Our last day as Peace Corps volunteers was spent in an elaborate scavenger hunt. Being employees of the US Government, we have a lot of papers to fill out to officially terminate our service, especially if we want to have access to the benefits that we receive for successfully completing our two years. By an executive order signed by John F. Kennedy, returned Peace Corps volunteers (RPCVs) get one year of noncompetitive hiring preference for certain government jobs, much like a watered-down version of the benefits extended to honorably discharged veterans. In addition, we get a few thousand dollars of “readjustment allowance” to help us secure an apartment, make a down payment on a car, and so forth to get us back into normal American life once again. Although our fantastic socialized healthcare finishes when we leave the Peace Corps, we get a month of free health insurance on the way out the door and can pay for up to 18 additional months through a special group coverage offered to RPCVs.
But to get these things, we have to collect a dozen or so signatures from various officials and administrators at Peace Corps headquarters. Some are easy, like the facilities manger who affirms that we’ve returned our handbook and toolkit, or the bursar who checks our bank paperwork to be sure we have no outstanding debts.
Others are more time consuming. At the medical office, for example, we turn in our Peace Corps medical kit, but we also have an exit interview with the nurse, who goes over our medical records with us, returns our W.H.O. vaccination cards, and explains the forms we would need if we were to claim any workman’s comp medical coverage in the next year. She also gave us our terminal malaria prophylaxis: you know, a hefty set of pills to take for four weeks once we’re back in the US, to kill any malaria parasites that might be camping out in our livers (gross!). Even though our village is not in a malaria-endemic area, we spent time working and traveling through areas that are. Better safe than sorry. A few years back, a volunteer had a malaria relapse almost a year after returning to the US, and had to go to three different doctors before anyone even thought to test him for it.
Collecting all the signatures is a weird experience. We visited many people we’ve known and worked with for two years, doing this routine administrative task, but at the same time knowing that it is also saying goodbye. There are some people on staff that have treated us like adopted parents, people like Basilio and Ana Isabel, who we will miss a lot. Besides farewell, we wanted to say thanks to everyone for looking out for us for two whole years. But to our surprise, most of them actually thanked us: “Thank you for giving up two years of your lives to help my country. Thank you.”
On the way to get the signature from the director of the language department, we passed by the office of Craig Badger, the head of training and a long-time ally of ours. We stopped in.
“I can tell by the looks on your faces that you’ve come to say goodbye,” he said in a serious but friendly way. At that point, it all became very real, and a few tears came unbidden to both Emily and me. Craig’s always gone the extra mile for us, even after we were done with training and his official responsibility to us was over. He helped us get extra funding for our Q’anjob’al lessons, gave us advice when we were fighting for more volunteers in Santa Eulalia, and gave me his copy of A Mayan Life to read. He’s always been very positive, encouraging, and levelheaded. He’s one of the good guys.
A bit after noon, we were all called into the central courtyard of the training center to have a farewell lunch. Several of the administrators were there, and we had a chance to get up and “dar palabras“, or say a few words. Standing there, we all gasped at how few of us were actually left from the initial 30 or so in our training group: six in Healthy Homes, seven in Youth Development. We’d lost some due to health issues, emotional issues, administrative issues, and a bunch went home early to start grad school. But here we are, the survivors from the original picture with George Bush:
As I should have anticipated, the scavenger hunt couldn’t be completed in one day. Farewell hugs, people gone to meetings, lost paperwork, and other coincidental events forced us to return the next morning for the last few signatures. Perhaps it was meant to be this way; the next day was the swearing-in ceremony for our replacements, people we hardly know who will carry on the work after we are gone. We got there early, to avoid the rush and catch the administrators before they were embroiled in the ceremonies of the day. Within minutes, we had what we came for and were ready to leave.
“I want a picture with us with the Peace Corps flag,” Anne whispered to Ashley as we were standing by the front door. But the flag was gone! A quick search revealed that it had been moved to the pavilion, in anticipation of the swearing-in ceremony that would be starting shortly. We casually meandered out to the pavilion and discovered Wendy, the acting Director, waiting patiently by the podium.
She’s a very friendly lady, and the five of us started talking. “You know, if you’d like, you can come with me to meet the Ambassador when he arrives,” she invited. “Just keep an eye out, and if you see me leave suddenly, meet me at the front gate.”
About that time my phone rang. It was Froilan, my host dad from training. “Jaime, We’re here!” he said.
I turned around and looked into the pavilion, which was mostly empty chairs when we arrived, but had since filled with over a hundred people, American and Guatemalan. An arm waved from the back.
Of course! All of the host families from San Luis would be here; they had trainees this cycle, and were here to celebrate with them at their swearing-in. I ran back to visit with Jovita, Froilan, Doña Suzanna, and Doña Lydia; all long-time friends of mine from the very beginning, more than two years ago. The circle was closing before my vary eyes.
Just then, Emily caught my attention. Wendy had disappeared. The ambassador was coming.
We found Wendy outside the front door of Peace Corps headquarters, within the secure outer wall that enclosed the grounds. We chatted for a while, discussing the last time we saw the Ambassador a few weeks ago at the Fourth of July party. We’re fortunate in that he’s interested in the Peace Corps and actively supports the mission.
Suddenly, the guards started bustling and the front gates opened up, allowing two sleek Suburbans to enter the compound. The first one had strange-looking windows, obviously heavily modified with bulletproof glass to protect the Ambassador. The doors of the second Suburban opened while it was still moving, and imposing-looking Men in Black with sunglasses and earbuds stood on the running boards. When it slowed enough, they hopped off and secured the area.
“The veterans are here!” the Ambassador said, recognizing us and smiling as he walked up. In the past two years, we’ve each had a few opportunities to speak with him, and he seems to have a good memory for that sort of thing. “Sorry I missed the farewell lunch. I really wanted to come, but I had a meeting I couldn’t get out of.”
We chatted for a few minutes in the front yard of the Peace Corps office. Like I said, he’s a very personable guy. He mentioned that he hoped to get a chance to visit Santa Eulalia some time in the next year or two, and I suggested that if he were to go to the trouble to travel all the way out there, it would be worthwhile to go a bit further to enjoy the view in Nick and Katal’s site. “If you go to Santa Eulalia, I am sure that the people there will talk about if for years afterwards,” I smiled. I wish I could be there to see it!
By this point we’d already stolen too much of Mr. McFarland’s time from those waiting in the pavilion, so we thanked him for his time and support. He smiled, shook everyone’s hands again, and started inside.
“Can I get a picture with you, Mr. Ambassador?” Anne blurted out, shoving her camera into my hands.
“Actually, why don’t you all get into the picture?” Wendy offered. So we all posed with the Ambassador.
“Oops, I think I cut off your feet,” Wendy said, looking at the camera. Everyone laughed; it’s a gag we never get tired of. Guatemalans have this obsession with making sure every inch of a person is in the photo, leaving all their snapshots oddly-composed.
Mr. McFarland chuckled as we posed for another. “That’s OK, my feet aren’t that good looking anyways.”
“The Ambassador made a joke!” Ashley squeaked, mostly to herself.
“The funny part is that you laughed,” he replied, smiling into the camera for the next shot.
After the brief photo shoot, we parted ways for the last time. The Ambassador went inside with his entourage to start a brand new group of volunteers on their two years of service. And the four of us? We walked out the front gate of the Peace Corps compound, terminal papers in hand, to start the rest of our lives as ordinary citizens.