After six weeks of travel, I climbed onto my village bus “Masia” with my huge backpack and two duffels in tow. As I climbed down the aisle, carefully navigating the huge sacks of corn, rice, and ugali flour that lay on the floor, I heard someone yell “Mikaela, umerudi!” (You have returned!). All of the anxiety I had been feeling about returning back to my village, about feeling alone, and the anticipation of loneliness and isolation I would feel, dissipated. I was caught off guard by my feelings of happiness and relief. After weeks of living out of bags, experiencing 30+ hours of bus time, and sharing hostel showers, I was finally going back to my own house. I was coming home.
I have officially been at my site for over a year, and I have under a year left of Peace Corps. That’s a weird feeling. All of a sudden, I have a deadline for my projects. I have to get them up and running. It’s now sinking in that, whereas before everything was new and I would experience it again, everything I experience for the next year will be the last time. One more sunflower harvest, one more corn harvest, one more dry season, one more rainy season, one more chance to watch the entire village turn into a quaint oxen-powered farming community, one more school year, etc. But this second year has brought a new and incredible feeling of home that I never expected to have here.
Exactly a year ago in my journal, I listed all of the things I missed about my home in the U.S. I remember writing the entry, sitting alone in my courtyard, the sun shining down, and tears pouring out of my eyes. Home couldn’t have felt more far away. I wrote that I missed “clean running water, showers, stoves and ovens, dish washers, washing machines, and most of all reliable electricity…” but it didn’t stop there. “I miss dressing however I want, the feeling of carpet under my feet, sleeping without a mosquito net and not worrying about strange bugs, lizards, rats, and bats…I especially miss my family and friends…I miss the gym…” Somewhere along the way, I stopped focusing on what I missed so much about home, and I focused on building my life here in Mambegu. It was then that I realized how much I have here, and reevaluated everything I once thought was a necessity in my life. That’s when happiness came.
My first night back in my village after six weeks of travel, I slept soundly in my own bed with my cat curled up beside me. When I woke up, I was overwhelmed with happiness. The following day, I walked through my village, past all of the brick houses, surrounded by corn, smoke curling out of the fires where people were cooking. People seemed genuinely happy to see me, and that was an incredible feeling. One mama, who is a member of the HIV group I work with, stopped her work in the cornfield and came out to hug me, which is usually unheard of in this culture. As I continued down the winding dirt paths, lined with sisal, sunflowers, and grazing goats, people invited me into their homes and said they were afraid I left. I sat and helped one woman who is about to give birth write a list of possible names for her baby. I was gifted a lot of corn from another woman as a welcome home.
Sometimes I get really stressed out that I’m not doing enough projects, or that I’m not making enough effort to get them going. Any volunteer here knows how hard it can be to get a project started, let alone finished. Things come up, meetings get cancelled, and people show up three hours late or not at all. A great friend recently reminded me that a huge part of the Peace Corps experience is simply living here, in this community, talking with people, learning about them, and sharing my own culture with them. It is enough to be friends with the people in this wonderful community. It is a success to call this home, and to truly feel that it is my home. Coming home is enough.
Pictured Above: A year ago I moved into my house and it had nothing in it: no furniture, not even a stove. Now it is totally my own space!