I'm here in Kati now, only 5 days after returning to Dombila. Instead of having time to settle in, I was called by Caroline and Hunter to help with their latest project: Take your daughters to work day. 5 days actually. So far, it's going pretty well, and there are 4 fifth grade girls here from Dombila. Along with girls from four other villages, they're doing job shadows with professional women, visiting the technical high school in Kati, doing team-building, goal-setting and a little bit of sexual education (somehow I've become the Peace Corps go-to person for that). Besides all the disasters that happen doing a project in Mali, I think its going pretty good and it is well worth it for these girls to think about a future other than becoming housewife in the rural villages.
I'm not sure how I feel about being back. Adjustment was easier than I imagined, having plenty of friends to welcome me upon my return. But I'm thinking more, I'm confused. I walk down the streets of Kati and hear people yelling at me just as before, “Tubabu! Tubabu!” Normally, this would really bug me and I would think, “Why are they singling me out? Can't they just leave me alone? I'm only a person!” But this time I'm thinking, “Yeah, you're right. It is super weird for me to be here. I'm this little white girl pretending to be Malian. That is rather laughable. I speak your language and wear your clothes and pretend that I know what's best for you. But do I? What the heck am I doing here in this foreign land?”
I know this vision of being able to really feel satisfied and confident that I'm doing something worthwhile is never going to be a concrete realization. I still question why I'm here, and what effect it has on people. And at this point, I know I'll never know for sure. But what I do have is faith. And enough life experience to know that most times you don't realize the significance of what your doing until it's all said and done. And as long as I'm fueled by this faith, and by these little hints of progress, I'll keep on truckin'. For another 9 months. And then... ?
My star community health worker showed me the records he kept of the malnourished children when I was away. I saw one baby who was on the verge of death at my departure gradually gaining strength. My eyes bulged out of my head when the school director showed my how he organized the students to do the weekly sanitation chores. Though the hand washing stations are still broken, they are acting as large barrels of water to clean the latrines daily, and soap is sitting next to kettles of water being used by the students to wash their hands. What happened here? We're going on a shopping spree tomorrow and returning with two trucks of sand and 145 bags of cement to start working on the wells.
At least for now, it's good. It's good to be back.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
A Departure
It's funny, at times I feel as if nothing ever really changes around Dombila, but when I came back I was suddenly faced with the biggest change of my Peace Corps service. After a warm greeting with the family, (Malians don't hug, but I couldn't help myself- talk about awkwardness!), I announced I was going to greet the people at the CSCOM.
“Irene's gone!” Shaka told me. I didn't believe him, they always like to joke around like that. “No really,” he insisted, “a car came yesterday to gather up all her stuff.”
Sure enough when I reached the CSCOM, I found Awa's daughter, Noellie, and all the crew. They're still here. Of course they're still here. But Irene was on her way to visit me, to explain to me why she had sent her things to Kati and was leaving Dombila for good.
Now Irene is someone who would pack up her things and leave over a quarrel or a big whoop-la or such, so I was glad to hear that was not the case. A relative of her was opening up a private health clinic in Kati. As head matrone, she'd make a better salary to support her kids, plus she'd be closer to all her relatives that reside in Kati. She couldn't turn it down. “I've been talking about leaving Dombila for a long time, but I really wanted to wait until your two years were up.” I assured her that I understood. It's best for her. Kati is not far, I can still visit. But I'll miss her. And boy will I miss little Noellie.
I went with Awa, Irene, and the kids to Dio where they would leave with the last of their things. We waited for a car and talked about how different things would be.
“You know what you're doing now, you don't need me to teach you any more,” she said. True, she's not really directly active in my projects, but she's always the first person I go to for advice, and her advice always seems to work.
“But who am I going to eat rice with at lunch?” I asked. Even though I can get sick of rice every day, if anyone can cook great Malian sauce, it's Awa.
“You could eat with Bouare, or you could even cook yourself! You've been watching me long enough. You should be able to do it.” Confidently, I bought a new pot that next Saturday at market. I showed the rice dish I made to my host mom and she was quite disgusted. She tried to feed the leftovers to the dog. The dog wouldn't eat it.
It wasn't too hard to shed a few tears. I could have held back but it was the only other way I knew to show my respect and affection. “I couldn't have done anything, nonetheless stayed in Dombila without your guidance.” She assured me we would still be in close touch, and that I would be the “denba” (god-mother type figure) in Awa's upcoming wedding. She better explain that role a little better to me because as I saw in that last wedding she took me too, it's quite confusing.
“Be good. Don't fight,” she said through the rusty car window. She knows I don't pick fights, but maybe that was the most motherly piece of advice she could think of to give me at the time.
A few days later a new woman came- Mariam Diokote. Middle-aged, strong and well-built, friendly and welcoming but somewhat reserved. She seemed very occupied with settling in to have any time to chat so I did what I could to help her- sweep up, take out the trash, little things. I have no idea what kind of relationship I am going to have with her, or how she is in the work-setting. Only time will tell. May it work out well for us here in Dombila!
“Irene's gone!” Shaka told me. I didn't believe him, they always like to joke around like that. “No really,” he insisted, “a car came yesterday to gather up all her stuff.”
