What Peace Corps Taught Me About Friendship

I'm not really sure how to begin. I want to talk about friendship - the special kind we seem to find in the Peace Corps; about the bounds and limits of the human heart; about loss and the kind of grief that accompanies only the greatest of love, but where do I begin?

I write this in the context of April 28, 2013. It's the day we lost one of our shining stars and the day I lost a very dear friend. The shock I feel, the grief of such sudden absence, is something I struggle to explain. I imagine my sadness will fade in time, but for now I hold it close because it reminds me of her. She was one of the best people I've ever met and our friendship was genuine. I feel lucky to have known her. She strengthened and lifted and brightened me; she made me a better person. 

She was rare, too, because anyone who knew and met her, however briefly, felt the same as I did. She always gave her undivided attention, reminded people of their importance. We felt loved in her presence and we danced in her light. And while her passing is mired in absolute sorrow, she reminded us - once again - of our strength; that the family we've found in the Peace Corps is a special one. 

Friendship in the Peace Corps is a funny thing; we depend on each other in a way that isn't easy to explain. Our bonds are immediate and stronger than steel; the stress of sudden culture shock, of loneliness and homesickness, of the happiness and satisfaction that comes with living an adventure and fulfilling a purpose makes relationships (and the appreciation of them) necessary. The distance we feel - from our families and our homes and our norms - fortifies our love; everything is that much more important, time moves that much slower, milestones are that much greater because every second of every day calls into question our motivations. It has to be worth it, we have to make the best of it, and somewhere along the way we realize that the pettiness of every day life is just the white noise to a beautiful symphony.

Of course, we forget sometimes; we're human, after all. And as the forest grows - ever expanding into a canopy that seems too high to reach - we lose sight of our tree. Yet we continue to motivate each other. We spend two years striking a balance between being a safety net and needing one; we see the absolute best and worst in each other, the absolute best and worst in ourselves; and at the close, we realize that what we've shared is truly unique. It's an experience that will, at times, put us at odds with the world; an experience that will put life into perspective; and the only people who will truly understand, who will see exactly what we see, are the volunteers we've met. They speak the same secret language, stand on the same deserted island, stare out at the same wide ocean with the same wide eyes. And they understand because they watched us grow. 

If we'd forgotten, Danni helped us remember. And as hard as it was, I'm grateful. I don't know what I would do without my Peace Corps family; just knowing that I wasn't alone - that I'm not alone - is enough to strengthen me. We hold each other and guide each other and we do it all with Danni's strength. Her memory, her love, her motivation reflected in us; living there in the space she made in our hearts, in the place we made for her.

The only way I can explain the immensity of my grief is to explain the fierceness forged in just two years of service: a family you can't choose, but want to; an intimate understanding of the soul and its capabilities; an immense pride for rarity and imperfection; an embrace that carries with it a hello and a goodbye, love and recognition, and the acknowledgement of brother, sister, and self.

With yet another group closing their service, yet another round of goodbyes to be said (mine included), it's hard for me to express the pride I feel in the friendships I've gained here, in the family I've made for myself. It's precious and it's rare and I'm lucky to have it. And if I make and keep one promise it's that I will never, ever forget.

We miss you, baby girl.

Thank you.

xx

What Ghana Taught Me About Giving

If there’s one thing I've noticed over the years, it’s that Ghanaians have a wonderful knack for giving.

Usually it's simple: someone’s time or help, their opinion about the culture or their advice; and it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when these times will be. There are days when no one seems to want to give an inch and, just as quickly, everyone seems to be giving something (and giving it freely). I've often been completely surprised, knocked off of my guard by someone’s kindness. Usually this happens on the worst of days and exactly when I need it; a reminder that, in the heat and exhaustion, I can continue - one foot in front of the other - because the world is good.

