Because I am back in the United States and have yet to really leave my dad's house and face that great big America just out there waiting for me, I thought I'd dedicate my first blog stateside to writing about what it was like to leave my village, already nearly a month ago. I think starting back there will help me progress in my writing about returning to the US (of which, believe me, I have much to say).
To be blunt, leaving my village was one of the hardest experiences I've had in my life, and I've been through my fair share of trials and tribulations. I was surprised by this... I think partially because Peace Corps as an agency had not really let on to how difficult it would be, but probably more so because I had felt for so long that I was ready (perhaps more accurately, extremely excited) to leave.
When the time came, some weeks before my final departure on April 12th, I was overwhelmed by the mixture of emotions... sadness, shock, fear of the unknown, wanting to hold on to each precious moment, desire to visit with everyone one last time, irritation with people hanging around all day to say goodbye (meaning hoping to get some of my things), anxiety about re-integrating into American society, and uncertainty about how to close certain relationships, especially considering not only Malagasy culture (in which it is under no circumstances appropriate to show emotion) but also how to manage future technological barriers (in which very few people have cell phones, let alone email).
Leaving is simply that: leaving. For good.
Everything came to a head about three days before I was about to go. One of my best girlfriends there (who is, like all Malagasy people, bluntly honest and very rarely shows any emotion) said to me one quiet, starry night over a plate of rice in her backyard, "I want to spend all the time I can with you. It is like when someone dies, you know you will never see them again." What can you say to that? My heart broke a thousand times in those few days.
The scene was chaos: people stopping by my house day and night, some staring in disbelief, some asking for my things, some crying. In a culture where crying is only seen at funerals, this is a big, difficult process to go through. It rained heavily and nearly continuously my last three days. This meant moving all my furniture, giving away most of my clothes and distributing random odds & ends to various friend's houses in the mud and muck. It also meant all my clothes and bags (which I'd tried to wash so they wouldn't smell horrible when I returned to civilization) were soggy and molding and simply would not dry on the line.
My best little 6-year old friend Lydia was my constant companion, eating every meal together and helping me by my side from first light until bedtime. Everywhere we went, people would comment, "Lydia! What are you going to do when Vanessa's gone?" We would embrace and my eyes filled with tears dozens of times; she just laughed. It's hard for a child to really understand that I was not coming back.
Amidst the constant rain and visitors, packing stinky clothes, lack of cell phone and/or phone credit, writing legal agreements in Malagasy about the break-ins at my house and dealing with the thief's family, trying to repair broken flip flops, a leaky roof and busted bicycle tires, I was also trying to stay present through the closure process while (unsuccessfully) preparing to move forward. I became intensely focused on lasts: last bucket bath, last trip to the well, last cup of coffee at the coffee shack, last conversation with this person, last walk down the peaceful road to the sea. It was an emotional time to say the least.
None of this was helped by the fact that I decided to leave my village right after one of Madagascar's biggest holidays, Lundi de Paque (Easter Monday). Hundreds of people from all around the north of Madagascar come to celebrate the holiday on the beach outside my village, dancing til dawn at the village discotheques, drinking endless bottles of THB (the local- and only- beer), and being generally obnoxious as usually happens on big party weekends all over the world.
I tried to stay upbeat and positive that weekend, but by the end of it, with all the packing and goodbyes, I felt my spirits waning as I prepared for my final night at the discotheque. One of my best friends came over to my house to get ready with me, and instead she ended up putting her head in my lap and weeping uncontrollably for nearly ten minutes. She said it best: it's hard to be happy at a going-away party. I don't know when I've felt more heartbroken.
With all the rain, I was unable to bike out of my village one last time, which was what I had intended to do from the start. Instead, I slipped and slid my way along that all-too-familiar, treacherous 17-kilometer stretch of muddy road one last time, squeezed into the town taxi-brousse with one of my best friends and all of my worldly possessions crammed into every nook & cranny. It was a hell of a ride, in more ways than one.
Leaving is simply that: leaving. For good.
Everything came to a head about three days before I was about to go. One of my best girlfriends there (who is, like all Malagasy people, bluntly honest and very rarely shows any emotion) said to me one quiet, starry night over a plate of rice in her backyard, "I want to spend all the time I can with you. It is like when someone dies, you know you will never see them again." What can you say to that? My heart broke a thousand times in those few days.
The scene was chaos: people stopping by my house day and night, some staring in disbelief, some asking for my things, some crying. In a culture where crying is only seen at funerals, this is a big, difficult process to go through. It rained heavily and nearly continuously my last three days. This meant moving all my furniture, giving away most of my clothes and distributing random odds & ends to various friend's houses in the mud and muck. It also meant all my clothes and bags (which I'd tried to wash so they wouldn't smell horrible when I returned to civilization) were soggy and molding and simply would not dry on the line.
My best little 6-year old friend Lydia was my constant companion, eating every meal together and helping me by my side from first light until bedtime. Everywhere we went, people would comment, "Lydia! What are you going to do when Vanessa's gone?" We would embrace and my eyes filled with tears dozens of times; she just laughed. It's hard for a child to really understand that I was not coming back.
Amidst the constant rain and visitors, packing stinky clothes, lack of cell phone and/or phone credit, writing legal agreements in Malagasy about the break-ins at my house and dealing with the thief's family, trying to repair broken flip flops, a leaky roof and busted bicycle tires, I was also trying to stay present through the closure process while (unsuccessfully) preparing to move forward. I became intensely focused on lasts: last bucket bath, last trip to the well, last cup of coffee at the coffee shack, last conversation with this person, last walk down the peaceful road to the sea. It was an emotional time to say the least.
None of this was helped by the fact that I decided to leave my village right after one of Madagascar's biggest holidays, Lundi de Paque (Easter Monday). Hundreds of people from all around the north of Madagascar come to celebrate the holiday on the beach outside my village, dancing til dawn at the village discotheques, drinking endless bottles of THB (the local- and only- beer), and being generally obnoxious as usually happens on big party weekends all over the world.
I tried to stay upbeat and positive that weekend, but by the end of it, with all the packing and goodbyes, I felt my spirits waning as I prepared for my final night at the discotheque. One of my best friends came over to my house to get ready with me, and instead she ended up putting her head in my lap and weeping uncontrollably for nearly ten minutes. She said it best: it's hard to be happy at a going-away party. I don't know when I've felt more heartbroken.
With all the rain, I was unable to bike out of my village one last time, which was what I had intended to do from the start. Instead, I slipped and slid my way along that all-too-familiar, treacherous 17-kilometer stretch of muddy road one last time, squeezed into the town taxi-brousse with one of my best friends and all of my worldly possessions crammed into every nook & cranny. It was a hell of a ride, in more ways than one.
 |
| See where that metal water filter is in the front seat? That's my spot. |
 |
| Chantaly all snuggled in next to me. Two more people would join us up front. |
 |
| Push! This particular spot required about fifteen people pushing; it took ten minutes to get out. |
No comments:
Post a Comment