Sure enough when I reached the CSCOM, I found Awa's daughter, Noellie, and all the crew. They're still here. Of course they're still here. But Irene was on her way to visit me, to explain to me why she had sent her things to Kati and was leaving Dombila for good.
Now Irene is someone who would pack up her things and leave over a quarrel or a big whoop-la or such, so I was glad to hear that was not the case. A relative of her was opening up a private health clinic in Kati. As head matrone, she'd make a better salary to support her kids, plus she'd be closer to all her relatives that reside in Kati. She couldn't turn it down. “I've been talking about leaving Dombila for a long time, but I really wanted to wait until your two years were up.” I assured her that I understood. It's best for her. Kati is not far, I can still visit. But I'll miss her. And boy will I miss little Noellie.
I went with Awa, Irene, and the kids to Dio where they would leave with the last of their things. We waited for a car and talked about how different things would be.
“You know what you're doing now, you don't need me to teach you any more,” she said. True, she's not really directly active in my projects, but she's always the first person I go to for advice, and her advice always seems to work.
“But who am I going to eat rice with at lunch?” I asked. Even though I can get sick of rice every day, if anyone can cook great Malian sauce, it's Awa.
“You could eat with Bouare, or you could even cook yourself! You've been watching me long enough. You should be able to do it.” Confidently, I bought a new pot that next Saturday at market. I showed the rice dish I made to my host mom and she was quite disgusted. She tried to feed the leftovers to the dog. The dog wouldn't eat it.
It wasn't too hard to shed a few tears. I could have held back but it was the only other way I knew to show my respect and affection. “I couldn't have done anything, nonetheless stayed in Dombila without your guidance.” She assured me we would still be in close touch, and that I would be the “denba” (god-mother type figure) in Awa's upcoming wedding. She better explain that role a little better to me because as I saw in that last wedding she took me too, it's quite confusing.
“Be good. Don't fight,” she said through the rusty car window. She knows I don't pick fights, but maybe that was the most motherly piece of advice she could think of to give me at the time.
A few days later a new woman came- Mariam Diokote. Middle-aged, strong and well-built, friendly and welcoming but somewhat reserved. She seemed very occupied with settling in to have any time to chat so I did what I could to help her- sweep up, take out the trash, little things. I have no idea what kind of relationship I am going to have with her, or how she is in the work-setting. Only time will tell. May it work out well for us here in Dombila!
A mouse in the house
Coming back from America, of course I had hit the jackpot of goodies. The kids and host family all got little presents. And as for me, well, I have a life-time supply of powerbars, some great flavored tuna, applesauce, stuff to make s'mores with my host family, calcium chews, extra toys to give to the kids at the holidays, you name it.
Now normally, I don't lock my door when I go out for a run. Why would I? I'm not gone long, everyone's around, and no one would dare sneak in my house anyway. What I have had before are mice. God I hate mice. I once shined my flashlight on one late at night in my kitchen chowing down on a potato. Actually, the only time I have let kids in my house is when there's a critter to catch. They're pretty skilled at that.
So returning from my first run back, I noticed the four bananas I had sitting in a bowl had become, in 45 minutes, two bananas and two bananas worth of peels. I showed my host mom. “Did someone come in my room?” I asked.
She looked at the bananas. “No, of course not. The kids all know not to go in your house.” She confirmed it with the girls pounding millet. No, no one could have possibly come in. “Are you sure you didn't eat them.”
Sounds like something I would do, but I was pretty sure that I didn't eat those two bananas. We concluded that the mouse was back. Pretty hungry mouse! Impressive. I went back inside and noticed my shelves were all messed up and a can of chicken salad was open on the table. I definitely didn't open that can. And I really thought I put it on the shelf too.
“Could a mouse do that?” I showed the can to my host mom, and of course had to explain the concept of canned chicken salad.
“I guess, if it really put it's body up against it and popped the lid.” Geez. This mouse means business. When Shaka and Cesalo heard about this, they offered their mouse hunting services. I asked them to give me a few minutes to clean up around the house (Ameriki goodies were sprawled everywhere as I was still in the process of unpacking) and then they could come in.
I picked up a bit, started cooking my dinner, and was noticing a few other weird stuff in my house. A couple of toys were perched on the window sill. Maybe they fell out of my bag? I did have to crawl through the window to get in at first, as my door tends to get stuck if you don't open it for a few days. I went and tidied up the boxes in the corner as it began to get harder to see in the afternoon dusk.
Then, I noticed something. Behind the gas tank. A large bundle of something Was it my sleeping bag? I touched it. Oh my gosh- I almost screamed. It's a dead body!! It moved, and sat up.
“Madu??? What are you doing here?” The scared 9-year old had been balled up in the corner for a couple of hours, dusty and whimpering.
“Nothing.”
“Why did you come in here?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you take anything.”
“No, I just ate some candy.” I look at the wrappers. Well, he definitely had his daily value of calcium today.
“Were you trying to get the toys out the window?”
“Yes.”
“Did you open that can?”
“Yes.”
“Did you eat the bananas?”
“No. You must have a mouse in here.” Darn it! God I hate mice.
“Madu?”
“Yeah I ate the bananas.” Madu was terrified to go outside, he knew he'd get in big trouble and most definitely get beaten. I tried to hide him for a little while, but it really became time for him to face the music and get out. I can't have him just laying here while I'm trying to cook dinner.
