love. hate.

Have you ever been to a place, or a time in your life, where you feel such emotion that you are torn in making a decision on whose side you are on? I love Africa. I hate Africa. Some days I can’t decide. I’ve never been to any other place that has such a pull inside of me. It gets into your blood, your veins, pumps the excitement and anger all at once. It can be blissfully awesome or dreadfully miserable. And it can change daily.

When I first came to Africa 8 years ago, I could not believe how slow everything was. How slow things worked. The difference in time perspective I could not wrap my mind around. Everything took longer. Everything was slower. And people didn’t seem to notice; even worse they didn’t seem to care or see a problem with it. I remember fighting the urge to complain with every line I stood in, each time someone cut the queue, each bus trip that didn’t happen as the matatu was not yet full enough. I probably didn’t fight my urge to complain as much as I did complain. :-) But I always thought when I came back to an African country and learned the culture, lived and worked within it, I would adjust. I would understand. I would not have to fight an urge to complain because I would have adapted.

There is some truth in that. You do adjust. You do adapt. And the little things don’t seem so outrageous on most days. You learn to appreciate a different pace of life. But things still take a long time to happen. You find yourself needing to do so many more steps to accomplish one single thing. One simple thing. My cup of coffee in the morning is an example. Some days I don’t have the privilege. It just isn’t going to happen. One can easily become discouraged if you focus on what has not been accomplished rather than take a bigger picture perspective – though that itself can be dangerous. Mozambique is slow. It’s slower than Kenya. It’s less developed. With good reason. There is a long history of war and ruins, of cyclical natural disasters that continue to strike against the best of intentions. People are poor economically compared to the rest of the world. (Minus the six countries lower on the economic scale.) It is hotter than haites here. Work is difficult. There is little relief for those who do not have the luxury of a foreign income. I get that. And I can adjust to the point of functioning, living day to day and being happy with where I am. I hate the reality I see around me; but I love the spirit of the people who capture that reality. It is a contradiction. It tears at me on days when I feel my patience slipping away. I grew up in a culture where you fight hard for what you want and most of the time, if you fight hard enough, there will always be a way to obtain those wants. I suppose that could be true here as well, but I wonder how much fight a community can take. How much fight an individual can take before they give up and become comfortable in their reality. Contentment is a blessing. It also can be a curse. And we all far too often look for the easy way out.

I love Africa. It aches inside of me when I’m not here. I love the blessings I see through the people I meet. The kind and amazing spirits that welcome and embrace me when I arrive. When I struggle to learn their language, their culture, to not turn red and blow up like the other mazungos preceding me. I love the sound of thunder in the giant African sky and huge raindrops that fall upon the dry red soil. I love being part of a church service with singing and dancing that can go on for hours in total praise and faith in spite of current circumstances. They believe. They have faith. And they continue on in faith that some day they will be relieved of their sorrow and pain and suffering. Mozambique has an incredibly high death rate due to HIV/Aids and malaria. There isn’t a week that goes by that I don’t know of someone whose loved one has passed away. Not a week. Death is a part of life here. I hate Africa. I hate seeing the sorrow. Seeing the pain and frustration. The helplessness. The dependency that people have grown to entrust from the outside world. We are so far removed on some things and on others, there is this desperate plea, begging for any help that can be spared. It’s a learned desperation. The hard part is knowing whom to trust as genuine. Who is in need and who is out to get whatever they can because they can. The Good Samaritan does not exist here.

I suppose a love hate relationship is true of any good thing in life. It brings you to tears with struggles and tears with joy. It fuels passion inside and the choice of which way that is fueled is up to each individual. I have seven months left on my contract. I love being here. I also would love to come home. The truth is its never easy wherever I am. If I am here, I struggle with the here and now. If I am there, I struggle with wanting to be back here. The moments I am content are learned. They are the moments I stop on the street and wave to my colleague or grocer or favorite shopkeeper. They are moments I take to sit and watch the awesome orange sunset drop over the coconut trees and settle into the giant African sky. They are moments I am out in the field and working through two interpreters to speak with the local farmers. To feel the dirt between my fingers as we ask what is needed to produce more food this year. They are moments I walk through the villages with the red dust on my toes, the smell of smoke burning in the hot winter air and the sound of small children playing a game of soccer in a nearby field. They are moments I hold a small baby as she laughs and smiles up in awe at my glowing white face, touching me with her pudgy little fingers and giggling. I love Africa. But I am not African. The struggle of loving and hating a place at the same time will remain within me. I enjoy the fight on most days. There is so much beauty here. So much life. I am happy to make it a part of me.