Last week I watched Jessica leave Khorixas for the final time. A Ministry of Education car filled with two teachers attending a workshop pulled up to our flat at 7 a.m. and without much fanfare or emotion--she was suddenly gone. It was a moment we'd both been preparing for for months, but neither of us was actually ready. There weren't any tears and there was no hesitation--but when the door slammed and her car pulled away the text messaging started and we realized life as we knew it had finally come to an end. Two years, officially over.
Today, it was my turn.
There's a thing about Namibians--they never want you to be alone. And while my former American self found it a tad bit annoying to have zero personal space, the more Namibian version of me I'd now become appreciated this cultural difference more than ever this past week. Our flat was a revolving door of friends and colleagues concerned about me staying alone. Richel didn't leave last night, even though she was clearly tired:
Today's ride to Windhoek was no different. My hospital arranged for a car to collect me at 8 a.m, and with three extra spaces, I was allowed to bring whomever I wanted with me. So Lorraine, one of my best friends in the place, came along. She brought a CD of Nam tunes my colleague Kate made. And Katrina, my little sister here, came along for the ride, too. About an hour before the car arrived she and her entire family came by to wait with me--anxious to see her off, but I think sad to see me go, too. Katrina's mom gave me a long hug and danced me around the room while singing me a song about friends leaving and big hearts. It was incredibly touching, not just because the words were obviously coming from her heart, but because two years ago, when we first arrived in Khorixas, Katrina's mother couldn't speak a word of English. Now, she can carry on conversation! I tried hard to hold back the tears (something I've spent most of this week doing). Seeing Tu-O giggling behind his hand on the cot as his mom danced me around the room made it a little bit easier.
By 8 a.m. we'd said our goodbyes and loaded my pack into the car. Funny how I came to Namibia with a single bag--and today I left with the exact same one packed with half as much. I've learned how little a person actually needs, I guess. We popped in Kate's CD and were on the road with Khorixas in our rearview before I knew it. And before I was really even ready.
The ride to the capital felt shorter than usual--maybe because I knew it was my last and was dreading my arrival there--the goodbyes and the hugs and definitely the tears. Katrina was visiting her family for the holiday in Otjiwarango, so we dropped her off in the location there. A drunk old man came up and started talking to me--probably because I was the only white person he'd ever seen there--while we were in the middle of saying goodbye. Such exchanges are always a bit annoying, but this time, even more so. I wanted to shake the guy and tell him I was in the middle of saying goodbye to my little sister--a girl I loved to death and was uncertain I'd ever see again. The gravity of the situation was too much for me, and he couldn't begin to understand what he was getting in the middle of.
As we pulled away and left Katrina behind, the tears started to flow. I was devastated. And while I'd attempted to mentally prepare myself for moments like that one, it hadn't really worked. Goodbyes are never easy. Especially for me.
A few hours later (and about five rotations of that entire Nam Tunes CD) we arrived in Windhoek. And once again, the tears were ready to flow. Lorraine and I had been good about not crying over the course of our five hour drive--we'd kept the conversation light and tried to trick ourselves into thinking I wasn't going anywhere. But as we pulled up to the Peace Corps office, it was clear that hadn't worked. We got out of the car and were prepared for a quick hug. But it turned into a long embrace and all out sobbing. In front of the security guard, no less. "He's probably wondering who is this crazy black lady crying over a white woman!" she said. But my guess is, he'd seen it before. Probably lots over these past few weeks.
They pulled away and I went back to the lounge, where several other volunteers who'd already left site were waiting. There's this glazed over look your eyes get when you leave a place you once called home--faces attached to bodies that have been worn down and beaten. And everyone seems to move in a daze, cautiously circling around the others--not saying much, and certainly not bringing up what we'd all just been through. We had the look of people on the cusp of a breakdown, and I guess for most of us, we were trying to avoid the realities of our situation. It was easy to tell we were emotionally exhausted.
We checked in to our hotel--Rachel and I shared a room in preparation for the next five months we plan to spend together--and left for dinner at Joe's Beer House with Speech and her friend EmKay. I was excited to see an old friend, but also extremely sad because it meant I also had to say another goodbye. Speech was one of my first friends in Khorixas. He taught me the proper way to mop floors (turns out you have to sweep first) and helped me out on nearly every project I started. I'm so proud of all he's accomplished--that he became a SCORE volunteer and eventually moved all the way to Windhoek. It's been an incredible experience to watch him grow and I'm so grateful to call him my brother.
Dinner was delicious, but saying goodbye was hard. After a week's worth of endings and a day spent saying all of my big goodbyes, I was shattered. But my heart was full. And while there were still more tears, I was in good company because they weren't all mine.
Today marked the start of two incredible journeys. The first, our lives as Returned Peace Corps Volunteers (RPCVs). The second, a five-month journey through South Africa, Egypt, India and Southeast Asia with Rachel, my CATJAR friend.
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