A chill creeps along the gray stone floor, like a child out of bed in the wee hours of the morning. The upstairs wooden floorboards squeak under the weight of feet. A fire burns in the hearth, crackling sticks a midst smoldering piles of cow shit that the locals dug out of the bog. The sound of waves gently kissing the land in the bay just across the way. A pot of tea sits on the counter, brewing a concoction to warm the soul. I bury myself deeper into the cave of the cotton sheets and down comforter, moving my feet around to avoid the stiffening cold. There’s nothing more annoying than cold feet and not being able to find a pair of socks. My little sister hunches over her iPad in the bed on the other side of the room, eagerly writing one of her stories. My mom sleeps in the room downstairs, and my dad sits on the couch near the fireplace, catching up on emails and trying to track down his lost luggage. I lay in this bed, processing the sensation of being surrounded by my family. It’s been one year and two months since I’ve been with them. Back in May, I received a message from my mom saying that they wanted to meet up with me in Europe for a week’s vacation. After going back and forth about dates and locations, we decided to go where the land is green, the sheep are plenty, and the Guinness flows free. And this is how I found myself: laying in a soft bed, in a cozy little 300 year old stone cottage, in a town of 200 hundred people, overlooking a bay situated on the southwest coast of Ireland.
I left the workstation in Cotonou on the morning of August 28th, around 2:30 am. Two fellow PCVs, Genesis and Maria, came with me to the airport, so I didn’t have to travel alone at that time of the morning, and so I could conveniently give them my helmet to take back. I hopped off the moto with my bags, hugged them goodbye, and trucked into the departure door. The routing took me from Cotonou with a quick stop in Lome (the quickest flight I have ever taken in my life. It took 20 minutes.), a stop in Casablanca, a stop in London, and then on to Shannon. I was a little anxiety ridden when I got to Casablanca. There were people everywhere, dressed in everything from high heels and sandals, shorts and running pants, work suits to sparkly dresses. There were stores selling all kinds of things, like perfumes, bottles of whiskey, candies, designer clothing, electronics, and snacks. Then there was the holy grail of them all: the food court. I came up the stairs from the transit security gates, and beheld the sparkling dirty terminal in all its glory. My fingers curled back and forth at my sides, my heart fluttered, my feet slowly shuffled one in front of the other, my eyes went this way and that. I was in wonder. The culture shock came slowly, starting in the airport terminal in Casablanca, Morocco. I am rather glad it started on a smaller scale, rather than being out on the crowded streets.
I was nervous. Should I speak French? English? Will they be able to understand me? I had American money and CFA with me, and a credit card that I hadn’t used in over a year. Will any of it work? Will it be accepted? It didn’t help that I couldn’t hear out of my left ear because the pressure caused a buildup and it hadn’t popped yet. I looked at the people swarming around me, with their sparkly jewelry, their clean clothes, their electronics. It was a lot to take in, and I was at a loss of what to do. I shuffled over to the food court, and took stock of what was there. I didn’t know if I could pay for it, how I would pay for it, if I would have to embarrassingly return an order because I couldn’t pay for it. I decided on a bottle of water, a bag of chips, and a tomato and cheese sandwich. They accepted my American money, but gave me change in Euros. My mind was curling, trying to make sure I wasn’t ripped off, but I didn’t know what the conversions were. I ate my lunch, and walked back and forth, back and forth, up and down the terminal, to ease my anxiety.
When I arrived in London, I was a little more calm, a little more prepared. I found a little coffee shop, and I ordered a medium iced hazelnut latte. It was absolutely wonderful. I love the ambiance of coffee shops, and the feeling of holding a cup of coffee in my hands as I breath in the essence of roasted beans. Coffee is an experience. When I finally got to Shannon airport, around 9:00 pm, I nervously walked up the hallway. It had been so long since I’ve seen them. Would they be different? Would I be different? What would I say to them? I saw my sister first, through the small window in the door. When I made it past the door and shuffled around the people, I took off running. She ran towards me too, and I burst with happiness as I gave her a bear hug. I saw my mom and dad standing just behind, and gave them a big hug too. Any initial anxiety I had was swept away.
