Mefloquine (mef-low-quinn-medicine –woman) was a drug
created by the Army Institute to prevent/repress Malaria; the problem with
Mefloquine is that it is INTENSE. The list of side effects is a mile long and
while I took the minimum dosage the drug pulsed through my veins. Medicine I didn’t
want but was required to take. Living alone in a remote place with loads of
change, while on a medication that can increase anxiety and cause crazy dreams AND
dark thoughts = existential questioning of what is real. I felt different or
was I changing? Were my thoughts and
perspectives altered because of this intense medication or was it what I was
seeing? Was it the medication or that I
could not un-see the pains of poverty?
Was it the Mefloquine or had I really collected water on my
head, lived without electricity, bathed outside (in private… you perv),
started a fire to cook, washed my clothes by hand, made my business in a hole, felt
frustration to the bone because of failed projects and failed expectations, worked
at a Health Centre that was dependent on international donations, lived off the
generosity of subsistence farmers, planted and harvested not only food but
knowledge and life experience.
Was it the Mefloquine or had I used the Art of
Shaming to get others to do what I wanted?
Was it the Mefloquine or had I been harassed and
heckled for just existing as a mzungu (foreign outsider) woman?
Was it the Mefloquine or had my best village friends
been living with HIV/AIDS and survived an annual “Hunger Season”?
Was it the Mefloquine or had I heard of the
steadfast belief system of witchcraft?
Was it the Mefloquine or had I been a witness to
the repercussions of child marriage and how people are treated as disposable
commodities?
Was it the Mefloquine or had I attended
countless funerals for what can only be assumed as preventable.
Was it the Mefloquine or had I inadvertently
become friends with prisoners, prostitutes, and polygamists?
Was it the Mefloquine or was this reality?
Maybe…I have a dream…a crazy Mefloquine dream
A dream for a place that is neither here nor there.
A place that is raw but whole
A place where we know neither hunger nor obesity.
A place where we have access to enough without the
destruction of too much.
A place where a village raises a child but that child is
raised well.
A place where the Earth will provide us all we need as long
as we provide the Earth what it needs (shout out to Earth Day).
Was it real? Did we
really live there? Did I really hitchhike in Africa, run/hobble in the Porter’s
Race of Mulanje, hike into the world’s most beautiful place (Nyika) to watch
Zebra on the hillside and elephants (on the way out), did we swim with the Cichlids
of Lake Malawi, raft at the base of the natural wonder of Victoria Falls, visit
the doors of Stone Town and the beaches of Zanzibar, meet the President of
Malawi and speak on the importance of Gender Equality, hear Hilary Clinton
speak to some of the most determined girls in the country and arguably the
world, did I testify in the court of a
broken system, see Black Mambas, share a cup of coffee with a coffee farmer (with
beans we roasted over an open fire), did
we take jokes too far, laugh soooo hard and possibly dance harder? Was it real?
I know it is real because of the physical scars (from bike spills
and weird tropical infections). I love the adventure they represent and the
determination to see my service through, I don’t love that they represent the
things I cannot un-see, or the things I cannot change, about the harshness of
our world. It was real. Far more real than the distractions that now
fill my days. I am humbly grateful to
have been marked by the sights, sounds, and smells of Peace Corps.
When they say Peace Corps is the hardest job you will ever
love they should also include that it is the hardest job you will have to
leave. Although I left, it hasn’t left
me; it is with me in late night hours and in my daydreams.
They called us outsiders and we protested…we claimed we were
different. We weren’t Mzungus we were
invested, humbled, and loyal. Now, I see
the irony they saw. They knew we would
return to our homes, revert to old ways, and leave them to theirs; they are so
much wiser than I. I just hope they know
that I still carry something different with me and hope to hold tight the humble
and humiliating experiences with a renewed vision to mend what is broken.
When I wake up and realize that it wasn’t a dream I am faced
with some hard realities. Realities that
I do not know how some of the people I love are doing, the reality that I will
never again have some of the best adventures with some of the best people, and
the reality that the hardest part of the journey was coming home.
