I have never experienced anything this drastic. However, there are days you just go to your room and shut the door, and pretend that Africa is not out side that closed door.
"I didn't give a damn how many French government workers stared at me as I dragged my blue plaid rice bag up to the counter and set my moto helmet down loudly on the shiny white formica, next to an arrangement of roses. I needed a vacuum zone. A place where Africa didn't exist.
I arrived on Friday afternoon. During the weekend, I gave my bed ten minute periods of rest when I left it to shower or
pee or open the door for pizza. That was it. The rest of the
time, I hugged that bed, trying to salvage my nerve endings
in an atmosphere of clean and comfort and blankets. With the
air-conditioning on high, I piled blankets on me and assumed
the fetal position. I pretended I had checked into a ski lodge in
Colorado.
From my side, I looked at the phone. The thought of dialing all the access numbers made my hands tired. I didn't call
home. What would 1 say? "Hey, Mom and Dad...how's it going? I just about lost my shit today." What could they do? And I
didn't want to hear about gardening or complaints about finding
parking at the mall. Sometimes when I talked with people in
America, I could feel my soul trying to stuff itself into the coils
of the phone cord to escape, leaving me alone, a carcass."
(Last Moon Dancing. Monique Maria Schmidt. Former Peace Corps Worker in Benin)
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