12/5/05

Another one of us is going home.

I don't know the details, only that it's medical, but I do know that I'm losing a colleague, and more importantly, a friend. I'm sure word will get out soon enough, but for the moment I feel like it's best to protect his privacy and not give his name. It's so weird- I saw him less than a week ago when I was in N'Djamena- had I known it'd be the last time when I was heading back to Gounou-Gaya, I'm sure I would've thought more about it. Instead, I just said goodbye casually, like you'd do in any situation. I guess that's the problem with twists of fate- you don't know when they're going to twist.

Moments like this make me realize just how tenuous this whole PCV thing is, how many things have to work perfectly for us to continue to be here. In a country that seems permanently politically unstable, hopelessly corrupt, and packed to the gills with 1001 different types of health hazards, all it takes is one thing, and the game is over. Thanks for playing, enjoy your post-Peace Corps life. Of course, I know this happens in every Peace Corps program, but it doesn't make it any less of a shock. Particularly in a group as small as ours, it's a huge loss.

He'd been building water pumps in his town, a tiny desert outpost in the north, something critical to that community's survival. The obvious question is, "who'll finish them now?" Cliché as it sounds, he really was making a difference. Everyone could see how much he loved his work- I remember a specific incident that illustrated to me just how much he cared.

We were together in N'Djamena, having a drink with one of the US embassy ex-pats at a French wine bar in the heart of the nasarra district, and were enjoying ourselves when a few other Westerners arrived who the embassy guy was friends with. The best way to describe them would be mercenaries- they were ex-Canadian and US Special Forces, now working on the president's elite security detail. They joined us, and we began chatting. Within a few minutes, it was clear just how little they understood about life in a place like this outside of their walled-off compounds. I specifically remember being told that if I was ever looking for a houseboy to always, always, get a Burkinabé (from Burkina Faso), as they were the only honest ones. It was obvious they didn't want, and couldn't possibly have any understanding of our lives and our reasons for being here as PCV's. While they weren't openly mocking us, we could feel their condescension, and I remember feeling relieved when we managed to make an exit. Walking out of the bar, my friend was visibly angry.

"I'm glad we left when we did," he said. "I was really close to telling them exactly what I thought of them. I'm not here as a joke," he said heatedly, "but here to help."

I can't imagine how hard it must be for him to have to leave so suddenly. The relationships I have with Marc, his family, and my neighbors are matched, I'm sure, by a community in his village. How would I feel if I were to leave Gounou-Gaya for what I thought was a week, only to find out a few days later that I'm never going back. No chance to say goodbye- just like that, bam, it's over. When something like this happens, it makes this whole Peace Corps experience feel like a two-year long game of Survivor- the difference though, is that it's real, and there's no million dollars at the end...

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