That night, we stayed at a little B&B near Bunratty Castle. Since we arrived late, I went straight upstairs to the little room I was sharing with my sister. I was exhausted, but energetic. My sister enthusiastically dumped out all the things she brought for me onto the fluffy white down comforter on the double bed, and we had a little fashion show. Colored fabrics laid out onto the bed, soft and clean. After twirling around the room and thanking her profusely, for her generosity and kindness for thinking of me, I jumped into a hot shower and curled under the down comforter, breathing in the smell of laundered sheets, and feeling the plump pillow under my head. I sunk into a enchanted sleep. The next morning, I woke to the sound of my strumming alarm. Not wanting to get out of bed, but remembering the prospect of breakfast, I catapulted out of bed. “Mary! Mary! Wake up! Its breakfast time!” I heard the sound of my mom drying her hair in the room next door, so I decided to venture downstairs, with just my sister in tow. We walked into the little dining room. Glass doors lined the far wall, overlooking a green field, fresh with morning dew. 5 small tables covered in white linen, white china dishes, and sparkly silverware sat in the center of the room. A fireplace on the left wall, and just opposite, on the right wall, a little table adorned with breakfast. I gasped at the sight. Dishes with colorful fruit, glass containers of crunchy cereal, a basket of freshly baked scones and brown bread, jars of jelly, canisters of juice, and bowls of yogurt. The woman who owned the place came by with a pot of hot coffee, and handed us a hot breakfast menu. I squealed with delight, and gasped when I saw the bowl of peaches, strawberries, and blueberries on the table. An older couple, who sat at the corner table, and glanced my way. I apologized for my strange outburst, and justified myself by telling them it had been a long time since I had seen peaches. My sister piped up and told them I lived in West Africa. The man looked at me with a little more interest, leaned his arms on the table, and asked what I was doing there. I told him I was a volunteer, and lived in a little country called Benin doing
development work with an organization called the Peace Corps. He looked at me more clearly, smiled, and then told me we was one of the very first Peace Corps Volunteers to serve in Cameroon, back in the 60’s. Wow! What are the chances!? I can’t even imagine the differences between volunteers serving today, versus the experiences of the very first volunteers to ever serve. He was very kind, and we chatted for a little while until my parents came down and the order of breakfast commenced. In the end, there was no reason for me to have to justify the peaches.
After we checked out, we piled into the rental car with our bags, and hit the road. We drove south, following a winding road across pastures and through the hills, passing quaint little towns along the way. Pastel colored buildings sat side by side, storefronts advertising woolen sweaters, flavored ice creams, post cards, and Guinness, among other things. After 4 hours of enjoying the picturesque countryside, a quick stop to eat sandwiches, and squirming at being in the car for so long (and getting a bit lost to boot) we finally arrived in the little town of Caherdaniel, just before the sunset. The cottage caretaker met us at the house, and briefly showed us around. We chucked our bags in the house, and left to find food. One thing we learned real quick: if you want food, you have to order if before 8:00 pm because when the kitchens close (at 8 pm), you’re out of luck. We found a restaurant near the bay, that overlooked a calm shallow inlet beach. I ordered a crabcake caesar salad, and tasted my sister’s salmon, my mom’s mashed potatoes, and my dad’s seafood platter. Endless brown bread with soft butter accompanied a frothy Guiness. I was surely in Wonderland.
Throughout the week, my mornings consisted of hot coffee, scones or toast, sometimes bacon, with juice and fruit. I wore the new clothes my family brought for me, and bundled up with a jacket or the green woolen sweater I bought. The days were filled with walks along the road, visits to the quiet beach, exploring stone ruins, driving to nearby towns, shopping, and eating. On one of the days, my dad, my sister, and I went horseback riding in the bay during low tide. It had been years and years since I’ve been on a horse, but it was such a freeing feeling, the wind blowing my hair, the horse’s muscles rippling beneath me, as we walked along the path. On another day, we decided to visit Skellig Island. We didn’t quite know what we were in for, but we arrived at the dock on the edge of town, just before 10:00 am, and 6 other people were milling around. A few moments later, a little boat that reminded me of the Minnow from Gilligan’s Island, chugged up. My mom’s words were: “Don’t tell me THAT is what we are getting on?!” We descended the stairs, and hopped on. It was misty morning, and the sea sprayed us as we sailed out to sea. The couple sitting in the back of the boat donned rubber suits, and got soaked. We rounded the green hills, chased a rainbow, rocked with the sea swells, and tried not to get sea sick. I looked at my family, and they looked rather unhappy with the adventure.
