The Other Side
By Luke Smith
Let me tell you about the time I lived on the other side of the planet.
(Airplane Sounds)
This is where a lot of people find themselves who have ideals and dreams and a loud mouth. A part of you expects to step off of the plane and into a classroom filled with adoring children who can’t wait to learn English from the exotic, white teacher. This is not true, as well it shouldn’t be, especially for me with my degree in writing. I could and would gleefully instruct anyone in the art of cutting excess verbal fat, but, unfortunately, this instruction little profits pupils incapable of constructing even a simple sentence.
So first, training takes place for three long months in which you learn to hate yourself, question your motivations and determination, and lose weight from habitual diarrhea and a diet of foods you never thought you’d eat. Somewhere in there, you learn some of the local language and have a couple of sessions about teaching techniques.
Next you’re “installed”. That’s double speak for an unceremonious cutting of the umbilical cord in which you’re thrown into a village with your handful of possessions and only one or two artificial contacts that were assigned to you by the higher-ups.
Now it’s time for integration. This means sitting in your house reading books, watching movies and TV shows that you swapped with other trainees, and learning how to cook lasagna with only the ingredients found in an African village. Somewhere in there, you meet a shopkeeper or two and learn their names.
During the rainy season, you learn about mud.
During the dry season, you learn about water shortage.
During the holidays, you learn about loneliness,
and, when you leave your site, you remember the time you were backpacking in Europe and started to think that you could live in an alien culture for two years.
Because in Peace Corps, you’re not backpacking. You’re living in a village.
You wanna know what the best thing about the developed world is?
Cause here on the other side of the planet, you’ve only got banana beer in a Jerry can, and, although that might sound like a nice, refreshing beverage, it looks like mud, is served at room temperature, and can sometimes be chunky. No. It is not sweet.
But there are sweet moments, like when you play football with your students and get schooled by a seven-year-old again, and, as everyone laughs at you, you look up, an idyllic African breeze ruffling your sweaty hair, and remember the ad you saw in a magazine of the same scene with kids playing football in a grassy field with the caption “For dreamers who do.”
You start to wonder, after the ecstasy of seeing your dreams wear off, if you’re still a dreamer, or if reality has crushed that naivety and hopefulness out of you.
“Really?” you think, “My dream was to play soccer? How is that supposed to help anyone? I’m not even helping my own team.”
But you realize that what you really dreamed was of relationships, friendships that mattered, the feeling of international togetherness, and, when you think back to your dream, that hopeful part of your soul that’s been put to sleep by bureaucratic regulations and disappointment wakes up and remembers the savory flavor of hope that seasoned all of your days until staging and led you to stand out on the porch, looking at the stars, wondering what waited for you on the other side of the planet.
(Airplane Sounds)
This is where a lot of people find themselves who have ideals and dreams and a loud mouth. A part of you expects to step off of the plane and into a classroom filled with adoring children who can’t wait to learn English from the exotic, white teacher. This is not true, as well it shouldn’t be, especially for me with my degree in writing. I could and would gleefully instruct anyone in the art of cutting excess verbal fat, but, unfortunately, this instruction little profits pupils incapable of constructing even a simple sentence.
So first, training takes place for three long months in which you learn to hate yourself, question your motivations and determination, and lose weight from habitual diarrhea and a diet of foods you never thought you’d eat. Somewhere in there, you learn some of the local language and have a couple of sessions about teaching techniques.
Next you’re “installed”. That’s double speak for an unceremonious cutting of the umbilical cord in which you’re thrown into a village with your handful of possessions and only one or two artificial contacts that were assigned to you by the higher-ups.
Now it’s time for integration. This means sitting in your house reading books, watching movies and TV shows that you swapped with other trainees, and learning how to cook lasagna with only the ingredients found in an African village. Somewhere in there, you meet a shopkeeper or two and learn their names.
During the rainy season, you learn about mud.
During the dry season, you learn about water shortage.
During the holidays, you learn about loneliness,
and, when you leave your site, you remember the time you were backpacking in Europe and started to think that you could live in an alien culture for two years.
Because in Peace Corps, you’re not backpacking. You’re living in a village.
You wanna know what the best thing about the developed world is?
- Movie theatres
- Bowling alleys
- Bars with a plethora of beers
Cause here on the other side of the planet, you’ve only got banana beer in a Jerry can, and, although that might sound like a nice, refreshing beverage, it looks like mud, is served at room temperature, and can sometimes be chunky. No. It is not sweet.
But there are sweet moments, like when you play football with your students and get schooled by a seven-year-old again, and, as everyone laughs at you, you look up, an idyllic African breeze ruffling your sweaty hair, and remember the ad you saw in a magazine of the same scene with kids playing football in a grassy field with the caption “For dreamers who do.”
You start to wonder, after the ecstasy of seeing your dreams wear off, if you’re still a dreamer, or if reality has crushed that naivety and hopefulness out of you.
“Really?” you think, “My dream was to play soccer? How is that supposed to help anyone? I’m not even helping my own team.”
But you realize that what you really dreamed was of relationships, friendships that mattered, the feeling of international togetherness, and, when you think back to your dream, that hopeful part of your soul that’s been put to sleep by bureaucratic regulations and disappointment wakes up and remembers the savory flavor of hope that seasoned all of your days until staging and led you to stand out on the porch, looking at the stars, wondering what waited for you on the other side of the planet.