07 August 2007

Ch. 21 In which much is said with few words

There are still moments when I am speechless. The rains remold the landscape and bring about a fresh sandy mixture that is more like the ground of a soft quiet beach than the bleak hard dirt of West Africa. I see a large group of children playing and I don’t think to even glance at what game they are busy with. Amee shouts my name and asks me to look at what he is doing and I hear an excitement and tone in his voice that is often absent. I look down at the group and see they are digging, pouring, and shaping the sand into small sand buildings. They are busy making mountains, palaces, complexes, and homes and I can’t help but laugh and smile as memories of childhood come flooding back. I feel the thrill of watching young imaginations at work and I know I can’t say anything so I simply give the most honest smile I have ever given in The Gambia.

Then it all comes crashing down. We’re now into year two and inexplicably my optimism and cheerful attitude of June and July have given way to silent moments of dissatisfaction and contemplation. I give opportunity to opening my thoughts and finally allow myself the fore-promised chance to evaluate my service. I remember the chart that Peace Corps famously parades around trainees. I remember that there is a curve that undulates up and down along a two year path, supposedly representing your mood and general happiness, and I remember right after the year mark many volunteers take a dive into the deep bellows of unhappiness. I think about this as I evaluate and there is comfort in knowing that I am walking down a similar path as many before, a path so well tread that it has been statistically analyzed and put into a nice neat little graph for all volunteers to see.

There’s nothing in particular wrong but I decide part of it must be the lull of summer giving off a stench of incompleteness. I describe the overall tone to a friend and the best I can do is talk about tables. I talk about my time right now being like a table with three legs, totally functional but if pressure is applied it fails to hold up to the task.

I walk out in the community and end up greeting a large set of people as usual. I greet until I meet someone along the way that I have a rather superficial relationship with. He wants to greet as if we’ve been best friends since we were children. He makes the greeting uncomfortably repetitious and overly friendly continually proclaiming the common phrase, “Boy, it’s been a long time... I miss you too much,” that hits a nerve of irritation with people I don’t know well. I feel frustration sliding in and I know the table is leaning and falling under its lack of support. It’s not a fault of the man greeting its just a sign of my general imbalance right now, character flaws and all.

These small episodes and larger ones play out throughout the days and I feel the lack of comfort and the missing elements eating away in the back of my mind. I think about the table standing there unfinished, and wonder if I will regain that last leg anytime soon. Sometimes I wonder if I ever rebuilt it completely after going through training or if it was only a temporary illusion of my former self.

In the meantime there is respite in the silence. It gives me the environment to think clearly and it gives me time to say my thoughts through actions rather than words. I know that I’ve been gone from my town for a long time and I know I long for the chance to reconnect with my host family. The mysteries of life work their magic because it is in the middle of these thoughts that Daboe tells me that he needs help once again fixing our well’s concrete platform. We decide a weekend day to get to work and I know it will be a day of little talk but with everything said.

The day arrives and it turns out to be one that is incredibly hot. Most of our rainy season days so far haven’t been nearly as bad as the year before. I wonder if this is a side effect of being in country for so long or if its just an easy rainy season so far. But this day, this day is particularly hot. It’s hot and unpleasant and somehow that makes the work seem more meaningful and bonding. It’s a simple job we take on. We mix sand, concrete, and water, and plaster the rocky surface of the well’s platform. Its a simple job that takes time, so we stay out in the sun letting the common work do the talking. Letting the sense of community and family take over and once again I feel like I’m truly part of the family.

We come to the end of the work and Kaddy has made some mango porridge as an after work treat. We all sit together and take spoonfuls of the porridge with a smile. The soft and sugary bites are absolutely delicious and there is comfort in these quiet moments.

It’s the next day and I sit and read a half dozen Newsweek magazines. It’s another day and it seems as if the three legged table is coming back to haunt me.

It’s easy to get lost in the patterns of the covers. Lost in the reflections of the temperament of the American nation: National Security, Are We Still Safe?; Foreign Powers Rising, Are They a Threat?; Ecological Crisis, Who is Doing What? It’s sort of like CNN Headline News for most volunteers, and we know that there is not enough depth and contrast in the magazine, but we have to concede that it’s the only source of news we receive regularly.

I sit and read the stories that are accented with pictures of famous people in striking poses. Pictures taken by photographers trying to capture these people at their best and most identifiable. I become a bit lost in it all and begin to mindlessly flip pages reading article after article.

My trance is broken by a familiar shadow. Daboe is looking over my shoulder at the articles and pictures. The page rests on a picture of Bill Clinton offering an outstretched hand of support at a campaign rally. Daboe can tell something has been wrong with me as of late and he characteristically offers a few words that go a lot further than their letters suggest.

Like the sages of old he takes command and calmly speaks over the haze of Newsweeks, “Hey, a lot of big names in these books. A lot of people trying to get things, popularity, fame, money, power. But you know Yaya, don’t forget that sometimes it is enough to be a good father and love your children.”

Staring at nothing cause I can’t make up what it is. / Searching for something but I just don’t know what it is. / All we need’s a little more to send a little message to ya. / Gonna get out of here...
- Thank you Uncle Will for reminding me sometimes you just have to rock out and grin with confidence at the world in front of you.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

Todjistan, I love reading your blog...it is always so eloquent and sums up what a lot of us here are feeling, or at least that goes for me. Now I just refer my parents to your blog because I am often unable to sum up feelings and thoughts here better then you already have. Keep it up buddy and hang in there. The North Bank is waiting for your visit.
~Becca

Stephen said...

Toddles

Haven't talked to you in a long time. Keep your chin up, buddy; sometimes its just good enough to be a good friend even from 5000 miles away. I miss you a lot and am excited to hear all your stories when you get home. If you need to vent just shoot me an email. I hope this finds you well.