Discombobulated Dabblings.

Hello Dear Readers, one and all. It has been quite a long time... indeed, too long. I can, I assure you, offer some explanation for this period of bloggerly silence (tentatively at this time titled “The Saga of the School Director, or How I Stopped Pulling Out My Hair and Learned to Deal with an Arrogant, Passive/Aggressive Jack-Ass”), but that little story must wait for the next post, partly because I would like to drum up some suspense over the reasons for my disappearance. Oh, and I’d rather talk about something else right now.

I will have you all know that I just returned from a much-needed 2-week vacation. Where, you might ask? Well, what better way to commemorate my anniversary of living in Burkina Faso, I thought to myself back in February, than by celebrating it in the United States? Nope, nothing inappropriate about that. Fellow Peace Corps volunteers had cautioned me for months of the probable culture shock I would experience upon my return to America. For example, they warned me, how would I deal with the fact that any greetings going beyond the required disinterested “Hey, ’sup?” would cause most Americans to regard me with concern-bordering-on-alarm? That in venturing into a grocery store not only would I find exactly what I desired, but there would be over 20 nearly-identical brands of it, potentially cause for a nervous breakdown as I stood there wracking my brain over which to purchase? That eating anything other than french fries with my hands is considered barbaric? That a female friend placing her hand on my arm did not indicate she was a prostitute soliciting my business? That I could not arbitrarily decide to drive on whichever side of the road I felt like, and traffic rules were enforced laws, not just optional guidelines? And so on, and so forth.

So, with some trepidation, after 24 hours of flight travel, and crossing God-knows-how-many different time zones, I again stepped onto American soil… and felt nothing. After all that agonizing and preparation, I slipped right back into the ordinary American style of life, with no hitch, as though I had never left. I was again ordering iced vanilla lattés (low fat, sugar free, PETA-approved, with a twist of cinnamon), going out to the movies, and bitching about traffic. The one moment of transition I may have experienced occurred when I determinedly strode into a supermarket, braced against a possible freak-out; I stood in the produce section, relishing the fresh, artificial, air-conditioned breeze, and basking in the knowledge that no matter what season it happened to be I could find practically any kind of fruit or vegetable I wished in this room. That’s it: cultural reintegration consisted of me standing next to the lettuce stand with a stupid grin on my face for about 2 minutes, and then I left the store and reassumed my American identity without another thought. I don’t know whether this makes me an exceptionally adaptable individual, or a failing blow against the hope that people can substantially change.

Now, mark me, Dear Readers: I did end up undergoing culture shock, of an extreme nature. I just didn’t get hit by it until after returned to Burkina Faso. After 1 year of living in Africa, it took me just a few hours to get used to visiting America. After 2 weeks of visiting America, it took me a just few hours to start panicking about being back in Africa. For one thing, I discovered that my comprehension of the French language had inexplicably disappeared, and I now had to rely on other volunteers to help me with the most basic errands. Also, it seemed that in the dozen or so days I had spent out of the country I had missed countless doings and happenings, so I felt absolutely lost when speaking to my fellow volunteers. I had no appetite for the food I could eat in Ouagadougou (glamorous in comparison to what nourishment I can find in my village), and no ideas when I tried to think how I would approach work at the beginning of my 2nd year here. All the Friends episodes (and other various, more manly DVDs) I had managed to smuggle back with me did nothing to assuage my panic. And why was it so damn HOT here?!

Cut to several days later. Things are better. Not perfect, but definitely improved. My French linguistics are slowly returning, I’m getting reused to the food here, and this coming weekend I will be throwing myself back into work by participating in a girls’ empowerment camp with several other volunteers and aid organizations. So, there you have it. I am still very much alive, and revving up for Year 2 of this invigorating, interesting, and oftentimes exasperating international experience. And, as I said before (see above), I promise a detailed explanation of those recent few "lost months" in my next internet opus. So, please, Dear Readers, bear with me, this humble Dabbler, and I swear to bring you to both tears and laughter (though I cannot be held responsible for the ratios of one versus the other). I will do all this for you, and in exchange you will send me beef jerky. Sounds like a fair deal, no? Until the next time, then...