I thought I would be sad when I was finally finished here. I wanted to be. When I signed up for Peace Corps, I wanted so much to be here. But now that I'm about to leave, I am equally as ready to go. That's probably not so difficult for you to understand. Twenty seven months is such a long time to live like you're camping everyday and every night. Such a long time to have crotch fungus that spreads from your nipples to your knees. Such a long time to miss your best friends, the birth of your niece, and the aging of your family. Such a long time to feel like you're failing, to feel like you are an outsider, to miss almost all of the jokes. Such a long time to smear the words across the sweat-soaked pages of your nightly journal entries. Such a long time to take weekly antibiotics to prevent malaria, to have no privacy, to be called a name that isn't yours.
A few nights ago, I was walking home in the dark and the rain had soaked me until I was shivering in spite of the humid heat. My leather sandals were disintegrating beneath my feet as I waded through ankle-deep puddles of mud and sewage. I fretted about the diary and electronics stashed in plastic bags inside my pack. Forty minutes after getting out of the rattletrap gelegele that had brought me to the outskirts of Gunjur, I finally made it home. My stomach had been churning for a while and I began to rush with the key to let myself inside. I shoved the door open and dropped my pack on the floor trying to get through my house to the pit latrine out back. My knees shaking, my thighs clenched, my stomach rolling I tripped over my pants trying to get out of them. I lurched out of the house naked from the waist into the rain but before I could get to the hole in the ground I shat all over myself. Stinking blobs ran down my legs and splattered at my feet. I slipped in one and fell to my knees. It kept coming and I kept going.
I came here for so many reasons. Many of those have long been forgotten, modified, and rearranged. Some were always unattainable and others were just plain absurd. But I never expected to be in these types of situations where I feel so physically and emotionally unhealthy. I came here because I wanted to see another part of the world yet, because of the conditions here, my world is smaller and more confining than it has ever been. I wanted to have an adventure, but living in a developing nation is often boring, slow, and mundane. I wanted to learn about a different culture. When in my own culture, I am free to reject the things about it I don't agree with. Here, I am obligated to remain "culturally sensitive" and non-judgmental. They tell you that Peace Corps will change you in ways that you never expected. I didn't used to, but now I get annoyed with people who constantly beg money from me. I didn't used to, but now I am skeptical of people's intentions. I didn't used to, but now I can't seem to write what I feel, can't seem to describe what this experience is like, can't seem to articulate my thoughts.
I didn't used to, but now it seems I've lost my sense of humor about this place. Now I am taking myself too seriously. Why? I was sitting today in meditation after a long session of yoga and I couldn't stop myself from feeling like I need to be more creative and open about my experience here. I keep feeling like I am losing something, someone, somehow. My head kept going back to it even as I tried to clear my mind and eventually I gave up. But how do you-- how can I-- just give up? The voice in my head kept telling me to laugh yet it was all I could do to keep from crying. These changes can't be avoided. I need to let go and relax and allow things to unfold. Why do I seem to be resisting everything that comes up? Friends leaving, projects ending, relationships shifting. Homeless, directionless, focus-less. Maybe this is the problem. Maybe it's not the here and now that is scaring me so much, leaving me so speechless and perplexed. Maybe it is what comes next that I am so worried about. Seems like, when I go back and reread many of the entries that precede this one, I was so excited and amused about this place because I was (mostly) fully here when I wrote them. But now I am so enwrapped in tomorrow that I can't focus on today. Ever since I decided that I wouldn't extend my service here a couple of months ago and started to think about leaving at the end of November, I am increasingly anxious about leaving.
I don't want to write right now that I've failed here. But haven't I? So many people told me that I would love this place... I've let them down. So many people said that I would really make a difference here, I have failed them too. Because I sometimes fail at cultural sensitivity, I feel like a failure when I don't agree with certain norms and behaviors. I wanted to be fluent in the local language, to improve someone's life, and to (somehow) find myself. Most of all then, haven't I failed myself? But I don't want to write about failure because it sounds so melodramatic, so self-deprecating, so un-happy. And that isn't quite at all what I wanted to write. Which is why, I think, that I haven't written for so long. Is wanting to leave-- is giving up-- failure? Or should I finally accept that it is time to go? Can I accept that I've done what I could and nothing less? Can I believe in myself that I gave it all my best? Now that it is finishing, there is nothing wrong with putting more into leaving than staying.
