Reflecting on the good ol' days

I’m filling in temporarily for my regional leader while he’s in the States on leave. So, I had to attend site announcement in the city last week to represent the Darién and welcome our new volunteers. Four new trainees (they’re trainees until they swear-in at the end of the month) are coming out to the Darién. I paired up with another volunteer (who was also representing his region, Colón, because they don’t have a regional leader) to have a discussion about cultural differences, they’re communities, and what it’s like to be a volunteer in general. Jeff (the other volunteer) and I were tag teaming to answer questions, and as we explained and talked to them, I wave of memories washed over me from being a trainee. All the questions they asked made me smile, because all I could think was, No matter what I tell you, you’ll have to go out there and figure it out for yourself. Honest answers are hard to give without scaring them, but no one wants to give a dishonest answer. One trainee asked Jeff and I how their first visit to their site was going to be. Without hesitation, Jeff said “overwhelming” and I added “awkward”. The 6 trainees just stared at us as we proceeded to tell them that they shouldn’t bother asking questions, or trying to figure it all out that first visit because no one will tell them what’s what on the first visit. I thought about my first visit to my site and how alien everything was, and couldn’t help reminiscing and reflecting on how far I’d come. My first visit to my community went like this:

I got off my bus with my community guide, and two gigantic duffel bags full of things that I dragged all the way from the States and were, unbeknownst to me, mostly useless. All they saw were the two gigantic bags, this tall, white, clueless gringita, and thought “oh, poor thing, she’s so far from home!” Some of the men might have thought “YES! We have a gringa! Maybe she’ll fall in love with me and take me back with her…” The only reason I know what they were thinking is because they’ve since told me. And, yes, the men really think that—to this day. There was a community meeting, where they spoke in almost entirely Wounaan. At the time I thought that the meeting was going really well, and my community guide was doing a great job, but I’ve since learned that he changed the plans mid-meeting and told everyone that I was going to live with his family instead of the other families originally on my list. But, that first week was just a visit, so I was staying with this old, semi-ridiculous, but very sweet and accomodating (almost) midget named Chucula (nicknamed for his penchant for a sweet, thick beverage made from ripe plaintains). Chucula had a hacking cough at the time, and would hack all night long, get up at 4am, start singing religious songs (poorly, but not lacking in enthusiasm), and generally banging around, making it almost impossible for me to even fake sleep past 6am. At which point, he would, with a grin on his face, thrust a huge plate FULL of fried plaintains, fried fish, fried yucca and sometimes beans into my hands. He always looked really disappointed when I only managed to eat a quarter of it. After food and coffee, I would go walk around and just sit silently in people’s houses while I tried to keep up with them. They would try to teach me things, or show me things, but honestly the language barrier was a real issue at the time. I generally felt like a deer in the headlights hoping the car would just speed up and get it over with. At the end of the week, I was relieved to go back to the trainees, and my training community, and exhausted at the thought of doing that for two years.

I was in such a daze, frankly, I have no recollection of having conversations with anyone. I remember thinking “This will never feel like home, and I will never have friends here.” When there’s such an extreme communication barrier, it’s hard to imagine ever connecting with anyone. I thought they’d never understand me, or me them. Now, after almost two years, I can’t even talk about leaving with them because if I start crying about it now, I won’t stop. Those are the things it was difficult to convey to these trainees. I didn’t know how to tell them that, by the end of their two years, they’ll have inside jokes with their neighbors, they’ll be godparents, they’ll learn to love the Panamanian food (even the copious amounts of rice), and that they’ll value the trust they build with their community members because they know how hard fought it was. The day someone comes over to their house and tells them something personal, something embarrassing, something intimate, they will guard that knowledge as though it were gold, and they will never betray that trust, because that’s all we have at the end of the day.

These were the things that I could not say to the trainees, because they don’t see individuals, or relationships, or even love and friendships as their end goals. They’re still thinking in terms of their “project frameworks” and “knowledge, skills and abilities”, and all the acronyms that Peace Corps loves to use. How do you tell someone that, in two years, they will leave here feeling like they're leaving behind their own family? We always think we know everything, until we don’t. Right now those trainees think that they’re sole purpose is to work in their sector, improve their communities, and “help” people. How do you tell someone that they’ve got it backwards: that they’re going to need a lot more help than they’re community members will? There’s no way to tell someone truths that they have to discover for themselves.

So, in the end, we didn’t, really. Jeff and I told them that they had two years to find their own answers to all their questions. We did tell them not to take the failures personally, enjoy the successes, and have fun whenever they can. Projects, seminars and trainings come and go. But fun? Fun is forever.