There’s no end to the kinds of things I've received: American coins, sea shells, drawings of trees and real, delicious popsicles;  people have paid for my travel, taken me (completely out of their way) to the location I'm so unfamiliar with, fed me and carried my bags; there are always kind words and smiles, curiosity and conversation, and an over-abundance of marriage proposals. Though I attribute some of this to my 'visitor' status, Ghana is of a communal mentality; centered in traditionalism, family homes, and village life Ghanaians take care of each other because their well-being is dependent upon one another.  (What’s to say that tomorrow they won’t need help, in turn?)

As a rule, giving is only satisfying when it’s wholehearted and honest, completely void of expectation. Generally, there's no reason for kindness other than the kindness, itself. And, though it seems such a simple thing, it tends to fill the biggest holes, heal the largest wounds, and is quickly contagious. After three years, much of it spent dependent on the kindness of others, I've come to understand that life is about giving. Whether it be the heart, kindness, creativity, or capital, the world is meant to be shared. Too many adventures and stories would cease to exist, too many simple fulfillments would go unnoticed, if no one opened their hearts and minds; if no one gave an inch.

And, really, there's a simple reason philanthropists are happy: they help make other people happy. While it’s strange to think of myself as a philanthropist, I guess that’s what I've become (though most of what I give seems meager); a smile here, a hug there, my undivided attention and compassion. The best reward I've received isn't payment or recognition, either; it's a smile, returned. The shy kind of smile that lets me know I've made someone feel special for a moment, and that's all the reward I need.

As Ghana is more ‘Westernized’ and cities get bigger, this will undoubtedly change. It’s an unfortunate reality  I've begun to witness; as people modernize they become autonomous (maybe this is why Ghanaian hospitality is so pleasantly surprising). In the modern world we cling to our pennies, covet our time, and pine over our privacy; we grow farther and farther apart, orbiting each other like satellites, attempting to find solace in social media outlets and iPhone applications that connect us to some form of community. 

The longer I’m in Ghana, the more I realize that giving is exactly why I came here; it became my philosophy, a philosophy I think many of us need. I can honestly say that there’s nothing more satisfying than giving a kindness, no matter how small; a smile, the taxi fare, the simple acknowledgement that a stranger is important and recognized and loved. In all of this I've found that I, too, am recognized, often receive more than I give, and am happiest in the simple happiness of others. It's kind of fantastic.

So, go on … give in and give a little. Ten bucks says you won't be disappointed.

xx

A Little Malaria

Today is World Malaria Day and, while for some it is a problem of the past, there are countries all over the world affected by it every day. The most vulnerable are children; and even though it is preventable (and bed net distributions were rolled out, country-wide, last year), Malaria is one of four major health issues responsible for deaths in Ghana. Volunteers are not exempt; it's something we all hope to avoid, of course, but last year I found myself in an Emergency Room in Colorado Springs.

Ironically enough, I'd caught Malaria in the med-unit, at our Home Office, underneath a mosquito net (I'd apparently been sharing with a very smart mosquito). Looking back, I should have recognized the signs: cyclical symptoms, joint pain, a very high fever, but my Malaria medicine had suppressed the symptoms enough that I brushed it off as something else. I thought, as I shivered violently in my airplane seat, hoping the splitting migraine behind my eyes would go away, that maybe I wasn't used to such intense air conditioning; maybe I'd contracted a head cold from one of the ninety children I'd hugged goodbye as I'd left my village behind. I hoped that it would go away soon and I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to rest.

If any of you know anything about Colorado Springs you know that it's elevation is pretty high, and most of my symptoms could have been confused with altitude sickness; but as that first week went on I started to wonder if something was seriously wrong with me:

As well as a ebbing fever - peaking at 104 degrees - I'd developed a shortness of breath that left me hacking and gasping for air, a sharp pain behind my eyes that was sensitive to light, joint and muscle pains all the way down my back and into my knees, I couldn't eat or drink, and - at one point - a friend witnessed my face pale enough to turn my lips blue. I was in rough shape. The catalyst came one morning when my mum, after leaving me fully-dressed and relatively well for an errand five minutes down the road, returned to find me face down in the basement; I'm pretty sure she thought I'd died. In reality, I'd fell asleep face down because it made my head stop hurting; I was fully dressed because it took all of my energy to crawl into the basement to lay down; I was in the basement because it was the only place that seemed cool enough for some sort of comfort. My Malaria logic was sound, but it still felt like I was dying.

