Five years ago I hopped on a plane. A big one. I was going far away.
When I arrived in this strange land, I made my way to a deserted baggage claim. Standing by the exit was a wiry man, roughly my height, who looked to be in his mid-20s.
“Nick?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m Thoebela.”
Minutes later I was whisked away in a van not unlike the one my uncle drove during summer visits to Seoul; another time in a very different place.
I was in Africa now.
We weaved through narrow roads en route to a tiny village outside of East London called Chintsa. For the next five weeks I would be lending a small hand teaching kids whatever I knew about computer literacy, which wasn’t much.
The drive took less time than a sitcom but along the way I saw a busy city give way to lush green hills and seaside homes. At times, I felt more like I’d been dropped off in some sleepy beachside town in California. This was not the South Africa I’d pictured.
I’d never been so happy to be wrong.
I shared a house with three volunteers from Canada, one from Brazil, and another from England. We worked, played, and ate together. There were moments huddled around the table after a long day where it felt like a family.
But just a few weeks later we all parted ways, confident it would be both for the first and last time.
I was the last of the group to leave. As my friends ventured off to other parts of the continent I was set to make my way to Port Elizabeth; a city known for its casinos. It also happened to be just outside the game reserve I planned to visit.
But a week before, the likelihood of seeing lions, elephants, and water buffaloes seemed as distant as Africa itself.
One morning, I woke up with a sharp pain near my inner thigh. At first, I thought I’d been snacked on by some bold mosquitoes, or maybe a spider. It happened to one of the other volunteers a few weeks before and seemed plausible.
When I wasn’t tossing and turning, I was barely mobile and completely useless. Finally, after a few days I decided the pain was too much and made my way to the local physician.
I described the pain and its geography as best I could. The doctor looked on unmoved. He ended up writing me a prescription for some antibiotics and soon enough I was on my way.
That night, I discovered the pills might as well have been jelly beans. The pain persisted, worsened even.
What on earth am I going to do? I thought.
I was literally on the other side of the world with some bizarre ailment that had kicked up its feet and decided to stay awhile.
I returned to the same doctor who now appeared a bit concerned. He told me to go to the main hospital in East London, which I did.
The doctor who examined me this time was a jovial and kind man in his early 60s. He reminded me of just about every uncle I knew, or cared to. Within minutes he concluded I needed to have emergency surgery. At least that was how he framed it.
That same evening I found myself in a hospital gown gazing out a window overlooking downtown East London. A light breeze poured in as I heard the faint dins of nurses laughing by the corridor. The atmosphere might have even been pleasant if not for the circumstances.
My life is so weird, I remember thinking. And up until today, that was a good thing.
The doctor came to see me just before I went under. He reassured me the way doctors do that there was nothing to worry about. He was earnest but not particularly comforting.
Within minutes I was out cold.
The next day, I discovered I was still alive; something I was confident I’d be but I set the bar low nonetheless. I felt a soreness in and mostly around the incisions but was afraid to look down.
“Hello, Nicholas,” I heard someone say.
For a moment I thought I was in trouble. I could count on two hands the number of times I’d heard someone utter my full name. Only my mother bothered with the three syllables and usually after I’d done something that wasn’t particularly good.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“I’m okay,” I told him.
The truth was, I did feel better; if not physically then at least my spirits had been slightly buoyed. Now, I’d be in Port Elizabeth as soon as I could get back on my feet.
But just as the music to my adventure started to play in my head the record once again stopped abruptly.
“We have to run some more tests,” he told me. “It may be more serious than I thought.”
My heart sank.
It would be three excruciatingly long days before he, which is to say I, would know a thing. I roamed the paved and unpaved paths of Chinsta Village in a daze. I walked long and far, stopping repeatedly to gaze out towards the Indian Ocean in search of an answer.
But no sunset, no book, no song could ease my angst.
I was scared.
But my fear was no unproductive. It danced in the light of introspection, and even peace.
Sometimes it takes distance to bring us closer to the things that matter. It wasn’t until I moved some 3,000 miles across the country that I gradually inched towards the son, brother, and man I wanted so desperately to be.
The wildly nuanced topography that stood between California and New York made me evaluate the peeks and valleys of my own life. And time and again it was pain, uncertainty, and change that helped me become more than I had without it.
Now, there were oceans between my two lives, sprinkled in with some potentially serious medical condition. I realized how fickle everything really is.
You can’t hold on to a thing.
A few days later, I stood in a waiting room. I remember flipping through a soccer magazine when the doctor came out to greet me.
I sat across from him as he held a large manila envelope. I felt like I was in a movie as he slowly pulled out a piece of paper that could potentially alter my life a bit.
“This says you’re okay,” he finally said.
It turned out all I had was an ulcer.
After a few encouraging words he wished me well. I could tell in some perverse way, he appreciated the novelty of operating on an American. It was a role I was happy to fill, but just this once.
It was a beautiful bright day not unlike the hours before my surgery. I marveled at how the landscape had remained unchanged while the sentiment went from stormy to clear.
I hopped in my rental car before promptly stalling out. Driving a stick shift with my left hand turned out to be an almost equally painful rite of passage.
Still, it was a problem that paled in comparison to the one I’d just had. I tried to cling to that feeling, knowing it might serve me well down the road.
After a few more tries, I finally got the engine to hum. I even looked as if I knew what I was doing.
With a newly found confidence, I exited the hospital parking lot and made my way to Port Elizabeth just as I’d planned.
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