foreign land. All around us people were driving their cars as if there were no traffic rules, driving with no rhyme or reason, my driver included. He laid his thumbs on the horn and his foot on the gas passing other cars on blind turns, running red lights, and ripping through potholes as a boat passes through wakes.

I sat in the drivers seat in somewhat of a comatose as images from the entire trip passed through my mind. I couldn’t help but feel a familiar sadness and loss, and the closer we got to the airport the more emotion welled up within me. I felt as if I was breaking up with someone I was still in love with, moving on for no other reason than the fact that our visions of the future didn’t quite line up at the present moment, or maybe we both had more growing to do before we became one. Or maybe we were simply too young and inexpereinced to realize the rarity and transformative power of a connection. I always find as you walk away from these situations, every wonderful moment of the relationship plays out in your mind as well as the dreams you might have had of the future – and you think to yourself; am I doing the right thing, walking away from this incredible experience? But it is all you know to do at that moment because life is calling you onwards. Deep down, however, you hope to see that person or country again and hope that if it is the will of the ages, time will find you again in each other’s comfortable and familiar embrace.

My driver dropped me off at Dar es Salaam International Airport around 10pm and I checked my bags, got my passport exit-stamped, and watched a Chelsea soccer game in the waiting lounge. Waiting for my plane, I recognized a 40-50 year old gray haired businessman who had been propositioning a prostitute the night before at the “Q-Bar”. I laughed at the fact that I knew a secret he didn’t know I knew, but quickly became dismayed as I wondered if he was going home to his wife and family for the holidays. I can’t remember necessarily thinking about anything else in particular. There was too much swirling in my mind. I took an Ambien, boarded the plane, found a middle row of empty seats, and woke up eight hours later in Amsterdam.

Now I am sitting in the Schiphol Airport at the same computer terminal that I sat at over 55 days ago. Nothing has changed around me except for the faces and Christmas lights, but inside me my internal world of thoughts, feelings, perceptions, and emotions has expounded exponentially, as well as my engagement to the world. The great challenge ahead of me now is how to incorporate this experience into my life; how can I take this experience and move forward without falling into the same humdrum existence I lead before I left for Africa? Do I have to? Will I be a failure if I don’t? With what I have seen, heard, tasted, smelled and learned, do I now have a social responsibility to bring these experiences into the world? I suppose this is where the magical seed of faith comes in; I must have faith that what I am searching for in the world is already out there searching for me. The challenge of faith, however, is that faith is not easy and faith is not passive.

As I sit here, I think of all the people who briefly came in and out of my life on this trip and how each one had their own profound, and sometimes momentary, effect on who I am and who I will become. I think first of Sodom, “as in the Bible,” he said, the man I met on the plane who was going to Ghana for the first time in eight years to attend his Father’s funeral. I wonder how he is getting on with his healing process and in turn I wonder if I will ever get over my own Father’s passing. I think of John Mushi who sent a car for me the first night in Africa and I wonder how his entrepreneurial undertakings are panning out or if he is angry that I never called him when I passed through Arusha the second time.

I think of my seventeen-year-old friend Sylvester at the orphanage and wonder if the world of ideas he so desperately craves will one day be his. I wonder if he will one day be the pilot he dreams to be and if that experience of roaming the world and sharing ideas will be as fulfilling as he imagines it to be. I think of Edward who was my house-assistant and translator and I wonder if he will become a hell, fire, and brimstone preacher, a path we volunteers joked that he was heading down. I think about Freddie, my new friend and Safari driver, and I wonder if he will be able to get a car to start his own Safari business and if he will be able to somehow find the money to go back to school to learn more about the environment and improve his English.

I think about Dr. Frank and his wife Susan and what amazing, dedicated, self-actualized, and contagiously inspiring people they are and I think about the profound effect they will have on the health of Karatu and the surrounding villages. In my sleep I will dream of what will become of the hospital he is fundraising to build.

I think about India who started the orphanage, how she was once a drifter such as myself, and how at 40 she decided to create, and continues to develop, an amazing community that ripples out to affect everything and everyone around it; it is a healthy and thriving community where once there was none. I wonder if she realizes how rich her life is to have created and be surrounded by so much love.

