Americans Walk Fast (and do other ridiculous things)

I’ve been hanging out with a bunch of Americans, and I miss Tanzania. The only times you would hear "God Bless you" so many times in a day from Americans is if you were having a sneezing fit. I miss the interesting habits like keeping guinea pigs as garbage disposals and pigeons as decorations for the house. And the way everyone holds up their fingers and says “this many” instead of voicing the number of eggs he wants or wives he has. I miss the kids wondering over the weird material growing on my head (nothing gross, just my hair), and counting my toes to make sure I had the same number as them.

I may have taught them how to make a solar purifier, but they taught me the fine art of carrying things on my head. I may have shown them how to make a simple compost, but they taught me the importance of the kanga... it’s a skirt, now it’s a shawl, now it’s a diaper, now it’s a backpack!

And Americans walk fast. They don’t pick their noses in public. They don't greet everyone they meet, spending an hour inquiring about the health of each family member. You can’t judge someone’s gender based on whether they’re wearing pants or skirts. They don’t intersperse a lot of noises in their speech, and they tend to look at you funny if you do.

I’m a stranger to my own culture. But it’s ok. I just have to learn to walk all over again.

Tangles

A sweet British lady I met on the plane nearly choked on her ginger ale when I told her I was en route from Tanzania straight to Honduras. She had just been explaining that she felt uncomfortable anywhere outside of London, and looked at me as if I had just told her I eat children. She was one of many interesting characters I met on the journey—from the Caucasian girl decked out in full Masai garb, to the cheerful young couple from Benin who gave me their CD about Aloe Vera products and wanted me to go into the business with them, to the lady who yelled at me in Arabic when I asked her to get up so I could maneuver into my seat on the plane.

The highlight of the trip was definitely the pretzels on the plane to Nairobi. Just kidding, Mom, the highlight was getting to see you in Miami (but the pretzels were delicious)! Who else’s mom would fly all the way from Alaska to Miami to see her daughter for 2 hours in the airport (and bring homemade rhubarb squares)? She deserves a prize or something. The lowlight of the trip was not getting to see my poor brother and sister-in-law who waited for me at the London airport for several hours two days in a row with homemade pancakes. Sorry!

What looks like Miami, smells like Miami and sounds like Miami? It’s downtown San Pedro Sula, Honduras. I have to say I was a bit disappointed. They have all the American chains one could possibly imagine. I looked for any sign that it was not Miami, so that I could rest easy I hadn’t been duped. I saw a guy on a bike holding on to the rear fender of a pickup to catch a ride, and decided it would have to do as proof.

Tegucigalpa, the capital of Honduras, looks a bit more… authentic. One glance and you know you’re not in the states with the colorful cement buildings stacked on the hillsides.

Now I’ve time warped back to being a new awkward exchange student at school. I live with a host family who pack my tunafish sandwiches in a lunchbox and make sure I’m up on time, do my homework and take an umbrella. I was nervous but luckily on my first day of school I made some friends, the teachers were nice, and nobody made fun of me. I catch myself before sharing any details of my previous life that would make others brand me as a weirdo. I never expected this type of routine to be a part of my life again after high school. I luckily didn’t get any zits or embarrass myself in front of cute boys.

The language is tough because nobody speaks the dialect that has taken up residence in my head, which is a mix of Spanish and Swahili, spiced with Kihehe and a pinch of Portuguese. I can understand most everything, but what tries to come out of my mouth is completely unintelligible to anyone.

My host parents are cool, as are my host brother, host Rottweiler/Dalmatian, and host parrots. It’s a different world in this affluent pocket of Honduras. Every day in training the last two years of my life swirl through my head and I come to new conclusions about them.