Africa changes you.

(Johana, my former boss, just days before our departure)

I bless the rains down in Africa

Ok, I’m finally doing it. I'm writing about the year I spent working in Africa. This is not the usual wanderlust entry by some volunteer hippie. Nor is it a supplement for an Instagram vlog. This is a reflection of my time there. I am constantly asked about it, and I try to avoid or simplify the question because it is such a clichéd question. I guess I’ll just share this link with people in order not to come off as rude.

The other reason I kept delaying this piece is that writing in the first person always has a self-aggrandizing tone and an attention-craving attitude. To be fair, challenging preconceived notions takes personal experiences, so I cannot expect all readers to relate. Birkenstock-wearing content creators always overuse buzzwords like "experience", “vibrant”, and “culture”. I cannot stomach that kind of stuff, and frankly, the internet is saturated with excessively cheerful travel reviews.

My job consists of compiling business intelligence reports in emerging markets. Since there is not a lot of information available in English for investors looking into emerging markets, media groups such as the one I work for send people (losers) like me out to interview business leaders and public sector officials. This means I must live for several months in each country, meeting influential people who can give me the most truthful takes for their sectors and country.

My African travels were limited to three countries completely unrelated to each other: the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Morocco, and Angola. Shall we?

Democratic Republic of the Don’t Go

The DRC was my first time in Africa, and honestly, it was better to start right at the bottom. The DRC is an underdeveloped country in all aspects, and it most fits the crude African poverty stereotype. Unpaved roads, connection issues, and no public services. Essentially, the whole package of chaos. For five months, I lived in the capital city of Kinshasa, and every single weekday, I got a headache from being stuck for hours in its hectic traffic. Mind you, there are no street lights in the DRC, so cops direct traffic, or try to.

Even living in an “upscale” neighborhood like Gombe takes some patience. There are frequent power cuts, and the internet connection is faulty. This neighborhood hosts expats, diplomats, and rich locals, usually the high-level civil servants, politicians, and businessmen who exchange favors with them. Potential for business is actually immense, but this is not an article for a business magazine; I already wrote those.

City life in so-called “Kin la Belle” is limited to a few super-expensive restaurants, two malls with brands no one has ever heard of, and one nightclub. Supermarkets have hordes of beggars, and if you look like a foreigner, they will ambush you. Also, cops will pull you over and start coming up with reasons to give you a ticket and ask for bribes. So will any form of bureaucrat, like customs officers at the airport. It honestly is quite annoying

Besides the rampant pollution, overt corruption, and abject poverty, the worst part of the DRC is probably the cost of living. Their dollarized economy and reliance on imports make everything super expensive. So on top of everything, I had to hurt my pockets.

Enough complaining, there was a flip side to my time in the Congo. Most notably, I had the chance to improve my French, which was super useful later for my project in Morocco. The biggest takeaway, however, came in the form of the new appreciation for life post-Congo.

Seeing the conditions some people there live in after having a privileged upbringing and spending almost five years in the US is more than enough to put life into perspective. I am now fully aware of the wonderful life some of us get to live. Some lives can be impossibly impacted by the geographic coincidence of being born somewhere else. Gratitude used to be a reaction I felt whenever my mom dropped the usual “there are kids in Africa starving”. Now that I have seen the kids in Africa starving, I understand gratitude as an active feeling that intertwines with mindfulness. Being aware of where I am and what I have is enough to lift my spirits when feeling down.

Not everyone can just get on a plane to visit family or friends. Not everyone can choose what to eat. Some people are stuck with the life they have and cannot do anything about it. Some of us have alternatives. It is precisely this condition of having the opportunity to choose that makes all the difference.

After what the experience of living in Kinshasa taught me, I argue that I could live anywhere. Also, the traffic jams, the God damn traffic jams, taught me a lot of patience.

Morocco, the fragility of stability

Like with cheap coffee, despite its pleasant beginning, Casablanca left me with a bitter aftertaste.