And, it turns out, I was. After talking to the medical officer in Washington D.C who, listening to me struggle to breathe and talk at the same time, told me to get to a hospital immediately, I found out that I'd contracted the most deadly type of Malaria (the most common form in West Africa); I'd been living with the parasite for over two weeks and it had been doing its work patiently.

The treatment was simple enough - we flushed my system with the strongest anti-malarial we could find and I was interviewed by the Center for Disease Control. For about a week I was zombie-like and listless. Luckily it was winter, so there wasn't any risk of me transmitting the disease to anyone else (via traveling mosquitoes), but it was like waking up from the worst hangover I'd ever had. And nobody else really knew what it was.

I was lucky. I had medical care and treatment and my medical care and treatment were subsidized by the Peace Corps. I had enough experience to know that (after a week) my symptoms were suspect.

Many people die every year from Malaria, most of them children. Many of them are perfectly capable of preventing Malaria, but they aren't educated in just how serious the risk is (or motivated to change their behaviors). In Ghana, when people are sick, it's referred to as 'just a little Malaria;' as if Malaria is a innocent, passing infection (and not something that can quickly carry away someone's life). Many people get and treat Malaria multiple times in their lives, leading them to believe that it isn't something to be feared or prevented (especially in children). This is why Peace Corps is taking such a stand to end Malaria and, maybe, Malaria doesn't directly affect you, but now at least you know the story of someone who contracted it.

Thankfully I survived.

Please visit this website for more information, and to read about what Peace Corps volunteers all over Africa are doing to end Malaria: www.stompoutmalaria.org

The Nature of a Volunteer: An Introspection

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, so bear with me ...

Being a volunteer seems easy; we do the work we love, we explore the world, and we get to control our projects, our involvement, and what kind of volunteer we want to be. We have relative freedom and on paper, in concise sentences, it all sounds rather inspiring – a dream come true.

And, yet, being a volunteer is the most challenging thing many of us will ever do. “The toughest job you’ll ever love.”  This overused phrase is our catch-all, our mantra; we see it everywhere (and many of us hate it). When we can’t find the words to explain what we do, we employ it. When things get hard, we are reminded of it by Peace Corps staff. The nature of the job is unpredictable and unpredictable is tough.

Peace Corps is an experience so unique it can’t be compared, not even with other Peace Corps experiences; expectations are useless. Unfortunately, existing in an environment without precedent, without pattern or explanation, affects us, changes us in minute ways - ways that don’t exist outside of this experience, ways that challenge self-perception and beg for explanation.

The nature of a volunteer is contradictory. It breeds competitiveness and flexibility (both fueled by the wish to be a good volunteer ... whatever that means); site-guilt and exploration (an often painful struggle between staying at site as much as possible and leaving site as much as possible, usually to maintain sanity); compassion and an ironic lack of empathy (which, at times, manifests itself in the form of unfortunate and misguided bigotry). Watching the jump from trainee to volunteer is a curious thing – we feverishly track psychological charts (which I took great pleasure in burning) and attempt to navigate this winding, adapting emotional environment unlike anything we've ever encountered (see: http://little-emmaline.blogspot.com/2010/09/crazy-ghana-me.html).

For many of us the Peace Corps is its own purpose; upon arriving, and lacking direction, we can become apathetic and contradictory – ever grateful for the experience, but as quick to judge, tire, and anger as we are to laugh, love, and enjoy. Sometimes it's easier to join in on nitpicking and ethnocentrism; we start to make unfair assumptions, lean on less-than-desirable coping mechanisms. Some days it takes everything we have to be kind, patient and gracious; we stumble, we lash out, we punish. We forget that, as well as being kind, patient, and gracious in our interactions, we must be kind, patient, and gracious with ourselves. Contrary to popular belief, every day doesn't need to be an adventure; nothing needs to be justified - we are already here. The only thing that matters is making every day worth it, which is entirely up to us.

