like a little kid again

            I don’t know what to do.  My mom just left. 

She spent the last two weeks in Lesotho with me, visiting my classes, cooking over my propane stove, sleeping in my terrible bed, and drinking quarts of beer with me every afternoon.  Now she’s gone, and my house is so quiet and dark and empty.

We had such an incredible time together.  Two weeks ago, she and my soon-to-be stepdad, Andy, flew into Johannesburg and rented a car to drive all the way down to Maseru.  We had planned on meeting at 2pm in a coffee shop, and when they hadn’t arrived by 5pm I was a sweaty, nervous wreck (on top of the fact that I’d knocked back about four cups of coffee). 

When they finally showed up, my mom and I ran towards each other and broke out in tears, naturally.  I’m not quite sure what I expected for our reunion after a year’s separation (would it be awkward?  Surprised?  Scared?), but after a few minutes of conversation, it seemed like we’d barely been apart.  We all immediately agreed that it was time for a beer.

My mom and Andy spent the next two days with me at school, meeting my teachers and students and watching me in the classroom.  My mom fought back tears on several occasions while she watched my kids sing songs and give speeches.  Andy helped me grade papers in my high school class, and at one point he was completely engulfed by dozens of students vying for his attention.  My mom tried to take a photo, but he had disappeared into a crowd of blue uniforms.

They finally understood my happiness and my frustrations of working in Lesotho.  After only two days, they had come to the same conclusions that I have regarding my work in the Peace Corps.  I was talking to them like I would talk to fellow volunteers, and they completely empathized with me.

It felt so wonderful to be taken care of by my parents after so long.  They treated me to several nights in an expensive hotel, with a shower (!) and a television (!!) and a swimming pool (!!!).  I ate more meat and cheese than I have in months.  They bought me new clothes and fabrics and things for my house.  They brought nail polish and face scrubs and wrinkle cream and magazines from home.  I even loved the feeling of riding in the backseat everywhere we went like I was a little kid again, and having my mom hug me and coddle over me nonstop.  It’s been awhile since I’ve felt so cared for.

One weekend, we took a trip to a rural mountain village called Semonkong.  After a white-knuckle drive up steep, crumbling roads, we spent the evening on a “donkey pub crawl”.  Apparently, I was trying to persuade everyone to stay out drinking all night.  Andy eventually convinced me to go to bed. J

It was fun to see the progression of my mom and Andy’s initial shock/amazement of my current living conditions to an acceptance and even comfort of this African way of life.  By the end of the trip, they were completely settled in.  Andy burned trash and swept the house without being asked by anyone.  My mom became better at washing clothes than I am.  One night, I had a home-cooked meal that tasted exactly like it would have on a summer night back in Colorado.  They quickly learned how to stay entertained without a television or stereo system: drink beer!  (I don’t think I need to drink any more beer for the next month.)

Saying goodbye today was awful.  I couldn’t stop crying all afternoon.  I still can’t.  I feel empty.  I feel lonely.  I feel angry that I won’t see them again for so long.  I miss my family more than I ever have in the past year.  I never knew how comforting it feels to be close to those people that you love so much, and how much it hurts to be so far from them.  

  

Hug your moms and dads and families today, and remind yourself that even though you might get on each other’s nerves and you might bicker and fight, you have them safe and near.  Maybe it takes traveling the world to realize that all you really need is right at home.

thoughts on a year

            It’s been exactly one year.  One year in Africa. 

A year of waking up to roosters in the morning and seeing the brightest stars at night.  A year of Black Labels and bad decisions and buckets for everything.  A year of hitch hiking and traveling from hostel to hostel, getting lost, seeing giraffes and the ocean and enjoying a margarita more than I ever have before in my life.  A year of being squished in the back row of stuffy, overcrowded taxis.  A year of getting sick and being homesick, meeting new friends and saying goodbye to old ones.  A year of frustration and tears.  A year of falling in love.  A year of books by candlelight and good conversations.  A year of being harassed by African children literally everywhere I go.  A year of teaching and learning, feeling hopeful and regretful, being alone and being surrounded by some of the best people I will ever know.

