4/20/06

The next few days are jarring, with all 29 of us trying to figure out what the hell we're going to do, the stated purpose of the Transition Conference. Peace Corps flies three staffers to Yaoundé from Washington to help us cope: a psychologist, a guy from the Placement Office for people considering transfers, and the Africa Regional Director, a smooth middle-aged man named Henry who is the personification of the 'slick politician' stereotype.   His supposedly genuine (but completely transparent) empathy with our situation, and his insincere comments about how 'I was with you in that pee-rogue, ' 'Congress with was with you in that pee-rogue ' and 'Gaddi Vasquez (the director of Peace Corps) was with you in that pee-rogue ' grate on everyone's raw nerves and emotions.

We're given several options, everything from immediately heading home to jumping straight into another Peace Corps program elsewhere in Africa.   For me, and for many in my group, the second years, the choice feels simple- I was going to be leaving Chad in five months regardless, and transferring or extending has no more than a slight appeal to me.   Besides, if I were to transfer, I'd have to commit to a minimum of another year, possibly two, something I'm simply not prepared to do now.   I feel like I'm ready to close the book on the Peace Corps chapter of my life, and move on to other things.   Doing the whole thing over again, even if it was only for a year: the culture shock, language difficulties, job challenges, incomprehensible and infuriating traditions and attitudes- none of these are things I want to deal with a second time, at least not as a PCV.   Besides, if I were to transfer somewhere, I know I'd always be comparing everything with my previous life in Chad whether I wanted to or not, which would only be detrimental to the community I was supposedly there to serve.

One of the most memorable sessions of the conference happens when our psychologist, named Tamika, tries to get all of the second and third-year PCV's to sit and reflect on the whirlwind of the past few days.   She begins by asking us to talk about some of the qualities of Chadians, things we'll remember long after we're back in the US, or on some other adventure.   We haltingly come up with a few things, but it's clear that nobody's really into doing this, at least not now.  

Tamika, an African-American woman who looks to be no more than 35, appears frustrated.   For the past few days, she's had an open signup sheet for anyone who'd like to talk with her about how they're feeling, and in that time, not a single person has taken her up on the offer.   It seems as though we're each choosing to deal with the evacuation in our own way, without the help of someone who's clearly well meaning, but nonetheless a stranger who could never really understand life in Chad, and how it felt to be torn out of our lives there as volunteers and members of a community.

She tries a different tactic.   "Why don't you guys tell me a little about Chad and Chadians, no strings attached?" she says gently.   "I know almost nothing about it, and I'd like to hear from you what made it special."

"I've never met people more generous in my life," says Alyssa.   "Chadians are people who will give you their last meal or the shirt off their back, and wouldn't think twice about doing it."

"I loved being there," Robyn, a third-year volunteer, and probably the biggest Chad evangelist in our group says.   "The way I was able to become part of not one, but two communities is something I'll never forget."

"In my time in Chad, I learned more than I was ever able to repay as a teacher," someone says.

"It was really hot," Michael, another volunteer, deadpans.

Pause.  

It takes Michael's honesty to make the wall come down, and let out what we've all been thinking during the session.

"And it was really dirty," someone else continues.

" Taxi-brousse rides sucked," another person adds.

"Chad could be pretty crappy sometimes."

"I hated boule. "

"There were so many bugs."  

"Chadian men were so sleazy."

And so it continues, around the circle until almost everyone is laughing and throwing in suggestions- Robyn looks at us like the traitorous bunch of bastards we all appear to be.  

"Come on guys, it wasn't that bad!"

"Seriously Robyn," someone responds.   "You were there, right?"  

She relents with a shrug.

Tamika looks a little stunned, but recovers nicely.   "Thank you for your honesty," she says, "and clearly this was something you'd all been holding in, and it's important to get it off your chests."