Some of us will end up thinking our host country owes us something, that we are sacrificing something better to be here (ignoring that we choose to stay, that our experiences, however short-lived, will be worth it). Some of us will find it difficult to interact with people, walking a line of ethnocentrism; expecting some form of special treatment and consideration without intending to give any. Some days it will escape us entirely that everyone has a story, everyone has a reason, and everyone deserves a little dignity. There will be times when everything that compelled us and inspired us will be lost to us. There will always be bad days.

This is why the job is so tough: mentally, it’s exhausting; in terms of activity, it’s sporadic; physically, it’s full of surprises and anomalies. All of these things will, at some point, cause us to forget laughter; we will forget to go easy on a world that is trying very hard to interact with us (even as we try very hard to interact back). The worst of us will make unhappy choices and grow unappreciative (even as they plan to highlight, italicize and bold this experience at the top of their resumes).

I guess the secret (to my own continued satisfaction, at least), isn't in some grand experience that was perfect in every way. It’s in forgiving the experience for what it can be – challenging, exhausting, and permanent. We accept the good things, the amazing life-changing possibilities, as soon as we apply, but every coin has two sides. Refusing to acknowledge this strips the experience of its reality, refuses to consider, observe and appreciate life in its many forms (however absurd they may be). There is no perfect placement; a great site will only be as great as a volunteer's reaction to it (we must take at least that much responsibility). We can’t please everyone and we won’t; it won't always be easy; we will be noticed; we are different ... but didn't we always know these things?

All of this changes us indelibly, it is a fact of which we are constantly reminded; but I believe we have a choice in the direction of those changes. Life isn't perfect; what is Peace Corps, if not just another form of life? We made a leap, we took a chance (and it's true that many of us put everything on the line), but that's exactly what makes it worth it: we've been given the opportunity to do something most people aren't doing - the challenge is not wasting the experience while it’s here. 

xx 

Our African Sun

I close my eyes and feel the unbelievable heat; we're going no more than forty miles an hour and the desert sun, riding on a tide of the wind, rolls in from a broken window; I'm sitting in the undesirable seat. Climbing up the steps, forty pairs of eyes met mine, that single seat staring at me from the back of the bus. My mouth widened to a grin and I clumsily stepped over passengers, seat by seat, nodding, offering small acknowledgements: “Hi, hello, good morning, how is everyone, sorry for the inconvenience, excuse me, thank you …”  Finally, settled into my seat, a seemingly detachable and well-worn cushion, I looked up to find a gaping hole in the floral paneling above. Such misfortune could only come from African speed bumps and longer necks; I thank my mother for smaller genes and the engine rattles to life; I relax into the charm of my Bolga bus. It feels good to come home.

Familiar landscape greets wandering eyes – red dirt, tan grass cracked and worn from sun; barren and beautiful, leafless trees stretch out from the ground like lightning, they are limbs emerging from slumber. It's been six months, but feels as though no time has passed. The same townships, the same monuments, the same colorful houses with roofs of thatch and tin; square walls, round walls, mud and brick and dung. The same sun, moving through skies of lingering Harmattan sand, will soon be perfect for sunset trysts with naked eye - a muted orb painted colors of fire, isolated and hanging as if from string, framed in unchanging grey until it sinks beneath the flat horizon. Those same sands, sometimes floating, sometimes whipping, through the windows of our bus quickly dry my skin and knot my hair, flurried greetings that form instant wrinkles where my smile dances again and again.

Even for a weekend, returning home somehow feels refreshing, rejuvenating; a lightness descends. I’m amazed to find I am heavy enough to touch the ground; I fully expect to leave the earth and meet clouds above. Distance and time heal, release tension and resolve shadow like a light in the dark. I am truly happy, completely unburdened despite recent tribulations; I want to laugh and dance and hug everyone in sight. Maybe they won't remember me, maybe they won’t care, but that doesn't matter – I’m home; I remember; I care.