Meanwhile, Shaka and Cesalo are anxiously waiting to go hunt down the mouse. “Did you see it in there?”
“Yeah, I found it.”
“Well where is it?”
“It's here.”
“Did you kill it?”
“No.”
“Well, let it out!”
“I'm going to let it out later.”
“Why? Just let it out now!”
“If I let out the mouse, you have to all promise you won't trouble it, you hear?”
“Yeah, yeah yeah.”
“No one is going to hit it, no one is going to chase it, you'll just let it run away and not tell anyone. Promise?”
As they wondered why I was so protective of this mouse I went in and tried talking to Madu. “You gotta come out now.” And little by little I got him to stand up, go near the door, and there was this dramatic pause as I held the door open and the people outside waited for the mouse to come scurrying out. Finally Madu made his exit, directly to the wooden post outside my house where he immediately hid his face in his arms. Everyone's mouth dropped in a shocking silence.
Back to cooking dinner, I figured the whole situation was too funny to get mad at Madu. Besides, despite my bargaining, I knew he was going to get punished. He's just a kid. But now among the neighborhood, he is forever known as “the mouse.”
Now normally, I don't lock my door when I go out for a run. Why would I? I'm not gone long, everyone's around, and no one would dare sneak in my house anyway. What I have had before are mice. God I hate mice. I once shined my flashlight on one late at night in my kitchen chowing down on a potato. Actually, the only time I have let kids in my house is when there's a critter to catch. They're pretty skilled at that.
So returning from my first run back, I noticed the four bananas I had sitting in a bowl had become, in 45 minutes, two bananas and two bananas worth of peels. I showed my host mom. “Did someone come in my room?” I asked.
She looked at the bananas. “No, of course not. The kids all know not to go in your house.” She confirmed it with the girls pounding millet. No, no one could have possibly come in. “Are you sure you didn't eat them.”
Sounds like something I would do, but I was pretty sure that I didn't eat those two bananas. We concluded that the mouse was back. Pretty hungry mouse! Impressive. I went back inside and noticed my shelves were all messed up and a can of chicken salad was open on the table. I definitely didn't open that can. And I really thought I put it on the shelf too.
“Could a mouse do that?” I showed the can to my host mom, and of course had to explain the concept of canned chicken salad.
“I guess, if it really put it's body up against it and popped the lid.” Geez. This mouse means business. When Shaka and Cesalo heard about this, they offered their mouse hunting services. I asked them to give me a few minutes to clean up around the house (Ameriki goodies were sprawled everywhere as I was still in the process of unpacking) and then they could come in.
I picked up a bit, started cooking my dinner, and was noticing a few other weird stuff in my house. A couple of toys were perched on the window sill. Maybe they fell out of my bag? I did have to crawl through the window to get in at first, as my door tends to get stuck if you don't open it for a few days. I went and tidied up the boxes in the corner as it began to get harder to see in the afternoon dusk.
Then, I noticed something. Behind the gas tank. A large bundle of something Was it my sleeping bag? I touched it. Oh my gosh- I almost screamed. It's a dead body!! It moved, and sat up.
“Madu??? What are you doing here?” The scared 9-year old had been balled up in the corner for a couple of hours, dusty and whimpering.
“Nothing.”
“Why did you come in here?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you take anything.”
“No, I just ate some candy.” I look at the wrappers. Well, he definitely had his daily value of calcium today.
“Were you trying to get the toys out the window?”
“Yes.”
“Did you open that can?”
“Yes.”
“Did you eat the bananas?”
“No. You must have a mouse in here.” Darn it! God I hate mice.
“Madu?”
“Yeah I ate the bananas.” Madu was terrified to go outside, he knew he'd get in big trouble and most definitely get beaten. I tried to hide him for a little while, but it really became time for him to face the music and get out. I can't have him just laying here while I'm trying to cook dinner.
Meanwhile, Shaka and Cesalo are anxiously waiting to go hunt down the mouse. “Did you see it in there?”
“Yeah, I found it.”
“Well where is it?”
“It's here.”
“Did you kill it?”
“No.”
“Well, let it out!”
“I'm going to let it out later.”
“Why? Just let it out now!”
“If I let out the mouse, you have to all promise you won't trouble it, you hear?”
“Yeah, yeah yeah.”
“No one is going to hit it, no one is going to chase it, you'll just let it run away and not tell anyone. Promise?”
As they wondered why I was so protective of this mouse I went in and tried talking to Madu. “You gotta come out now.” And little by little I got him to stand up, go near the door, and there was this dramatic pause as I held the door open and the people outside waited for the mouse to come scurrying out. Finally Madu made his exit, directly to the wooden post outside my house where he immediately hid his face in his arms. Everyone's mouth dropped in a shocking silence.
Back to cooking dinner, I figured the whole situation was too funny to get mad at Madu. Besides, despite my bargaining, I knew he was going to get punished. He's just a kid. But now among the neighborhood, he is forever known as “the mouse.”
