Mid-September 2010

So I made it through training, and earned my “official” title of US Peace Corps Volunteer. And amidst all the hoopla and fancy bazan and parties that was Swear-in Weekend, it was hard to fully process what was awaiting me: my real raison d’etre, my two years of service in my small Malian village. In fact, up until the hours-long, bumpy, muddy car ride to my village, I hadn’t had much time to think about it at all. But suddenly, standing there in my new hut with the rain pouring outside, surrounded by piles of household goods and furniture (but not by my clothes, which were inadvertently left behind at Tubaniso), the reality of it all was staring me in the face.

They talk about this moment of panic and reckoning once you get to site, the moment at which you realize you’re really all alone, as the white Toyota Land Cuiser drives off with the last Peace Corps staff person you’ll speak to for awhile, the last person who makes special effort to understand your mangled Bambara and sympathizes with your emotional ups and downs. And I can’t say I didn’t experience some of that. My homologue Fatoumata wisely sensed my need for space that afternoon, bringing me a flashlight since my lantern was still at Tubaniso and promising to come get me for dinner before leaving me to set up my hut and stew for a few hours.  I looked around my hut, this place that is now my home, and thought about the fact that it’s just me and the 600-odd people in this far-off place now. For two years. The task ahead of me is so large, and here I am, so small, so overwhelmed. And, despite myself, despite the best brave face I’d been keeping for all of the goodbyes and new faces in the past 48 hours, I finally cried there in my hut, overtaken by what lay ahead, for the first time asking myself if, for all my idealism and ambition, I might not be up for this.

That moment, thank God, passed. But not immediately, and not easily. In the past few weeks I have sat through virtually hours and hours of conversations I can’t understand, sipping strong, bitter Malian tea, staring up at the starry night sky and wondering when the time will come when I’ll feel like I belong. But, ever so slowly, and with some good moments and some bad ones, I’m feeling like this place could be home. I know it can be. The people here are friendly and open, and they want me to be here. And I’ve found the people who will make this road to assimilation easier: my homologue Fatoumata and the strong, beautiful women of her family; my host dad and his outspoken wives, and their plethora of kids always ready for a high-five or a game of “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes;” the vaccinator, midwife and doctor at my clinic; the handful of older kids who play soccer behind my house every evening and get a kick out of stopping by to watch me cook dinner. Sure, life here is dramatically different from anything I have ever experienced before, but people are people anywhere you go. Once you get to know them, the changes don’t seem so daunting anymore. Mistakes, confusion and all, I’m here, laughing along with my host family; watching the sun set as my homologue and her three sisters undo my elaborate meshi braids; joining in the local dances and accompanying my host wives to their peanut and millet fields. My life and success here will be all about relationships, and right now I’m trying to lay the groundwork by just being a participant in the rhythms of daily life.

A few weeks in village now, I still have the moments when I sip bitter tea in silence, wishing I could contribute to the conversation. I still fight against the rising tide of frustration at wondering whether I’ll ever be fluent enough to have close friends, much less to give people health advice and feel like a productive volunteer. But I’m starting to see that things do come with time. And with every little challenge I rise to meet I feel like I’m finding strength I didn’t realize I had. The toughest job I’ll ever love. Yeah, Peace Corps got that right.