Moving to Casablanca was a reward. Morocco is the polar opposite of the DRC. Organized, clean streets, unpolluted atmosphere, European levels of infrastructure, and physically and digitally connected. For a middle-income country, they have the full package of development. In addition, their tight foreign exchange controls, as opposed to a freely floating currency, ensure favorable exchange rates for anyone paying in hard currency. Long-term monetary blunder by their Central Bank or not, I was happily swiping away for five months.

The drawbacks of happiness from living in a city that essentially feels like Marseille or Barcelona but with friendlier prices came from broader dimensions of life rather than the physical setting itself. A work transfer prompted the end of a romantic situation. Later, another abrupt transfer forced the end of a promising situationship. Both times, I had to take a step back and figure myself out. Why me, why now, why her, why this, and why that?

Understanding oneself is harder than understanding things we can’t control. Living alone in a foreign country with a foreign local language builds character, yes. Feeling lonely in a foreign country with a foreign language will lead you to remember the gratitude learned on the last trip. Actually applying this gratitude is the hardest step.

Since then, I am convinced there are some things where the lesson is worth the bad moments endured. Changing the perspective from “woe is me” to “how will this help me later on” is key to perseverance. Delayed gratification is worth the sacrifice, and that is one of my principles.

Extra lesson: For four agonizing days, I also learned the importance of always washing vegetables during a ruined petite escapade to Madrid.

Obrigado, Angola

The abrupt transfer I mentioned was actually me being sent to Angola to sub-in for a dude who left the company. Antonio, if you’re reading this, start checking under your bed at night.

Arriving in Angola was exactly what I expected. Not as bad as the Congo, but definitely not as good as Morocco. If anything, Angola closely resembles a Latin American country. Meh infrastructure, meh public services, and meh diversification efforts. Angola is oil-rich, and the investment of oil profits into the country is evident despite most of it disappearing through a network of bureaucrats, politicians, and oil executives. The real diversification of the Angolan economy is oil barons switching from Swiss accounts to UAE accounts.

My two-month stay in Luanda was brief but impactful. Angola felt so much like Latin America, I could not help but think my place in the world is not in Africa. After all, I had spent all that time reading Latin American press, history, essays, and literature. Mentally, I had never left, and I concluded it was enough of Africa.

As the two months were over, my boss told me no project in Latin America was set to start anytime soon and offered me the opportunity to move to Nigeria. Five months in Lagos? No, thanks.

I decided to take a break and wait it out in the US. Flying first to Seattle to visit one of my best friends, followed by a week in D.C., and then cooling off in Miami. Not bad after a Kinshasa-Casablanca-Luanda itinerary.

La vida te da sorpresas, sorpresas te da la vida

When I made the decision to leave Africa, I did so with a profound sense of self-determination. Perhaps it is all part of maturing. When I said no to Nigeria, I was in control of my decisions and what they implied. It wasn't like the time spent at the mercy of higher-ups shuttling me around Africa. A year in the company meant I would be listened to and they would do their best to reasonably accommodate me. I was responsible for any choice I made, and I was fully aware that by taking a break, I was also accepting a substantial pay cut and the uncertainty of when I would resume work.

Going back to the lessons learned in all three countries, choosing to wait out was the right call. Having an alternative is the element that improves our lives. Instead of spending five months in a place I did not want to be in, I could wait before moving to a place I was sure I would infinitely enjoy more.

This interval, borderline flirting with unemployment, has been a wonderful experience. Here is one of the most structured and disciplined dudes ever, enjoying the moment, just couchsurfing and reconnecting with friends. Using my time to freelance without guilt and brainstorming article topics for Meer instead of ghosting my editor for months (Sorry, Eugenia). On top of it, all of the modern comforts of life in a developed country are in the US. Good coffee, good restaurants, good cigars, and baseball. Everything I had missed.

The point here is not to denigrate Africa. Believe me, I could also sit down to criticize Latin America, and Meer would have to pay me to shut up. I get it, Africa remains surrounded by lore and exoticism. Not many people have African countries at the top of their lists, and not everyone even has the chance to travel. It’s just that everyone needs a truly unique experience where they learn about themselves. This past year, I believe I had that experience, and hopefully the next ones are less crazy but at least half as useful. Thank you, Africa, take care.