We’re pouring off the bus at midnight—black-as-the-inside-of-a-cat, into the first of many rains, ankle deep mud and a buzzing fog of mosquitoes invading every orifice of forty-six disgruntled, sleep deprived, starving trainees. We grope for anything familiar—luggage perhaps—but there is only chaos. “Oh God, what have I done! Please don’t let this be real.” But it is.
In the dark, I identify my luggage and separate it from ninety-some-odd other overloaded bags vomited forth from two buses into the slop under a huge tree. Rollers on my carefully chosen bags are useless in this mud and uneven ground strewn with random stepping stones, disjointed walkways, puddles, rocks and grumbling humanity. That tree later proved to be a mango tree. Little did I know that I’d be spending much of the next two-plus years under them.
Weary voices float through the miasma of mosquitoes getting their quart of blood: “Where do we go?” “I need to pee!” “I’m hungry!” Is anyone listening out there?
Someone grabs my bag out of the mud. “My name is Gary. Can I help you with those?”
“Oh God yes! Please!”
He’s smiling and looks calm—obviously not one of us. I plough through the obstacle course of human misery and the mosquito-gauze against my face and finally arrive at the door to a huge room dismally lit by one bare light bulb dangling from a cord. I’m aghast at what I see: wall-to-wall bunk beds and luggage piled so deep no one else can get in without mountaineering equipment. “One bathroom for all these women!” says a panicked voice I can’t pair with a name; we’ve only recently met our other volunteers. Still, I can tell it’s one of us by the tone-ragged desperation.
My mind is reeling with a mini life-review.This can’t be happening! I left a perfectly nice life for THIS! I am definitely not in Texas anymore, and where are Dorothy’s red shoes when I need them?God, I wish I could click my heels and be out of here. Gary motions us toward another cabin and we slog over to a small, round hut with only four bunk beds. I land on the one closest to the bathroom and collapse.
Really? Is this what I was so excited about? Oh shit, is this what we had to change into our “professional” clothes for before even landing? After 18 hours of flight? Before departing, we were told there would be a dinner in honor of our arrival, so we abandon our luggage and thread our way to the main hall filled with long tables—two in the front loaded withWHAT! Stale bread, peanut butter and jelly, with tea to drink turns out to be “dinner.” Oh, this just gets better and better.
The evening comes to an end at around 1:00 AM after a truly forgettable welcome speech. After another hour of finding toothbrush and pajamas, jockeying with seven other women for bathroom privileges and repacking luggage to stash it under the bed, I collapse into bed, tuck in the mosquito net and consider the truly ignominious end to an already exhausting day. I congratulate myself for packing earplugs as the room fills with the sonorous buzz of snoring. I ponder the fact that a cold water trickle-shower and discomfort are foreshadowing things to come. I’m angry, exhausted, and forlorn, but no time for that; hurry up and sleep. Training starts at 8:00 AM and breakfast isoffered at 7. Be prompt.
In the words of Dorothy Parker, “What fresh hell is this?”
WELCOME TO PEACE CORPS UGANDA!
Journal: Three Days Ago in Austin
Bleary eyed, nervous and with a lump in my throat, I left Austin after staying up most of the night to be sure neither my business website,Focus On Space, nor my book site,Moving Your Aging Parents, would expire in my absence. Updating contact information so my friend could handle things for a couple of years was the closest I could come to hanging on to any vestiges of what was fast becoming my former life. It was too late for soul-searching.
On our way to the airport, we had to stop a
