Whoa Peace Corps

Peace Corps just announced that they will now be allowing applicants to pick their preferred program and country of service.

This is creating a lot of buzz within the Peace Corps community. It's definitely game changing. Possibly even mind blowing.

In the past, applicants simply did not have this option. My Peace Corps mentality began, not when I stepped foot in Africa, but when my application got sent back to me from the recruiter with an email that basically said: You've indicated a strong preference for Latin America in your application. However, what we are looking for in applicants is the flexibility and willingness to go anywhere  that they are needed. Please let me know if this is something you're okay with because if not, your Peace Corps journey ends here.

After much soul searching, ("Is this something I really want to do?" "What if I get sent to Africa for two years?"- ha ha, funny how life works) I realized that my reasons for serving in the Peace Corps would not be nullified by where I was physically placed.
In fact, stripping away the romanticism of where I envisioned myself serving and what I expected to be doing was just the first step in making me aware of the challenges and adjustments I would have to make in order to make it through my service.

I replied back to the email: "Yes, I'll go anywhere."

So I was nominated to be an Education volunteer in Eastern Europe and I began mentally preparing for that, and when my invitation finally arrived, I held that manila envelope in my hands and knew-even before opening it- that I would go wherever I was called.

And I did.

I served as a Health volunteer in Southern Africa, a world away from what I had originally set out to do (during the application process), and from what I had been expecting to do (during the nomination process).

It was not all peaches and roses. I didn't love it every single minute. Some days I wondered what it would have been like to be in another country or region or program. But then again, that's everywhere.

I cried when I found out I was going to Mozambique, but I also cried when I left. That's the beauty of Peace Corps. While I wasn't a huge fan of the selection process at the time, ("Uh, I'm going to Mozambique for two years? Where is Mozambique?") in hindsight, it allowed me to fall in love with a country that I had never even heard of and a region that, frankly, I had no previous desire to serve in.

The application process was lengthy, and I absolutely understand the need to streamline it,
and if there's a way to give volunteers more time to prepare before they leave, then I'm all for it.
But choosing where you want to serve is like asking where you want to vacation- most applicants will choose based on location features and program description, which prioritizes the needs of the applicant over the needs of the country or region.   (How many applicants would choose Sub-Saharan Africa over the Caribbean? ) And here's the kicker- applicants who choose specific countries or programs will still have no idea what they're getting themselves in to. They'll have greater expectations, which all RPCV's know, tends only to lead to greater disappointments.

So call me old-fashioned, but that's my two cents on the changes coming through. Either way, Peace Corps is exactly what they call it- "The toughest job you'll ever love" and who knows- maybe if one day I decide I want to live in the Caribbean for two years, I'll sign up again.
;)

Saudade

A few months ago, the New York Times asked RPCV’s to explain, in 150 words, how their Peace Corps experience still affects their lives today. I sat down to think about it, and I was soon lost in a spiral of thoughts and tangents, flashbacks and musings. I thought this would be an easy assignment, but the more I contemplated my prompt, the more I couldn’t seem to grasp a solid explanation of how Peace Corps service still affected me. It wasn’t that it didn’t still affect me. Far from it.

I felt that my time in Africa had seeped into all aspects of my being, and to pry the pre-Peace Corps me from the post-Preace Corps me to examine the differences would be impossible. The sharp contrasts have mellowed, seamlessly merged together in the year+ since my return. When I first got back from the Peace Corps, I would often wake up in the middle of night disoriented, wondering where I was and why my mosquito net was missing. I’d lay awake for hours and the saudades would wash over me like waves crashing over rocks along the shore.

I still awaken occasionally in the dark, thoughts of Mozambique floating to the top of my consciousness. In those still hours, I sometimes have the urge to write, but more often than not, I just go back to sleep.

Sometimes, I feel guilty.

When I was a volunteer, I’d ask my Mozambican friends and coworkers if they often heard back from previous volunteers after they went home to America. “Not really,” They’d usually say, and I’d feel indignant because I couldn’t understand how someone could live amongst and claim to love a community and then just leave without looking back. When it was my turn to leave Africa, I promised my host family I would call them all the time, and I did...at first. But then the once a week turned into once every few weeks, and then once every few months, and right around Christmas-time last year I realized that it had been almost six months since I’d mandar’ed cumprimentos. In a panic, I made my round of calls to my Mozambican contacts and the conversations, as usual, were short. We spoke about the same obligatory topics: the weather here in America and there in Moz, each others’ families, whether my dogs were still doing well. My Portuguese would warm up slowly like a car engine on a frosty morning and by the time it was going smoothly, the conversation would be over.

