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.