Out of Africa

About a week and a half ago, as I officially hit my sixth week in Africa, I realized that the blush was off the rose, so to speak.

I found myself, for whatever reason, suddenly incredibly annoyed with everything and everyone around me and very willing to pick a fight with just about anyone who dared step into my arena.

“I hate the Midwest,” I told S., for no apparent reason whatsoever and knowing only that this would provoke a fight…him being from the Midwest and me never really having been there.

“I am not coming home for Christmas,” I told my mother, “I hate our family.”

“I hate my job,” I told my boss, “I don’t think I am right for this position.”

Luckily, for the most part, no one really paid attention to me but, still, I was officially acting like the biggest brat on the planet.

I called my French friend who is currently stationed in a much harder post, Darfur, and told her about my sudden onset of bitchiness (which, honestly, is pretty uncharacteristic of me).

“I am awful,” I confided, “All I want to do is fight with everyone and I am in a terrible mood all the time…what is wrong with me? I am in danger of losing all of my friends and family and I can’t figure out why I am so upset.”

“How many weeks now?” she asked.

Six, I confided.

“OK, that is normal…that is when it kicks in.” “Just stay off of the phone and away from the internet and it should pass in about another two weeks, you’ll be fine.”

Apparently, unlike malaria or any number of other diseases I could have contracted, this one was completely normal and able to be diagnosed: homesickness.

“No!” I told her. “I am NOT homesick…I am just annoyed a lot lately…but, but, I LOVE IT HERE.”

She sighed, good-naturedly.

“Tell me how you love it there…”

I then went on to relate my week:

Tired of being dirty and sticky all the time, feeling like I am living on top of everyone and they are living on top of me, something breaks in my apartment on a daily basis, the kid next door pulled the fire alarm and it kept me up until 2:30AM and no one seemed to care to fix it, the next night an AIDS rally in the park across the valley had me up until 3AM and, while I am sympathetic, I wanted to kill them all and just be done with it, I don’t know how to cook here and I don’t understand a lot of the food, everything smells like curry and dust, I am tired of people asking me for money just because I am white, I am tired of the damn traffic police bribing me every time they see me, I hate being late all the time because ‘time’ seems to be such a fluid concept here, I miss my friends, my eyes are burning from the pollution all the time, the electricity goes off every day….and I locked the last traffic cop who tried to bribe me in my car and started to drive him to the US Embassy while he pleaded for his life in the backseat and eventually pissed his pants in absolute terror.

“Um, yeah, OK, you’re just fine.” She said.

Then, “Patti, it is time to get out of Africa for a few days.”

Oddly, because the Universe seems to love my stupid ass, I had also gotten a phone call from my former colleague and friend, Mark, the Thursday night previous asking me to fill in for another colleague on a European tour to launch a book I had written and co-edited a few months ago. I said, “yes, of course,” without ever thinking that this would save my soul.

So, last week, as I stormed about the house cursing everything and anything in my path, I realized, “Wait a minute! I am getting a free trip to Brussels and Geneva next week! How wonderful!”

Then, “Holy shit! I can’t go to Brussels and Geneva…I have not a stitch of winter clothes….”

You see, I had left any warm weather attire that I owned at my mother’s house in Florida, thinking I would be back there first and not in some cold weather climate that would require things such as closed-toe shoes and a winter jacket…I panicked.

I called my Ugandan friend, Jane, who is seemingly able to procure anything for me at a moment’s notice, and explained the problem.

She assured me that she could find a solution, just to give her the weekend, and got off the phone.

Two days later, she had indeed found a solution: a full length black (p)leather coat made about 20 years ago, about three sizes too big, and a pair of hiking boots that would be fitting if I were trekking moose in the Arctic.

At just over five feet tall, and weighing in at 120, my jacket and boots weighed more than I did and, quite frankly, I looked like something from circa-1983, Run DMC-style.

I looked like a complete asshole.

I called S.

“I can’t go to Europe!” I wailed. “I have no clothes!”

Mind you, this is a man who has been to war…real war…about a half dozen times and here I was wailing on the phone about my wardrobe malfunction…

Like I said, the Universe has a lot of patience with my ass.

“Love, this is NOT a tragedy. Call your mom, have her ship your clothes to Mark in Europe, and then just get them there. Or, or…if you want, I can go shopping for you here…I think I know what size you are and we can do it online together…”

“But, but…Patti, PLEASE go to Europe…you MUST go to Europe…you MUST get out of there for a few days…we will find the clothes,” he assured.

But IAM FINE, I insisted.

“Yes, OK, you are fine…but you deserve a break and Europe will be a break…plus, it is the book you wrote…you should be proud of it…and you are doing a favor for a friend…just please go to Europe…please?”

So I went to Europe.

When I arrived in Brussels last Thursday night, I was immediately struck by how clean and orderly everything was…two days later, in Geneva, I nearly refused to leave the bathroom…

“One more bath,” I said, “I will be down in a minute but the hot water works here….ALL THE TIME!!!!”

Mark, my former colleague and good friend, had a lot of patience with me.

As I dragged us through the rainy and frigid streets of Brussels and Geneva, Christmas shopping, and insisted that we eat cheese and drink good beer at every stop…he had immense patience with me.

“Look!” I told him, “I can step off the curb and run right into the middle of traffic and they STOP!” “Can you believe this shit?”

“Yeah, OK, please get out of traffic, Patti. I can’t live with myself if you get killed in Geneva, of all places.”

I wrote to S. and my mom immediately, “I love it here! I want to live in Europe…the water works all the time, I smell good and don’t have to take three showers a day, this is Paradise!”

Two days later, however, I was sensing something odd…specifically, I missed Uganda.

I found myself visiting the foreign currency exchange bureau, to talk the guy from Guinea about Africa.

“Europe is nice but the people are shit,” he declared. “No one looks out for you or pays attention to you like they do in Africa. People actually care about you in Africa…there, you are never alone.”

Oddly, that was what I was starting to hate about Uganda and, oddly, that was what I was starting to miss the most.

When I arrived at the airport in Kampala the other night, I nearly tackled Robert, my driver.

“I missed you! I missed Uganda! Can we go to the market please?” I pleaded.

“Um, it is almost 11PM at night, do you really need to go to the market now?” he asked.

No, I told him. Not now…but maybe tomorrow?

Then I told him about Europe, how much I had loved it and how much, at the same time, I had missed Uganda.

Later, talking to my French friend on the phone, I confided that I had missed Africa while in Europe.

Why? She had asked.

“Well, even though things break all the time, someone is always there to sympathize and you can borrow anything from anyone at anytime. And…you’re allowed to have a ‘bad day’ in Africa, you’re allowed to be late, in a bad mood, and feeling sorry for yourself. Oh, and I missed the fabulous curries and I felt too sterile…too clean…does that sound strange?”

“You’re fine,” she declared, like a doctor.

And she was right…I am fine.

I just needed, for four days, to be out of Africa.