Epiblog

On my first night back in America, I awoke with a start. My room was pitch black, so dark in fact that the darkness stayed the same regardless if my eyes were closed or open. This is a darkness I can only associate with Guinea. No flashing lights, no passing cars, I mean total black darkness. I thought I was in Guinea.

But, where’s my mosquito net? And why isn’t my headlamp in the right upper corner on my bed?

It took me a full minute to remember everything I had fought and cried over the past three days.

I wasn’t the only one exiled. Melissa, another volunteer, was medically separated along with me, and she and I clutched hands on the way to the airport in Conakry. I remember seeing the massive plane, shining a bright white as I walked up to it. There it was, the vessel that so much represented the first world, luxury, something I used to be so familiar with. I had only seen two planes in the sky since I’d lived in a hut without water or electricity, and there I was, standing on the tarmac next to a giant, modern airbus. And then I broke down crying. I didn’t think I could be so moved by an airplane, but there you have it. On the boarding ramp, Mel and I turned around and waved goodbye to Guinea. Then, just like that, my service had ended and readjustment began.

I definitely sobbed and whispered a private goodbye to Guinea as the plane’s wheels left the ground and soared northward. The flight attendants noticed Mel and I holding hands, and asked if everything was alright. I explained our story, and assumed that the attendant thought I was joking (I mean, who on earth would voluntarily live in a hut without electricity or running water?) But given the status of our overall filthy appearances, I think she believed my story. Several rounds of whiskey were served to us, free of charge, as well as a few beers, and as we saw the last lights of Conakry disappear, we toasted to the volunteers we knew were drinking down below at the beach bar.

Every volunteer thinks about what that plane ride home is going to be like—when they will be on it, who they will be on it, and what they will be leaving behind. In my hut, I imagined feeling triumphant over having successfully completed two years, or sad that I just wasn’t up to the task. I felt neither of these emotions because there was no choice involved in my case. And it wasn’t a plane ride home. I honestly felt like I was leaving home all over again, and going somewhere else that was familiar, but certainly not home.

It’s pretty amazing that the plane doors closed on Conakry and re-opened in Paris. The extremes are pretty amazing to witness. I imagine it would also be pretty amazing to witness people accustomed to the extremes of Guinea, interact with the extremes of France. Unfortunately, I don’t have any video footage of myself interacting with these extremes, but I’ll do my best to explain.

I was absolutely intimidated by the automatic sliding doors in the airport. Mel and I stood awkwardly in front of the glass plates, taking slow steps forward, carefully observing the plates move right and then left, worried that the door might close on us. And this was us trying our hardest to look normal. We both literally jumped when the intercom in the airport announced something generic about airport security. I marveled at the automatic flushing toilets and free toilet seat covers, and Mel thought that I’d been singing with an eerie accent when the introductory notes of the intercom came on. We both took giant steps onto the escalator, nervous that our pants/skirts might get caught. I have never felt more like Mr. Bean. Back at home, I tried to light my mom’s Viking stove with matches, I put metal in the microwave and jumped when the toaster had finished its toasting. And I won’t even begin to describe the disaster with the Jacuzzi.

I was generally cold and discouraged with the pace at which people in the “western world” live their lives. Everything is so fast. They even talk faster here! Mel and I both wondered why on earth everyone was walking with such speed once we alighted from the plane in Paris. After all, our plane had arrived on time.

In Guinea, Americans are guaranteed privacy with all their conversations in English (because virtually no one speaks English), such that they are able to speak freely about any topic they wish, even when they’re surrounded by people. As a result, my voice got a LOT louder in Guinea, and it took a good ten minutes waiting in (a real line!) customs, yakking with Mel, to realize that my conversations were no longer private. In fact, everyone waiting in line had been murmuring, probably about us loud Americans. There is definitely line-waiting etiquette I forgot in Guinea. Perhaps it’s because there are no lines in Guinea-- Whoever has the sharpest elbows and the meanest glare usually gets to the front the fastest.