It’s hard to keep up with old friends, it seems, no matter where they are. I envy my peers who have found the time / money / commitment to return to Mozambique to visit, as they’ve promised they would (as we all promised we would) but at the same time, I’m certainly not ready to go back. I don’t know if I ever will be.

I know that the Mozambique I remember is a far cry from the Mozambique I lived in. The realities of life in country have long since faded into that dusty, rosy hue. I look back with utmost fondness upon my good memories and time has swept over the rest.

When/if I return, I don’t worry that I won’t be greeted with open arms. No, Mozambique always welcomed me even from the beginning when I was a naive trainee in Namaacha.

I worry that I won’t recognize the places I once called home. I worry that I won’t recognize the sweet children that sat on my porch coloring in the summer heat; after all, they will be grown men and women. I worry that my dog won’t recognize me or worse, won’t be there anymore. It’ll feel strange.  A Peace Corps volunteer I don’t know will be living in my old house. The counterparts I once saw every day will seem like strangers. The cultural barriers, the language challenges slowly broken down over two years, will have been erected again. It’ll be like starting over.

Someone once said, “In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on.” And it does.

And in the meantime, I’ve adjusted to life in the U.S. My days are filled with commute, work, Snapchats of mundane things, going to the gym, getting ready for grad school. I haven’t been able to sit down and finish a book for a long time. My blogs have dried up. I don’t have time to write anymore. I don’t know what to write anymore. I start and I stop, yielding to distractions, and the blogs remain drafts, and the drafts pile up.

It’s no wonder that the word “saudade” doesn’t translate into English. The feeling is so complicated, and it’s the only one I can think to use.  

Saudade (European Portuguese: [sɐwˈðaðɨ], Brazilian Portuguese: [sawˈdadi] or [sawˈdadʒi], Galician: [sawˈðaðe]; plural saudades)[1] is aPortuguese and Galician word that has no direct translation in English. It describes a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing may never return.[2]

Chasing the Light

Today, I accepted a job offer on the East Coast, which means that the San Diego chapter of my life is officially coming to a close.

Kevin and I will be getting married November 16 and then driving across the country the final week of November so that I can start my new job on December 2.

There are still a lot of unknowns such as where exactly we'll live, how much stuff we'll be moving, when we'll be arriving at our new home, where Kev is going to find a job, and what we're doing for the holidays including Thanksgiving, but we are optimistic and ready for the changes that life will bring.

Because many of you have asked, I will be working as an Admissions Counselor for a company called 2U that partners with universities to develop online graduate school programs. I will be recruiting students for the online Masters in Public Health from George Washington University.

In the meantime, it's wedding crunch time!

The other night, Kev had a mini freak-out about all the things we'd have to get rid of in order to pack light: "Our toaster oven! Our rice cooker! Our TV!...," and the list went on. In a moment of clarity (because I too am stressing out about all the things that need to be done before the wedding and our big move), I told him, "We'll cook rice in a pot like I did in Moz. We'll sit on the floor if we don't have chairs. We'll live without toasted bread." And it's true; if there is one thing I've learned over the past few years, it's that I don't need stuff to be happy.

I was happy in Mozambique, a country I'd never even imagined I'd find myself in, on a continent I previously had no desire of even visiting. I was happy living alone in a house made of reed and cement, with faulty electricity and without running water.

How much happier could I be living in the U.S., starting a job with a good salary and benefits, being closer to my little sister and many of my Peace Corps friends, with the love of my life by my side?

"I see this life / Like a swinging vine / Swing my heart across the line / In my face is flashing signs / Seek it out and ye shall find / Old, but I'm not that old / Young, but I'm not that bold / And I don't think the world is sold / I'm just doing what we're told

Lately I've been, I've been losing sleep /Dreaming about the things that we could be / Lately I've been, I've been praying hard / Said no more counting dollars, we'll be counting stars..."

 - Onerepublic, "Counting Stars"

First World Problems

When I first came home from two years in Africa, I marveled at how people were able to complain about the silliest things. Like traffic, for example. What's the big deal about waiting at a stop light for a couple of extra minutes? At least people follow traffic laws around here. At least you're not crammed in a minivan full of sweaty people and chickens. At least you have AIR CONDITIONING.

#amIright?

But  I found myself adjusting to life back in America rather quickly. It took me two years to decelerrate to the pace of life in Africa, and just a few months to surge back into full-velocity America: job apps, wedding planning, GMAT studying and all.
At my workout class last week, the trainer had us jump onto a moving treadmill. I came this close to eating it the moment my feet touched that moving track.
And THAT'S how reintegration into America was...clumsy recovery and all. But once I was on there, I was moving, and moving, and moving.