Getting Home
I remember sitting here July of 2008, just a few yards away from where I am now. Going through security at the Rochester International Airport was like crossing one of those laser-gel walls you see in scifi movies- it sucks you in spits you into a totally different place, to complete some mission, and doesn't let you go back until you've succeeded. All the wild emotional electricity jumping through my body was untamed and incomprehensible. Not quite knowing what to do with myself, I sat down to write. Just to quiet my thoughts, or at least streamline them on a page so I could attempt to make sense of what was happening to me.
Now 18 months later, I'm back on the same embarkment- Rochester to New York to Paris to Bamako and ultimately, Dombila. A lot has changed since then. But being home, immersed in loved ones, has made it clear that the countless blessings I have in my life are as steady, strong, and even more abundant as before.
I had only started counting down the days until my trip in the 50s. My anticipation was surely evident to the people of Dombila who had to listen to me announce “It's only 2 weeks and four days until I go to Ameriki!!” Then one night I was finally there, checking in to the Bamako airport, giving my last farewell blessing in Bambara and bouncing in my seat with excitement. My sister was to pick me up in Rochester and we would drive thought the sparkling snow to 1880 Hickory Lane where my dad would be tending to a wood fire, my mom making a warm, home cooked meal, and my dogs lounging on the oversized green cabin couches.
The picturesque moment was delayed by about 9 hours because of a series of adventures in transit. The Bamako- Paris plane was still delayed from the awful Paris snowstorms, and we weren't able to leave until an hour and a half past scheduled. This got me to the help desk in Charles de Gualle at 8:17 am for my 8:23 flight to New York.
“I think I need to change my flight,” I told the lady.
“Well, I can put you on a later flight, but you may be able to make it if you try. It's a little delayed and they're still boarding.”
Pumped with adrenalin, I saw some other folks running toward the gate. “New York?” I asked.
“Yep.” And I was soon running alongside folks. Relieved to reach the gate on find people still filing in, the ticket collector halted my approach.
“Wait,” he said and proceeded to explain that due to all the delays they were bumping in people from other flights. I watched the man in front of me skip gleefully into the boarding ramp with the last ticket to NYC. So then it was me and the Moores, an American family living in Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire for the past 6 months. Not so bad- we got lunch vouchers and I savored my first meal in the Western World (a mozzarella/tomato/ pesto sandwich on hearty hone wheat bread with rich dark hot chocolate), went to the cleanest bathroom I'd seen in a long time, and exchanged living in Africa stories with the Moores and their 3 school-aged children. Snow, lots of bundled up white people, this is starting to look familiar.
We made it on a 12:00 flight out, sat on the runway for 2 hours, and 10 hours later arrive in NYC, well past 5pm EST. Expecting to be home at 2pm, I instead shared my first dinner in the states with another West African PCV I met on my plane- a scrumptious twix bar from the vending machine. Kara and I watched the conveyor belt for an hour and a half before an airport guy announced to the dozens of stragglers from the Paris flight, “Your bags aren't coming.”
He herded us to another line as I watched it get dark outside. I'm going to be spending the night in New York, I concluded. After finding out that I could call to report my lost luggage later, I left the scene of the crime to see what JetBlue could do for a lonely Rochester-bound girl.
You know what I was looking forward to the whole time? Being in a public place where I wasn't the only white person and everyone wasn't staring at me. Well, JFK is full of people of plenty of different races, but I felt that people were still staring at me. Among well-outfitted travelers with their trendy scarfs and jackets and oh-so-easily mobile luggage, here's this disheveled girl in dirty sneakers, prototypical blue medical scrubs and a tee-shirt nonetheless. Carrying- a cardboard box of awkward size and held together by a wrapping of an assorted tape. Its not a bomb, I swear. (It was mostly Caroline's shea nuts that I've been instructed to forward). My other bag, they told me, would be sent to my home in a couple of days. (I would be waiting for 10 days it later turned out, unsure if it was lost forever.)
This is the point that I just wanted to fall over and die. I don't even know how much time passed while I was waiting in the JetBlue line. Hours perhaps. Just packed with people. And they kept playing “I'll be home for Christmas” on repeat. Eventually, I thought. Months of transport hell has seasoned me to the annoyances of travel, but even so, I was completely exhausted, Outrageously sleep deprived I wormed my way through the check-in-line, giving my cardboard box a little kick every moment I crept forward. There's a guy calling upcoming flights so people can sneak in front and not be delayed and further. Compared to some of these weary travelers in my vicinity, I've had it pretty good. Blizzards everywhere the weekend before Christmas. Just our luck.
“Rochester,” he calls.
“Rochester!” I excitedly burst out, scooting toward the front. Only problem- I don't have reservations for the 8:50pm flight. After being sent here and there and hopefully watching as some guys typed away on their computers.
“There's one more seat.” He printed me out the ticket. “But you better hurry.” Easier said than done when you still have baggage check and security. Once through, I'm running again. I reach the gate. Empty. “Boarding for Rochester:” the screen reads, “CLOSED.”
My face drops.
“Has the plane taken off yet?” I ask the tired man who strolls to the counter.
“What is your name?” he shoots me a interrogating look.
“Emily Hurley!” I shove all of my documents at him and hold my breath when he exclaimed them.
“Miss Hurley,” he looks up, “Please make your way to the aircraft.”
I'm grinning as I run down the breezeway and eye seat 26A, the one empty place in the very back of the small plane. I take a deep breath. I'm Going Home.
