Almost There!

Just a few days ago, I was ruminating about the recent digital Ebola outbreak—in which my computer fell victim. Yes, the “h” key was hemoraging. I was seated on a taxi—14 seater minivan—with 21 other adults, one of whom was a very obese man complete knocked out and snoring—drunk?-- and leaning heavily on my shoulder. So far, pretty normal, except for the 50 fluttering chickens underfoot, and, therefore, all of my traveling possessions on my lap. Pretty light, except the large tub of local peanut butter for one of my nuns, and the fact that it was all on one hip (that’s the only way to fit 5 to a seat). For any anatomy and physiology people out there—the human hip is incredibly durable, but it does protest a bit.
Flash forward to a room the size of my village house doubled, with an attached bathroom containing a toilet, shower, bathtub and sink (not all one bucket and ALL WORKING!). There is also real air conditioning, hard wood closets, a bed with a duvet and a real mattress! Have I begun an unofficial liason with some political crony? Not that it has not been suggested, but NO! Did I find an oil field on my land? —again, not impossible, but NO! Instead, I am at the Close of Service (they call it Continuation of Service, after which an involuntary “Oh Lord!” came shooting out of my mouth!) We are at one of the nicest hotels in Uganda, many, including yours truly with fresh razor burn, following drain clogging less than annual shaves, to discuss ending our time in Uganda and moving forward.
The focus is on the future—what next? I remember someone telling me that life after college just goes downhill and I refused that. I also refuse for life after peace corps to be downhill. Some of us have been accepted into Ph.D. programs, some have interviews at NASA and financial firms, others seek careers as Wal- Mart greeters, still others are hopping on a bus headed south and seeing where they get between here and South Africa. I was going to be in the last group but now have a different thought. In between discussing our medical procedures for leaving (testing for a variety of intestinal and/ or blood visitors and back to the US insurance costs) a sort of panic sets in. They gave us brochures about thoroughly inculturated PCV’s (women in missionary gear; men in long beards, trying to become normal again—unsuccessfully.
Videos of happy, successful cubicle workers, like hamsters on treadmills, in the US spell only one thing—--fear. This experience has been beautiful, variegated, and most of all, completely unpredictable. The second night of the conference, I didn’t sleep. The third night, I only cried. I don’t want to lose the color and the freedom. That’s why the other volunteers are here. It doesn’t have to fade to grey the other side. You choose what you want. We can choose to live in beautiful, unpredictable communities—yours truly hopes for Philly—we can join RPCV groups, we can choose interesting, demanding careers. Like any other infectious and fatal disease, the fade to grey is preventable, with proper cautions.
Back to my site, someone stole someone else’s phone, someone is dying and can’t get to the doctor, I wake up in the morning with no control of my day; life in Uganda is not perfect either, but I will miss it.