It’s easy to forget how important these moments become. There was always something to smile about at the end of the day; triumphant returns solidify old truths. Heat isn't unbearable because it makes the breeze sweeter; children are simply children, not enemies – curiosities are  reasonable, my bright skin baking under the light of our great African sun. I forgot the moon could get so bright, making flash lights unnecessary; I forgot the sky could be clean enough that thousands of lights are visible from millions of miles and years away. I am never millions of miles or years away and my return is triumphant; I feel free.

I am home.

On Resiliency

The Peace Corps, among many other things, is an exercise in resiliency. Let’s look at the word – resilient: able to recover quickly from setbacks; able to spring back quickly into shape after being bent, stretched or squashed. Normally, when we think of resiliency, we think of children. Children bounce; they heal easily and they remain unafraid, trusting the world always. This allows them the ability to grow, to enjoy, to explore the world continually; as many things go with age, some of them lose this ability. In its place grows fear and caution, a hardness against a life that won’t always be kind, or loving, or easy.

In the Peace Corps, we like words like ‘flexible’ and ‘adaptable.’ Life rarely occurs as we imagine it; this fact reveals itself constantly, of course, but is less shy, less concealed, in a third-world country. We are told to lower our expectations, to prepare ourselves for the lack of and sudden (sometimes sad, sometimes surprising) occurrence of many things. Our only saving grace, a fervent friend and lover in any number of difficult situations, is our resiliency; better yet, our optimism - our penchant for seeking out and finding, no matter how faint or distant, that sliver of light existing behind every dark cloud. It puts the smile on our faces – despite homesickness and isolation, despite learning setbacks and obstacles, despite the unforeseen and unsettling – and we learn, very quickly, that the ability to bend, stretch, and spring back quickly is a priority, a daily exercise, and something that mustn't be taken for granted.

I've always been resilient - perpetual sunshine - but I have to say my ability to adapt, not only in response to situations but, permanently, as a trait, has been refined in Ghana. And though it can be applied to many things (including my body’s ability to process more oil than I thought existed in the WORLD, let alone one meal), it’s had a principle affect on my ability to laugh – to find amusement in even the most inappropriate of situations (which, awkwardly, is all the more amusing). All of this keeps me grounded, it keeps me positive; it means that random, stationary objects, and any number of creatures, are supplied with an often hysterical (I admit, it's subjective) running dialogue in my head, but it also means that I don’t take myself too seriously, which is the entire point.

All of the stuff in my apartment, excluding my photographs and letters, is just stuff; my job, assuming its specific detail or location changes, is still my job – it still makes me happy; the people who make my life harder, who attempt to derail my day, are just people – they aren't prime movers, they neither create my satisfaction, nor should they ever effect the love I have for the world (or myself). And, as it turns out, they have their own pain, their own battles; perhaps their resilience was also lost long ago. My shouldering of their burdens helps no one, bends me to the ground to the point of breaking, closes my eyes and ears to the world, distracts me from my purpose.

I know these blogs grow increasingly obscure - less a reflection of my immediate surroundings, more a continued introspection - but I hope that you understand that we’re in this together. I hope you find in them some part of yourself (whether it be something you’re searching for or something you acknowledge, understanding exactly what I’m trying to say); I hope we can make this journey together, learn to accept our flaws in order to revel in them, dance with them, and eventually part with them lovingly; I hope that you enjoy observing my journey, that it moves you, bends you, presses you tightly, and springs you back out into that big, beautiful world - head a little higher, smile a little brighter, step a little lighter.

Resiliency – you will find it in light and shadow, in water and wind, in the earth beneath your feet and the muscle beneath your skin – it’s literally all around you; look inside and you'll find it within you.

We will find it together.

xx

On Being Lonely

There is an art to being alone, to finding comfort in it, to seeing its potential. For me, more than anything else, being here (alone in more ways than one) has re-routed my perspective.