My lucky break gave me a second wind that allowed me to chat excitedly about the homeland with Jeff, the guy next to me who reintroduced me to some great things like new cell phones and chewing gum.
Then it was the landing. It's Rochester. It's my adorable sister. Finally. It's a winter jacket. It's road signs and Christmas lights. It's Honeoye Falls. It's the driveway, the soft cabin lights. It's Mom. It's Dad. And Hudson and Lilly. It's a Christmas tree and a fire. It's a few tears.
It's home.
Now 18 months later, I'm back on the same embarkment- Rochester to New York to Paris to Bamako and ultimately, Dombila. A lot has changed since then. But being home, immersed in loved ones, has made it clear that the countless blessings I have in my life are as steady, strong, and even more abundant as before.
I had only started counting down the days until my trip in the 50s. My anticipation was surely evident to the people of Dombila who had to listen to me announce “It's only 2 weeks and four days until I go to Ameriki!!” Then one night I was finally there, checking in to the Bamako airport, giving my last farewell blessing in Bambara and bouncing in my seat with excitement. My sister was to pick me up in Rochester and we would drive thought the sparkling snow to 1880 Hickory Lane where my dad would be tending to a wood fire, my mom making a warm, home cooked meal, and my dogs lounging on the oversized green cabin couches.
The picturesque moment was delayed by about 9 hours because of a series of adventures in transit. The Bamako- Paris plane was still delayed from the awful Paris snowstorms, and we weren't able to leave until an hour and a half past scheduled. This got me to the help desk in Charles de Gualle at 8:17 am for my 8:23 flight to New York.
“I think I need to change my flight,” I told the lady.
“Well, I can put you on a later flight, but you may be able to make it if you try. It's a little delayed and they're still boarding.”
Pumped with adrenalin, I saw some other folks running toward the gate. “New York?” I asked.
“Yep.” And I was soon running alongside folks. Relieved to reach the gate on find people still filing in, the ticket collector halted my approach.
“Wait,” he said and proceeded to explain that due to all the delays they were bumping in people from other flights. I watched the man in front of me skip gleefully into the boarding ramp with the last ticket to NYC. So then it was me and the Moores, an American family living in Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire for the past 6 months. Not so bad- we got lunch vouchers and I savored my first meal in the Western World (a mozzarella/tomato/ pesto sandwich on hearty hone wheat bread with rich dark hot chocolate), went to the cleanest bathroom I'd seen in a long time, and exchanged living in Africa stories with the Moores and their 3 school-aged children. Snow, lots of bundled up white people, this is starting to look familiar.
We made it on a 12:00 flight out, sat on the runway for 2 hours, and 10 hours later arrive in NYC, well past 5pm EST. Expecting to be home at 2pm, I instead shared my first dinner in the states with another West African PCV I met on my plane- a scrumptious twix bar from the vending machine. Kara and I watched the conveyor belt for an hour and a half before an airport guy announced to the dozens of stragglers from the Paris flight, “Your bags aren't coming.”
He herded us to another line as I watched it get dark outside. I'm going to be spending the night in New York, I concluded. After finding out that I could call to report my lost luggage later, I left the scene of the crime to see what JetBlue could do for a lonely Rochester-bound girl.
You know what I was looking forward to the whole time? Being in a public place where I wasn't the only white person and everyone wasn't staring at me. Well, JFK is full of people of plenty of different races, but I felt that people were still staring at me. Among well-outfitted travelers with their trendy scarfs and jackets and oh-so-easily mobile luggage, here's this disheveled girl in dirty sneakers, prototypical blue medical scrubs and a tee-shirt nonetheless. Carrying- a cardboard box of awkward size and held together by a wrapping of an assorted tape. Its not a bomb, I swear. (It was mostly Caroline's shea nuts that I've been instructed to forward). My other bag, they told me, would be sent to my home in a couple of days. (I would be waiting for 10 days it later turned out, unsure if it was lost forever.)
This is the point that I just wanted to fall over and die. I don't even know how much time passed while I was waiting in the JetBlue line. Hours perhaps. Just packed with people. And they kept playing “I'll be home for Christmas” on repeat. Eventually, I thought. Months of transport hell has seasoned me to the annoyances of travel, but even so, I was completely exhausted, Outrageously sleep deprived I wormed my way through the check-in-line, giving my cardboard box a little kick every moment I crept forward. There's a guy calling upcoming flights so people can sneak in front and not be delayed and further. Compared to some of these weary travelers in my vicinity, I've had it pretty good. Blizzards everywhere the weekend before Christmas. Just our luck.
“Rochester,” he calls.
“Rochester!” I excitedly burst out, scooting toward the front. Only problem- I don't have reservations for the 8:50pm flight. After being sent here and there and hopefully watching as some guys typed away on their computers.
“There's one more seat.” He printed me out the ticket. “But you better hurry.” Easier said than done when you still have baggage check and security. Once through, I'm running again. I reach the gate. Empty. “Boarding for Rochester:” the screen reads, “CLOSED.”
My face drops.
“Has the plane taken off yet?” I ask the tired man who strolls to the counter.
“What is your name?” he shoots me a interrogating look.
“Emily Hurley!” I shove all of my documents at him and hold my breath when he exclaimed them.
