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Published: June 24th 2017
There's a theory that if we were all made to share dinner with a person from each other country, there would be no wars. The more I travel, the more I think it's true. A few days ago, exasperated and sweating from rushing to catch the daladala, I took a seat next to a daughter transporting her mother from the hospital in town. As we rode through the rickety trails, over bumps, and through lake-like puddles, the young woman adjusted and readjusted her mother's head in her lap, creating various versions of pillows and adjusting the windows according to her mother's pained facial expressions. Sandwiched between furniture and other items that villagers were transporting from town, the women endured the voyage together, daughter returning the love her mother had taught her. There are a number of illnesses from which the first woman's mother may not recover: Malaria, AIDS, Tyhoid to name a few of the most common ailments here in Tanzania. There's a chance, in fact, that the hospital wasn't able to see the patient, or didn't have the medication she required.
Later this week, I watched a mother wail as she laid her seven-year old in the
ground; a tiny body, wrapped in brightly covered fabric by a family who could not afford a coffin. Begging for her baby to awaken, she paced the earth like a lioness. The child’s grandmother stood stoic with her hands on her hips, a sunken, sullen face of hopeless acceptance, an affirmation that suffering is the root of existence. Just the day before, her baby had been playing at school. Overnight, an unknown illness brought swift death that, had there been an ER or even a hospital, might have been prevented. People die here. Children die here. The passing of a small child in my village is so common that most of the funeral attendees didn’t shed a tear. I was an exception, sobbing quietly in the grass as I watched. Forlorn as it was, there was comfort in the bond people have in times of suffering: surviving, enduring, just trying to make it to the next day.
The love between those people on the bus, between that grieving family, who I didn't know and could hardly speak to, was as strong as my love for my own mother. As strong as your love for your child, as
strong as the most empathetic relationship we could experience, yet it's nearly impossible for you or I to experience the love, or heartache of those people from the comfort of our modern homes. If we all experienced the love of one or two people from every country, I think we would be so moved that wars would end. Of course, I'm a romantic... but somewhere under our cynicism, we all are.
This week, people have been the subject of my thoughts. Surrounded by new people, it's impossible not to think of familiar people. My family, my closest friends, former co-workers, and passed relatives circulate through my mind as I navigate through what feels like an entirely new world. It's a strange feeling to only experience familial love by witnessing it in others. My family is so close to my heart, but I only get to watch as other people love each other here. Of course, I have people that help me here, people that I care about, but having people you love close to you is different. There are days when I hope someone wants to touch my "white-girl" hair, just so I can experience physical contact.
It's not lonely, exactly, because there are always people to spend time with, but I crave those people that know me best. People that know I'm independent, but also have to be the center of attention. People that know my toes are semi-deformed. People that remember when I didn't drink wine, didn't like seafood. People that I could cry to and not have to explain how dedicated I am in spite of myself. My people.
The fondest part about missing your people, though, is that it makes all the memories you have with them so much sweeter. My going away parties, for example. Every day I think about how ridiculously we behaved on the Raleigh Trolley Pub before storming into my favorite Raleigh restaurant (Jose and Sons!) where we devoured endless pork tacos and churros as a group of 30 people. From there my mind wanders to the epic scavenger hunt my best friends created to send me off full of all my favorite Raleigh treats and endless (seriously, non-stop) Prosecco. I think about the hilarity of it all when our brunch party culminated at 2am on the Neptune's dance floor. I think about the watermelon martini
I drank with my sister in Florida in a restaurant close to the beach, I think about the endless Mimosas at Betsy's Crepes in downtown Wilmington. I think about my haven on the inter-coastal waterway in Carolina Beach. I think about Loren, who's endless patience and support from 10,000 miles away have only added to my Peace Corps experience. My people, in my places, at home.
As much as I think about them, I wouldn't give up this trying experience for anything. I was so afraid to make this leap, and there certainly have been moments that make me question my sanity. Returning home to the locks on my door having been cut, for example, or having to physically shove through the men that reach for your business every time you enter the bus stand. (those in my banking town have now learned that they will receive an elbow to the chest from a specific, short, mzungu woman if they touch her). This week, especially after the deaths in our village, I've found myself crying, sobbing really, and beating the floor so hard with my palms that my hands are sore afterwards. I didn't know that emotions
could truly overwhelm a person the way my emotions have come to overwhelm me in certain moments here.