I’ve learned more about myself and about the world in this one year than I could’ve ever imagined.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve questioned my decision to come here.  Some days, I want to crawl into my bed and ignore the knocks on my door and not even open my windows until the sun goes down again.  I want to go home and take a hot shower and relax on the couch and watch cartoons.  I want to send unlimited text messages and drink Starbucks and go out to eat in a Mexican restaurant.  I want to throw my dishes in a dishwasher and curl up in a warm blanket after it comes out of the dryer.  And I want to smell pollution in downtown Denver and hear English all around me and walk outside at night.  I won’t lie to you.  I miss home, a lot. 

Peace Corps is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.

But this is my home now.  And if I’m really honest with myself, I know I will miss it.  I’ll miss the alone time in my quiet house that I’ve learned to cherish.  After a year of being alone, I’ve become my own best friend—which I think is something everyone needs to learn how to do.  I’ll miss how long it takes to do laundry, because now I don’t focus on the task at hand but instead on the sun warming my back and my dogs playing next to me.  I’ll miss the sweet faces of my students when they greet me every morning at school.  I’ll miss my morning walks to school, when I wake up even before the sun.  I’ll miss those humbling moments when my first reaction to a stranger approaching me is defensive, when all they really want to do is tell me that I look beautiful.

Peace Corps is a lot like running.  Maybe it’s because I’ve been trying to run more often these days and I’ve got running on my mind, but I like to compare the two.  It hurts and it’s tough and a lot of people think you are absolutely crazy for doing it.  You’re alone for most of it.  It’s all mental—you can quit at any time, but you keep forcing yourself to go on because of some unexplainable internal drive to finish the race.  And at the end, you come out unbelievably stronger than how you began.

I’m tired.  But I’m only halfway finished with the marathon.

A thank you

               My friend Heather was in Peace Corps Niger before she came to Lesotho last year.   Volunteers in Niger were evacuated after an Al-Qaeda scare, and Heather took some time off at home in South Dakota before she re-enrolled in Peace Corps.

                Besides being one of my closest friends here, Heather has also been a great resource when it comes to all things Peace Corps.  She’s been there, done that.  And one thing Heather told me that has always stuck with me is that Peace Corps really shows you who your true friends are. 

As volunteers, we go through some pretty rough patches sometimes.  It’s hard to deal with environmental differences—not having water, for example—and emotional stress, like feeling homesick or lonely or useless.  These emotions are all compounded by the fact that we’re separated from friends and family by thousands of miles, and some volunteers don’t even have cell phone service at their sites to be able to keep in touch by phone or email.  In that sense, I really lucked out with my site—I can’t imagine being that cut off from the rest of the world.

What Heather said to me has been completely true.  There are friends from high school and college whom I thought I’d be in touch with forever, and I’ve barely spoken a word to them since being in Africa.  It’s no one’s fault.  I am just as able to reach out to these people as they are to me, but neither person does.  I guess that’s part of growing up; friends come and go as circumstances change. 

At the same time, I’ve had friends from my past (in some cases, friends from years ago) who have reached out to me.  Whether it’s a care package, a friendly email, a comment on one of my blog posts, or just chatting with me on Facebook, I’ve been utterly taken aback by the kindness I’ve been shown.  When I come home from school after a terrible day, you have no idea how touching it can be to read an email that simply says “I’m thinking about you…keep your chin up”.  It changes my day.  Sometimes, it changes my week.

My family has been so diligent about calling me every Sunday afternoon since I’ve been in Lesotho.  It’s something I look forward to as soon as the weekend begins, and I plan my Sundays around being somewhere where I can talk privately to them.  I know it must cost a fortune for them, but when they run out of Skype credit, even if it’s at the end of our conversation, they’ll call back to say “I love you” and wish me a good start to the week.