“Miss Hurley,” he looks up, “Please make your way to the aircraft.”
I'm grinning as I run down the breezeway and eye seat 26A, the one empty place in the very back of the small plane. I take a deep breath. I'm Going Home.
My lucky break gave me a second wind that allowed me to chat excitedly about the homeland with Jeff, the guy next to me who reintroduced me to some great things like new cell phones and chewing gum.
Then it was the landing. It's Rochester. It's my adorable sister. Finally. It's a winter jacket. It's road signs and Christmas lights. It's Honeoye Falls. It's the driveway, the soft cabin lights. It's Mom. It's Dad. And Hudson and Lilly. It's a Christmas tree and a fire. It's a few tears.
It's home.
No place like home
I'm not good enough with words to express how wonderful it was being among family and friends for the holidays. But I hope you all know how much it meant to me. I felt like I was seeing the world with new eyes, and I had a new appreciation for everything. Culture shock? Maybe a little. I did have a few accidental outbursts in Bambara, and I can't work these new fandangled cell phones for the life of me. Running in spandex in 20 degree weather was weird for the first two minutes, but then it was old hat. And my gosh did I enjoy the food. But as for being depressed about materialism, I think I got that out of my system after our laundry bill in the hotel resort in Senegal. I was too overwhelmed with happiness- for three solid weeks. I've heard Peace Corps volunteers talk about the frustrations of going home. “People want to hear about Africa, but they really only want to listen to you for five minutes. Then they go on to talk about petty, insignificant things like they don't really care.” Not the case here. Everyone that I spent time with over break was so interested in what I had to say about Mali, and that was so encouraging. I know it's not just me doing my work out here, its the dozens and dozens of people who are invested in it. It's you guys who read these blogs, who donate to the projects, who pray or write or simple ask about what's going on out here. You care. And I always knew that, but this time I got to see its true prominence up close.
My family is just great. I'm so proud of my mother- she's getting in shape with kickboxing classes (and I'll attest: they are tough!) and getting very involved with a new church. My dad as well: he got promoted last year and is finding confidence to be the big boss in the Mental Health Department of Boces1. He may tell you otherwise, but I can tell his brains, experience, and determination is serving him stupendously. Ahh, parents. They've done so much for us. Especially the William and Gina brand. You'd think a kid with loving parents wouldn't leave them for two years to go to Africa. Unless those parents loved her so much that they would support her crazy dream.
And I don't think my sister knows how much I respect her. She is my best friend and I try to be like her everyday. I do. She's the most personable and positive person I know and we had a blast hanging out together. I don't know how, but she can still recite lines from our favorite childhood movies. She'll whip them out at the most opportune times and just send me rolling on the ground. I can't tell you how often I've wanted her by my side in Mali, to find and share humor in these little things that bind us together. She is completely in love with the kids in Dombila, and they day I left I caught her watching some videos of Pacho over and over. “I just need to see these kids again,” she said with a full heart. She's had a successful year with school and lacrosse and it kills me that I wasn't there for her during it all.
New Year's was especially great up and Anne and Marc's cottage. Some good cross country skiing with my dad and sister. (It's always worth it to feed off my father's fascination with the wilderness, and to see Katie wipe out :)) Ice skating under the stars and fireworks at midnight (ie 9:30) while drinking campaign on Lake Pleasant, New Hampshire... it was like a dream. Why did I ever leave this magical land of America? And all these impressive and loving people who I never get sick of spending time with- I have had such a charmed life. That's it- charmed.
I felt like I got to see so many people, and that even if I had momentarily lost touch, I still had close friends. A night with the HFL crew, a night with the Geneseo crew, and catching up with other people here and there. I even felt closer to some people than before- people like my neighbor Tania, superintendent Michele Kavanaugh, my cousin Tucker, my fellow Peace Corps people (Sally, Steve, and Ned) and the phys-ed teachers at HFL had all taken a particular interest in what I was doing here and talking to them was incredibly inspiring.
I also spent a day at the HFL manor school, thanking them for the fundraiser they did for our well projects. I went in to the gym amazed at the equipment and the respectful behavior of the children. Being there was touching, and I was so happy to answer the kids questions: Everything from “Do You Sleep on a Postropedic mattress?” To “Do giraffes come to your house? ” to some real interesting inquiries about the lives and hardships of the kids. They are kids just like you guys- they play and run around and laugh like you. They love soccer. And if there is no soccer ball to be found, they will roll up a bundle of trash and kick it around.
So I come from this land of a prosperity. But how much does that matter? It doesn't matter that we have a Nintendo Wii or this crazy high definition TV that feels like you're standing in the studio of “The Today Show.” It doesn't really matter that the kids at Manor School play with laser lights or I can spend my days watching ridiculous videos on YouTube. Who cares?
But there are things that do matter. I visited Coach Woods in the hospital as he was recovering from surgery. The equipment, just in his one single room, was more than we have for the whole commune of Dombila. At the push of a button he has a medical professional giving him individual service. There's the school I went to, and as I ran around campus looking at the athletic fields, visualizing the computer lab, the wood-shop, the science labs I thought, “Why me? Why did I get all this?” And then there's Molly, my 19-month old second cousin. This little girl is so healthy looking, and has all the toys and snacks and attention anyone can ever dream of. 19 months? This plump little girl? When I went to visit her, she had a fever. My cousin popped a digital thermometer in her mouth and gave her some Children's Motrin. Easy.
