"I'll see you on Friday! We're gonna have a glass of wine and just roll over laughing about how silly this whole Military coup d'état thing was." I said, laughingly to Zoe. "Absolutely," she said confidently. "There's no way this will go any further. See you Friday at Maliba!"
As I hung up the phone, I heard a message ding. It was an email from our acting Peace Corps Country Director. As my eyes flashed across the blackberry screen, I suddenly got a sinking feeling. Phrases like "precautionary measures," "prepare to move to your consolidation point," and "notify your host families and supervisors" immediately caught my attention. The next step in our emergency protocol was happening. All Peace Corps Volunteers in Lesotho had been ordered to consolidate to regional secure locations for possible evacuation from the country.
My first reaction was an overwhelming urge to cry. As I pushed the impulse aside, the reality of what could happen if I had to leave my village tomorrow and never come back started to sink in. My hands started trembling. 'I can't leave. I just CAN'T leave. I have school tomorrow. Nothing's wrong here. My kids need me tomorrow. My teachers won't understand why I've left. Who will feed my cat? I can't leave. I just CANT.' I thought frantically. The fear was complete and overwhelming. Terrifying in it's imminence.
In my scattered state, as I waited for the official call from Peace Corps, I paced my house trying to gather my thoughts enough to form a plan. 'What in the world do I do first? Should I wash my dishes?' I thought, glancing around my house. 'No.... That's stupid... After all, I'll probably be back tomorrow.' But then the sinking feeling again... 'But what if I never come back? I don't want someone else to have to do my dishes!' Suddenly such a simple decision seemed monumentally important. 'And do I feed the dog my left-over spaghetti from dinner?!' I worried. 'No...' I thought. 'What an absurd waste of perfectly good food... I should save it for another night.'
As I hung up the phone, I heard a message ding. It was an email from our acting Peace Corps Country Director. As my eyes flashed across the blackberry screen, I suddenly got a sinking feeling. Phrases like "precautionary measures," "prepare to move to your consolidation point," and "notify your host families and supervisors" immediately caught my attention. The next step in our emergency protocol was happening. All Peace Corps Volunteers in Lesotho had been ordered to consolidate to regional secure locations for possible evacuation from the country.
My first reaction was an overwhelming urge to cry. As I pushed the impulse aside, the reality of what could happen if I had to leave my village tomorrow and never come back started to sink in. My hands started trembling. 'I can't leave. I just CAN'T leave. I have school tomorrow. Nothing's wrong here. My kids need me tomorrow. My teachers won't understand why I've left. Who will feed my cat? I can't leave. I just CANT.' I thought frantically. The fear was complete and overwhelming. Terrifying in it's imminence.
In my scattered state, as I waited for the official call from Peace Corps, I paced my house trying to gather my thoughts enough to form a plan. 'What in the world do I do first? Should I wash my dishes?' I thought, glancing around my house. 'No.... That's stupid... After all, I'll probably be back tomorrow.' But then the sinking feeling again... 'But what if I never come back? I don't want someone else to have to do my dishes!' Suddenly such a simple decision seemed monumentally important. 'And do I feed the dog my left-over spaghetti from dinner?!' I worried. 'No...' I thought. 'What an absurd waste of perfectly good food... I should save it for another night.'
And then the same terrifying thought... 'But what if I never come back?!'
After a frantic hour of more pacing, texting, and phone calls with other frazzled and uncertain Peace Corps Volunteers, I finally got through to my mom in America. "You can and WILL leave if Peace Corps tells you to," she repeated endlessly, in response to my panicked ranting. "Think about things that you can't leave without... Pack things in your 'go bag' that will make you feel safe and comfortable, if you get stuck sitting around a strange hotel in South Africa for a week." Her logic and calm helped the nearly impossible notion of evacuating sink in. I finally gathered myself enough to form a coherent plan... Pack. Prepare. Write notes for my colleagues about my classes. Call my Principal and host father. Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best.
I circled my house slowly, packing a much loved elephant jewelry box that I had bought in S. Africa, a woven basket from Botswana, and the blue scarf my best friend, Anna, had knitted me this past winter. My few irreplaceable possessions filled half of a black duffle bag in the center of my rondaval. Should I end up on an emergency evacuation back to the U.S., these methodically selected items would be the only physical remnants of my Peace Corps service... Of my entire life in Lesotho. In my red hiking pack, my 'go bag', I loaded enough clothes for two weeks, toiletries, medications, important documents, and all my electronics. I doubled, and then triple checked for my passport: The one item the Peace Corps official, who'd called to give me the official notice, had repeatedly reminded me to pack right away.