Humans in the western world also tend to ignore everyone around them, which is the complete opposite in Guinea—it’s considered impolite to not say hello to people as you pass them. I took an underground train to my terminal that was jam packed with 15 other westerners, and everyone was trying their best not to make eye contact or confirm one another’s existence. What is the purpose of this? Honestly, a lot of social behavior has a reason behind it and I can’t grasp this. I suppose that it allows you to go from point A to point B faster, or perhaps this common decency disappeared when small communities started disappearing. There just isn’t enough time in a westerner’s day to acknowledge so many people. Pathetic?

Five bladed razors, ten different shaving cream scents, an entire aisle for cereals. I had vertigo the first time I ventured into an American grocery store. In Guinea, I imagined absolute glee over this event. Instead, it was just too much.

For the first two weeks back, I spoke to strangers in French. Well, I started speaking French in my head and then had to translate it back to English. And the number of mirrors in this country is insane. You’re so frequently bombarded with images of yourself that it forces you to be self-absorbed, introspective and superficial. I hate it.

The main adjustment for me was that there was no longer meaning to my life, and I felt that by moving on, I was betraying my experiences and the life I had in Guinea. That took time to come to terms with. Sometimes I wonder if Guinea ever really happened. Nothing in my life here resembles the life I had in Guinea—everything is so far away. This too, shall pass.

No one seems too interested in hearing about my experiences in Guinea. Some people have actually said "Oh, that's nice, what else have you been up to?" when I said I'd been in the Peace Corps. Others don't ask follow up questions, and others act as if I had been away on vacation or at school, not through the freakin' mental warfare Guinea can ignite.

And now, what most of you are reading this for—the medical stuff. I escaped the medical care in Guinea that can at best be described as “distracted”, saw a fantastic doctor in America and got a physical illness diagnosed. It turns out that the adjustment disorder I'd been diagnosed with was only a suggestion for a diagnosis-- it had never been concrete. It blows my mind that they send volunteers home with false diagnoses without admitting that the diagnoses are not, in fact, concrete. My doctor in America sent my new, actual diagnosis to Peace Corps D.C, and because Peace Corps is part of the biggest bureaucracy in the world, I am now registered as having not only the physical illness, but also the mental disorder that they sent me home for. GAH!!!!

I hated that nothing in Guinea ran efficiently, and yes, with bureaucracy comes efficiency. But with bureaucracy there are also quite a few missed steps, mistakes in the process. You’re going to overlook something when you move so swiftly. This is the one time I wish America’s government would be more like Guinea. If only I could joke with a Peace Corps employee and call him a cattle thief and slip him a 10,000 FG bill.

It doesn’t really matter—my condition calls for drugs that the Peace Corps doesn’t allow. So, it’s over. I’ll be healthy eventually, but I had to make a decision and mentally unpack. I got so much out of my eight months in Guinea, and who’s to say that I couldn’t have gotten more out of it.

It’s been fun to reflect on who I was in November of 2007, and think back to how I saw Guinea and Africa. I was so excited and intensely curious about this marvelous foreign adventure I had in my head. I was so excited to feel caught up in an almost Alice in Wonderland-like world, eyes wide with wonder, marveling and excited over so many things. Ha. Guinea was stressful, dirty, frustrating and I was only in the marveled state I’d daydreamed about a handful of times. But I found something else, and that something is what you’ve been reading about for the past ten months. I joined Peace Corps to examine and expand my limits, and I got exactly what I wanted.

I can’t rationalize continuing being such a virtual narcissist in America, so this is the last blog entry. But thanks so much to Liz who wrote that beautiful note on my last entry. My Dad's health is now fantastic and I’m going forward with my plans to become a Nurse Practitioner.

And so, my dear readers, I bid you fondly adieu. Guinea is still all over me in mosquito bite scars and the dirt that my toenails absorbed, but what’s most important is the stuff that happened beneath the surface. I am focusing on what I’ve gained, because it was/is so wonderful.

I'll leave you with three quotes that helped me through some of the more challenging times in Guinea---

“Nothing is hopeless; we must hope for everything.” --Euripides

“Life is a series of evolutions.” -- unknown

“I am not myself; I am the potential of myself.” – Anna D. Smith

Love,

Katie