Twenty five months, two years and one month, 731 days, 17,544 hours. However
you want to express it, my service was ending. VSO: I had wanted to do it for
years and years, and now I had. Still I wasn't feeling happy, upset,
or anything really. Time to move on, but it all feels so natural, this
is nothing new, and what were the last two years about?
Ali and I were up early to get to the airport for my flight to the UK. 05:00
can be such a cruel time to check in. Addis had changed in two years, the
ring road was fully operational. The services at Bole airport had increased
in scope and number. We were now able to sit and sip orange juices (for
an extortionate price) in the terminal building. I had the satisfaction
of knowing that there was a little present waiting for her once she returned
to Mekelle. In her room was a bottle of imported wine, hopefully enough
money to cover any debts that I left behind, and my Zicos. In fact, it
was more than the Zicos, there was also a small bottle of kerosene and
some matches. For the fashion slackers (or the fashionable), Zicos are the
name of the flip-flops that I had been wearing for the last two years.
They were not in good shape, Jon swore that they wouldn't last. Well, their
foul, offensive form did survive to the chagrin of Ali and many visitors.
There was some kind of active party amongst the female VSOs to pour
hate at the footwear of the men in the house. My Zicos understandably
being a focal point of this hatred. Now that I am gone I doubt that she
will actually have the courage to burn them like she has always threatened.
Ali and I said our goodbyes. Throughout the time I have built up strong,
trusting relationships with the VSOs in Mekelle, but none more so than
Ali. It was good to have her see me off.
I had a surprise encounter at the check-in desk. One of Mulu's relatives
works for British Airways. I was asked where I wanted to sit and I said
that I would like a window seat if it was available. The seat number I
had was changed and I went up and went into the departure lounge. Shortly
after a new, printed ticket was given to me by Mulu's relative. Upgraded.
A nice seat, better films, and better food. Well, an occasional perk
is no bad thing for being a VSO. That was a trouble though - was I still
a VSO? I had decided that I was a VSO until the VSO luggage tag - the,
for me, almost mystical symbol of being a volunteer had been removed from my luggage
case. It still identified me as a volunteer, and I was still on 'volunteer
time'.
In the flight I took time to explore how I was feeling some more. I noticed
that I was now quite nervous, again not happy or sad but nervous. The
'finality' of the flight started to sink in. I do not intend to return
for a couple of years - that's as long as my placement itself and I
returned to the UK in that time. I found myself wishing more that I had
not been back to the UK during my placement. It would be nice to have
the full experience of reverse culture shock. I don't regret the three
trips I made, one to see Sarah, and the others to see my dad when I thought
that they might be the last. However, it was an aspect of VSO that I
had missed out on. But then, in many ways I hadn't been quite the full
VSO. I never did learn enough of the language, and I could have made
more effort to integrate with the local community. But did this make the
experience worth any less? Could I really say that I didn't know where
was more home? These and other unanswered questions were
drifting around my head while I relaxed into my big comfy aeroplane seat.
This flight, like the one that first brought me to Ethiopia, stopped
in Alexandria. I could see the same sand coloured bunkers and tried to
imagine the snow I had been told about in England. Giarda decided to
make a final attack. 'Good luck' I thought, little did it know the
packets of Tinidazole already in my luggage to take care of this
unwanted guest once I arrived in the UK.
Sand where there would
be grass in the UK. I was still staring at it when the aeroplane
lifted itself into the air for the final leg of the journey. I have
been thinking of the things that I would miss most about leaving
Ethiopia and no longer being a VSO. It was like no longer being
a student - it was a 'thing' that I liked 'being'. It's like the
saying that you're only as good as your last match. You're only
a VSO while you're a VSO. That's not quite true: VSO stays in
contact with you and you can do things for them. I already have
something planned that might be useful for them. I knew that I
would also miss the other VSOs. They're
something special. Amazing in fact. The good things about meeting
another VSO are: first you know that they are going to be similar
to you in many of the important ways, and you also know that they
are going to be different to you in many of the interesting ways.
It's great. I was also going to miss the students, and people like
Tsega. People I had built up a real friendship with. One thing
about this could be counted as unsual, and regrettable. There wasn't
anything 'Ethiopian' about what I was missing. There are Ethiopian
things that I will miss, but it's all about people, habesha and
ferenj alike. Here are some of the little things that I realised I would
miss: Orion, the constellation sleeps on his side, along with the
moon with the chunk cut out of the wrong bit; Sparks from welders
can be seen as they work into the night, sometimes giving you the
impression that storms will be coming in; Cheap chalk is shaped
like a joint of marijuana; Pigeons can make noises just like
generators; Voltage regulators squeak, sigh, and groan while
trying to keep things at 220; I would take tibs over something
like a McDonalds, no question - it was fast, tasty, and even had
enjera with it; Predictable weather was also nice along with a
regular day time appearance by the moon. For all of the things that
I can identify, there must be countless things that are now just
natural and normal to me.
London was visible from the window, neat looking houses surrounded
by a sea of grey but no snow in sight. The plane landed, and I
headed to pick up my luggage. As the luggage rounded the carousel,
I could see it was missing something. Instead of the white luggage
tag with the green and blue VSO logo, only the string remained threaded
through a golden eye. I was home, and no longer a VSO.