Yesterday morning, driving to work, I felt truly homesick for the first time in a while. This isn’t to say I don’t miss my friends and my family (and, let’s be totally honest here, my cat) on a semi-regular basis. But I’m able to stay in touch thanks to the internet and cheap phone calls, and I have a mini-network of friends and adopted family here. This was something different than just missing people or places, rather it was a sense of disconnect between my lives here and at home. I left New York exactly seven weeks ago and I fly home in exactly five, which places me at a weird balancing point where either life seems to fit perfectly. I miss my life in New York, but I already dread going home where I know I will miss Freetown. With my sense of transitional limbo, it seemed an appropriate time to address a common question: How different is living in Africa? The short answer: not too much different. But that answer is conditional on a realization that the life of an ex-pat is inherently different than the local life, as most urban areas have built a thriving industry around the bars and restaurants designed to welcome the tiny microcosm that is the ex-pat community. The longer answer is that my daily life isn’t different in any big ways, but instead it’s the little things, the tiniest details that make my life wholly unrecognizable from my law student existence.
First, there’s my daily routine. In New York, when my alarm goes off, I hop in the shower, I make a pot of coffee, pour some into a travel mug, walk to school (or take the subway or a cab if it’s raining/I’m running late). I lock my two door locks. When I’m on the street, I’m an unrecognizable part of a crowd and other than the occasional catcall from my friendly, local construction workers, I manage to avoid interaction with anyone on the street. In fact, if my roommate is still asleep or already at work, I can often make it to school not having talked to anyone except the aforementioned cat. (Yes, I am aware of the ‘crazy cat lady’ implications of this comment). Here, I shower at night, when the power is more reliable and I know I can have hot water and decent water pressure. If I decide to have coffee in the morning, I do battle with our unreliable matches and stove to heat a kettle and make some french press. I lock our two sets of doors (glass front door, covered by a metal exterior door), and wait for Mohammed, our caretaker, to let us out of the compound, usually calling greetings back to his assorted family, including the three little girls who sprint to hug us every morning and night. I respond to the various good mornings and how are yous, while trying to brush off the hey, white girls or I want yous. I flag down an okada and we quibble over how much to pay, even though we always end up at Le 4000 – 5000, regardless of where we started. On the way home, we generally take okadas again (though if it’s raining, we’ll charter a taxi—cha-cha), making detours to pick up fresh baked bread for breakfast or grilled meat for dinner or stopping at the grocery store if we’ve decided to cook.
The big things you get used to fairly quickly—the different things you see and smell and taste and hear every day—and you can easily partition those things into the “Sierra Leone” file. But the little things sneak up on you, so you don’t even notice them changing. Things like sleeping under a bed net or spraying for cockroaches come first, becoming part of your daily routine just like taking your anti-malarials or picking up bottled water. Next it’s subtle changes in your speech habits—slowing down, pausing more, adapting your intonations to mirror those you talk to, slipping in occasional words or phrases in Krio. You start to become friendly with the street vendors and the okada drivers, knowing where to go if you want a specific type of bread or the best place to get a ride to Wilberforce. Power fluctuations become second nature, and only mildly annoying. Unlocking the door after work, you glance to see if there is NPA and waking up in the morning you listen for the generator. You check your mobile credit and buy scratch-off cards to refill when it gets low. Everything integrates seamlessly, until you leave and are abruptly struck by the distinctions. Of course, there are constant moments of ‘culture shock’ throughout. Every day I get propositioned by random men, or even young boys, telling me they love me and want an American wife. Or I get stopped by a policeman, who grabs the okada I am riding and informs me that he is arresting my driver (for no discernable reason) unless I want to pay his fine (read: bribe, which I did not pay, but rather appealed to his sense of mercy and my concerns over being left without a ride just as it was getting dark). The bars, particularly the nicer ones, are filled with prostitutes and older white men soliciting them, neither making any effort to disguise the transaction.
Frequently these moments come at the grocery store, looking for something specific. In general, the markets stock a decent supply of American and European products, down to Marmite and Nutella, although prices on some things can vary widely (Example: Herbal Essences costs two to three times more than Neutrogena). But there are random things you just cannot find, no matter how hard you look. Contact solution and tampons are unheard of, and must be rationed throughout the trip (although I’ve heard a rumour that one of the stores has contact solution right now). Dairy products are rare and highly overpriced—individual yogurts are priced Le 12,000 ($3) and higher, and milk comes either condensed, powdered, or heat-treated, to make it shelf-stable (In Uganda, fresh milk was available in bags, but that has not caught on here). A recent mission to find conditioner took nearly 3 weeks, checking every store in town and an accidental purchase of shampoo, made more difficult by the inconsistency of stocks from day to day.
Anyway, my homesickness has passed and I remain well, cheered by the (miraculous) recovery of my laptop, followed by the immediate backup of all my files. Not to turn this into a World Cup blog, but today marks the beginning of the quarterfinals, and thus deserves an update. Eight teams remain-- four from Latin America, three from Europe, and of course, Ghana. I'm willing to go on record with my pick for the final game: Ghana v. Brazil, a brilliant match-up with its roots in the street games common across South America and Africa, that will remind the world how football is meant to be played.
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