August 20, 2011
*****
The last few days have been a blur of saying good-bye, eating last meals and dancing final dances. It's been surreal, to say the least, trying to detach so I can absorb everything and still be a part of what's going on. Something I've learned, however, is that family pictures are just as difficult here (if not worse) to come by as they are in America. Those of you who've lived overseas or have large/extended families will know how hectic it can be. You think everyone's there and it's ready and OH! What about that kid? And now that you realize he's gone, you remember another little girl and it's a never ending merry-go-round of children coming and going, trying to find one sibling while another's gone missing. We had to settle for an Almost Family Portrait several times.
During our Close of Service conference a few months ago, one of our supervisors was talking about how to leave your village properly - not that there's any one way to do it, but there are definitely some ways to not go about it. My case is a little odd because I'm extending my service another year, but moving to a town fairly close (a few hours drive) to my village. I think up until this last weekend, people haven't really realized I was leaving leaving. I'll tell them I'm moving to Tamale and they're like “Oh, okay, well we'll see you all the time, then,” but I have to explain that it's not going to be the same. With me moving around, telling people that this Tuesday I will no longer be living in this village - it's seemed to hit home a little more. Time creeps up on them just as easily as it does on us (maybe even more, because they're much less oriented around dates and schedules and deadlines - right now, we're just waiting for the next rain, whenever it comes).
There's been a few backs turned on me (I didn't know how to take that at first, but realize that people here dislike showing heavy emotions even more than I do) and “this is not good”s uttered. It made me feel like maybe, just maybe, people here like me as much as I like them, that I haven't been oblivious the last two years in thinking that I get along with everyone. I've heard a few stories about volunteers who I thought had been amazing, but after they've gone, come to find out their village didn't really care for them. They didn't do enough of this, or they didn't try that or they would do this instead of that and associated with these people and not those. I think, since learning that that happens, I've been slightly paranoid about...well, everything. Maybe they don't like me as much as they seem like they do, maybe I'm getting worked up over leaving for nothing - they're not going to miss me. Stuff like that. It's one of those thoughts you get in your head and wish you'd never heard because it's always in the back of your mind, niggling away at your confidence. I'll blame it on the Mefloquine.
But then today I realized (while dazedly staring at my wall one last time) it doesn't really matter and I can't let unfounded doubt color my last few days with these people that I've come to love dearly. I have to take their acceptance and appreciation at face value and move with the knowledge that, at least on some days, I was a positive addition to their lives. Yesterday my landlord came in and had this big grin on his face. The boy that comes during rainy season to help on the farm had misunderstood something I'd said and told him I was going to stay for another two years - in the village, in their house. He was genuinely happy that I'd be staying (I know they love me, but can't help but think they're a little put out by having me here, taking up two rooms in their house). He was like “You can stay in this room and Megan (the new volunteer) can stay in this one - it'll be very good.” After we figured out where the hiccup had come from, I could just see the wind go out of his sails as he took it in.
“Tuesday, huh?”
That's what he said and I guess just the way he said it, I couldn't stop the tears. Only a few slipped out before I got a hold of myself, but he was already telling me to “stop crying, be quiet.” Not in a harsh way, but in a way that's more like “if you don't stop, then I'm going to start and we can't be having that, now can we?”
One of my friends here was describing her departure and immediate emotional state and it was pretty much what I'm feeling now (minus all of the expletives - she was a sailor, though, so she's allowed). I might as well be pregnant with as much as I tear up. I'll see a kid carrying a basin on her head and tears will come. A baby cries upon seeing my white face and I'm crying right along with him. I'm not even kidding - I went to my latrine today and, if all goes well, that'll be the last time I use that thing. That even got me going. My latrine! (although I have spent a good many hours inside that tiny room, getting acquainted with my concrete god)
Since I'm not pregnant, I blame it on our programming director - he said at our conference to try and take in everything, “take mental pictures” he said. Well, I'm taking mental pictures, I have like an eight gigabyte, high-def mental memory card and I've never been as big of a sissy in my entire life. I think I've cried less over cracked ribs and a fractured skull. I kind of hate it. I dread leaving the most not because of the actual act itself (it's inevitable, I have no control over it), but because of how much I know I'm going to cry (which I can control...a little). One little boy, Yakubu, came up to me and, in English (it took two years, but we're getting there) asked me “You're leaving on Tuesday? Then I will come in the morning and carry your bags to the station.” I have no doubt that he will. I have no doubt I'll have an army of four-foot tall soldiers following me, sitting next to me on the bench and hefting my bags up on top of the tro one last time.