We're all lucky in some ways. No matter how small, we all have blessing in our lives. But as for me, my blessings are overflowing at the rim. Thank You.
My family is just great. I'm so proud of my mother- she's getting in shape with kickboxing classes (and I'll attest: they are tough!) and getting very involved with a new church. My dad as well: he got promoted last year and is finding confidence to be the big boss in the Mental Health Department of Boces1. He may tell you otherwise, but I can tell his brains, experience, and determination is serving him stupendously. Ahh, parents. They've done so much for us. Especially the William and Gina brand. You'd think a kid with loving parents wouldn't leave them for two years to go to Africa. Unless those parents loved her so much that they would support her crazy dream.
And I don't think my sister knows how much I respect her. She is my best friend and I try to be like her everyday. I do. She's the most personable and positive person I know and we had a blast hanging out together. I don't know how, but she can still recite lines from our favorite childhood movies. She'll whip them out at the most opportune times and just send me rolling on the ground. I can't tell you how often I've wanted her by my side in Mali, to find and share humor in these little things that bind us together. She is completely in love with the kids in Dombila, and they day I left I caught her watching some videos of Pacho over and over. “I just need to see these kids again,” she said with a full heart. She's had a successful year with school and lacrosse and it kills me that I wasn't there for her during it all.
New Year's was especially great up and Anne and Marc's cottage. Some good cross country skiing with my dad and sister. (It's always worth it to feed off my father's fascination with the wilderness, and to see Katie wipe out :)) Ice skating under the stars and fireworks at midnight (ie 9:30) while drinking campaign on Lake Pleasant, New Hampshire... it was like a dream. Why did I ever leave this magical land of America? And all these impressive and loving people who I never get sick of spending time with- I have had such a charmed life. That's it- charmed.
I felt like I got to see so many people, and that even if I had momentarily lost touch, I still had close friends. A night with the HFL crew, a night with the Geneseo crew, and catching up with other people here and there. I even felt closer to some people than before- people like my neighbor Tania, superintendent Michele Kavanaugh, my cousin Tucker, my fellow Peace Corps people (Sally, Steve, and Ned) and the phys-ed teachers at HFL had all taken a particular interest in what I was doing here and talking to them was incredibly inspiring.
I also spent a day at the HFL manor school, thanking them for the fundraiser they did for our well projects. I went in to the gym amazed at the equipment and the respectful behavior of the children. Being there was touching, and I was so happy to answer the kids questions: Everything from “Do You Sleep on a Postropedic mattress?” To “Do giraffes come to your house? ” to some real interesting inquiries about the lives and hardships of the kids. They are kids just like you guys- they play and run around and laugh like you. They love soccer. And if there is no soccer ball to be found, they will roll up a bundle of trash and kick it around.
So I come from this land of a prosperity. But how much does that matter? It doesn't matter that we have a Nintendo Wii or this crazy high definition TV that feels like you're standing in the studio of “The Today Show.” It doesn't really matter that the kids at Manor School play with laser lights or I can spend my days watching ridiculous videos on YouTube. Who cares?
But there are things that do matter. I visited Coach Woods in the hospital as he was recovering from surgery. The equipment, just in his one single room, was more than we have for the whole commune of Dombila. At the push of a button he has a medical professional giving him individual service. There's the school I went to, and as I ran around campus looking at the athletic fields, visualizing the computer lab, the wood-shop, the science labs I thought, “Why me? Why did I get all this?” And then there's Molly, my 19-month old second cousin. This little girl is so healthy looking, and has all the toys and snacks and attention anyone can ever dream of. 19 months? This plump little girl? When I went to visit her, she had a fever. My cousin popped a digital thermometer in her mouth and gave her some Children's Motrin. Easy.
We're all lucky in some ways. No matter how small, we all have blessing in our lives. But as for me, my blessings are overflowing at the rim. Thank You.
Carols in Latin
Christmas was the realization of how I've visualized it to be since childhood. All of the festivities leading up to it were completely heart-warming. I had a blast at the annual junk-from-your-attic yankee swap gift exchange with the Chards, the Christmas Eve cocktail party with the O'Connells, and of course dinner with the relatives at Grandpa's and a peaceful midnight mass. Yet it all led up to Christmas evening in our house, with the candles flickering on the mantle over a soft stone-hugged fire. With Christmas hymns on the stereo and the sparkling tree ornated with memories spanning the generations, we remembered our blessings.
Traditionally, after the chocolate mousse and wine, I play a few Christmas tunes on the piano, and our small group of 10 gathers to sing. I excused myself from dinner early to practice a bit (18 months in Mali left me a little rusty on the ivories). It wasn't long before my grandpa wandered in. Always a bit embarrassed about my mother's rule for Christmas attire- pajamas- I smiled when he arrived sporting black-and-white crossword puzzle flannels.
He began singing over my shoulder. He can carry a tune for sure, complemented by old-fashioned vibrato and the distinctive whistle in his voice. “I was in the boys' choir at St. Something-Or-Others'” he reminds me every year, which is why he knows most of the Latin text.
