Saying Goodbye

Writing about leaving here, and leaving here, is among the hardest things I have had to do in a while. Leaving feels like shutting the door on such a meaningful experience that has been my day in and day out life, something that has felt real and raw and hot and sticky, and starting next week will be a sharp memory that fades with time. It’ll never be as meaningful as it is right now. These friends will never be my friends like they are right now. This place will never hold as much significance, such centrality to my life. Soon, all of this meaning just ceases to exist–or at least changes, tremendously. 

As has been apparent throughout these blog posts, especially in the last month and a half, this experience has been unlike anything I could ever have imagined. I have laughed more than ever, cried only a little, experienced sights and experiences I could never have envisioned, made wonderful friends, found reserves of strength I didn’t know I had, learned some of a new language, and mostly had, frankly, a shitload of fun. Leaving this semester feels like leaving a college experience I don’t normally have, like leaving behind a country I have found in equal parts challenging and comforting, like leaving friends who won’t be in my life in quite this way ever again. 

And, I fear I’ve said all of this before, my joy and gratitude a throughline through the words I’ve written this semester in the same way that my vague discomfort as a teacher and live-in-nanny and kayak-guide-adajcent-person and equally strong love of that beautiful valley rang through my writing about Chile. I am leaving this semester, as my friend Neil says, with a peaceful heart. I have gone through this semester with an immense amount of gratitude, and I feel I’ve shared it well here.

So what is there left to say? Perhaps some lists are in order. Whenever I leave a period of life, there are certain questions I want to answer: What will I miss about this place? What did I learn? What am I taking with me?

There are so many things I will miss from this place. Specific things, like flaky chapati, motorcycle rides, and early morning game drives. I will miss the language, the lilting laughter around every corn, my teachers and their “hamna shida” attitudes, the sights of the savannah, and yes, even the hot ocean. I will miss the early morning thunderstorms, the big skies, the brightly-colored fish. I will miss being somewhere where everyone is welcoming, where a nod and 50 cents gets you a ride on a motorcycle. I will miss the zany and cheap accommodations. Late nights spent lying on the floor listening to music loudly. I will miss a feeling of low consequences. Mostly, though, I will miss the sense that I am doing something good and right with my young life, that I am collecting memories and people like seashells and flinging them far out into the deep seas of my future. Often in my so-called “regular” life I am trapped in the feeling at the end of the day that that day was wasted, that I did nothing spectacular or joyful or surprising, that the day added nothing to the trajectory of a richly-lived life. Here, as Neil also said, every day has felt meaningful, even the ones that are spent working on silly projects or trapped on hot buses. Every day feels meaningful because this adventure has such significance, as one of the big decisions one makes with their young life that can’t help but create gratitude and wonder for every day, even on the bad ones, and for this life, even in the hard moments. I will miss this time in which, as Griffin said recently, we did it all right, grabbing this experience and its many opportunities by the horns and not wasting a single one. 

This semester I learned the importance of the people you surround yourself with on an adventure like this one, especially one with very little alone time. In every picture and memory I love from this place, there are the people of my present life, cluttering up the screen. I feel I’ve been over this one again and again, but the six people I’ve surrounded myself with most closely here have been such incredibly special parts of this experience, so much so that it doesn’t really matter what happens in our shared lives next, because they’ll always be the people who knew me best in this incredibly special place and time. Maybe I am learning the lesson of the parallel arrow tattoo. 

We are an eclectic bunch that found each other in this wild new experience, a group that cooks good food for each other, makes decisions with shocking ease, and loves a good game or a dance party. We are a group that never would have found each other in any other setting, but people I couldn’t be more grateful to have ended up in this country. I’ve told them all this before, but I’ll immortalize it here anyways. Txuxa, I will miss for the long conversations that unearthed truths I didn’t know about myself, for our co-parenting of the group, grocery shopping, and the dancing. Neil I will miss for the shared bottles of wine, long conversations about our loved ones (sensing a theme?), the shared instigating, the love of love.  Griffin I will miss for our homestay playdates, his hilarious misunderstandings, the many rounds of Spy, the enthusiasm for this experience, for calling me out on my bullshit. Olivia I will miss for the constant shared experiences, for being a spectacular roommate, for always keeping it real. Sam I will miss for many reasons–the pillow talk most of all, the unexpected joy of a new friendship that feels old, the big truths, the slow runs. Ryan, who I haven’t spent more than 18 hours apart from for the last month and a half, I will miss for the unexpected quiet companionship, all of the time on Seawolf, all of the immense help with my independent study project, and for pushing back against my ideas and making me laugh every day. 

I learned other things, too. I learned that there’s nothing worse than being hungover on a Tanzanian intercity bus. I learned that sometimes you need to be kicked off the diving board to learn to swim. I learned that it’s okay to try again. I learned that any bush could be hiding a lion. I learned that I’m stronger, but also brattier, than I knew. I learned what a mango is supposed to taste like. I learned how to sleep in, the power of a good sleep mask. 

I learned that nothing is a rush– hurry is a western concept and not much else. I learned the power of “hamna shida”, of no problems, no worries, it all works itself out. I learned that I should drink more tea, that tea time is a beautiful thing. I learned how much I need movement in my life, and how hard it is for me to lose my sense of agency.  I learned how much I love the food of home. 

I learned about lions and land use, too, but mostly I learned some inner truths that beat in your chest long after you say goodbye to a place. And I almost learned how to do a backflip. 

What will I take from this place? All of the lessons. The idea that every day you should be delighted, surprised, and curious about something. Some really good news songs. The knowledge that I need more alone time than I thought. A lot of thoughts about packing I hope I never forget—3 months is a long time, bring the damn moisturizer. I’m taking with me the deep knowledge that home can be anywhere. That sometimes people are the place. That time for thought is one of the most valuable things you can give yourself. That I don’t need as much sleep as I thought. That I can do hard things, even when I am too hot. A knowledge that I can make my own peace. A desire to spend my time intentionally. A love of fitting everything I have on my back. 

I’m taking with me the knowledge that I can do hard things, a thirst for more experiences with transcendent highs and lows– a desire to reject a life without these highs and lows, to reject a life lived in the unsatisfactory middle. A greediness for life experiences, to do more things that make me feel this way. I am taking with me the knowledge that life is full, that I am a lucky, lucky person, that gratitude is a thread you should always keep close. I am taking memories I don’t even know I have yet, which will roll around in my brain forever. I am taking stories; I am taking a few heart-shaped rocks for my mom. Mostly I am taking a deep sense of peace, a soft spot for this pinpoint on the globe, and the hope that I will live through many more experiences that make me feel this way, many more people who light up my life, and many more places that, inexplicably and unexpectedly, become home. 

Thank you, Tanzania. I'll never forget your big skies, charismatic megafauna, and warm hearted people. Asante sana sana sana.