From Bethany [My Twin]

So I usually do write my own original stuff on my blog, just for the record, even though the last 2 entries (and now this one) have been quoted from other people. But I was reading my friend Bethany's blog a minute ago and I came across the following entry. She and I went to high school together in Africa, and people often got us mixed up because we kinda look alike. I got used to answering to "Bethany," and she got used to answering to "Melissa"... anyway, here's what she wrote.


Reflections on l'Afrique de l'Ouest

Something about West Africa attaches itself to you; it holds on and never lets go. The sights, the sounds, even the smells, become ingrained in you, pulling you back. You often wonder how and why this continent gets in your blood; after all, first impressions of the Conakry airport in Guinea generally arouse a certain repulsion. Not only is everything brown because of layers upon layers of dirt, but the smell of Conakry is overwhelming, a combination of body odor, urine, and car exhaust. Inside the airport, everyone is packed together, like the cliche 'tuna in a can.' And that's meant that quite literally. You've barely room to put your boxes on the airport floor. But beyond first impressions, beyond intense crowdedness, beyond ugly smells are the lives of a people struggling to survive in third world countries.

There are people working hard day in and day out just to survive, plowing through entire mountain sides in 100 degree weather with a small hoe that consists of a two to three feet wooden handle and a small, round, steel blade. There are orphanages where children with such sweet smiles, so happy, so innocent, look up into your eyes and your heart breaks not knowing whether or not they'll end up as one more sad statistic lost in Africa. There are beggars on the sides of the street, poor beggars, beggars who plead with you to leave them just 100 francs. You begin to talk to people, to realize these people, these people who are some of the poorest in the world, somehow still have hope. They laugh. They sing. They dance. You discover their inside jokes, the constant bickering between the Baas and the Diallos, their plays on words. You see little children driving their homemade wire cars, playing a game of soccer in flip flops, dancing out in the first rain after the dry season. You listen at night to the far off sounds of drumming, knowing that somewhere out there, people are taking a break after their hard day of labor.

How, you might ask, can these people still find joy when their countries are in such turmoil? And why is it that all you can remember are the bright smiles of a proud people and the giggling of little children? Nothing really answers these questions; it is simply how it is. People hold on to whatever they can in order to survive life; somehow, you find a way to smile, to laugh, and then to cry when the time is right. Hope is still there for West Africa; it is not until that hope is gone that laughter will cease. Perhaps it's the determination of the people that draws you to this region.

Whatever it is, it holds onto you like nothing else. When you're gone away from West Africa, anything slightly related to the region brings thousands of memories to the forefront of your mind. You remember looking at the African sky, seeing thousands of stars in a cloudless sky. You remember the marketplaces, with bright, scattered colors and the noise of the people bartering overwhelming your senses. You remember the smell of dirt after the first rains. You remember shaking thousands of hands and going through millions of greetings before starting the 'real' conversations. You remember watching old taxis so beaten up you can't even know their original color was yellow. They are crammed full of people, even to the point of boys riding on the roof or holding on to the back. You remember a simpler life, a slower life, where time is not so important. It is these memories that draw you back, making you miss what you used to call home.

Africa gets in your blood; it never leaves.


Well put, Bethany.