It was a little over two years since I'd touched the ground stateside. The plan was to meet up with a Peace Corps buddy after closing up our respective loose ends, and snake our way through the safer bits of West Africa to some place cheaper to fly home through (avoiding a painful connection in Paris).
The trip was edgy from the start ...
I'd been dodging sketchy expats in Lome (Togo), a crazy prostitute fight at the hotel's beachside bar in Busua (Ghana), and a hilariously horrid attempt at convincing some PCVs in Tamale (Northern Ghana) that we were current and not former Peace Corps volunteers (so we could crash in their guest house).
I'm not sure why but I was starting to take more interest in what was happening at home. In retrospect I think I was beginning to loosen up my homesickness guard, which had been up for so long. I was texting my brother in law for college football scores, emailing old friends, etc.
I don't think I really noticed this at the time.
Along the way my traveling partner, Brendan, woke up with stomach movements that were literally shaking the bed up by the Burkina Faso border. It sounded like a chainsaw starting in our room, and worse from the bathroom down the concrete hall. How he made it through an epicly slow, hot, and painful minibus ride from the Burkina border to the capital (Ouagadougou) still amazes me.
After crossing Burkina Faso (by ancient train, a dilapidated 4x4, and walking when the road became impassible) to see some pretty amazing waterfalls and present a sacrifice (bloody chickens) to some "sacred" catfish, we were back in the capital staying at a large guesthouse run by ancient french nuns. I loathed leaving the compound because there was a gang of taxi drivers and "guides" waiting to heckle me into paying for their "services".
People we thought would help out in Ouaga, were lame. It seemed like we were getting picked on for being white everywhere we went in Burkina, getting chased out of a market by dudes yelling "racists" in Francophone West Africa is a bit discomforting.
I snuck off alone one afternoon to see what my options were at a travel agency, getting home from these far flung places requires a bit of planning. Either I was done with West Africa or it was done with me.
I went to an exhilarating, if long, mass at the Cathedral. It was there I made up my mind, I was coming home. That night I told Brendan I was done, which he was remarkably cool with. He convinced me to keep going on to Niger. We had plans to meet up with a couple of friends and go up north into the Sarhara. We made arrangements and left the following morning.
What followed was an incredible time ...
Niger, hell even the bus ride there, was like a breath of fresh air. After our horribly lame experience in Burkina I almost kissed the ground at the border. Niamey was awesome, and our trek out to the Sahara was legendary. Meeting new friends, drinking in experiences, and pushing my boundaries.
I think of it often.
We went to the bar that last night and had one of those only-in-Africa nights ... beers flowing and food bought off vendors heads while listening to Afro-pop under the cover of a starlight sky. I gave what I had left of value and not on my back to Brook and Ethan who were returning to Benin for their second year before dropping them off at the bus depot on my way to the airport at 2am.
What I am most thankful for is that I was able to come home on my own terms, I didn't leave a broken man as I'd seen so many others. Oddly, this I owe to the fact I knew I was done.
It means a lot I was able to leave a place that meant so much to me on a high note. I only hope others are so lucky.