If there’s one thing I do when I’m alone, it’s think. I think about any number of things and lately I think about home. I imagine the mountain range white with snow, the crisp stillness of days when it floats silently from the sky. I think about my friends and their shining smiles and all of the amazing things we've done. I remember that we've grown up and that many of them are in faraway places with families and homes and real jobs. I remember that as weird as that seems to me, I’m in Africa (which is probably just as weird for them).

The silence of being alone, the symptom of a fishbowl, reminds me of my awe for the world, reminds me of the love I bear for my friends and family; mostly it reminds me of ... well ... me. Silence, independence, the art of being alone makes me think about me.

The first thing I tell people about the Peace Corps is that liking oneself and ones company is a requirement. With nothing to do but think about life and self and growth, strange things start to happen. Sometimes it’s forgiveness and letting go – as easy as dropping a pebble into the sea and watching it sink it’s farewell; other times it’s acceptance and self-love – looking into a mirror and seeing something beautiful there, something worth coveting and nurturing; sometimes it’s unbearable – nagging thoughts circling like birds above their prey, picking at weaknesses and drawing blood; sometimes it’s pure bliss – that moment of nirvana when the world stops and calm quiet descends, a moment of clarity without meditation, a point of light in the mind as warm and bright as the sun on a spring morning.

It’s purposeful; not always filled with the pursuit of knowledge, but pursuit of self and useful introspection. Journal pages are filled with ramblings, some of them profound. Books get read and pages are typed – reflections of this life and those that came before, the possibility of the future.

In the silence, somewhere along the way, you start to listen. And you notice you've never actually listened before. And what you hear sometimes surprises you; having thought you knew yourself, you realize you’re just acquaintances. And when you listen a gate opens somewhere and more than you ever thought you had to say comes tumbling out. Some of those things are old, antiques you thought you’d lost or sold. Some of them are new, things you hadn't realized you picked up along the way. Some of them are obvious and ugly and you realize you want better company, prefer to show them to the door and lock it tight behind you.

All the while you’re getting to know yourself – silence being a sneaky catalyst to a  reinvention that's long overdue. And without noticing you begin to change, begin to like yourself in your entirety, begin to leave things like guilt and shame and anger behind because you forgive yourself for things you didn't realize needed forgiving.

You do a spring cleaning and what’s left is this clear, empty room. Pictures and memories line the walls, an open window filters love and light into every corner, and there’s a comfortable chair there waiting for your return (and you find that you like the room and return here often). It’s where you can think and enjoy and relax. It’s where you feel safe and free and loved. It’s your room in your house - your heart and your mind. It existed there all along, but fearing loneliness like most people do you neglected it, let it clutter.

But you see, there’s a difference between being alone and being lonely. And once you've mastered one you will never feel the other. The company of people is meant to be worshiped, but you marvel at the fact that you like your own company, too. Dinner and movie, a book at your favorite coffee shop, a stroll around town under the stars. You find that you become aware of the world – no more vultures in the sky. You see beauty all around you, reflected in you, because as well as loving the world you recognize your place in it; you are more beautiful because you belong to it.

And it loves you in return – sends you the sun and life giving rain, it grows you flowers and gives you sustenance, it sends the wind to tussle your hair and you understand that it’s a gift. Every breath. And you’re lucky just to be standing there, a beautiful snow-dusted mountain range greeting you every morning from the window, sleepy eyes and grateful heart.

This is what being alone has meant for me. An expansion of awareness, of appreciation – the ability to love and laugh and cry when I need to cry. I never feel lonely as long as I remember that everything I’ll ever need is here with me all the time. Some people call this God; you can call it whatever you like. I call it life. And I find it to be more wonderful than words. I crawl into bed with it every night and needn't fear it’ll leave before morning; and wouldn't you know, I’m always smiling – even when I’m alone.

Welcome to 2013 – take some time to be alone this year; you might find something you like.

xx