Oranges and goodbyes

Time, and the rate of its passage, is an oft-discussed and frequently contemplated idea amongst Peace Corps volunteers.  As much as we sometimes complain about time going too slowly, a great many of us lament its too-quick passing as the end of our service draws nearer. And in those quiet days of daily life at site when we’ve danced into the rhythm of existence here, we often stop thinking about how long we’ve been in Madagascar, or how long we have left, because where we live simply feels like home. But then sometimes, something hits you, and all of a sudden—BAM!-- you realize that a year has passed.

I’ve just turned the page on my calendar to April, which means that I’ve been in this country for 13 months, and I’ve been at my site for 11 of those months. I was in Tana when my stage-mates and I reached our one-year anniversary in March, but that milestone didn’t really hit me until recently, when I arrived home to Vangaindrano after taking a vacation to India. I stepped off the taxi-brousse and smelled the fruit that the sellers had laid out on blankets on the side of the road, and in an instant, the sticky-sweet smell of oranges sitting in the baking sun gave me a nostalgic whiplash to last May, because the scent instantly reminded me of Farafangana and my arrival in the Sud Est. And that’s when I truly realized: I’ve been here a year.

Thinking about how much time I’ve spent here and how much I have left is an exercise that’s certain to bring about a complex brew of conflicting emotions. On one hand, I get excited when I think that I only have one year until I get to go home to America, see my friends and family, and drink New York City tap water. But on the other hand, I also start to get anxious about having enough time to do everything before I leave. Will one year be enough to make enough progress on my work project so that I can feel content about leaving next April? Will I have time to start an English club and work on a library for my town? And outside of work projects, will I be able to see all the things I want to see in Madagascar, and have all the experiences I want to before I go? As much as I have seen and have done already, there are so many more places that I want to visit and areas in my region that I want to explore. Time is ticking away just as quickly as ever, even on days when I don’t want it to.

And not only is time ticking away for me, the Peace Corps clock is now running out for my friends who came to Madagascar in March 2011, one year before me. When I arrived last year I always envisioned this stage of volunteers having one year left—until I realized last fall that no, if I had less than two years left, then they had less than a year left as well. This group of volunteers is one that I feel a very close kinship with, because for me, their friendship, guidance, and assistance shaped my experiences in my first year more than anything or anyone else. A great many of them were volunteer trainers for my stage, and so I got to know them very early on. And since being in the Sud Est, the six of them in my region have shaped some of my favorite memories of my service: bike-exploring and discovering the beach in my region with Matt, relaxed Manakara weekends cooking and watching movies with Emily, long afternoon talks with Maria at her house, night-swimming in Mananjary with Bryan, being entertained on long taxi-brousse rides by Al, and bridge adventures (he’ll know what this means) with Paul. And so to think of them leaving the Sud Est, as they are all doing today, is almost unfathomable to me. What is Farafangana without Maria? Or Manombo without Paul? I can’t picture going to work in the Coldis office in Manakara without stopping by Matt’s house in the compound to say hello, just as I also can’t believe that I won’t get to go to Gourmandise for breakfast with Emily the next time I am in Manakara. At my last lunch with Maria I unsuccessfully fought back tears when I told her how much I would miss biking down the main road in Fara towards her house, and the happy feeling I’d get when I’d see her door open and know that my friend was at home. And what I realized last week is that as Peace Corps volunteers, we strongly associate the places we know and love in this country with our friends who live there—and then when they leave, as we all will do at some point, it’s almost like the heart has been ripped out of the town.

On Thursday I paid one last visit to Paul in Manombo (about 45km north of Vangaindrano) to celebrate his two years of service and participate in the going-away fety that his town was throwing for him. When I coasted down the hill into town on my bike and saw him, as I often do, standing on the road checking for cell phone service, I realized that it would be the last time that I’d see my friend’s Scandanavian-esque blond head on the side of the road. I’d never be able to wave at him from a taxi-brousse window again, or share a brousse home from Farafangana. But as sad as that was to think about, it was wonderfully bittersweet to be part of Manombo’s celebration for him and honor the work he has done here. I can only hope to be fêted as Paul was when I leave next year, and seeing what it’s like to say goodbye to your town as a volunteer made me realize for the first time what a difficult time I’ll have when I leave next year.

During my visit, Paul jokingly said to me that we should continue to call Manombo ‘Paul’s site’ even though he will be replaced by a new volunteer in May. We laughed about it, but on my ride home I realized that there’s no way that I will be able to disassociate that town from him, nor can I do so for any of my friends who are leaving. So I say this to all of my volunteer friends who are finishing their service and heading home this month : you may be leaving Madagascar’s soil, but to both your Peace Corps and Malagasy friends, you will always be a part of this place. And next year, when it’s my turn to head home, my wish is that I’ll be thought of the same way.