And finally, a little perspective

While making lunch today, I decided it was well past time to eat the watermelon I bought ages ago, and began to slice it up for salad. It really has been ages, in watermelon years. At least two weeks, maybe more. So predictably, it was a little grainy.

I took a taste. Not crisp. Not perfect. “Ugh,” was my first thought. “Waited too long. This has got to go.”

Wait. What? Before dumping the whole thing into the green bin, I stopped for a second to consider. I ate watermelons in worse condition than that while in Tanzania and was grateful for the fresh fruit. (Hell, I picket weevils out of my bread before putting it in the toaster, and never thought twice about it.) What was suddenly so wrong with it? Nothing – except my knowledge that there were plenty of fresher, tastier watermelons at any of the four supermarkets within a five-minute drive of my house.

the watermelon as a metaphor for my life

There is nothing wrong with this watermelon. Just like there is nothing wrong with me. This is as close as I get to writing in metaphors. (If you want poetry you've got the wrong blog.)

And in that instance, it occurred to me that I have now fully adjusted to being home.

Now really, in the scheme of things, I was not away that long. The adjustment should not have taken four weeks. But within my five days to “rest and relax” when I arrived, there were two people moving into and one person moving out of my home. And I was dealing with a jet lag from the seven-hour time difference. Then I was back to work, and among my usual job description, planning to host a national committee for a series of meetings, as well as a focus-group (of sorts) for my Masters research.

So I was busy. I was not reflecting*. I was completely incapable of intelligently answering any questions about the trip. I could spit out an “It was incredible” or an “I’m so glad I took the time to do that” when prompted, but all those probing questions: was it what you expected? what id you learn? what was the best/worst part? I was useless.

Until now. The meetings are over. The focus group a success. I am extremely pleased with my new house-mate and our living arrangements. I am no longer falling into bed at night utterly exhausted. I am able to think, to consider, to analyze.

What did I learn on my trip? A lot. Too much to cover in one blog post. But in summary, I learned what I can do. I overcame my fear of heights and my claustrophobia – even if only temporarily. I rediscovered my independence, suddenly living in a place where neither my husband nor my big sister were there to pick up after me.

Most of all, I regained a confidence in myself I hadn’t ever realized I had lost. Because I didn’t get sick. Not even a little. Everyone gets sick in Africa, at least once. Even the most well-travelled and hearty of my friends told me it was unavoidable. As someone with a rather traumatic health history**, and serious vulnerability to any of various stomach bugs I had been warned about, this was a fear that had paralyzed me for years. I wasn’t entirely convinced I had a right to take this risk. I dreaded the moment I would call my Dad, delirious, dehydrated, and desperate to get home. I really thought my body was going to defeat me on this one. But it did not. Not even when I ate the soft watermelon.

So what did I learn in Africa? Enough of the worrying. Stop wasting time and energy on things you can’t control that aren’t really problems anyway. Stop wasting food! Eat your damn watermelon. It’s good for you.

*As an Adult Education & Community Development Masters candidate, I read a lot about the importance of reflection. For the first 3.5 years of my program, I dismissed it as touchy-feely bullshit. I have recently discovered it is actually quite helpful.
**For the record – I am perfectly healthy. I have Crohn’s disease. I hasn’t bothered me in more than five years. But for a number of years it was… not good.

Leaving Paradise – a catch up post

So, as it turns out, safari camps in the middle of the Serengeti do not have internet access. This should have been obvious. I just honestly never thought about it. And I can’t say I missed it. As it was the days were full and I was in bed between 9 and 10 pm each night exhausted. There was no time.

It does however, leave me with some catching up to do.

When I left you last, I was seasick after the return from Praslin. We had two days left in the Seychelles. Friday, we decided to take a vacation from our vacation. We did nothing. We slept in. We read books. Played games. Hardly left the hotel. There was no need. We enjoyed the awesome weather from our awesome patio.

Saturday was our last day. We had no real plans, but a few ideas. Dave had been wanting to go para-sailing. I am afraid of heights, and so kept stalling him. Saturday I gathered my courage and told him to book it (and fast, before I chickened out.) So before 11 am I found myself 150m (+/-) above Beau Vallon beach, strapped to Dave, holding on for dear life, and loving every minute of it. (What do you think Rawlsy, there’s something Eat-Pray-Love-ish about overcoming fears, am I right?)

As we were gathering our things after our flight we were randomly asked if we were interested in a boat ride to the marine park and some snorkelling. Um, yeah. We’d been trying to plan this already, but it was too expensive ($90 each). Now with a group we could each go for $35. Perfect.

So after a quick lunch we boarded a glass bottomed boat for a 3-hour tour of the marine park, and some of the most amazing snorkelling ever.

As we walked down the beach we spotted some folks putting up a Takamaka Bay Rum tent, but I assumed it was a sponsorship thing and never thought more of it. However, when we returned, there was a party about to start. Tents were up, and a parade had just started. Takamaka Bay Rum was having a promotional event. For no particular reason. On our beach, on our last day in the country.

The company co-founder called us over, asked where we were from, and served us one delicious cocktail after another, and made us promise to pick up a bottle of Takamaka Bay Rum at the duty-free store on our way out. And so we did. So very yummy – and such a nice sendoff.

Bye-bye Seychelles. We will miss you.

Eat. Bicker. Love.

Tomorrow my crazy journey begins. I am trying hard not be be a huge mess of nerves and anxiety. Somewhere underneath that is excitement, must find it and embrace it.

So at the request of many, I will do my best to keep you updated on all our adventures through this site. It may occasionally be vague on details, and I will try to avoid using names and identifiers, because if you know my husband, you know how he feels about privacy and the internet. Regardless, you can read our stories and see our pictures.*

I catch my first plane tomorrow at 12:30. At 9:05 pm the following day, Dave will meet me at the airport in destination #1. So exiting. Me & my husband. In the same country. AT THE SAME TIME. Unfathomable.

Inspired by my friend Rawlsy, I have picked up some out-of-character airplane reading: a copy of Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat. Pray. Love. I hope I don’t come to regret this. It is not my usual read, and I have a long flight ahead of me. But I can no longer poke fun at the book without having first read it.

You see, when Rawlsy first heard about my trip (and after nearly spitting out her fair-trade coffee all over her organic eggs & ash browns) she prophetically exclaimed “Its like that Eat Pray Love book, but for normal people.” Which of course set off weeks and weeks of planning and scheming for how I would turn my nine week trip into an international best seller and one day have Julia Roberts portray me in a blockbuster movie. [Um, can we substitute Maggie Gyllenhaal for Ms. Roberts, please and thank you?] Strangely, whenever she mentions it, she swaps the word ‘bicker’ in for ‘pray.’ I’m not sure what she’s trying to imply. I am remarkably easy to get along with.

*A side not to the aunties, co-workers and others who before now may have known me as a more professional or mannerly individual. This is a fun space. I am far from crude, but my writing is not always… polite. If you are easily offended, consider yourself warned. [Of course, if you are typically the offender, you may find me a little bland.]