Brunettes do it Better

28th April 2009 I moved in to my grass thatch mud house and cried out of an overwhelming fear of failure. 29 March 2011 I moved out of my grass thatch mud house with an overwhelming sense of success yet sadness for leaving people I came to love. Can’t really complain, eh?
Snapshot of my last days:
First story: In Peace Corps-speak myself and two other Volunteers (both also brunettes) were ‘pulled’ from our villages after spending two great years serving communities we came to love. We staged a classic picture with our homemade sign, us, and all our bags and furniture loaded in a truck before taking off on the 270 km journey to the provincial capital. Legendary. The previous day I had a memorable, moving, and fun goodbye party at my house. I sprung for 3 chickens (all were halaal and killed by me fyi), so all the important people I worked with and cared for for two years enjoyed a great nshima meal, traditional monkoyo drink, and music and dancing. All the pupils who’ve been members of my environment club even came over in their school uniforms – that meant so much. What fun it was to see them all dancing to Zam-pop (only the best music genre EVER) in my yard! At one point, I gave a speech as well thanking the village and all the people who’ve helped me in so many ways, and all in my local language thank-you-very-much. The school principal had some legitimately nice words to say in thanks as well. I had a traditional dress made for the occasion which got full approval and cheers from the host of women who’d labored all morning to help me cook. It was a perfect final day before our combined exit.

Second Story: In reality, inviting all those same important and cared for people to eat at your house means that you cook, chop, kill, boil, and fire build starting from 07 hours in the morning. And I wasn’t alone, I had help from an army of chutzpah-filled Bamaamas (village women). It’s a lot of work, no joke. Some of this work happened during the sudden downpour. Then in true village form, the superior men must be served first even though they didn’t help with any cooking. I still grit my teeth and fake smiles in this situation, I will never accept the imposed gender inequality. I struggled alot with the deference this particular day because it was ultimately my party yet I ate only after serving everyone else. Complicated, eh? It’s culturally proper, and ultimately the appropriate thing to do as a final gesture of cultural appreciation. Then curiously all my spoons disappeared. The next day was then an adventure where the hired canter truck came 12 hours late, was smaller than agreed, and more expensive than agreed. A host of C’s followed: cursing, cops, chickens, corruption, calamity, catastrophe and casseopeia because we traveled after dark and stargazed.

Which story is true? Both. Life as a Volunteer is always a fun mix of who knows what sometimes. And I can’t wait for the third year!