“Well. You’re gonna wanna rethink your shoe wardrobe.”

This was my brother’s advice when I first asked him what I should do to prepare for my impending six-month sojourn to Africa. Not that there’s all that much one can say that could actually “prepare” one for Africa, but I confess I was expecting something more along the lines of, say, a discourse on the geo-political ramifications of the tribal social construct and the attendant challenges facing white, middle-class Americans as they work to stem the tide of the African AIDS pandemic. After all, this has been his work for the last almost-year and, well, he went to Dartmouth.

But I’m sitting in my parents’ living room in Massachusetts, where I’ve spent the last nearly two weeks with my family, and though it’s been months since that conversation - and we’ve by now talked about more than just replacing my Manolos with Merrells (yeah, like I really have Manolo’s…or Merrells) - the fact that I’m leaving for Africa tomorrow - and for six months! – still hasn’t really sunk in.

For starters, it’s cold as f**k here. Not that we don’t get cold in Colorado. But Colorado cold is bright, sharp, quick; it stings and sets you in motion. Massachusetts cold is much more insidious. It’s damp and heavy and settles in your bones so permanently that even when it’s warm – as it actually was for a few days here – it still feels cold. This is not weather conducive to managing fibromyalgia - that goofy, annoying pain disorder I live with that some of you have heard me talk about (and look! now you know how to spell it!). I haven’t slept the night through since I got here twelve days ago and I ache from the top of my head to the tips of my toes; the joints in my shoulders and hips swell, my knees stiffen, my skin even hurts. I always forget how hard it is to come back here. I mean, there’s always the challenge of returning to your childhood home no longer a child and having to relate to your family (your-family-that-you-love-and-cherish-more-than-frigging-life-itself-and-for-whom-you-would-lie-down-in-traffic-just-watch-me-but-that-every-now-and-then-you-wonder-if-you-could-trade-in-but-only-for-a-little-while-i-swear) as the familiar strangers you now are. But the weather, man! Jeeminy Christmas! It will be worse in Africa, I’m sure. But at least – I tell myself – at least there it will be warm.

Anyhoo, so off I go to Africa. Tomorrow. (or, y’know, last week by the time most of you read this). And it still doesn’t seem real. I’ve gotten all of my shots, sublet my apartment, and purchased and packed my six-month supply of tampons (oh you laugh…), but I still can’t say that I feel ready. I never watched the films my brother ended up suggesting or made it through any of the books (although I am now finally reading Alexandra Fuller’s Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight and it’s friggin’ brilliant). But, shortly before I left Colorado, I did have a minor panic attack where I started to worry that IHV was going to administer some kind of entrance exam before they let me de-plane, so I printed off the MSN Encarta online encyclopedic entry for Zambia and did a little cramming: Location: South Central Africa; Capital City: Lusaka; Official Language: English (though collectively there are more than 70 African languages spoken); Currency: the kwacha; Government: Republic, with an elected president limited to two five-year terms; Climate: “Ummm…kind of like Colorado… (beat) Uh…I think,” I told someone in an exhausted delirium a couple days before I left (and then nodded my head vigorously in an attempt to demonstrate my authority on the subject). “Kind of like Colorado…?!” While I had a vague recollection of a cursory mention of high elevation in the Encarta entry (most of Zambia is high plateau with elevations between 3,500 and 4,500 feet), I was - clearly - talking out my ass. (Incidentally, the climate - for those of you interested - is considered “pleasantly subtropical.” The high elevation moderates the otherwise more extreme temperatures endured by other parts of sub-Saharan Africa. Chris and Amy said the temperature hovered pretty consistently at 95-105 degrees in October and November - even at night - which they say are generally the hottest months; but Encarta claims January is the hottest month, so who knows what I should expect when I get there – oh, except rain. November to April is the rainy season, so there’ll definitely be a lot of rain).

I’ve been asked more than a few times if I’m scared. My answer, of course, is “Um, have you met me?” I’m terrified. But not of Africa. I don’t know enough to be scared of Africa. Outside of those few superficial facts detailed above (the currency, the climate, the capital city…), it remains a complete, dark mystery to me. Neither have I any clue what it is I’ll be doing when I get there (hopping from bush hospital to bush hospital with Chris and Amy? working for IHV in Lusaka as the in-country admin? training the office administrator in Malawi? some combination of the above?). Accordingly, I have no idea what it is I should fear. Sure, I worry a little about getting sick; and I worry a lot about violating social mores and inadvertently offending the people (and, consequently, embarrassing my brother and IHV). But most of what I fear has nothing to do with Africa and everything to do with me - I worry about the community I’m leaving behind, what I’ll miss out on by going, whether or not I’ll even be missed. And my biggest fear of all? My biggest fear is that I’ll return in six months (or seven, or however long I end up staying) unchanged. So, of course, I’ve tried to anticipate the ways in which I will – or at least hope to.

“Ah, don’t do that to yourself!” my friend Tory told me. “You’ll go, and it will change you – how can it not? – but never in the ways you’d imagine. And more than likely in ways you won’t see for months or even years after you come back. So don’t put that kind of pressure on yourself.” I laughed, then. Because Tory’s a new friend. He has no idea yet the kind of pressure I can put on myself.

It sounds silly, I’m sure. It is impossible to know what to expect and therefore impossible to plan for it. But I’ve never been good at operating without a plan. I’ve never been comfortable making choices or taking action where the outcome is unknown. Historically, I’ve been what they call in the investment industry “risk averse” - I may dream big, but I often “do” small (or at least safe); more often I don’t do at all – I get paralyzed by indecision, by my fear of the unknown. I try to anticipate the outcome and usually can’t so I remain stuck. But, like my good, noble, kind, wise dad always says, “You gotta sh*t or get off the pot.”

So, tomorrow (in a few scant hours, actually) when I board the plane for Africa, I will – metaphorically speaking – for once in my life, "get off the pot." I can't promise that I'll be diligent about it, but I hope to document as much as I can using this web page. Please feel free to leave comments here or email me directly. And keep me in your thoughts. I may think I don't know enough to be scared about anything in Africa, but I'm sure by day three I'll be curled in a fetal ball begging Chris and Amy to send me home!