I think about Evalina at the orphanage and I think about how it seems her young soul has already been so deeply wounded that she has forgotten how to smile. Youth is supposed to be a time of innocence and happiness and it pained me to see such a young child so drenched in sadness. I think of two of my favorite kids at the orphanage, Boas and Mole, both roughly five-years-old. I think about how Boas’s smile touched something deep in my soul and how he taught me about acceptance and love, and I think about how every chance he got he would wrap his entire body around my neck and jump into my arms. I think about how every morning at breakfast Mole would come up to me, put his arms on his hips, smile a great toothless smile and without letting me get a word in say, “Good morning! How are you? I am fine.” And I smile when I think about him saying, “I love white women and white women love me.” We had so much in common, the boy and I, and yet I am not as discriminating as him. He is still young. He will learn.

I think about all the kids at the orphanage and wonder how or if they will remember me and if I did the best I could to make a positive impact on their lives. I think of the kids, present and future, and wonder if they will be capable of recognizing what in incredible opportunity they have in front of them to get an education and change the course of their lives, villages, country, and the world.

I think of one man in particular on Zanzibar who was from Darfur but had been displaced because of the genocide. I can see his face and his eyes and the deep sadness and pain that his soul has experienced in this life, and I think about how I wished I had given him more than just a few t-shillings. All he wanted was to buy fishhooks so he could eat. I think about how that brief interaction broke my heart wide open and how I couldn’t get him out of my mind for several days.

I think of the long golden days of white sands, crystal clear waters, Safari beers, and the infinite shades of color the burning sunsets of Zanzibar would cast on the sea and land, and I think how although I am usually busy and anxious, I was able to completely unwind enough to do nothing but sit in a hammock on a beach for five days straight. I think of all the people who I met while I was there, how most of them were on the tail-end of a volunteering experience, and I wonder how they will incorporate their experiences into their lives. I think of Ricardo and wonder if he will ever get over his cynicism, and I think of my two new Dutch girlfriends and wonder when and if our lives will intersect again.

I think of all the people drifting here and there in the world, trying to find their way and leave their own indelible mark on the face of the earth as we dance across this great stage for a mere 15-minutes. I think of Shakespeare’s quote; “Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” – and I think how much I disagree with that quote because Shakespeare left love out of the equation – because love does mean something – and maybe love is the only thing that means anything and has any real, lasting value in this brief life; a life that is but a blink in the eye of eternity.

I think of how being out in the world, exposed to different people, customs, and cultures reinforces my opinion that people are generally good and kind, and that a spiritual revolution is occurring as we speak; one where people are becoming more reflective, aware, and compassionate towards each other; one where people are becoming more in touch with the Source of all creative energy in the universe and simultaneously learning how to harness that power for the good. I think about and hope that people everywhere are tapping into the universal consciousness, and in doing so are realizing just how intricately connected we are as human beings, and that we have a responsibility to take care of each other and the earth, our one and only home. And I think about how gaining, learning, and experiencing love of our ourselves and each other is the most important, significant, and lasting achievement we can accomplish in our lives.

And then I get back to me, because I’m the one that has to live my life, and I start to wonder about my future. Will I experience culture shock when I get back? Will this experience be a launching pad for further travels? Will I be forced to once again find some corporate job and fall into the life of complacency I am trying to avoid? Will the “normality” of western life pull me down into the dark, musty prison of depression? I know the peaks and valleys of life are inevitable, but I’m hoping that by having the mindfulness to know that when I am walking through a valley of darkness, that it is in my power to see the sun rise in the morning. Because when it comes down to it, we are the creators of our own reality.

All of these questions swirl in my mind but only time writes the stories of our history, both as conscious individuals and as a race of human beings that populate the earth. Yet somehow I feel this earthly life is just a splash in the bucket of our true existence.

Someone once said to me, if you have one leg in the past and one leg in the future, you are pissing on today. I have spent most of my life in the past or the future. Life happens in the present moment and I can assure you it is not to be pissed on, although I know there are people in New York, Los Angeles, Bangkok, and Amsterdam that pay a lot of money for that.

When we live in the past or the future and are disconnected from the present, we are disconnected from ourselves, and when we are disconnected from ourselves, we are disconnected from the divine experience that is life. The past no longer exists and the future is waiting for us to be created. By living mindfully from one moment to the next, spreading love, joy, peace, and understanding to those with whom we come in contact with on a daily basis, we are the creators of our own destiny.

But for now, my present moment is about making my connecting flight from Amsterdam to Newark and delivering a “real African doll, made by a real African woman,” to my seven-year-old niece.