Last week, a package showed up at the Tamba post office, almost one year late. The volunteer had long COS`d (Close Of Service). It was full to the brim with last year's Christmas cookies, chocolate, and pasta mixes. What was the excuse for such lateness of something that would have been good before it got stale? "Missent to the Bahamas", one of the first postal mistakes that lies with US Post and not Senegal. Ususally our packages show up covered in Senegal Post tape, which means our postal officials burrowed through the box, looking for what they wanted, and a tad late, but not missent to the Bahamas. My friends and I took this as the ultimate "sucks to be you" moment for the old volunteer... until, that is, a package of mine turned up, sent last February, and arrived now, with no late excuse stamped on top. We see the post as a sort of Russian roulette; sometimes we luck out and have no problems, and other times, the worst case scenario arrives.
Going to the post here is one of those lovely reminders of what life is like in third world countries. I am always puzzled, for instance, by the lack of stamps at the post office. Correct me if wrong, but post offices generally are used to send mail, right? Here, or at least at my post in Kidira, it is used as a place to collect kaalis (money). Whenever I go to the post, I am not only the only white person, as I am the only volunteer with my own post box, but I am the only person there to receive mail and not money. Every day of the week, every week of the month, there is a long line of angry Pulaars and Bambaras, anxiously awaiting their moneygram or union express, and one frenzied man who spends all day handing it out. The money comes from France, Italy, Spain, and America, and is made by "working" - at what jobs, it is ambiguous.
So after sneaking past the lines of people waiting for their money, I finally get to the front, only to usually find that there are no stamps, and that I have no packages. When a package arrives, it is a huge relief, a moment of elation, and a nice piece of America sitting in my lap. My mom is my usual supplier, keeping me stocked full of Mac N Cheese, Clif bars, and zip lock bags. It is difficult to explain what is so special about getting such ordinary things, or the way I am frantic when there is no little piece of America to carry back on my bike.
Last week for the first time I felt guilty for returning with a package and not wanting to share one iota of it with my village. It may have been the way my grandma Ne Dioulde had begged for bananas and I had returned only with things for me, or it may have just been the way I sat in my hut delighting over everything for a while, and the way it separated me from the village, if only for a few moments. However, I also felt glad to feel loved, to hold something from home in my hands, and to dissapear in Americana. Maybe it was just the fact that I did not have to wait a whole year for the package, it was not covered in post tape, and I did not get slapped with a huge customs fee - I had to pay 42 dollars when my dad sent me a new camera.
As a final note to all those people with loved ones overseas, Peace Corps or not, me or otherwise: Remember to write to them, to help them feel connected, and when you can or feel close enough, to send them things from time to time. Of course, the letters are most important; my mom has never sent a letter in the packages, and it seems like such a wast of postal space. My absolute favorite gift? The few pictures from home that have made their way to me. While books and DVD's are certainly appreciated, less expensive things make everyone happy as well. Some of our Tamba anciens, Dan and Mary have sent several packages with a plethora of fun food like Ring Pops and Cheeze-Its, and they are the volunteers we look fondly on and miss all the time (although we would miss them without all the packages, of course).