Saturday, April 30, 2011

Soaking it up!



Two and a half years ago when I thought about doing Peace Corps, I equated it to a marathon. The twenty six miles correspond quaintly with the twenty six months. I knew I would surely have muscle-burning, torturing ups and the still uncomfortable yet breath regaining downhills. I would probably be hot and tired and have those moments when I would wonder why I was doing it. It was a little scary. Like a long distance race, I didn’t know if I’d make it but I knew I wanted to try. No matter what happened, I would probably be glad I did it, maybe a little sick and sore, and certainly ready for a big meal.

As it turns out, my experience has been almost nothing like running a marathon. It is not a competition, it’s way more messy and no clear lines are drawn between my life in the DR and in the states. Plus, the end is much more bitter sweet. I am six days from leaving town and have been relishing in my lasts. This is my last visit to the big town to use the bank and internet and buy tomatoes. I’m hoping Easter day marked my ultimate household drought when I couldn’t so much as wash dishes or flush my toilet. The other night may also be the last time a cockroach runs across my face when I am sleeping, a total violation of which I have become almost accepting. I probably already had my last trip to the river in my semi formal dress (which I also wore to Peace Corps prom) where I impressed my friends with my mediocre swimming skills and then cut the bottom of my foot on a piece of garbage.

My current business has been packing and giving my life away in neat little packages of hotel shampoo, glitter and ibuprofen. I have been passing out boxes of crayons and a few coloring sheets to kid-ridden households. I printed out pictures for some of my closest people. I also have a stack of photos of my big face with a touching message and my email address printed over it. These are so embarrassing, I plan to distribute them the moment before my departure. I am taking down phone numbers, finding internet savvy people and figuring out how I could send something physical with no postal service in my town. Finally, I am awaiting my child planned going away party. It will take place in the church but I was laughing yesterday when I overheard them practicing their dance to a Dominican rap song. I am in charge of providing brightly colored soda and, I presume, looking sparkly while giving a goodbye speech. I want to prepare this ahead of time to say what I want to say, avoid Spanish mistakes, and hopefully not get as red-faced and choked up.

If this was anything like a marathon, my face would be contorting pleading for the time to pass. I wouldn’t be hugging, tearing up, and realizing with sadness that things will never be like this again. I will never be so comfortable mopping in my skivvies or belting out songs in Spanish on the bus. I will probably never be so famous or special just for being me. It is the end of an era, not the completion of an excruciating undertaking.




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