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.

Arrival

I arrived in San Jose after a day of training in D.C. More on both events later. For now, here's the new address. This may change in the future. If so, I'll update the link on the left.

For U.S. Mail
Kevin Roche, PCT
Cuerpo de Paz
Apostado 1266-1000
San Jose
Costa Rica

OK, here´s the deal. Apparently it's somewhat of a crapshoot on whether or not packages will be picked for inspection by customs. Those packages that are (usually larger ones) can incur taxes up to 100% of their total cost. In other words, please try and limit non-essential items. Flat-rate boxes tend to have a high success rate. As I find out more I may update again, but I can assure you nearly anything I desire can be purchased in San Jose, including a 911 Carrera.

For FedEx or DHL
Kevin Roche, PCT
Cuerpo de Paz
200 metros al oeste de Farmacia Fischel
Final del Boulevard Rohrmoser
San Jose
Costa Rica

Current Phone Number
From the U.S. dial 011-51-2276-3906

Ask for Kevin. I'll be getting a cell phone shortly and will re-post soon after.

abrazos

Home

Welcome to the standard Peace Corps entry starter: this thing should have been updated five times by now. Being home again for a month gave plenty of opportunity to share Peru stories by word-of-mouth. Unfortunately, my own priority list therefore shifts from a hermitic schedule in front of the computer to venturing out to see familiar faces. So I’m proposing a compromise: come to Costa Rica! A simpler option—more befitting to current times—is to park yourself down on the couch or cushy cubicle chair and take a look at some photos. Both the Guinea evacuation and Peru are pretty well captioned on Flickr, so a lot of the story can be found there.

Also available are a few additional entries on the Clark-2-Guinea correspondence page, my ongoing correspondence with a 4th grade class in the Indianapolis area. Here’s a sneak preview:



Time at home has been a refreshing mix of cold weather and hot showers. Stepping out of Logan airport with only a fleece was a chilling welcome back home. My dad reminded me of a distant phone conversation, probably around Christmas. Apparently I had alluded to a lingering nostalgia for snow. The apparent amnesia must have been a result of my good senses having left me, but not before punching me in the face at my sister’s doorstep on Comm Ave. The resulting swollen sinuses and cold were probably due in part to the stress of the Aguas Calientes evacuation. Regardless, it probably just aided my planned schedule of sleep in between visits with friends. I was back in the States. I was with Bec, with close friends…good coffee, clean clothes. Happy.


• Favorite traditional Boston experience: visiting the USS Constitution with Bec
• Favorite non-traditional Boston experience: a woman walked up to me on the T saying only, “I just love your Hello Kitty bag.”

Parents were waiting at the airport. The first stop was a long-anticipated visit to the Homewood Aurelio’s, the longtine pizza haunt for the Roche family, from a time long before I even had the capacity to remember. We walked in and sat at one of the red-and-white checkered tables, already knowing the order before the menus flopped in front of us. The waitress shuffled away to the kitchen.

Much of the questions revolved around what the heck happened in the four days I was stranded in Aguas Calientes, as well as the Inca trail. The theme binding them: “Can’t you find somewhere a little safer to live?! Geez Kevin, two evacuations in four months!” I heeded their advice. In my short time at home I shunned the dozens of adventure activities Northwest Indiana has to offer, like driving my SUV 20 over on I-65 during a snowstorm, and rashly sipping my americano just seconds after it’s served. Instead I played it safe. I went running. Now I sit in a Washington hotel room with a calf healing from a dog bite and an ankle still swollen after having rolled it on a frozen water bottle.

They say: Danger in Peru!
I say: At least the dogs have the courtesy to tell you when they’re attacking.
They say: Military coup in W. Africa!!
I say: At least they throw their trash on the side of the street instead of in the middle of it (somewhat a lie)

A conversation with my buddy KJ shed light on my possible changing of fortune. “Costa Rica has been stable for quite a while.” He added, “They don’t even have an army.” Hey guys, Kevin’s going to a resource rich country without a means to defend itself. Roll tape. But I usually take KJ’s words seriously. He’s a happily married father; he reads the economist and sings me breathy Marylin Monroe impersonations on my birthday. The guy knows his stuff.

Alright, early flight tomorrow. Gotta run.