In the swift afternoon breeze, the gurgle of laughter plays mockingly in my head, I dare myself to reach into a box. The movement of my hands darting toward a book I was scared to open. In an effort to avoid… surfacing the memories… but probably more importantly… to avoid the awkward feeling of not knowing… not knowing a lot of things.

When we cross each other in the awkward western scene we hazard a guess and then we embrace each other. We ask each other how the other is doing and we smile, laugh and sooner than later we remember the coffee that’s now ready, the class that’s about to start, the computer with its blinking cursor… so we hug and leave with only the trace of our essence lingering behind. We don’t bring it up. No “remember when” and sighs of “oh yeah” with echoing chuckles. If someone does muster the attempt to bring it up, we look at each other and it's like we both go through a little roller coaster in our head. Our response is a mystery. Memories of that summer bring an ironic twist of suffering and happiness with the unexplained vision of a Fanta bottle. There are no answers to why we pretend it never existed. But maybe, just maybe… at least for myself, it is due to hypocrisy. Of how I have succumb to my weakness, to the power of my prior ways. And the fear, the fear of naivete that already exists. The fear of my nonchalant attitude. The fear of the question when? Then, in that chance where we think to ourselves later that day, in that weird comfort of solitude, how nice it was to bump into each other--we finally let ourselves remember… and all that needs to be let out can finally be let out.

You think that because it’s yours you can control it, but nothing is ever really ours. Feeling. Guilt will take you no where, only action will help your friends now. But even us western citizens can be hopeless and bow down to the feeling. As we all were on that fateful Mara afternoon in the field of wonder. Independently as well. I started to be creative with my mind in observing the details of my, our counterparts across the globe. It’s the little things, the smallest of small memories that I cherish. And sometimes as selfish as it may sound, I don’t find it necessary to share all of my thoughts and memories. They are my memories…

Jambo Kenya.
It’s ironic for me… and maybe it will be for you too. As we were getting ready to board the lorry today and as part of the morning rush, which always included filling up our water bottles to the max, Charlotte reminded us that it was important to keep hydrated. It’s a hot day and we run our energy high, we should be drinking probably equivalent to 4 times the size of our bottles (I later realized how 4 was often not enough for me). Our water was even clorified, the best motivation to look for in defining clean. Today in the midst and excitement of the children I found myself trying to hold 5 or 6 children’s with two hands. So I had my water bottle tucked under my arm. Naturally because it’s my water bottle it started to leak, not drawing attention to it, but this one kid wiped the droplets off of me. A puzzled look crossed the kid’s face, replicating on my face. Then another kid uttered “clean water”. Puzzled I was no more. The taste of clean water was unfamiliar to them. They were grateful for those droplets I shunned. I started to pour water onto their hands, dumbfounded of what had just happened. Little things, you and I don’t realize until we’re out there. Water, I finally understand the depth of a droplet.
Jambo Kenya.
-- Journal Entry: August 3 2006

So I dared myself to read my journal again. It’s easier to read another’s account of Kenya but when it comes down to reading my own, I hesitate. This version of the world won’t let me recover (if at all possible) without falling behind. It was evident in the pursuit of post-secondary school. How could I be advocating the values of education when I abandoned it in the puzzlement of this foreign country. But maybe it’s partly explained in the simple words of Jo Polniaczek, “it’s a tough world out there. We’ve only just begun exploring, because all along we’ve been taught the chosen material.” It’s just too bad what developed institutions will have you believe as being “ready” for the world. Or maybe if somehow the term “it’s a small world” actually made me feel closer to home I wouldn’t let the “re-entering” overrule. It seems that my feelings and uncertainties have a higher power.

But it’s time now. It’s time to put up a stronger front. Just as you seem to have when you saw me about to enter the lorry. I can’t re-enter completely, I’m not about to let myself do so even if I could. And if anyone should ever think I will--then clearly they don’t understand the value and power of this trip--or maybe know me at all. Sometimes I try to fool myself, say it’s possible. I feel like I’ve lost myself and will never come to understanding who I am the longer I let my soul deplete in this strange mask, disguised as home, but I won’t be fooled. It’s time (until the potential drop of another failed dream and my feelings overrule again) to reunite with the memories of my journal… because in the hope of helping them, I have also used them. Maybe Giffy the Giraffe will forgive me.