The last few days have been a blur of saying good-bye, eating last meals and dancing final dances. It's been surreal, to say the least, trying to detach so I can absorb everything and still be a part of what's going on. Something I've learned, however, is that family pictures are just as difficult here (if not worse) to come by as they are in America. Those of you who've lived overseas or have large/extended families will know how hectic it can be. You think everyone's there and it's ready and OH! What about that kid? And now that you realize he's gone, you remember another little girl and it's a never ending merry-go-round of children coming and going, trying to find one sibling while another's gone missing. We had to settle for an Almost Family Portrait several times.
During our Close of Service conference a few months ago, one of our supervisors was talking about how to leave your village properly - not that there's any one way to do it, but there are definitely some ways to not go about it. My case is a little odd because I'm extending my service another year, but moving to a town fairly close (a few hours drive) to my village. I think up until this last weekend, people haven't really realized I was leaving leaving. I'll tell them I'm moving to Tamale and they're like “Oh, okay, well we'll see you all the time, then,” but I have to explain that it's not going to be the same. With me moving around, telling people that this Tuesday I will no longer be living in this village - it's seemed to hit home a little more. Time creeps up on them just as easily as it does on us (maybe even more, because they're much less oriented around dates and schedules and deadlines - right now, we're just waiting for the next rain, whenever it comes).
There's been a few backs turned on me (I didn't know how to take that at first, but realize that people here dislike showing heavy emotions even more than I do) and “this is not good”s uttered. It made me feel like maybe, just maybe, people here like me as much as I like them, that I haven't been oblivious the last two years in thinking that I get along with everyone. I've heard a few stories about volunteers who I thought had been amazing, but after they've gone, come to find out their village didn't really care for them. They didn't do enough of this, or they didn't try that or they would do this instead of that and associated with these people and not those. I think, since learning that that happens, I've been slightly paranoid about...well, everything. Maybe they don't like me as much as they seem like they do, maybe I'm getting worked up over leaving for nothing - they're not going to miss me. Stuff like that. It's one of those thoughts you get in your head and wish you'd never heard because it's always in the back of your mind, niggling away at your confidence. I'll blame it on the Mefloquine.
But then today I realized (while dazedly staring at my wall one last time) it doesn't really matter and I can't let unfounded doubt color my last few days with these people that I've come to love dearly. I have to take their acceptance and appreciation at face value and move with the knowledge that, at least on some days, I was a positive addition to their lives. Yesterday my landlord came in and had this big grin on his face. The boy that comes during rainy season to help on the farm had misunderstood something I'd said and told him I was going to stay for another two years - in the village, in their house. He was genuinely happy that I'd be staying (I know they love me, but can't help but think they're a little put out by having me here, taking up two rooms in their house). He was like “You can stay in this room and Megan (the new volunteer) can stay in this one - it'll be very good.” After we figured out where the hiccup had come from, I could just see the wind go out of his sails as he took it in.
“Tuesday, huh?”
That's what he said and I guess just the way he said it, I couldn't stop the tears. Only a few slipped out before I got a hold of myself, but he was already telling me to “stop crying, be quiet.” Not in a harsh way, but in a way that's more like “if you don't stop, then I'm going to start and we can't be having that, now can we?”
One of my friends here was describing her departure and immediate emotional state and it was pretty much what I'm feeling now (minus all of the expletives - she was a sailor, though, so she's allowed). I might as well be pregnant with as much as I tear up. I'll see a kid carrying a basin on her head and tears will come. A baby cries upon seeing my white face and I'm crying right along with him. I'm not even kidding - I went to my latrine today and, if all goes well, that'll be the last time I use that thing. That even got me going. My latrine! (although I have spent a good many hours inside that tiny room, getting acquainted with my concrete god)
Since I'm not pregnant, I blame it on our programming director - he said at our conference to try and take in everything, “take mental pictures” he said. Well, I'm taking mental pictures, I have like an eight gigabyte, high-def mental memory card and I've never been as big of a sissy in my entire life. I think I've cried less over cracked ribs and a fractured skull. I kind of hate it. I dread leaving the most not because of the actual act itself (it's inevitable, I have no control over it), but because of how much I know I'm going to cry (which I can control...a little). One little boy, Yakubu, came up to me and, in English (it took two years, but we're getting there) asked me “You're leaving on Tuesday? Then I will come in the morning and carry your bags to the station.” I have no doubt that he will. I have no doubt I'll have an army of four-foot tall soldiers following me, sitting next to me on the bench and hefting my bags up on top of the tro one last time.