The fact is, it's easy to get caught up in the simplest annoyances, no matter where you are.
In Mozambique, it infuriated me that people didn't know how to properly wait in lines, or show up on time for meetings. I found the mosquitos pesky, the creepy men vexing, the lack of structure  annoying.

Nowadays, it irritates me when I'm in the elevator at work going to the 9th floor and it stops on the 2nd floor to let in somebody who is just going to the 3rd floor. I tap my foot with impatience, wondering why they can't just take the damn stairs. I catch myself thinking, "Oh my God, this is taking FOREVER."  And then I laugh because okay, wait- is it really taking forever? A few extra minutes in a spacious, air-conditioned elevator is better than two hours in the African heat waiting for a meeting that may never start, any day.

I work in such a fancy office building with automatic flushing toilets that sometimes, I forget to manually flush when I'm out somewhere else. How bougey of a problem is that? And yeah it's ironic, because a year ago my bathroom was a hole in the ground.

I was so afraid that reintegrating into America would erase the Africa in me, but I realize it hasn't. I may be doing the same things I did before I left for Mozambique, but the way I look at things has changed. I'll never take a grocery store or plush double ply toilet paper for granted. I'll always appreciate the luxury of having wifi, reliable cell phone service, my own car.

The other day a fellow RPCV called to vent about having to drive back to the gym to pick up his Kindle, after he had accidentally left it there. "At least somebody returned it and it wasn't stolen. At least you don't have to walk back in 110 degree heat, or hitchike on the back of an open bed truck filled with produce, over a super bumpy dirt road," I said. He sighed. "I know. You're right. I feel better now."

Sometimes first world problems remind us of just that, we are lucky enough to live in a first world country.

Thank you, Peace Corps, for giving me that perspective.

Rosy

At the beginning of my Peace Corps service, I was told that when the times get tough, I should remember
A) "You have bad days in America, too"
and B) "Everything eventually fades to a rosy hue."

The first quote got me through my two years of service. The second is a process, ongoing, and after nine months, still becoming real.

The Mozambique that exists in my mind is not necessarily the Mozambique that I lived in. Well, it is, minus the daily frustrations of living in a third world country (which is like saying, "You're perfect, except for all your many flaws."). The Moz that I remember is beautiful, tropical, full of great people and adventures to be had. This is the Moz, I think, that many RPCV's remember. This is why, regardless of how we left (whether we completed our full service, or left early), we miss it. Saudades. Sempre.

I never realized how much free time I had in Peace Corps (and just how valuable free time is). During my two years, I was able to learn to sew and read all the books I've been wanting to read forever but just hadn't had the time. Now...I have a sewing machine but I've only touched it once since I've been back and I can't remember that last time I read a book for leisure.

I'm afraid I've forgotten what it's like to just sit under the mango tree in the afternoon heat and just be. I think that if I were to sit on an esteira under a tree nowadays, I'd want to have my GMAT book with me so I could study, or my iPhone so that I could Instagram about it.

I see the pictures that current PCV's post and I miss the opportunities for fellowship, the day trips to visit other volunteers and tomar cha on their porch, the beach trips to escape the heat, the lunch meetups in the city over a plate of feijao and a deliciously cold Coke.

I miss creating my own work schedule, and essentially being my own boss. Skipping out on work because it's pouring outside is not an acceptable excuse when you have a car, and a set work schedule, and you live in America. (Speaking of rain, I miss when it's pouring outside and the pounding on the tin roof is so loud that I can't hear anything but it's okay I've got my cup of hot tea and my dogs inside with me.)

I griped about my living allowance coming late some months, but at least it was always came and I never had to worry that it wasn't enough to get me through. Whether I "earned" it or not, I had enough to buy the things I needed and then some.

I miss being independent and being "in the moment," riding in the back of that pickup truck, successfully telling off that creepy guy in Portuguese, bartering with the vegetable ladies at the market.

These are the things that surface in my memory. This is the Moz that I remember.

... Rosy.

The Peace Corps Family

The other day as I was driving to work, I saw a car with a license plate frame that said: PEACE CORPS DOMINICAN REPUBLIC 1985-1987. This may sound strange, but I immediately felt a bond with this stranger. It doesn’t even matter that I didn’t serve in the same part of the world or in the same decade.

He/she could have cut me off on the road and I would have been completely okay with it. In fact, I actually had the urge to whip out a marker and scribble a sign that said “ME TOO! ME TOO! I’M A RETURNED PEACE CORPS VOLUNTEER TOO!!!” and wave it out the window. But, of course, I didn’t. That’s just dangerous while driving. Not to mention, slightly weird.  

