eye of the storm

There were 2 deaths in my community on the same night. Rosa, a devoted Christian and family woman of 52 and Juan, the elderly botanical medicine man, both passed on January 15^th at 11pm. Both were terribly sick but we were not expecting such a tragic ending. I was at Rosa’s 3 hours earlier, helping the family out with whatever chore I could: fetching water or cooking soup. I returned home to rest and that evening I was awoken to screaming neighbors outside of my door; she had passed. My immediate reaction was to run. Run to the families. Run to the kids and spouses. I stayed with them all night as they screamed, wept, and even fainted.

The community stopped at a standstill for almost 2 weeks. No one went to the farm, no one left to sell cocoa; the only movement was coffin making and visitation to the families. Hundreds of people came from neighboring communities to pay their respect to the families and Santa Marta.

The death I have experienced in my life as always been somewhat removed- whether it be by distance, time or association. Death is always a sensitive subject and never easy, but I was especially uncomfortable in a culture and country not of my own. I felt like a huge storm was blowing all the trees in different directions, and I was the only non-native species that didn’t know which way to sway. I tried to follow everyone’s example and visited the families, always bearing gifts or helping out with some chore. During moments of long silences, I thought it best to be myself. I once broke a long silence by asking, “Hey you want to learn a funny word in English? Hippopotamus” –which was immediately followed by an uproar of laughter and gestures of gratefulness.

However, as much sympathy as I had for these families, I could not get over my own feelings of loneliness (I am even embarrassed sharing this to the public). During the burials, (mind you in a culture that does not publicly show affection) family members were holding each other, bracing each other, wiping each other’s tears, while I was just… there. That night I went home alone and cooked dinner for myself and ate by myself- a routine I do every day, but was tattered by the absence of my biological family.

What I really want t get across in this post is that Peace Corps is not a fairy tale of successful development work and happy children and beautiful pictures. Life is happening, and it can end at any moment. Cherish every day and call someone you love after reading this.