The End isn't my only friend, but it's a good one!

Hey there, faithful readers! I'm remembering back to a day, almost exactly two years ago, when I published my very first blog entry here. Remember that? It was a nice day, probably sunny, since June in Philly tends to be sunny. Birds were chirping and I was sitting outside on the porch writing, for your reading pleasure, a basic summary of the Peace Corps application and my reasons for wanting to become a Peace Corps Volunteer. Those were good days; innocent days; naive days; they were days when all I knew about the next two years of my life were that they were going to be absolutely bucknutty.

Time and experience has proven the bucknuttyness of my life in the Peace Corps, the incredible degree to which I've learned, changed myself, changed others. I've experienced some of the most fun, insane, depressing, surreal, painful, and irreplaceable moments I imagine that I ever will. No, it was not all good. Some of my time here in Africa has made me a miserable as I've ever been, but that misery never held a candle to the thought that looped through my mind, like a never-ending LP record on the turntable in my head: Cherish what you're doing now, happiness or suffering, because it will never, ever happen just that way again.

I've been reading some of my oldest blog postings, recalling everything that was so new and crazy in my early days of PC, all the reasons I had for joining and the expectations I had for what Mali would be like. And I've been laughing my ass off at the Two-Years-Ago-Jake's expense. It's not just the fact that I was unaccustomed to the new rituals of my daily life and the idiosyncrasies of Malian culture. Of course that was going to happen. What I find most funny is just how much of an idealist I was. The Peace Corps sells itself as a great way for a wide-eyed adventurer to go out into the wild and do all these great work projects that will be welcomed with open arms and teach lessons that will make those who learn them wonder how they ever did without them. The fact is that these goals are noble, and in many cases they will be successful. In my case, and in the case of many others, our accomplishments are often minimal, the appreciation for them is often exaggerated, and the impact of them is fleeting. We try to use logic and reason to explain things like basic sanitation, and they look at us like we are speaking an alien tounge. We try to get them involved in community activities that will be a benefit to everyone, and they only try to pass the buck. This is certainly not the case all the time, but just comparing the outcomes of my service to my original expectations of it, I tend to feel a little bit impotent.

So what impact have I made in the past two years? I've made people aware of matters like health, hygeine and clean water, and given them the capacity to do something to directly improve their quality of life. If they choose to do nothing with the knowledge and ideas I've shared with them, that is fine by me. The worst thing a PCV can do is get depressed that they are not doing enough. I think it takes a lot humility to realize that the way Malians think of the world and their place in it simply does not translate to our way of thought, no matter how hard we try. Their traditions and life experiences are too different and too deeply engrained for a native Malian to readily and eagerly think about things from a Westerner's point of view. There are forward-thinkers and open minds to be found, but they are far less common than the Malian who will stick comfortably to the status quo because, with a lack of quality education and positive influences in life, he has no idea how to rise above it.

And there it is: positive influences. When I try to think about my greatest accomplishments here, the moments that made my service worthwhile, it's not the work and the projects that mean the most. It is the conversations I've had with my friends about how Americans see the world. I tell them that not every American is desperate to make money the way most Malians seem to be. I tell them that Americans like to think for themselves, and don't simply take others' words to be gold, as Malians are taught to do when addressed by their elders or respected peers. And I hope that I myself am living proof to them that where you come from in life does not need to determine where you go. If a man they think of as a spoiled, rich, lazy American can come out to the African bush and make himself a poor farmer (and a decent one at that), then they too can move beyond what they expect of themselves.

But I've also learned a lot from Malians. Those who have resigned themselves to a life of poverty and struggle do it with grace. They complain about their life, but not bitterly. They tell me how they sometimes cry themselves to sleep because of their total sadness, but they tell me with a smile. They may not think of it this way, but they have done a petty admirable job of compensating for their lack of livelihood with a surplus of liveliness. And while it may be confused with laziness or ineptness, their laissez-faire way of life makes America's workplace-hyperspeed seem almost barbaric in its lack of tranquility. Meanwhile, those who have not abandoned hope pursue it with a rabid determination. They will gladly shed their egos like perspiration on a hot summer day to make a dollar, or help someone in need do the same. The reason they are not taught skills like critical thinking comes from a very deeply seated sense of respect for elders and authority, respect that our sometimes overly liberal era neglects.

These are just a few thoughts that I've been dwelling on as my service approaches closure. These, as well as memories from the last two years of pet monkeys, Voodoo priests, train station sleepovers, 50-hour bus rides, Foreign Service Spies, mud huts, bucket baths, and eating rice with my hands every night are all the things I will take with me as I leave. I didn't know it at the time, but this is what my Peace Corps experience was destined to be. So be it, I've had a blast. And I think everyone in Niantanso has too.