My boyfriend, who was also a volunteer in Lesotho, is the only person I know who I can complain to about all of the inconveniences of living here and he won’t say “well I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think”.  Yes, it is and I like to bitch about it sometimes.  And he puts up with me when I get in those grumpy moods.  I’m sure it’s stressful for him, but he takes time out of his busy school schedule to Skype with me for an hour or so every week.  It puts a smile on my face and allows me to put things in perspective when sometimes I can’t see the bigger picture.

My PCV friends in Lesotho are my family.  They are my rock.  When I have a bad week, they meet me in town for a cold beer and greasy food.  When I need a girls’ weekend, they are the gracious hosts.  For every holiday and birthday that I miss in America, they make it full of joy in Lesotho.  They are what keep me going.  They are what give me things to look forward to.  I could never in a million years take this journey without them walking it alongside me.  They are my role models, my therapists, my coworkers and my drinking buddies.  They are some of the strongest people I will ever know.

And I'm amazed at everyone who has reached out to me and sent me packages and letters of encouragement.  New shoes and a coat for my birthday.  Sauce packets from Taco Bell.  Family-size macaroni and cheese and tequila shooters.  Crafts for my kids and powdered soup during the winter and a box full of Ramen noodles.  The biggest solar charger I’ve ever seen.  Chocolate and cheese and Christmas decorations.  Spices and shirts and socks.  Girly soaps and perfumes that make me feel pretty.  Pictures and magazines.  So much tea and Crystal Light that I don’t know what to do with it all.  These packages are not cheap; I can see the postage prices on the box.  But you send them anyways.  I’ve been blown away by your kindness.  I’m speechless.  I am a lucky girl to have so many people who care about me.

So I wanted to say thank you, to all of you.  Your support means the world to me.  One of my biggest fears is being forgotten while I disappear into the mountains of Africa for two years.  I worry about coming home and losing touch with everyone I was so close with.  Your thoughtful words mean so much more than you will ever know.  Your care packages make it feel like Christmas year-round.  It’s nice to know that you remember me and think about me from time to time.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.  I feel truly blessed to have so many fans cheering me on.

invisible

                Some days, I wish I were invisible.

                I just want to be able to walk the half hour journey down my dirt road to the shop, without being pestered by shouts of “give me money!” and “where is my candy!?” and “hey, white person!”  I’ve been here for a year already; why are you still saying these things to me?

                I want to go on my runs without having to plan them during the least busy hours of the day.  I like lying in bed and enjoying the soft gray dawn as it comes up over the mountains and leaks through my lacy curtains.  I don’t want to rush out of bed just because on my morning runs, less people will be up to stare at me.

                If I were invisible, my teachers wouldn’t make comments about the “strange” food I bring to school for lunch or stick out their hands to taste it, leaving me with only a quarter of what I began with.  I wouldn’t have to explain to them why I’m trying to lose weight or why it’s important to eat healthy.  I wouldn’t have to listen to them tell me I’m fat when I eat more than usual.

                I wish I could stay in my house for an entire weekend and watch Parks and Recreation in bed and bake cookies and not feel guilty about later having to answer to my family’s inquiries about why I was “hiding myself”.  I wouldn’t have to put in that obligatory “face time” with my host family or my community, because if I’m a volunteer, I have to always be around doing things for other people, right?

                Being invisible would mean that I could also ignore the knocks on my door when I’m in the middle of writing a blog post, like I’m trying to do right now. 

                Peace Corps talks a lot about the fishbowl effect before you’re sent off for your service.  Everyone will be staring at you wherever you go…everyone will know your business…everyone will bother you and pester you and try to be with you at all times of the day.  I guess I knew it was coming, but I didn’t know just how intense it would be.  I thought, after two years, I’d slowly become part of my community.

                In a way, I have.  But in many ways, I haven’t and won’t ever.

                To put it bluntly, I’m white.  I stick out like a sore thumb.  I’ll never be the same color as the people in my village.  My hair will always be different than theirs.  And subsequently, everything I wear and everything I eat and everything I do is, as they think, different.  It’s interesting.  And I don’t blame them for being interested, but being different is really exhausting.

                Sometimes, being invisible would be much easier.