I like Africa.
It is hot. Everything is dirty. The is a whole lot of garbage. Evidence of the war is everywhere. Buildings are demolished. Streetlights are pretty much non-existant. There are bulletholes in most structures, if they managed to make it through the war. It is muggy and moist. Apparently you can get Malaria. A lot of the time it smells bad. There is no such thing as personal space in the city. Traffic laws are a suggestion at best. Ditches are often smoother and a better option for driving than roads. People yell at you and ask you for money. Everyone tries to find out some token of personal information about you in hopes of you being their ticket to "America". Vehicles are sketchy. You wonder how many years of your life gas emissions are taking off.
A few people in my life have taken to calling me "Princess". I don't think I came by this name by being the most tolerant of uncomfortable or unfortunate circumstances. Yet, in this land where every external factor I can think of is at best "unfortunate", I feel such joy and appreciation for getting to experience, if just for a while, a phenomenal culture. I have been out in Monrovia numerous times now, and each time it takes me a few minutes to adjust. I spend the first few princess moments wishing that the sweat on my forehead wasn't going to permanently glue my bangs to my face, or that deoderant wasn't such a luxery for African people, or that people would stop rubbing their dirty skin against mine. And then I realize that none of these things are going to happen. And my entire perspective changes, as I open my eyes to the wonder of the place I am in.
My new friend Liz is from NYC, and one day, while we were discussing how cool this place really is, she made the comment that it somehow reminds her of New York. I get it. There is this energy and spirit that is unique and that I have never experienced anywhere else I have lived. I am the last person you would describe as "artsy" but even my scientific, methodical brain cannot help but be in awe of the colours and the musicality that are so present all around. The sense of community is amazing. I have had the opportunity through working in the hospital with local day workers to hear what they love about their country and the resounding theme is how Liberians have pulled together and overcome their circumstances as a community. In another blog, I will have to elaborate on what that really means for Liberians, because their history and circumstances make this type of perspective literally a miracle. But, another time. Tonight, I just feel like writing how appreciative I am to be in Monrovia. Every trip to the city is such an adventure. There is continual energy and action and relationship. It is like a dream-world for creepy people-watchers like me.
Another one of my new friends calls it "going to Africa" when we go into the city. I couldn't agree more. I have talked in the past about how life on the ship is very Western and very Unafrican. But going to "Africa" at night or the weekends or on time-off is a completely different world. Before I came here, I had my preconceived notions about what Africa would be like. Although I always wanted to be a part of this world, I could never have anticipated loving it so much. I wanted to be a missionary because I feel like God wants us to love the poor and the sick and the needy and the unloved and those who the world forgot. To be honest, I anticipated this experience being a complete sacrifice of my comfort, my pleasure, and my selfish ambitions. I had no idea that Africa would exceed my wildest expectations and provide me with such delight. Don't get me wrong, I definately miss the pleasure of having nice hair, the assurance of knowing that you will be able to get home without having to push start your vehicle, and the peace of walking across the street without having to reject 5 marriage proposals, but, overall, I like this Africa!
posted by Jenn
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I like Africa.
It is hot. Everything is dirty. The is a whole lot of garbage. Evidence of the war is everywhere. Buildings are demolished. Streetlights are pretty much non-existant. There are bulletholes in most structures, if they managed to make it through the war. It is muggy and moist. Apparently you can get Malaria. A lot of the time it smells bad. There is no such thing as personal space in the city. Traffic laws are a suggestion at best. Ditches are often smoother and a better option for driving than roads. People yell at you and ask you for money. Everyone tries to find out some token of personal information about you in hopes of you being their ticket to "America". Vehicles are sketchy. You wonder how many years of your life gas emissions are taking off.
A few people in my life have taken to calling me "Princess". I don't think I came by this name by being the most tolerant of uncomfortable or unfortunate circumstances. Yet, in this land where every external factor I can think of is at best "unfortunate", I feel such joy and appreciation for getting to experience, if just for a while, a phenomenal culture. I have been out in Monrovia numerous times now, and each time it takes me a few minutes to adjust. I spend the first few princess moments wishing that the sweat on my forehead wasn't going to permanently glue my bangs to my face, or that deoderant wasn't such a luxery for African people, or that people would stop rubbing their dirty skin against mine. And then I realize that none of these things are going to happen. And my entire perspective changes, as I open my eyes to the wonder of the place I am in.
My new friend Liz is from NYC, and one day, while we were discussing how cool this place really is, she made the comment that it somehow reminds her of New York. I get it. There is this energy and spirit that is unique and that I have never experienced anywhere else I have lived. I am the last person you would describe as "artsy" but even my scientific, methodical brain cannot help but be in awe of the colours and the musicality that are so present all around. The sense of community is amazing. I have had the opportunity through working in the hospital with local day workers to hear what they love about their country and the resounding theme is how Liberians have pulled together and overcome their circumstances as a community. In another blog, I will have to elaborate on what that really means for Liberians, because their history and circumstances make this type of perspective literally a miracle. But, another time. Tonight, I just feel like writing how appreciative I am to be in Monrovia. Every trip to the city is such an adventure. There is continual energy and action and relationship. It is like a dream-world for creepy people-watchers like me.
Another one of my new friends calls it "going to Africa" when we go into the city. I couldn't agree more. I have talked in the past about how life on the ship is very Western and very Unafrican. But going to "Africa" at night or the weekends or on time-off is a completely different world. Before I came here, I had my preconceived notions about what Africa would be like. Although I always wanted to be a part of this world, I could never have anticipated loving it so much. I wanted to be a missionary because I feel like God wants us to love the poor and the sick and the needy and the unloved and those who the world forgot. To be honest, I anticipated this experience being a complete sacrifice of my comfort, my pleasure, and my selfish ambitions. I had no idea that Africa would exceed my wildest expectations and provide me with such delight. Don't get me wrong, I definately miss the pleasure of having nice hair, the assurance of knowing that you will be able to get home without having to push start your vehicle, and the peace of walking across the street without having to reject 5 marriage proposals, but, overall, I like this Africa!
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