Leaving was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I have been constructing, writing, deleting, and rewriting
blog posts in my mind since left my village, through that process, I learned there are some things I wanted to share, other’s
I didn’t. I’ve found some time to sit down and get some thoughts collected. But
my brain wanders, so read it and take with you what you will.
I’ve noticed that few ‘returned’ volunteers post blogs. I
wonder why, I wonder if it’s because it is all so fresh, raw and it, at least
for me, sometimes hurts to think or talk about those I’ve left behind. Or
because we really don’t understand anymore; we went to our countries with
questions, only to discover more questions and to have fewer answers. The
possibilities are limitless.
I’ve now been back in America for almost 5 months. And while my life here had become somewhat permanent, I feel like another countdown has just started to the next time I take a flight to live in another country; although I don't know what the countdown says. Time
passes much faster here, for one ‘resettling’ takes a lot of time, energy and
emotion, and two, there is so much here to distract a person so that you
realize you’ve been looking at your smart phone for 20 minutes to 2 hours and
have done nothing. The speed of the day is so much faster, with a car and paved
roads, I can check off a ‘to do’ list in a few hours that would have taken
weeks or more in The Gambia. But it is not all that gleaming gold beam of light
on the hill, and I knew that because I had come ‘home’ for 2 weeks during my
service, but the mind place tricks on us when we’re laying on our thatched beds
in our mud huts day dreaming about mocha lattes.
I’ve had so many people tell me, “wow, you must be so glad
you’re home! Africa is such a dangerous place. Your mother must have been so
worried.” Most days if I'm not feeling snarky, I take a deep breath, and explain that ‘yes, I am glad to
see my ‘american family’ again, and sure it’s nice to take a hot shower, but
Africa, my Africa, wasn’t a dangerous place, they were peaceful, friendly and
the most welcoming people, laughing and shrugging off the big and little
things. And most importantly I would give anything to be there for another day!’ (Most people would have stopped listening to me after the first part
of that sentence.) Of course, while I was in Gambia, shrugging off the big things
like having no food or money for several meals was a HUGE problem and it drove
me crazy that they made light of it. But looking back, I realize why they did
it. They saw the simple fact, that there was no food, and while they tried to
solve the problem, where there were few solutions, they didn’t create this monumental verbal issue out of it
because that would have made the problem and the stress all that much worse. And
as to whether my mom was worried, you’ll have to ask her.
Africa dangerous…yeah the roads are can be pretty bad, and
accidents happen, as they do everywhere. But in my short 5 months back, I’ve
experience more victimization and ‘dangerous’ situations than I did in over two
years there. The only theft I experience
there was when my wallet was sitting in the open cup holder of my backpack and
someone sitting next to me on a gelle took my wallet, took the money out of it,
and then RETURNED my wallet with my IDs (PC and Government) to my backpack. I
lost some money, but they were kind enough to realize that the IDs weren’t
worth anything to them and put them back. I recently moved to San Francisco and
on my 4th day at a new job, I rode my road bike to work. Locked the
bike on a bike rack outside (10 feet from the door) and by the time I left the
building 9 hours later, it was gone. Someone had come over, cut the lock, and
jumped over a cement barrier. If my bike had been stolen in my village, I would
have 1.asked who had it and gone and gotten it back 2. Gone to the
Alkahlo(village leader) and demanded that if my bike wasn’t back in a certain
amount of time that I was going to call PC and have them remove me from my
village and no PC volunteer would ever live in their village again, and their
village would be shamed, disgraced (and any other word I could think of). And chances are that I would have gotten my
bike back. In San Francisco, that same tactic wouldn’t work, anyone I said that
too would probably think I was a drug induced homeless person mumbling about stolen
bikes.
I got back and realized that the readjustment allowance wasn’t
going to go far and the number of mocha lattes were very limited. Plus, I was so
overwhelmed by the amount of choices that decisions were very hard for me.
There was a moment in a bagel shop about 2 weeks after being back, middle of
NYC, 14 different types of bagels, 28 different types of cream cheese, a line
of 35 people, and the AC was on so high that my 100 degree African legs were
turning blue. I wanted to cry, I turned the ‘blinders’ on and made it through
my order…barely. Even last weekend, I had to leave a shopping center because it
was just all so overwhelming. And frankly, I’m ok with that, I would rather
have it be a bit overwhelming and retain as much as Africa has given me, than
to feel completely comfortable with such a ‘developed’ world.
I miss my ‘African’ family so much my heart physically aches.
I have their photos everywhere but sometimes it hurts to look at them. I’ve called them a few times, and to
hear Nymandi’s laughter, Isatou asking “Omar(Justin) le?” Baboo laughing and protecting me by saying the
rains are so great and then my older brother telling me that no the rains are
slow… for even a few minutes is so incredible.
Earlier I had put home into quotations. Home has been redefined for me.
It’s not so much of a physical place as I feel like I have a home in the heart
of whoever loves me. And I’m so lucky to be loved and love so many people all
over the world. When my mind drifts off into another place, it always lands
with them.
I believe that Peace Corps forever changes the volunteer. I
will never be the person I was before my service. I look back and some days, I don’t
recognize the person I was two years ago, I don’t really remember her. Through
the readjustment, I’ve learned that I need to be kind and patient to the person
I was, the people that knew her, allow them to teach me again who she was and
gently allow them to meet the new me. It’s a merging of identities and it’s not
easy. But it’s rewarding, and few people have the chance to have the self-study
that volunteers get, so it should be embraced challenges and all. And yet, I don't want to be that person I was, I'm much happier with the me I am now, how do I not let her slip away?
Life is hard in The Gambia; life is hard in America too, it’s
hard in different ways. Most often, however, in America there are more
available solutions to the difficulties, that’s why it seem ‘easier’.