In the government-speak of the US Peace Corps, they call it Close of Service (COS) and it is more difficult than anything else I've done since submitting my application way back in the fall of 2006. COSing involves slowly withdrawing yourself from the relationships you've created. It means preparing to do something totally different somewhere completely away from here. It requires giving your projects over to somebody else and trusting that they will care enough to keep working on it once you've gone. COSing is about medical checks to make sure you aren't carrying some heebee-jeebies away with you, means completing hundreds of forms to quantify the work you did and the impact you had, and forces you to say goodbye to the people who have become your family. The Gambia is far from anywhere I plan to be in the near future and so I have to accept that this sort of life is something that I am also moving far from. The good and the bad.
I came here for so many reasons. Many of those have long been forgotten, modified, and rearranged. Some were always unattainable and others were just plain absurd. But I never expected to be in these types of situations where I feel so physically and emotionally unhealthy. I came here because I wanted to see another part of the world yet, because of the conditions here, my world is smaller and more confining than it has ever been. I wanted to have an adventure, but living in a developing nation is often boring, slow, and mundane. I wanted to learn about a different culture. When in my own culture, I am free to reject the things about it I don't agree with. Here, I am obligated to remain "culturally sensitive" and non-judgmental. They tell you that Peace Corps will change you in ways that you never expected. I didn't used to, but now I get annoyed with people who constantly beg money from me. I didn't used to, but now I am skeptical of people's intentions. I didn't used to, but now I can't seem to write what I feel, can't seem to describe what this experience is like, can't seem to articulate my thoughts.
I didn't used to, but now it seems I've lost my sense of humor about this place. Now I am taking myself too seriously. Why? I was sitting today in meditation after a long session of yoga and I couldn't stop myself from feeling like I need to be more creative and open about my experience here. I keep feeling like I am losing something, someone, somehow. My head kept going back to it even as I tried to clear my mind and eventually I gave up. But how do you-- how can I-- just give up? The voice in my head kept telling me to laugh yet it was all I could do to keep from crying. These changes can't be avoided. I need to let go and relax and allow things to unfold. Why do I seem to be resisting everything that comes up? Friends leaving, projects ending, relationships shifting. Homeless, directionless, focus-less. Maybe this is the problem. Maybe it's not the here and now that is scaring me so much, leaving me so speechless and perplexed. Maybe it is what comes next that I am so worried about. Seems like, when I go back and reread many of the entries that precede this one, I was so excited and amused about this place because I was (mostly) fully here when I wrote them. But now I am so enwrapped in tomorrow that I can't focus on today. Ever since I decided that I wouldn't extend my service here a couple of months ago and started to think about leaving at the end of November, I am increasingly anxious about leaving.
I don't want to write right now that I've failed here. But haven't I? So many people told me that I would love this place... I've let them down. So many people said that I would really make a difference here, I have failed them too. Because I sometimes fail at cultural sensitivity, I feel like a failure when I don't agree with certain norms and behaviors. I wanted to be fluent in the local language, to improve someone's life, and to (somehow) find myself. Most of all then, haven't I failed myself? But I don't want to write about failure because it sounds so melodramatic, so self-deprecating, so un-happy. And that isn't quite at all what I wanted to write. Which is why, I think, that I haven't written for so long. Is wanting to leave-- is giving up-- failure? Or should I finally accept that it is time to go? Can I accept that I've done what I could and nothing less? Can I believe in myself that I gave it all my best? Now that it is finishing, there is nothing wrong with putting more into leaving than staying.
In the government-speak of the US Peace Corps, they call it Close of Service (COS) and it is more difficult than anything else I've done since submitting my application way back in the fall of 2006. COSing involves slowly withdrawing yourself from the relationships you've created. It means preparing to do something totally different somewhere completely away from here. It requires giving your projects over to somebody else and trusting that they will care enough to keep working on it once you've gone. COSing is about medical checks to make sure you aren't carrying some heebee-jeebies away with you, means completing hundreds of forms to quantify the work you did and the impact you had, and forces you to say goodbye to the people who have become your family. The Gambia is far from anywhere I plan to be in the near future and so I have to accept that this sort of life is something that I am also moving far from. The good and the bad.