On the conference schedule Brownie gives us, there are two lines that catch my attention.   The next to last item is a one-hour block, labeled 'Closure.'   I look at it again- how can it be so antiseptic and pre-packaged? Somehow lunch at 12:30, medical session at 2:00, and saying goodbye to the people who've been with you, for better or worse through the most incredible experience of your life from 3:00-4:00 seems a little bizarre.   Immediately after our scheduled 'closure' is another line, "Departures Begin."   Somehow that adds the last blow of finality to this whole thing, the realization that not only is our time in Chad over, but that our time as a group is about to end.   Some will go off to other countries with Peace Corps, many will travel on their own, and others will return straight home.   The bottom line is that it'll be over, and our group, the ' Hardcorps de la Paix' will cease to exist as one.   Naturally we've had our disagreements, but you can't go through an experience like Chad, not to mention an evacuation, without forming an enduring bond with the people who experienced it with you.  

Not that this is exclusive to the volunteers though.   Particularly after being in Cameroon and seeing the way the Peace Corps Cameroon staff interacts (or doesn't, actually) with their volunteers, always seeming to hold them at arm's length, I realize how special the Peace Corps Chad American staff was.   Of course Peace Corps Cameroon is almost five times the size of the now ex-Chad program, but it's a shock all the same.   Yes, Nelson, Chad, Jeff, and Danielle were our bosses, but they were friends who cared about each of us and what we were doing, something we felt in return for them and their families.   The Mexican food extravaganzas with Nelson and his wife Judith at their home, sitting in a bar drinking Castel beers with Jeff, and chatting with Chad about the exploits of his daughter Jaylyn- none of these things seem like they would've been possible in any other country but Chad, in any other program.   Chad was such an intense place to live and work, that the staff realized we needed a little normalcy and pseudo-Western life when we arrived in N'Djamena, fresh off the taxi-brousse , which they were always happy to provide.

On the next-to-last night of the conference Nelson arrives from N'Djamena, via Paris.   While the whole evacuation has been going on, he's been managing the crisis and emergency 'suspension' (read closure) of the program from Chad, trying to place the staff in new jobs, and shutting down the office.   As he walks into the lobby of the Mont Fébé, in jeans and a black t-shirt, with a backpack slung over his shoulder, our entire group is there to welcome him.   It starts with one person, spreads quickly, and within a few seconds our entire group is applauding.   Nelson is one of those guys that any PCV would want to have as a boss: having been associated with Peace Corps in some way for roughly 20 years he clearly knows his stuff, he's a certified legend in the Peace Corps community, he's always fought for volunteer rights and stood up to Washington, and most importantly has been a friend to all of us.

Nelson has never been the most expressive of guys though, which is why his meeting with us on Saturday, one of the final sessions of the conferences in so bizarre.   Nelson is the master of the pregnant pause, seeming to consider everything just an instant too long before answering with a ".... yeah.... we can do that," or vice-versa.   He's talking with us about the situation in Chad, and about the Chadian staff- suddenly we realize he's crying, tears cascading down his face.   Around the horseshoe-shaped conference table, people are looking at each other, stunned- it's like seeing your parents cry when you're a little kid- it just seems wrong, somehow, like some sort of natural order is being violated.

On a lighter note, we end our last full night together with a celebration we've named the 'Daoud Awards,' in honor of Ahmat Daoud, an incredibly short twenty-something Chadian guy who's been a loyal friend of Peace Corps Chad at, Darda, our training site, since the beginning.   It's almost like the MTV Movie Awards, Peace Corps style, with semi-serious awards like "Best Action Sequence," (for which I was nominated after being bitten by a dog while accompanying a scared little boy back to his house in Bongor) paired with more meaningful ones, like 'Most Growth as a Volunteer.'   One of the best nominations (and eventual winners) is a 'Humanitarian Award' for a never-to-be-revealed PCV who wanted to mercifully shoot a baby goat that had fallen into her pit latrine.  

Back to Peace Corps Writings