Day 9 at CCS. Homesickness creeps up on me daily. Emerging from its constant place in the back of my mind, it comes with the smell of coffee, a CNN news report, a familiar shampoo. I think of the breakfasts I crave, the people I want to hug, the comfort and ease of the States. We leave the home base to forget we're not actually home, and we wash our hands constantly to erase the dirt of children that cling and beg. The tears are close for me, recent for others. We pass by miles of poverty every morning, and back again every afternoon, and feel ungrateful for wanting ore. Would you rather be happy be happy in Tanzania, or unhappy living in America? Our experience here differs from the other volunteers. As a group, we talk about the tints we I'll do when we get home, but for us, the youngest no less, there's no end date, no bath or candles or chocolate to look forward to. Our time in third world countries stretches out live a never ending road from poor village to poor village, with only dirt speed bumps to mark the passage of time. We long for people who understand, for our parents, old memories becoming more real and vibrant, and dreams more important. I wish mealtimes would last longer, and wish sleep longer too, and I wish, I wish, I wish. I day dream on long car rides, and I they to tune out the radio played at high volume, and the voices of sleazy men trying to sell me bracelets. I watched blacksmiths crouched over tiny fires, making traditional spears. Their arms, with veins like attacking vines, pump the bellows hour after hour, day in and out. We've hit a wall, a friend says.
When the summer's ceased its gleaming,
When the corn is past its prime,
When adventure's lost its meaning,
I'll be homeward bound in time.
-Martha Keen
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