I touched down at Arusha airport sleep deprived, dusty, slightly emotional, annoyingly hyperactive and full of pre-conceived ideas about how my life would look in Africa.
As an avid daydreamer I had no trouble creating a parallel universe during my months of preparations. Hours of working and studying were busily spent cultivating a world in which all things African took on a decisively romantic tone. Dusty, potholed desert lanes lined with caricatured mud huts and donkeys were just the beginning – in fact it was the anticipated hardships and lack of luxury that gave these delusions such an exotic feel. I was loving it.
There was definitely something to the idea that not only would this drastic shift in lifestyle be a much needed change of pace – but that I would adapt seamlessly and give up any and all preconceived ideas of what I needed to keep sane. I would become a true blue African. Duh
So you can imagine my surprise when, definitely not according to the plan, I began to replace those old, deeply embedded personal rituals in favour of some very unexpected, slightly neurotic habits.
Having grown up on a small island where shoes were an unwelcome imposition on visiting the mainland, I had every intention of nurturing my love of living barefoot in Africa. I had planned in detail the development of a very ‘I live in nature’ look - complete with well-worn soles that pedicurists would reel at. Apparently not so. There’s barely a moment (including mid-shower) when my toes aren’t wrapped securely around my thongs and midnight loo runs are painfully held up by tentative foot searching beneath the bed. Unfortunately the pedicurists still wouldn’t be impressed, as this new habit hasn’t necessarily helped my talent for toe stubbing.
As anticipated, there are some habits you can’t possibly maintain when showers come in the form of kettles and buckets. Stemming from a well fostered, if slightly obsessive hatred of greasy hair, my every-second-day hair wash regime has quickly been replaced by an only-if-the-weather-is-right-and-I-can’t-possibly-use-any-more-talcum-powder attitude. It may seem logical to others that there’s nothing remotely romantic about unclean hair but for this particular deluded soul it’s been a rude awakening. On the upside, it’s doing wonders for that ‘all natural’ look I was going for.
Some habits are a little less savoury than others. Although I’m growing a deep respect and appreciation for the compost loos, there are aspects to their function that I would rather not have known about. I hate rats. In fact vermin of any kind are no friend of mine. So when Glen, ever so pleasantly, regaled me with his tales of sanitary adventure – I was not impressed. It appears that the favourite cuisine of our local furry friends is, in fact, human compost - a process they like to contribute to - right beneath your backside. And of course, here developed my newest, and least enjoyable ritual of peering down to check for hungry rats before doing my business. I’d like to set your minds at ease and say I haven’t been blessed by such an encounter but last night proved fateful and I’ve been holding my bladder ever since.
Finally there are the illogical habits that, contrary to all daydreaming, have developed out of thin air. For 21 years I have stood firmly by my philosophy that making the bed is not only pointless but in fact counter-productive. I’ve successfully maintained this argument through the family home, boarding school, two studio apartments and a share-house. I’ve even been known to attempt, unsuccessfully, to recruit friends and relatives. And yet here I am, nurturing a bed making skill that military commanders would be envious of – hardly a typical wild, natural woman’s talent. Of course, I must apologise to my parents for not fostering this particular obsession earlier in life. Pole
And so, only three weeks in and I’ve learnt the most shocking lesson of all. It’s the small things that make the experience more real and diverse than even the most talented daydreamers, such as myself, could ever have anticipated. Those months spent cultivating the volunteer’s version of never-never land were a wonderful lead-up to my arrival.
But the truth is that reality trumps fantasy every time.
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