Parallel Transport

In Bamako, while we were in limbo awaiting the closure of the Guinea program, a fellow evacuee asked me, “What do you think you’ll do next?”

“Well, someday I’d like to volunteer in the Peace Corps.”

The two most reasonable paths for G18 volunteers were those of direct transfer and re-enrollment. Our education group split almost evenly, the transfers all remaining in West Africa. Only a couple were able to continue serving in the capacity for which they had trained The reality of a transfer is that there likely isn’t a perfect fit given the circumstances. My decision to Close of Service and re-enroll was due to a number of factors: the emotional drain of the entire evacuation process, the little say I had in choosing the program I’d enter into, my open-ended future, our callous treatment by the Peace Corps rep as he handled direct transfers.Llargest of all, I couldn’t separate the Peace Corps experience from the bond we trainees had formed during those initial three months—both with each other and with our training staff. If I had to bear three more intense months to re-form those relationships, so be it. The decision wasn’t easy. I pulled my name off the board just before the Friday deadline, fully aware that my future plans would be delayed at least year as a result.

Of the nine of us who chose Close of Service, eight are on their way back. Jake was the first of us to leave, accepting a teaching position in Uganda last February. I was second. Several elected to wait for the next round of education programs leaving for West Africa (Cameroon and Burkina Faso). Jess will be joining me in Central America, leaving this coming October for Peace Corps Nicaragua to participate in its TEFL program (vacation destination, woot!). Emily, with whom I volunteered in Ayacucho, elected to continue working in Peru while prepping for future enrollment in nursing school back in the States.

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The icebreakers, the colored yarn to identify Peace Corps luggage, the airport waiting: it all was the same cookie cutter beginning I had lived just eight months ago. I found myself relishing in the conjured-up nostalgia, tucking into the recent past when downtime allowed.
We were lucky to meet the head of the Costa Rica CYF program (my program) during staging, our one day welcome to Peace Corps in Washington. Dan’s few words in front of the crowd resonated:

“A Costa Rica placement comes with its ‘Posh Corps’ flack. Inevitably, you’ve already received your share of, ‘Does Costa Rica really need volunteers?’ It’s true, this country’s literacy rate hovers around 97%, and it’s the wealthiest in the region. Therein lies your challenge. You’re going to be working alongside highly educated people—people who will have higher expectations of Peace Corps than in any other nation.”

As profound of a statement as this was, it did not prepare me for the next day. In November I had been too busy looking back, barely giving myself enough time to pack bags for Peru. Even there, Emily and I passed many evenings discussing our abrupt African exit. The same rush occurred when I got back to the States in February. There were too many loose ends to tie, too many people to visit and photos to post. Aside from logistically, I had never looked forward to Costa Rica.

No hand-painted welcome sign. No collection of volunteers patiently waiting to cheer our passing through frenzied customs. No multitude of berets and camo fatigues shouting orders over the din. Wafts of Cinnabon waited for us in the gate--Cinnabon! Starbucks and overpriced souvenir shops slipped past as we headed to the baggage claim. Every step in the process was slow and automatic. We had stepped off our connecting flight from Miami into a nicer airport than the one we’d left.

The bus slipped away from the arrivals area toward downtown San José. No mass of students studying under the tarmac lights--they were packed under the capital’s only reliable source of power during exam week--turning their heads to watch the buses fade into the darkness of Conakry. No scarred, deformed beggars piling slowly upon the windows of the bus as it stopped for traffic. No street fires. Pedestrian crosswalks and familiar signs littered the streets instead. We were moving slow enough through evening traffic for me to peek into a yoga class, which had immediately followed a Porsche dealership. Donna and Tiffany took to counting Pizza Huts.

I sank into my seat, swallowing tears, fearing I had just made the biggest mistake of my life.