Just a week ago I was tracking lions in rural Zimbabwe. Now I'm in New York City. For those who say time machines don't exist; you're wrong. It's called an airplane.
I lost track of the total travel hours but between a five hour drive to the South African border, four hours to Johannesburg, train travel, wait times, eight hours to Qatar, layover, thirteen hours to NY, and a bus ride to Grand Central station, it took almost 40 hours to finally see a familiar face. Big shout out to my man Mitri for providing the smile.
Culture shock? Pfff, ya right. This is my country. These are my people. Try stabbing pigs in the rainforest. That's culture shock. Try hitchhiking a foreign country or witnessing an entire family sleep on a cardboard box next to a dumpster. That's culture shock. Try having a Buddhist monk make a move for you're private parts. That's fucked up, and very culturally shocking. Then try going to a country where the white man is a sharp minority, women walk around barefoot with babies on their backs, baskets on their heads and have a tiny mud hut to call home. Fascinating, but a shock to the senses.
I knew what I was coming back to. I knew what to expect. I had to take a few steps away to appreciate it but I knew damn well what America represented and continues to represent.
The journey's not complete until I touch down where I started but, for now, it's good to be back in the motherland.