Before I stepped off the plane in Johannesburg two years and one month and one week ago, I had
never been to Africa.
I had never been without electricity for more than two
days at a time. I had never carried a bucket of water on my head. Lived in a
house by myself. Used a pit latrine. Bought a banana. Eaten rice and beans with
my hands.
I had never opened the door to step outside and greet
the sunrise first thing every morning. I had never carried on a conversation about
gender equality in Portuguese. Stood in front of fifty teenagers for 45
minutes, hundreds of times, with all their attention on me. Had fleas dug out
of my foot.
Never craved pesto for 6 months straight. Started my own sports team. Felt more down. Ate rat meat. Gone to bed at 8:00 when I wasn’t
sick. Stuck out so much. Washed an entire load of laundry by hand. Cooked something
besides burgers or marshmallows over charcoal.
I had never tasted a cornmeal much patty.
And now, I have consumed approximately 428 of them.
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