Settling

Sometimes I catch myself beginning to really settle in here. I realize I'm the only American in a conversation. I realize every person in a conversation is speaking with a different accent. I realize that we are not, in fact, swaying to the rhythm of the song- we are swaying with the rhythm of the ship. I don't find it strange at all that we have a curfew or have to swipe in and out as we leave our home. I find myself absentmindedly maneuvering the obstacle course of the dock- the cement slabs, random debris, broken pipelines, piles of random concrete, bags of rice piled six feet high, and not to mention the kamikaze scooters and trucks. I realize you may walk out of your room alone, but you are guaranteed to quickly find somebody to walk, eat, or sit with- no planning needed.

I wonder if anybody ever adjusts completely, though. The Africa Mercy is a microcosm, but it's not self-sustaining. We're supported worldwide by friends, families, churches, and other benefactors. I don't think it would continue without vital lines to the rest of the world; those vital lines simply must be us, the crew itself. We send letters, emails, and blogs to draw people into our experiences, an attempt to make them relatable. I imagine in our quieter moments, we all reflect in some way on the greater purpose of being here. How we relate to the rest of the world. We've all come from those places, and, I suppose, we all have to go back. Whether it's in ten years, ten months, ten weeks, or ten days. We're here and we all go back.

Maybe eventually the putrid smell of the water and humidity of the air won't hit me quite so forcefully when I walk onto the gangplank. Maybe I'll stop tripping over the interior thresholds. But I hope my eyes stay wide open.