Final blog

It’s been a little over 3 months since I was medically separated from the Peace Corps, and it’s taken me that long to readjust to being back. I wonder what I am missing if I were still serving in country, I wonder whether or not the people in my community miss me, and mostly, whether or not it actually happened. When I try to focus on one singular event I can only see a blur where my memories are stored. The various faces of people who I was so close with, the feeling that my view of the world was changing, and experiences that were so intense and clear to me once have all melted into what feels like the longest and blurriest dream I can't quite remember.
It seems unreal to think that I spent over half a year trying to fit in with so many different cultures while simultaneously being forced to question my own. And as an extension, unconsciously asking myself “who am I”? What does it mean to be an American, what does it mean to be white, what about a woman? These questions took me off guard as I assumed I knew who I was before I left. In essence I was right, I knew who I was in America, in South America, and evem im but who I was in Africa? How could I have been so presumptuous to assume that I could carry my identity with me as I tried to integrate myself among those whose views were so radically different from my own? I suppose that is the mistake we make as we bring our idealistic tendencies with us to a foreign country. But, was Namibia as foreign as I thought it would be? It is a confusing land of constant deja vu for me as so many elements of my former life were shoved into my face unexpectedly. A bag of doritos on the shelves of Spar, an empty bag from KFC on the floor of a car I got a hike from, or ordering a coffee at an outdoor cafe and sitting outside enjoying it. However, Namibia is country of stark contrasts, with scenes straight from an independent film. A beat up truck that could be found in any Midwestern state; old, dusty, and surprisingly still running. The difference is the 23 poor and impoverished Namibians crammed into the truck bed just trying to get a free lift to town. Further still, the confusion continues as shiny new BMW’s and Mercedes cut off the slow bakkie full of people. Which car could I relate with more? I've ridden in the back of the same bakkies, squished and uncomfortable. I've also gotten lifts in BMW's with AC and music... yet I had never felt so close to Namibians as those rides in the back when we were all had the same goal of getting into town and being equal.

I know now that I was not prepared to be so kicked in my ass by the utter uselessness I felt in not being able to enact any sort of change. It was this feeling that I had hoped to overcome. I know I was in the process of accepting that the only change I would probably ever see was a change in myself. And, that's ok. I didn't have the typical Peace Corps experience, and I came to Namibia wondering all those questions, but I leave Nam now pondering is who am I now in America.

Once I couldn’t wear make up as it was impractical with the heat, so the desire for makeup was erased. Now I find myself applying mascara and longing for the days when all I wanted on my face was the heat of the sun, or the dirt kicked up from the makeshift soccer field we played on. I can remember waking to that obnoxious roster, who lived (apparently) outside my window, wishing its slow and painful demise only to find that that it’s crow is now replaced by my alarm clock. So it’s funny to think that the words my mother told me as an angry midddle-schooler still ring so true today (and I have a sneaking suspicion for many years to come) Life does in fact goes on. But hey, thanks to all the stored mefloquin in my system, I can still go back to Namibia every night and remember all the the sounds of fornicating livestock, the delicious smell of fatcakes frying in oil, and the feel of all those small hands tugging at my hair.

So, to the many Namibian friends I made, and the families who considered me one of their own: Thank you for showing the importance of sharing this African brotherhood I was always reminded of. Whether that be a drink, a new skill, or simply the numerous conversations we had, I get it now. TIA baby.