Back from the Heart Of Darkness

Dear Mr. Stanley,
First I want to thank you for the title of your book, that I stole for this post's title.
Next, perhaps I should make a comment about the Congo you explored and described a long time ago, before you were dead.

It's quite simple: I can't. I can't formulate an opinion about that too big country. There were days during those three weeks where I dreamt I was back home. I would cry alone in a corner and tell no one, because I knew it would scandalise them. I was in fucking Africa, having a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I was shown some of the most miserable people on this earth, I had to be there and show compassion. Never ending compassion and support. I should have thanked the heavens for my lucky situation. And I didn't feel like it.
But they couldn't understand. Understand that to feel okay I need to be almost invisible. Watch and listen in without being the centre of the attention.
Something that is quite impossible in a country full of black people, especially if you're white. Especially if you're white foreigner. Especially if you're a young white foreigner.

There were moments I wanted to be alone that much that I snarled at those guys. Not nice. And I didn't give a damn.

And then there were those other moments, mostly on the road, when you realise the beauty of the place, the kindness of the people. Moments that made up almost all of the bad experiences.

I know I didn't live up to the experience and probably was unworthy of it. But I'm tellin' no one except y'all. Or I'll be that spoiled sociopath, psychopath, that sorry excuse for a human being.

I wonder why I was born a human, I differ so much from most of them that I really am a sorry excuse for a human being. But then again everyone differs so much from the others. Guess we're all sorry excuses for human beings.

Sayin' my goodbyes

I don't exactly know who I'm trying to fool here, but I'd like to wish a nice three weeks to those who read this blog. I'm leaving for Africa, the Congo to be more precise.

It's not something I particularly like, the whole ruckus that comes with departure on holidays. Even if you're only gone for the weekend, it's such a hassle, so tiresome that I often ask myself if it's worth it. Then again, if it only depended on me I probably would spend all summer at home; I'm the home sweet home kind. Or the lazy kind. Or I simply don't like ruckus, hassle and stress.

Leaving for Africa is even worse than normal. Kind of obvious; if you forget something there won't be much chance you'll find a department store once you're in the bush. And trust me, the bush is where I'll be. 500 km south of Kinshasa, Lukunga is the name of the lost village. I'm there for humanitarian action. Not something I would do if my dad wasn't the organisation's co-founder.

...I'm scared.

Scared of the heat, the people, the group I'm going with, the food, the culture, the culture shock.

Scared shitless.

On the bright side, I'm now taking care of the organisation's blog. I'll take traveller's notes to post them there and I'll try to write some blogs for here as well. Who knows, perhaps culture shock is inspiring?

What would normal people do?

Ever had an hour to lose? I like playing a game I call 'WWNPD' at those moments. What Would Normal People Do. Normal people mostly end up having coffee. Or reading, or shopping, if they're in the city.

I like playing WWNPD at the train station. Plenty of people who have time there. Most of them who have time to lose before their train listen to music, or phone people, or sleep on the bench. I like playing WWNPD there because it feels like I'm normal. I'm waiting, I check my watch, I listen to music, I text and look around, just like everyone.

The Worst Place Ever to play what would normal people do (for me) is a marriage. You know at a marriage everyone is always talking to everyone? Small talk, business talk, oh-my-god-they-look-gorgeous-together talk.

Well, I don't.

I am extremely shy. I don't talk, I never initiate a conversation and if you try to have one with me when I'm stressed you might as well stop before you even start because you'll get nothing out of me.

When you sit alone, dressed to the nines at a wedding, lookin' around like you're lost or reading a book, coming over as the family's autist, you look pathetic. And if you start playing WWNPD, you feel pathetic and are pathetic.

I like to tell myself I'm a proud person who doesn't give a fuck about fitting in, but truth is I do. Well, I don't want to fit in, I want to disappear in the crowd. I want to be that kid you see everywhere, on the street, on the Tube, at the train station or in a store, the kid you remember vaguely from somewhere but every time you see her you forget her after your next blink.

I once wrote a whole text text about becoming just that. It's in French, and I actually had the nerve to recite it in front of 50 strangers. The audio was recorded, and those who understand are welcome to listen.

Notice the speed at which I say that text? I tend to do that when nervous. I forget to coordinate my breathing and my speech and end up speaking way too fast to get to the end of the sentence to breathe. A bit like when I write too long sentences, except there is no backspace in speech. You can only lose your face. (Perdre la face like the French say -- I love literal translations)





But in the end none of that matters, because humans tend to forget strangers when they are ordinary. Well, most humans. The kind that doesn't look around and doesn't play What Would Normal People Do. The Normal kind.

In the end, the only thing that matters is that "Time you enjoy wasting isn't wasted time." --  Betrand Russell.