Out of Africa

For six days now, I have been out of Africa.

Little things have been the weirdest adjustments. Like the fact that I can no longer tell time or direction by the movements of the sun, which rose and set almost exactly due east and due west, at 6am and 6pm. I don't fall asleep to the sounds of bugs, but rather the sounds of cars. The obnoxious hooting of morning doves, their frantic flapping as they land on their perch under the outdoor portion of the overhang of our banda, no longer wakes me up in the morning. And I'm no longer greeted by Kilimanjaro as I walk to the choo or the chumba.

At first, the feelings of being out of Africa were omnipresent. I didn't particularly care about exploring the European cities which I was visiting--they couldn't compare to the open, painfully dry rangelands of the Maasai group ranches. What did it matter if I spoke with the local people or not, they couldn't possibly be as interesting or funny or engaging as the friends I made in Kenya. But now, even with the help of pictures and videos and voice recordings, it already seems like that existence is slipping away, becoming an old and particularly vivid dream.

As I settle back into being in cities, the fact that I once had to check for snakes in my bed before getting in, the fact that I slept under a mosquito net, the fact that I never wore skirts above my knees, that all feels as if it is becoming forgotten.

It is not that if I try to recall, I cannot, it is just that those instincts that I developed over the course of my months in Kenya, are slowly fading. Once again, I pull back my blankets and get under the covers without looking. It was always going to happen, and I expected it, but still the expectation cannot completely erase the sense of loss as I stand so close to the experience of it all.

Even as these small habits fade, these constant reminders of where I have been and what I have learned, there is a part of me that knows that what I did in Kenya will never really leave me. I know that the simple whiff of an old, familiar smell can send me reeling back to the time that I lived among the Maasai in the arid and semi arid rangelands of Eastern Africa. I know that if I ever go back, it will not matter how many years have gone by, that the friends I made there will still be my friends. And, perhaps most importantly, I know that Africa, Kenya, the Maasai, will always travel with me, because no matter how much the details may fade, the whole of the experience never will.

Hakuna matata. It means no worries.

(Come on, haven't you ever seen the Lion King?)