Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Reverse Culture Shock Denied



Prior to my leaving Mali, my new friends speculated at how messed up I would be upon my "re-entry." (Click for a *delightful definition of reverse culture shock.)
*Denotes sarcasm font.

I worried a bit about how I would feel coming back, but mostly I was looking forward to seeing my family and friends again, as well as using a sink.

I learned during my semester abroad in France many years ago, that the friendships you make while abroad happen fast and get close a lot quicker than if you weren't both experiencing a sensation of other worldliness. So it was no surprise to me that I was very sad to say goodbye to my friends and tried to comfort myself with the notion that internationalists make the world smaller, and we would see each other again one day. Inshallah.

I was not prepared for how I reacted to leaving my host family. We had an unceremonious last supper together and then I gave them some presents. Mostly paignes of fabric and some shoes for the teenagers. I didn't think it was much, but they were tickled and my host mom kept telling me that I had done good.

They scrambled to give me something even though I insisted they didn't need to. They called me a cab, and gathered around me as I loaded up my bags, heads down, staring at the ground and looking sullen. I wanted to grab each one and squeeze them tightly but they're not big on PDA's so I slunk into my car. My host-mom piped up at the last minute:

"When exactly is your flight?" she asked. I told her that it would be the following night.

"You will come back for lunch then." She stated, peering over her glasses in her usual way. I hadn't intended on it, but I agreed.

The car drove away and even though I would see most of them the next day, tears began to well up in my eyes and I started sobbing in the back seat. This was a huge deal for me because I have only cried in public twice in the last 6 years and that's only when someone died.

I cried all the way across the Niger, which bothered me because I wanted to sear my last few images of one of my favorite cities I've ever lived in into my memory but my vision was distorted.

I was still crying when I met my friend at the Chez Amandine and needed a few moments to gather myself while he stared at me impotently.

It was during those painful moments that I realised I had been wrong in my assumptions about the experience, as had my friends. It was not the place that had the most profound effect on me, it was the people.

I cannot watch TV anymore without wondering what Papou, my mentally handicapped host-brother, would have to say about it, and when people ask me what my favorite part was, I tell him that coming home for dinner and watching an hour of TV with him ended up being my favorite thing to do. He had such a big smile, a wicked sense of humour and a kind heart. A true individual.

I think about how my host-mom would peer at me over her glasses and ask me "Do you have my number in your phone?" if I forgot to call to say I wouldn't be home for supper. As much as it was one of her charming idiosyncrasies, it was also a reminder that wasting food is a luxury that most of the world simply can't afford.

Finally, despite having very little extra for frivolous things, they each found a gift for me to take home. My host sister/partner in crime gave me a necklace, my host mom gave me a bracelet as well as some bracelets to give to my mom in Canada and little Fatamatou gave me a picture of her and her sister from a few years earlier. In the age of a seemingly infinite supply Facebook photos and Twitpics, she parted with one of only a handful of pictures of her family. It is now framed on my dresser.


To me, traveling is connecting. It is making relationships with the most unlikely people. It is as much about seeing how the other half lives as it is being open to letting them affect you.

It means taking risks, such as letting an invitation to tea jumble your itinerary, being open to an "unknown" experience which may make you feel uncomfortable and of course, you risk running into jerks since they are everywhere. However, in my experience, these risks have always paid off and the memorable moments that ensue and lessons learned are worth any doubts and fears I may have.


Since being back I have had a lot of time to think about my experience in Mali and about what I want to be when I grow up. I have put myself on a path towards international development and am currently working as a community connector of sorts in Canada's low-income communities of the North. I now have the answer to the "why" question.

"Why do you want to work in international development?" People often ask with a scrutinizing gaze.
"Isn't it hard? Aren't the places you travel to dangerous?".

Well sure it can be hard and dangerous, but to me connecting is easy, and I value the relationships I'm able to form with people more than I value just  having visited a place. Development and community relations work allows me to keep making those relationships.

Those last moments with my host family assured me that they liked the connection too and that the exchange was not just one-sided. That gave me the "buzz" that made me want to keep working in this field.

So no, I did not feel weird using a sink again or seeing familiar faces again but I do feel like some love has been added to my heart and that some has been left behind in Mali.

Next post, being adopted by a Berber family and a group of middle-aged teamsters while traveling around Morocco.






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