2 hours later, a rock cliff appeared out of the mist, jutting out of the water . The rough waves crashed into the base of the cliff, the water carrying the boat to a small concrete dock. An alcove, that might have been a cave, loomed ahead. With each roll of the wave, the boat bumped into the rocks. I felt like I was in a thriller, jumping out of a getaway boat, the cave a secret hiding place for pirate treasure. A few small steps had been carved into the concrete, 2 feet in width. We had to jump out of the boat and onto the steps, hoping dearly that we didn’t misstep off the boat and into the deep. Neither my mother or sister is very adventurous, and they were incredibly nervous at the prospect. But alas, they made it. We followed a man-made path alongside the cliff, up and up, until we reached a small wooden structure. A man popped his head up from the outside of the wall, and then lowered himself down again, and disappeared back onto the scaffolding that graced the outer wall. I looked over the edge, and down at the jagged rocks. A sprinkling of white boats nestled the blue ocean carpet, awaiting the tourists to finish their expedition. At this point, we were maybe 1/2 way up the cliff. To continue the expedition, one had to hike 30 minutes up the jagged rock stairs to the top, each stone gingerly piled upon the next, zigzagging up the grassy cliff edge. My mom and sister decided to wait on the path, as my dad and I scaled the rocks. People were hiking down, as others hiked up. There are no ledges, no railings, not safety net. If you looked just past the edge of the stair, you looked out onto the misty blue horizon. If you dare take a wrong step, or step on a loose rock, well, let’s not think about that. The island is home to Puffins, a small bird with a white belly, a black back, and an orange beak. During the winter months, they migrate to the warmer weather in California. Overly eager tourists had been known to follow the Puffins with their cameras, and misstep off the edge of the cliff. Perhaps for this reason, there has been talk of halting visits to this World Heritage Site. A rough estimate of only 13,000 people visit this site every year.
At the top of this cliff rests the remains of a monastery that dates back to 600 AD. Old stone walls creep along the top, encasing mounds of stone huts. Grave stones rest among the ruins, honoring those who once lived there. My dad and I hiked 3/4 of the way to the top, before my dad sat down and decided not to go any further. I continued on alone. When I reached the top, I stood for a moment, enjoying the scenery. I looked out over the ocean, past the little bobbing boats, white tails streaming behind them. I looked out to the mainland, the green quilted hills rolling into into the sea. I felt the breeze on my face, the sun slowly burning my un-scunscreened skin. Besides the slight irritation at my family, I was inwardly calm. Here I was, standing on the edge of the world, thinking about just how far away from Benin I was. I sighed deeply. What a different life, a different place, a different way of thought. I explored the top of the cliff, and then started my descent. I met up with my dad, and we hiked the rest of the way down together. A woman who worked at the local bakery had told us that a film crew was possibly going to be roaming around that week; they had used the island as a filming location for the new Stars War movie. Back on the boat, we started our 2 hour journey back to the mainland. The captain caught a few fish while he waited for us, and while a young guy took the wheel of the boat, the captain fileted, cleaned, and grilled the fish as a snack for us. I wasn’t too keen on the idea of eating it, but when in Ireland. It tasted salty and fresh, whatever that tastes like.
One other notable experience was on the last morning of our trip, before we packed up for the airport. We stayed at a different B&B, just down the road from the one we stayed at the first night. My flight was supposed to originally leave at 8:00 am to London, but then I would have had 8 hour layover. No thank you. The aiport desk closed at 6:00 pm sharp the night before, and didn’t open until 7:00 am the next day; there wasn’t a soul around. What WAS this place? Eventually I was able to change my flight to 1:00 pm, which allowed me to eat breakfast with my family. We went into the dining room, and the woman who owned the place told us to sit at the large table with an elderly couple. She wanted to put all the Americans at the same table. The couple wasn’t very talkative, and they seemed to be a bit more shy. I think the woman was a traveling companion of the elderly man, who told us he bought a cottage in Donnegal many years back. He comes back frequently for vacation. Anyways, as Americans do, we asked them were they were from, but we could already tell by their accents: New York, specifically New York City and Long Island. A New Yorker can spot (or hear) another New Yorker from a mile away. I’d say it was a talent, but I think it just comes down to intuition. My entire family (parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins) is from that part of the world. My parents talked with them, about this place they knew, and that place. Many of my male relatives worked as cops for the NYPD, and guess what? So did this elderly man sitting on the other side of the table. What a small world. What makes it even smaller? This man knew who my paternal grandfather was, as they had worked for the NYPD at the same time. My grandfather had passed away years back, but this stranger knew his name. From the RPCV from Cameroon at breakfast the first day, to a man who knew my grandfather on the last day. People say that Ireland is magical; roots run deep, connections even deeper. It wasn’t until now that I really actually believed it. The matron came into the room with plates of fried eggs, bacon, toast, jelly, hot coffee, and smiled at the chatter. She said: “This is why I always put Americans at the same table. See what happens when you put Americans at the same table? They always find something to talk about. They always find a connection. No matter where in the world they are.” She said a lot of other inspirational things too, but as I sit here at the long wooden table in the Cotonou Workstation, with a cracked green empty coffee cup, and a tin plate with the remnants of my fried eggs, racking my brain trying to remember, I can’t. But somethings just cannot be put into words, and this will just have to be one of those memories.
