Happy Kikwa drags her mouse over the tab next to my name that says
Active and changes it to Departed. Reason for leaving? the screen prompts.
Happy clicks: Completion of Service. We cheer and high-five. And just like
that, I have joined the ranks of the bold, the glorious, the wacky, the famous,
and the utterly confused about the future… I am a Returned Peace Corps
Volunteer. I am Lauren Fink, RPCV Tanzania 2010-2012. (Nevermind that I won't
be "returning" for another 4 months. Fancy titles don't have to make
sense to be awesome.)
Tomorrow at
2:50pm, I’m boarding a plane to Dakar, Senegal. Waiting for me there is the boy
I love, languages I don’t (yet?) know, friends I haven’t yet made, a new
culture to explore, heat and humidity galore, and all the fish, peanuts, and
French bread I can eat.
But today I'm thinking
more about the things I leave behind. A country that has adopted me as one of
its own. The poetic rattle of fast consonants, Swahili rolling off my tongue
and weaving its way through my dreams. A two year old boy who calls me fiancé
and loves me with a tenderness and simplicity no adult could match. The regal
village women who have taught me more than I learned in sixteen years of formal
education, holding their heads high as they carry baskets and buckets and babies and the future of the
village in their hearts and their laughs.
And of course, a list of things I leave behind wouldn’t be complete
without a list of the lost, the broken, the stolen—the things that have
reunited with the great Tanzanian ether, or perhaps are being bartered over in
a sketchy alley market in Arusha. Anyone who’s traveled with me knows that I have
an almost impressive habit of leaving personal items like a trail of bread
crumbs wherever I go, and I also seem to be a favorite target of pickpockets
and thieves. Must be my winning smile. So, dear friends, let’s take a moment of
silence to remember the wallet (stolen), two debit cards (stolen), three cell
phones (stolen, left on a bus, took a swim), one iPod (stolen), one earring
(stolen rather artfully out of my ear while I was wearing it), pajama pants
(disappeared into thin air), two solar lanterns (broken, stolen), running shoes
(left at a hotel), two flash-drives (disappeared into thin air), Teva sandals
(left at a hotel), headlamp (broken), several boxes full of American goodies
(lost in the mail), uncountable tee-shirts (forgotten on hotel laundry lines), bathing
suit (somewhere in the vast Indian Ocean), khanga fabric (no idea where that
one went), and of course, the awkward bag of underwear and bras (left on a bus
for some lucky driver’s girlfriend to enjoy).
This list is probably incomplete, so let’s take an extra moment of
silence in remembrance of all the things I’ve already forgotten.
Before you judge, remember that two years is a long time. Then go
ahead and judge because it’s really kind of dumb.
Shame aside, listing it all out like that makes me smile because
in retrospect, I don’t ever think about that stuff anymore. Like the Buddhist concept
of nonattachment teaches, possessions are more of a burden than a blessing most
of the time. With the exception of the cell phones and the debit cards, most of
the crap I’ve lost or had stolen was stuff I didn’t even need to replace, at least not at much cost. Sure, my Tevas
were neat, but a pair of $1 sandals made out of tires suit the
purpose just fine, and they look cooler. The same goes for 50 cent tee-shirts I bought
at the local market to replace $20 American Apparel shirts. When it came time to
leave my village, the pile of things I was giving away or leaving behind ended
up being about 5 times as large as the bag of things I decided to keep. The
Buddha would have been proud of how my possessions and I parted ways so
peacefully.
Fellow PCV Tyler and I stayed up late the other night making lists
of all the things we thought we “needed” before we spent two years living in
rural Tanzanian villages. I was pretty sure I could live without electricity, but
I thought I would die without music. Then my iPod was stolen. Turns out that a
bus-ride spent humming to myself is almost as enjoyable as one spent listening
to the Mountain Goats, if you have the right attitude. We laughed at the idea
that we would ever need running
water. Sure, running out of water completely—which is a common problem in the
dry season—sucks legitimately, but when there’s a full bucket readily
available, I never once thought, “Damn, I wish this were coming out of a tap
instead of being scooped up in a cup.”
I do have needs, of course, though beyond food, water, and shelter they are exclusively
immaterial. I need community. I need neighbors to eat with, laugh with, and cry
with. I need challenges to rise to and a feeling of purpose. I need the freedom
and the forgiveness to make mistakes and learn from them. I need to believe in
the goodness of humanity. I need to be heard and I need to hear what others
have to say. I need love. I need the support of my family.
I
once wrote that I will never stop being an American. I will never stop being a
village girl, either. Not as long as I remember the joy of a hot pot of ugali dipped in sticky green mlenda, or the way the sun
burns out slowly behind the mountain at the end of each long day. Not as long
as I remember the grin on Hawa’s face when she shows off an impressive piece of
schoolwork, or Husseini’s half-giggle of anticipation when he hears my voice at
the door. Not as long as I remember the hours spent in silence with Mama Hawa, because we don't have to say what we know the other knows.
As long as I remember these things, the beat of the collective
village heart will beat inside me, keeping pace with my own and reminding me of all the incredible people who have made me who I am today.
So, good friends, I guess this is goodbye. Thank you all for
taking this journey with me, giving me a place to share my thoughts and be
heard. I’m off to West Africa and whatever challenges and adventures it will
bring. I’ll keep writing and might even start another blog, but this chapter is
officially closed.
The End.
Lauren Fink
RPCV Tanzania '10-'12