The thing is.. I keep going. No matter how hard I beat that floor, no matter how loud I scream angry cries to the world for overwhelming my relationship, my mind, my body, I'm still breathing. I still have to carry my water. I still have to feed the animals. I still have to sweep the rat poo off my precious floor mat, and I still have a job to do. When I swore my commitment to twenty-seven months of service, I knew it would probably be the most excruciating, and equally rewarding experience of my life. Actually living the excruciating moments are different than theorizing how you'll handle them (how can I make those noises?!), but the rewards are equally as overwhelming in joy.
I guess that's where it comes back to people. During my biggest breakdown this week, when I had finished beating the floor, the door, the goats (just kidding!), I knew I wouldn't be able to talk to my family or my closest friends. No one would be coming over with a
bottle of wine or an offer for Taco Tuesday. My mom wouldn’t be there to physically pick me up off the ground. No, when I'm in the village, it's just me. I said out loud to myself, "Okay, Kate, get up now. You can do this. Go for a run. You have to be strong now." And just as I finally started to run out of the door, still crying over how lonely I felt, I nearly ran over a little girl carrying a bag full of potatoes. Faking a smile as I greeted her, she tried to hand me the bag. "Unauza?" I asked her (Are you selling?). "Ni Zawadii," she replied.
They were a gift meant for me; an entire bag of potatoes after a season with only half the rain. The tears that I had hastily dried as I greeted her returned, but for a different reason. "You're not alone," the universe whispered to me, "and if you follow the path I have planned for you, you never will be."
So as I climb these literal and emotional mountains, I do it with the help of others. I'm able to meet
small goals here because of comradery. My counterpart in my village is currently helping translate the class I have designed on Integrated Pest Management, which explains to villagers how to prevent garden pests without the use of chemicals. Since chemicals are largely unregulated here, the overuse of pesticides and fertilizer is causing illness and soil degradation that could eventually inhibit farmers' harvesting. IPM might not catch on for the larger cash crops, but I'm hoping to spark curiosity for garden usage as a start.
I also just traveled to Peace Corps Super Regionals, where the Southern Highland volunteers convene to discuss ideas and villages. The food was delicious, and having my Peace Corps friends close by while I've been experiencing some emotional turmoil back home was such a blessing. We danced and ate so much food that I actually became physically ill from the over-consumption. I didn't realize what red meat does to your body when you haven't had it in so long!
I've also been teaching small group English classes at the primary school, using classtime with the mzungu (foreigner/white girl) as a reward for good behavior. We go outside and play games or do
activities with candy, and they love it. I realized that many of these children have never been asked to do partner work, creative play, or hands-on activities. In fact, asking them to choose a partner to practice sentences left me with a room full of deer in headlights. It was such a new concept for them that I actually had to change the activity. The girls are so eager to learn, but afraid to speak loudly, and the boys are so excited but also very noisy! There are a few students that love seeing me pass, just so they can practice their English greetings. Oftentimes, I hear "goodmorning," at 3pm or "goodevening" at noon. Either way, I'm glad they are excited to learn.
There is another group of children, however, that has decided to test my patience. For a week, I came home to my tethered goats having been untied and run off, or bonded so tightly with the rope that they couldn't walk. Children have stolen their water bowl, taken a plate from my courtyard, and even surrounded my house at 10pm calling into my windows with sarcastic "I love you," and "will you marry me?"
I was frustrated by the goat thieves, but frightened by the nighttime visitors. When I realized it was trouble-making children, I hid beside my window, waiting for them to get close... When they were about 5 feet away, I burst my hands and head out the window with a scream, terrifying them. As they ran away, I sarcastically teased them for being afraid. The little boys did not return.
People here, people there, people playing, people hurting, people healing, people loving, people just keeping on. Every day brings a different journey, a different struggle, but as I breathe in and out, I realize the circle of people I call my own has multiplied, and I can only pray it continues to do so.
With love, tears, laughter, and a will to carry on,
Your Kate
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Lynne
non-member comment
Love you, Kate!
Love you, Kate! Thank you for sharing your experiences and for not sanitizing the experiences or your reactions to them. I am also really excited (no surprise) to hear more about your IPM workshop :-) What's the address to send you mail again? xoxo, Lynne