When I arrived in Africa it happened to be the first time that I had ever been out of the country. I was a citizen of America, which is in case you did not know what you call the United States of America, that is if you don't know two shits about the rest of the world. Sure I had been to Canada before, but I lived in Michigan so I was already half Canadian anyways, but at this point I think a Canadian is about as different from a Michigander as a Michigander is from a Texan anyways. Yeah you can bring up all the things that are better about Canada like socialized health care and such, but I'm talking about culture here. In Michigan we have the whole hockey thing, and we know how to deal with snow, so according to me that is half Canadian. If anyone would like to defend an independent Canadian culture, you have my ear.
The point is I went into this experience almost completely untraveled. Most of the people I was in training with knew to some extent what the hell they were getting into but I was completely clueless. I landed in Douala airport completely unprepared for what awaited me. I remember looking out the airplane window during the descent into Cameroon and thinking that this was it. I had actually escaped my life as it was and ran away to join the Peace Corps. I turned to the person sitting next to me, but at that point after only a few days of knowing one another, it wasn’t the connection I was longing for. It wasn’t the confirmation of what was actually happening. It was not the affirmation of the fear, the apprehension, and the excitement I was feeling. I said, “I guess we actually did it.” Perhaps it was the fatigue after the marathon of traveling that was the trip to Africa, perhaps it was simply that whoever it was didn't really understand what I was trying to say, but they didn't respond.
The last night that I spent at home seemed like a “best of” as far as everyone I knew went. Not to say that it actually was, but everyone that I really loved, and was able to make it there was there. Hell even my grandma made it out for the beginning of the night. I stayed out entirely too late to get on a plane early the next day, but I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep in any case. I remember the feeling the coolness in the beginning of a Michigan autumn I would never get to see as I was saying my goodbyes after dark. I hugged everyone and gave a nonchalant “see you in a few years” to everyone and got a ride home because I knew beforehand I would have a few too many.
After just a few hours of sleep I got a ride to the airport from my parents. Both of them where obviously more than little apprehensive to see me go. They prepared coffee and warmed up the car in earnest. As we traveled the route away from my childhood home the roads became less and less familiar, as I became more and more aware of the fact that I wouldn’t see them again for years.
At the airport, my father found a parking spot and we entered the terminal, all of us solemnly and silently awaiting the dreaded moment that we would part. I was no seasoned traveler, and my nervousness had no less to do with the fact that I was getting on an airplane than it was that I was saying goodbye to Michigan, to my parents, and to everything I had known for 24 years for the last time. I will never forget the sight of my parents standing there side by side as I snaked back and forth through the line for security anxiously awaiting the moment I would wave goodbye as I took off my shoes to go through the metal detector. Before I left my father hugged me and said “we are proud of you,” I don't know if its just mid-western thing, but I had never heard him say that before. Throughout my Peace Corps experience I will always try to live up to that esteem.
