One Year In

A year and a week ago today, I was cold, stressed, and panicked. The cold was a normal consequence of living in New England in February; the panicked was because I couldn’t strike the right weight balance between my two checked bags and my carry-on and my stupid ipod wouldn’t load the two years worth of music and movies and tv shows I was attempting to bring with me; the stressed was because, well, what else would you feel when embarking on a two-year commitment to live in a foreign country?

Last weekend I talked to my mother on the one-year anniversary of speaking to her in person. On a Saturday afternoon one year ago she put me on a bus in Portland and stood outside the tinted windows waving and trying to guess what seat I was in (I eventually pushed my hand to the window to give her smile a general direction) until the bus pulled out of the station. A year ago Sunday I was eating Valentine’s Day brunch with my grandparents and extended family; a year ago Monday I was so nervous I lost my first breakfast and had to eat a second one (waffles. They were really good. Thanks, Dad). A year ago Tuesday I said good-bye to my college roommate (who just happens to live in Philly where we had staging), and with her the last familiar remnants of my American life, and gave her the winter jacket I had been wearing, as I wouldn’t be needing it where I was going.

A year ago Thursday I was exhausted, overheated, out-of-shape and carrying my weight in luggage, staring at the bright African sunlight outside the international airport in Lusaka, Zambia. I had been awake (mostly) since Tuesday morning. My arms were sore from the first round of vaccinations. My back was sore from the midnight bus ride to JFK, the hours-long wait in the terminal, and the excruciatingly long plane ride to South Africa (about 12 hours, but when you add in the time difference it’s nearly an entire day). That afternoon I had my first of many lessons in patience: due to a miscommunication, our welcoming committee was a few hours late, so we just sat, 48 young Americans not quite dressed for the climate surrounded by a ridiculously large amount of luggage, exhausted and still essentially strangers (we had only know each other a couple days, though it felt much longer), waiting. It was a beautiful sunny day; across from the shaded sidewalk where we stood, a large billboard loomed over a manicured lawn, announcing that Africa’s time was coming: “let’s show the world what we can do!”

Today, a year later, the weather is warm— these days I put on a fleece jacket in 50-degree weather and try to remember what real cold, what snow, feels like. Today if I had to pack a bag for a two-year adventure it would be half as heavy as the one I packed a year ago, and even if it wasn’t my bike-and-garden-worn body would be much more equipped to carry it. Today I am shocked at marvels such as being able to print a document from a computer in a different room (seriously, I just did this. The computer and the printer were on different sides of the compound. It’s amazing. Why didn’t I notice how cool this was when I did it all the time in college and high school?), and when my little laptop computer inexplicably stopped working yesterday it barely fazed me (I mean, it’s frustrating, but as we say in Zambia, “at least there’s still nshima”).

In the past year I have learned to speak a foreign language; I have learned to ride a bike (yes, I’m 24, shut up); I’ve planted and grown vegetables, cash crops, and trees; taught farmers to build a compost pile; opened a beehive without getting stung; ridden an elephant and pet a lion in the same day; walked on the rim of the biggest waterfall in the world; eaten a caterpillar; lost over 10 kilos; learned to use the metric system; learned to make a fire in a woodstove; and eaten mangoes and guavas fresh off of trees. It has been an absolutely awesome journey, full of adventure, self-discovery, frustration, challenges, and life lessons. If I could talk to my one-year-younger self, I’d tell her this: take a deep breath. Don’t worry about the packing or the ipod. This isn’t the end of the world; on the contrary, it’s the beginning.

Here’s to a second year in Zambia as crazy and surprising and difficult and wonderful as the first. Cheers!