We finished our breakfasts, hugged our new acquaintances goodbye, packed our bags, and went to the airport. I walked with my family across the smooth shiny marbled floor of the terminal, duffel bags slung over our shoulders, to the international security gate. My dad patted me on the back, my mom took out her wallet and handed me some leftover Euros, and my sister wrapped her arms around my waist, not wanting to let go. After a few moments of nervous chatter, they finally turned to go. They walked through the open doors, leaving me behind. I watched as they filled out customs forms, and my mom sidled back over and mouthed: “If they ask you if you touched a goat, say no!” She grinned profusely and turned back. I watched as they took off their shoes and put their bags on the sliding belt. I watched as they walked through the machine, watched as they put their shoes back on and grabbed their bags. They turned to look at me, and I waved enthusiastically. They continued on to the passport and visa check, turned back and waved again. They were blocked from my site by a big metal sign showcasing the departure flights: Boston, New York, and others that I can’t remember. I shuffled around so that they came back into site. I waved again and again until they disappeared down the hallway. Goodbye, family! Goodbye. Until we meet again.
I wish I could tell you my internal thoughts. I don’t quite know what I was feeling. Ready to get back to work, and the things that I knew in my little corner of the world; a world in which they did not know, a world in which they most likely won’t ever know. A world in which I was growing and learning, a world in which I am changing every day. But I was also sad to see them go, in the sense that there were things left unsaid. As they walked further and further away, my sense of guilt heightened. Perhaps I didn’t try, or didn’t try hard enough. I can’t quite explain it. But when you’re away from someone for a long time, and then come back together and spend time with them, you notice things. You notice the quirks, their personalities, the little things that you never noticed before. I realized that I am in a much different place then when I last saw them, standing on the sidewalk outside of the Philadelphia hotel. There’s a blue hole that I can sometimes fall into, a mood that overcomes me, in which I don’t talk, and I don’t have much to say. This was the state of being that I embodied during most of the week. As I watched them walk away, I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt in that I knew what it took for them to get here, and what it took for them to get me here. Why did I succumb to this blue mood? I atone it to shyness, culture shock, and only having really talked to them a handful of times over the past year. In returning to Benin and talking with the other PCVS who had vacationed home to see their families too, there was a common theme. We had grown and changed tremendously over the year, it will take becoming accustomed again, to our lives and families back in the USA. We are going through experiences, each and every one of us, that are frustrating, exciting, challenging, draining, difficult, and joyous. And I must remember that though my family might not really ever understand, they are there at the end of the day to support me through it all. They will always be there. And they do understand that I am growing and changing as a person, even if it means putting up with my random and unaccounted for blue moods. And for that, I will always be grateful. I know I did not explain this internal flood very well, but I don’t have many more words for it. A big big big hug to you, Mom, Dad, and Mary! I love you all very very much! And to my brother Mike: though I did not see you on this trip, I hope to share this Benin adventure with you. So. GET OUT HERE. 🙂
I sat in the fake black leather chair of the terminal in the Shannon Airport, reflecting on the week, trying to sort out the swirl that was brewing in my head and my heart. I fiddled with my Iphone, signed onto the wifi, searched my purse for the 20th time for my passport and WHO card, and watched people read newspapers or drink coffee (or beer. Yep. Guinness at all hours of the day.). I got up and went to the bathroom, realizing that there was a giant rip in my tish pants (oh, wonderful. Thanks Benin.), debated on whether or not to contact a PCV friend (but stopping myself and realizing that he probably doesn’t care or need/want to hear of my ramblings) before finally taking a deep breath and shuffling my way to security, the departure gate, and the door that would bring me back to my life in Benin.
I am still sitting here at the table in the Cotonou Workstation. Fellow volunteers come in and out of the room, their chatter filling the hallway, the smell of their lunches making my stomach rumble, their amicable presence filling the building. As I listen to them chat about food, other volunteers, food, jokes, meetings, food, travel plans, stomach ailments, and the ongoing debate about whether or not to call the MIA burrito man, I can’t help but smile.
Meaghan in Benin 