Kwenu ni Wapi?

So I've traded my flip-flops for rain boots, 5-course dinners for instant oatmeal, steamy hot showers with luxurious toiletries for a bucket and a bar of orange dish soap, remote controlled air condition for the bone chilling gusts of wind that blow through my shutters at night, and the companionship of my parents for the endless squeaking of thieving mice.

I am home. Home sweet home Nyololo. The past couple of times I've left my village and returned, the now familiar 10 km stretch of pot-holed hills has felt like the road home. The sight of my house as I round the bend and the shouts of "Kamwene!" ease my tiredness after the journey and I always sleep great the first night back in my own bed. I can't say I had the same feelings on this most recent return trip. In the 10 days I was gone, intense rains had washed out the road to the point i thought a small kayak may be a better means of transport than the rusty pieces of welded metal Alex drove. Eventually we reached my home where I discovered the rainstorm had found it's way inside my house and my living room was covered in a couple centimeters of water. To go to the bathroom I had do wade through ankle deep mud. Rats had discovered a bar of soap in my clothes box and chewed their way through. Ants, seeking shelter from the inhospitable conditions outside were crawling through my floor. yet these weren't the things that upset me. As I snuggled into my new leopard print flannel sheets that still smelled like an American department store I realized that the sadness I felt was because the last time I traveled that road, cooked in that kitchen, or slept in this bedroom, my parents had been right there beside me. Now they were gone and my life had returned to that of a typical Peace Corps Volunteer only at this moment I had an all too intense awareness of how far away those I love really are.

I was so happy to have my parents here and show them around my new home. The conversations, laughter, counsel and hugs will stay with me until the next time I'm able to see them. While traveling, I was even able to catch up with a good number of friends via technology usually absent from my life. The long dormant social side of me thrived and wrestling it back into the suitcase in the corner that holds my 'city clothes' will be no easy task. But it was worth it for the memories of my villagers giving my mom her first kitenge, orphan Serena crawling all over my dad's lap, playing banana grams on a beach in Zanzibar, long talks of 'the future' over gin and tonics on a porch, or watching the World Cricket Championship at the best Indian restaurant in Dar. And I realized that after my parents left for the airport, I cried not because I wanted to board that plane with them, but because they were no longer here. My homesickness isn't a longing to return home. It's a realization that my home is along way from a lot of people I care about. In the same way, I believe I'll experience homesickness for Nyololo when life carries me elsewhere. Here is my home for the next 18 months. I now feel confident it's where i'm supposed to be even if I haven't discovered all the details why Nyololo is home sweet home. Nyololo is one of many homes I'm sure to have in the coming years but I know none of them will be able to compare to the home I grew up in with the two most loving parents any girl could ask for...