The small window of which I know my grandpa spans this short frame of his life. But suddenly I found myself longing to know the entirety. What I've come to realize lately is the cliché, “respecting your elders' is not rooted in pity or obligation, but in the value of someone who has seen and lived and learned through a great deal more than you have.
I paid him a visit after New Year's, and we talked more than I ever remember us having before. Family, religion, the quest for the American dream in this century and the last...all over some photo albums and a jigsaw puzzle- (as far as I can remember, I've never seen him without one). This is my heritage, I thought, everything that happened in my grandfather's life is amazingly significant to my existence, my upbringing, and my identity.
In Mali, news about my grandfather usually comes like “He's doing well” but “he's getting old” or “he's slowing down.” At 88, most of his friends have passed before him. And when it gets harder and harder to get out of an empty house and enjoy his favorite pastimes, I suppose we always worried that he didn't have enough to keep him going. I learned though, as I spend the holidays with him, that he has not checked out yet. On the contrary, he seems to be enjoying life even more these days. I never knew he walked for exercise or still goes to mass twice a week. What I always knew, was how proud he is of his family- not in a haughty but in a fatherly-nod-of-approval kind of way. He raised an impressive one- eight amazingly successful children, fifteen smart and promising grandkids, and one adorable grandchild.
Year after year we'd hear him say, “I won't have many Thanksgivings left” or “This could be my last Christmas.” None of that this time. Leaving him back last year was unsettling, so you can imagine my joy when my “I'll see you next fall” was followed by a strong, affirmative hug.
“Absolutely,” he said.
Traditionally, after the chocolate mousse and wine, I play a few Christmas tunes on the piano, and our small group of 10 gathers to sing. I excused myself from dinner early to practice a bit (18 months in Mali left me a little rusty on the ivories). It wasn't long before my grandpa wandered in. Always a bit embarrassed about my mother's rule for Christmas attire- pajamas- I smiled when he arrived sporting black-and-white crossword puzzle flannels.
He began singing over my shoulder. He can carry a tune for sure, complemented by old-fashioned vibrato and the distinctive whistle in his voice. “I was in the boys' choir at St. Something-Or-Others'” he reminds me every year, which is why he knows most of the Latin text.
The small window of which I know my grandpa spans this short frame of his life. But suddenly I found myself longing to know the entirety. What I've come to realize lately is the cliché, “respecting your elders' is not rooted in pity or obligation, but in the value of someone who has seen and lived and learned through a great deal more than you have.
I paid him a visit after New Year's, and we talked more than I ever remember us having before. Family, religion, the quest for the American dream in this century and the last...all over some photo albums and a jigsaw puzzle- (as far as I can remember, I've never seen him without one). This is my heritage, I thought, everything that happened in my grandfather's life is amazingly significant to my existence, my upbringing, and my identity.
In Mali, news about my grandfather usually comes like “He's doing well” but “he's getting old” or “he's slowing down.” At 88, most of his friends have passed before him. And when it gets harder and harder to get out of an empty house and enjoy his favorite pastimes, I suppose we always worried that he didn't have enough to keep him going. I learned though, as I spend the holidays with him, that he has not checked out yet. On the contrary, he seems to be enjoying life even more these days. I never knew he walked for exercise or still goes to mass twice a week. What I always knew, was how proud he is of his family- not in a haughty but in a fatherly-nod-of-approval kind of way. He raised an impressive one- eight amazingly successful children, fifteen smart and promising grandkids, and one adorable grandchild.
Year after year we'd hear him say, “I won't have many Thanksgivings left” or “This could be my last Christmas.” None of that this time. Leaving him back last year was unsettling, so you can imagine my joy when my “I'll see you next fall” was followed by a strong, affirmative hug.
“Absolutely,” he said.
A December Morning in Mali
The nights deep silence never broke with the morning.
The village gathered and sat.
The man under the sheet was not at all old,
his wife kneeling on the crumbling floor.
Incense fills the room, a shawl covers her empty gaze.
Dont cry, they tell me.
It was that same night another struggled
to release a new life into the world.
Its called labor
where life should begin, here it has ended for both.
Dont cry, they tell me. Crying is bad.
Seven months old shes brought to me
is it too late for you?
Your fragile body folding up as I held it.
Your only chance is to leave this village.
Take her now, theres no time to loose.
A December morning in Mali
the sun doesnt come out all the way.
I want to cry.
I do.
And they laugh at me for it.
Is it funny?
And they laugh harder.
I know its not funny.
Youve just cried out your cry.
The village gathered and sat.
The man under the sheet was not at all old,
his wife kneeling on the crumbling floor.
Incense fills the room, a shawl covers her empty gaze.
Dont cry, they tell me.
It was that same night another struggled
to release a new life into the world.
Its called labor
where life should begin, here it has ended for both.
Dont cry, they tell me. Crying is bad.
Seven months old shes brought to me
is it too late for you?
Your fragile body folding up as I held it.
Your only chance is to leave this village.
Take her now, theres no time to loose.
A December morning in Mali
the sun doesnt come out all the way.
I want to cry.
I do.
And they laugh at me for it.
Is it funny?
And they laugh harder.
I know its not funny.
Youve just cried out your cry.
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