I have a lot of friends who have studied abroad or done missions trips and, while I respect them for their courage (because let’s face it- a lot of Americans don’t have any desire to step foot outside of the country unless it’s for a luxury vacation), it’s hard to compare living in a Third World country for TWO YEARS without a salary. “Oh I studied abroad in Spain” isn’t exactly the same kind of experience.

There’s something different about what Peace Corps volunteers do. We don’t go to give money. We don’t go to preach a religion. We don’t go for just a few days, or a few weeks, or even a few months. We’re there. We’re a part of it. It becomes a part of us.

So, when we meet other people who have shared this experience we automatically consider them a friend. They probably slept under a mosquito net too, and took bucket baths, and sat in horrible public transportation, and got called “white person” in the local language, and got stared at and harassed constantly, and struggled to light a charcoal stove, and dealt with bug and rodent infestations at home. They also probably learned another language, and talked about poop with other volunteers, and made friends with the market ladies, and learned what it means to be patient, to be resilient, and to appreciate the simple things in life.

When I lived in Moz, I would sometimes go stay with an expat friend of mine in the capital city and it always such a treat. A free place to stay with running water and a stocked fridge? Couldn’t be happier. She’d always tell me, “Bring your friends! My house is always open to Peace Corps volunteers” and I was so impressed by her generosity. But she’s an Returned Peace Corps Volunteer  too. She gets it.

We’d talk about how different her service was compared to mine. Times are definitely changing. I’ve met RPCV’s who, decades ago, had to ride to their isolated sites on horseback, who didn’t have cell phones to talk to their friends and family every weekend, who didn’t get to keep in touch with their students on Facebook after they returned to the U.S.

And I know that the Peace Corps I served in won’t be the same as the Peace Corps of future generations, as communication and transportation continue to expand in all corners of the globe. Even now, many of the currently serving volunteers I know in Mozambique have handy dandy USB modem dongles that allow them to get (albeit slow) internet at their house, technology that wasn’t nearly as prevalent during my two years. (I’m imagining myself with gray hair, sitting on a rocker: “In MY Peace Corps days, you had to take a stinking crowded chapa to go to the city to check your email on a slow-as-death, virus-laden computer at an internet café.”)

However, Peace Corps will always be a unique experience and a different kind of commitment. While I wouldn’t jump on a plane to do it all over again, per se, I don’t regret a minute of it.

I learned so much. I changed so much. I loved so much. And I met the best people.

So yeah. When I see other RPCV’s driving by, I’ll wave at you like I know you. We are all a part of the Peace Corps family, brought together by shared joys and frustrations. Oh, and poop. Definitely by poop.

Chicken in the bathtub

In a third world context, “chicken in the bathtub” might mean a live chicken flopping around in a plastic basin of water.
In a first world context, this means, quite literally, that last night I ate rotisserie chicken while taking a bubble bath. This strange pairing happened for one basic reason:  lack of time.

Let me explain. Tuesdays are the worst. After being at work since 8am and then going immediately to French class until 9:30pm,   I am completely dead. Zombie dead. All I want to do is take a shower, eat dinner, and crawl in to bed.

Last night, I decided to go a different route. I’d been nursing sore calves all day (from walking up and down nine floors of stairs…twice…in heels…for exercise. I know, I know, first world problems!) so I decided to run  a bubble bath.

The next idea that came to my head wasn’t all that surprising, considering I am an expert multi-tasker.( I do homework while watching the news, play iphone word games while sitting on the toilet, respond to emails while cooking, Facebook while I’m working- er, maybe that last one doesn’t count.)  Really, I’ll do  anything to save time.

I decided I should just eat dinner while bathing, so I could get to bed sooner. Chicken + bath seemed, in my groggy mind, a good idea at the time and a better alternative than falling asleep at the dinner table with my head on my plate. But honestly, it ended up being kind of a mediocre experience that I probably won’t be doing again. As my fiancé pointed out, “That’s just weird.”

 I don’t know what happens to free time in America, but I suspect it gets sucked into some vortex of Perceived Productivity. Maybe it even gets spit back out in Africa, where it occasionally seemed as if there was nothing but time to kill. How many hours did I spend in Mozambique just waiting for people to show up to a meeting, or chilling in line at the bank?

I assumed that, because I kept up my Moz blog for two years, blogging consistently in America would be a piece of cake, considering the availability of flawless electricity and high speed internet. But as you can see, I’ve all but abandoned this blog.

I’ve been home almost five months and sometimes I feel like it’s gone by faster than a week in Africa.

One minute I’m hanging out on the porch with my dogs, wondering how to escape the African heat, and the next I’m sitting at an office desk scheduling meetings and compiling compliance report data for a multi-billion dollar international tech company.

No wonder I feel the need to eat chicken in the bathtub.