"I heard you lived in Africa last summer, that's soooooo cool!"

"Ummm...this is Africa"

"You know what I mean, like, south of the Sahara. Like Africa Africa."

"You gonna go there?"

"No, I'm not really interested in going there. But what do you think about it?"

What I really wanted to say:

"What do I think? Hmmm. Is Africa a dying continent, set too far back from modernization and development, too corrupted by the epitomes of greed and inhumanity, too raped and pillaged by every unspeakable horror--man-made and otherwise--its people rescinded to second-class status, not just in their countries, but in the world--no, make that third-class status--seen as killers, kleptos, demons, imbeciles; labeled as violent, sick, corrupt, uncivilized, and everything that makes them a little less human? I don't know, sweetheart, but what allows a country in north Africa to consider itself "not a part of Africa"? "Oh, it's down there" as if Africa is below ground--separated, buried, literally, hell. Said in a snobby tone by every class of local society; "Africa", as if the entire place is a disease; the condition of "Africa" a syndrome; steer clear of "Africa" or you may actually get it. Yet the romanticized ideal of "Africa" is hailed by many in the West, the exotic animals and nomadic tribes and lush spaces; "oh, I want to go on safari" if nothing else to make sure I don't see what "Africa" actually is. "Oh, you've been to Africa" makes me exotic and cool by association (as you say), "interesting" in the most pathetic sense of the term; somehow, "admirable" (what the hell did I do that was so great?) just because I set foot on certain soil (soil that is, by the way, just a little south of here, sweetheart, much closer than home or even your precious European spring break locale).

But you wouldn't dream of going there, sweetheart, claiming "Africa is dangerous", "Africa is where all the poor people are", "Africa is home to the world's worst diseases" translating to "I'm not interested in going there" really meaning "I don't want to interrupt my glamorous life". Heaven forbid you're ripped from your comfort zone, and I don't mean put in a place where you merely feel uncomfortable (like you might in Cairo), but really, totally, disconnected from everything that you have known about life up to this point; heaven forbid you experience a taste of no electricity, running water, pissing in the grass or in a hole or wherever you can find some privacy, showering under a faucet (or maybe not at all) trudging through dirt roads and mud pits, sleeping under a net that serves as the only barrier between you and a pesky insect carrying a disease that could kill you; heaven forbid, sweetheart, that you see people without limbs, cut down by their neighbors and friends, betrayed by their government and neglected by the world while suffering the indignity of being a posterchild for some disconnected, hollow bout of student activism taking place in a paradise that they could never dream of; heaven forbid you feel the waves of guilt, sweetheart, for complaining about your "dirty" roommate when seeing families huddled in mud huts that double as a bathroom, trying to sleep and not gag on the smell of their own shit; heaven forbid you see death--that child perishing from AIDS right in front of your goddamn eyes while you're consumed with the feeling of what it's like to be totally, utterly, helpless (should I take a picture to wave around and yell "oh, the tragedy!"?)--and be forced to consider whether or not your God really exists (how in the hell can He?); heaven forbid you're not just forced to see poverty, sweetheart, but actually live in it, to see tears shed for different reasons, destined to return with a chip on your shoulder, confused and possessing a newfound hatred for the ignorant but envying them at the same time; rendered dramatic and rambling by those who can't, and won't, understand (Adam, why are you getting furious for no reason?); going from watching mothers struggle to buy food for their ten children to watching people gloatingly purchase their second or third home or their third or fourth car or their tenth $300 dress and wanting to explode; heaven forbid you come face to face with your own cowardice, sweetheart; and the admission that you just really don't want to know--ever--but you come back and it's too late because you do know, and the ensuing self-loathing settles in for thinking that way, and the only person you begin to hate more than yourself is the degenerate action junkie who finds tragedy "sexy", and therefore, you, for having been a witness to it; heaven forbid that you're exposed to what most people do, in fact, call LIFE, and the realization that it's no more inconsequential (yet certainly a lot less petty) than YOURS.

So maybe you're right, sweetheart, this isn't Africa. I've been there and I'm still not over it."

What I really did say:

"It was an experience."