In Wonderland

It's been more than a month and a half now since we arrived in Africa and I realise that I've lost a surprising amount of any sense of "normality" I once had.

This life - the one in which I look different from everyone else; in which even 5-year-olds are capable of pounding out complicated rhythms on drums and dancing in ways that would make church ladies uncomfortable; in which I regularly stop the car to let goats and chickens cross the street; in which I instinctively hold my breath as mopeds spewing blue exhaust whiz past me on my morning run; in which old men and young boys walk down the street wielding machetes; in which I look through the bars of the livg room window to watch little boys race tires through puddles with sticks; in which voodoo is regarded as fact; in which nothing is quite as it first appears- this life, has become normal. And as a result, I'm finding it more and more difficult to describe Africa.

I've never been able to keep a journal - in part because my sisters could sniff one out and pick the lock in minutes, and in part because I could never bring myself to scribble nonsense in the blank pages of a beautiful book. It's the same with this blog. Nothing seems worthy of broadcasting to the world. It's all too mundane and typical, even if I know it's not.

And so it begins to feel like a chore - keeping this blog up to date - , but a chore for which I am most thankful. Without it, I wouldn't be forced to reflect, I wouldn't be forced to remember. I am Alice, and this is my Wonderland.