Around 10pm, my cat, Pina, retreated into her bed and started the nervous, fidgety dance of a cat in labor. 'Fabulous,' I thought. 'A military coup d'etat in the capital, an exiled Prime Minister, a possible evacuation of American citizens from Lesotho, and Pina decides to give birth TONIGHT. Lovely.' I laughed to myself, as I continued to inventory my belongings.
After a frantic hour of more pacing, texting, and phone calls with other frazzled and uncertain Peace Corps Volunteers, I finally got through to my mom in America. "You can and WILL leave if Peace Corps tells you to," she repeated endlessly, in response to my panicked ranting. "Think about things that you can't leave without... Pack things in your 'go bag' that will make you feel safe and comfortable, if you get stuck sitting around a strange hotel in South Africa for a week." Her logic and calm helped the nearly impossible notion of evacuating sink in. I finally gathered myself enough to form a coherent plan... Pack. Prepare. Write notes for my colleagues about my classes. Call my Principal and host father. Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best.
I circled my house slowly, packing a much loved elephant jewelry box that I had bought in S. Africa, a woven basket from Botswana, and the blue scarf my best friend, Anna, had knitted me this past winter. My few irreplaceable possessions filled half of a black duffle bag in the center of my rondaval. Should I end up on an emergency evacuation back to the U.S., these methodically selected items would be the only physical remnants of my Peace Corps service... Of my entire life in Lesotho. In my red hiking pack, my 'go bag', I loaded enough clothes for two weeks, toiletries, medications, important documents, and all my electronics. I doubled, and then triple checked for my passport: The one item the Peace Corps official, who'd called to give me the official notice, had repeatedly reminded me to pack right away.
Around 10pm, my cat, Pina, retreated into her bed and started the nervous, fidgety dance of a cat in labor. 'Fabulous,' I thought. 'A military coup d'etat in the capital, an exiled Prime Minister, a possible evacuation of American citizens from Lesotho, and Pina decides to give birth TONIGHT. Lovely.' I laughed to myself, as I continued to inventory my belongings.
And then I heard my mom's voice again, "You can and WILL leave if you have to."
Twelve hours of fitful sleep and frantic packing later... I'm leaving village now. It seems impossible that I may never come back. Too surreal to process. Nothing's wrong here, which makes it only more difificult. Pina sits outside my house, patiently watching me walk away. Teboho and Mohalaka, run across the field by my house, pushing each other in a ratty old wheelbarrow and screaming with delight. 'Me Mamolefie waves to me, as she tosses scraps to Makhoro's dog, waiting outside her house. The new house along the dirt road is only about 2 brick rows from finished. It seems impossible to imagine that I won't be back before they start to put the roof on.
And yet somewhere deep in my head, probably more for self-preservation in case of the worst, a voice whispers that consolidation means there IS a chance we'll be evacuated. But it's such a seemingly impossible scenario, as I walk through my peaceful village, that I can hardly begin to process what that would mean.
So I'm going to continue to imagine that this is just a mini-vacation and an exciting opportunity for a few days of electricity and showers... And pray that the situation in Maseru doesn't escalate.
Twelve hours of fitful sleep and frantic packing later... I'm leaving village now. It seems impossible that I may never come back. Too surreal to process. Nothing's wrong here, which makes it only more difificult. Pina sits outside my house, patiently watching me walk away. Teboho and Mohalaka, run across the field by my house, pushing each other in a ratty old wheelbarrow and screaming with delight. 'Me Mamolefie waves to me, as she tosses scraps to Makhoro's dog, waiting outside her house. The new house along the dirt road is only about 2 brick rows from finished. It seems impossible to imagine that I won't be back before they start to put the roof on.
And yet somewhere deep in my head, probably more for self-preservation in case of the worst, a voice whispers that consolidation means there IS a chance we'll be evacuated. But it's such a seemingly impossible scenario, as I walk through my peaceful village, that I can hardly begin to process what that would mean.
So I'm going to continue to imagine that this is just a mini-vacation and an exciting opportunity for a few days of electricity and showers... And pray that the situation in Maseru doesn't escalate.
With Love from Lesotho... Mary E.
No comments:
Post a Comment