Sure, I am looking forward to no longer living in a mud hut with no electricity and water pulled by hand from an open well contaminated with amoebas and gecko poop. I can't wait to no longer rely on dangerous and undependable local transport to get me where I want to be. I am so happy at the prospect that I might go somewhere and make some money and stop living hand to mouth with some of the poorest people in the world. But I am also saddened that I might never see most of these people ever again, won't have the Atlantic coast as my backyard, will no longer live among monkeys and monitor lizards. What will happen to the little girl who lives in my compound (I guess I actually live in hers) and still calls me the generic "Toubob" instead of (my Gambian-given name) Laamin or (my preferred) Matthew? How will things continue with the beekeeping projects I've started? Will the mango and cashew and moringa trees I've planted survive to bear fruit? When will I next see the Volunteers I swore-in with and how will we all have changed? Will things work out between Tammy and I once we are in "the real world"? This process is sort-of about giving-up; no wonder I am so apprehensive about it. Most of my friends are facing similar anxieties about leaving here.
A few days ago I wandered into the small Mauritanian-owned shop near my house to buy some eggs and bread for breakfast. There was a young woman standing at the counter and she instantly struck me as different than most of the Gambian women I see. Her head wasn't covered, her wrap-skirt was printed with cannabis leaves and Bob Marley icons, and she carried herself in a way that was, well, different I guess than what I've become accustomed to. The most remarkable thing about her was the unlit cigarette hanging from her mouth. Gambian women simply do not smoke. I guess I sort of was staring. She caught my gaze and scowled and then did something I didn't expect: She called me out on it. "What the fuck are you looking at? Never seen a nigger before, you Red Monkey?" I gulped and swallowed my embarrassment. I felt so strange all of a sudden. Usually I'm the one being stared at, feeling the scrutinizing gaze of some stranger. "Sorry. " I stammered feeling unsure of myself. "I was just standing here." She scoffed and turned her back to me and I walked out of the shop without my breakfast. Later, I told a few friends about the exchange and wondered why she was so angry. I thought about this damned Peace Corps life and felt sorry for myself, singled-out, and abused. I've come all the way to Africa to live like this (the constant itch of heat rash, the lack of intellectual stimulation, the inconvenience of it all) and the people who I've come to help treat me this way. I finally decided to just forget about her, forget about the weird exchange. It wasn't, after all, indicative of the way I am generally treated by Gambians. These people are usually some of the nicest I've ever met. Most Gambians will invite you to share in their meals, to live in their compounds, and to sample their lives. I should know better than to let one bad experience temper the way I actually feel about Gambians on the whole. Maybe she was just having a bad day.
And then last night I wandered alone into a bar near here to buy a beer. As my eyes adjusted to the dim room I noticed three men gathered around a woman-- the same woman-- and laughing drunkenly. She was dressed this time in a pink halter-top, a leather miniskirt, and high-heel shoes. And then it struck me: She is a prostitute. This time I averted my eyes immediately and wondered if she remembered me from that day a week ago. I half-expected her to call me out again in front of the drunk men. I even considered asking "Are you still so angry at this Red Monkey?" But then-- standing in this stinking place with peeling paint and broken furniture, standing in this third-world heat and humidity, standing waiting for my beer avoiding the gaze of angry prostitutes and their sorry clients-- I didn't say anything at all.
What did I want from this damned Peace Corps experience that I haven't gotten? I wanted to leave the USA and see something different. I wanted to challenge myself to learn a language. I wanted to have something to talk about. I wanted to meet new people and make new friends. I wanted to apply myself to the thrills and tests of the life-less-comfortable. I wanted to expose myself to African culture and customs. I wanted to learn about pre-industrial agriculture, permaculture, and beekeeping. I wanted to boost my résumé and improve my chances of getting into a decent graduate school. I wanted to travel. I wanted to simplify my life, to live without the modern trappings and conveniences, and to decrease my carbon footprint. I wanted to broaden my horizons. I wanted to put some things behind me.
What did I want from this damned Peace Corps experience that I haven't gotten? I wanted to leave the USA and see something different. I wanted to challenge myself to learn a language. I wanted to have something to talk about. I wanted to meet new people and make new friends. I wanted to apply myself to the thrills and tests of the life-less-comfortable. I wanted to expose myself to African culture and customs. I wanted to learn about pre-industrial agriculture, permaculture, and beekeeping. I wanted to boost my résumé and improve my chances of getting into a decent graduate school. I wanted to travel. I wanted to simplify my life, to live without the modern trappings and conveniences, and to decrease my carbon footprint. I wanted to broaden my horizons. I wanted to put some things behind me.
I think it is finally time to leave here. Yesterday, a friend of mine who is also leaving soon asked me "What did you think Peace Corps was going to be like when you signed up?" I thought for a moment and then met his gaze. "Exactly like this."
