One month ago, I received the e-mail that would detail the global evacuation of all Peace Corps volunteers across the world. I learned that within a few days, I would be torn away from my friends and family in Myanmar as COVID-19 spread across oceans. Flights were being cancelled left and right and countries were beginning to close their doors as they shut down borders.
I had previously made a post about the evacuation in general, but neglected to really detail the full experience of this day. The day that would end my service before it had even really started.
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| The last tuktuk ride I would take. Bago, Myanmar. |
When the bus had stopped in Mawlamyine, a small smiling woman holding a large fruit wrapped in a plastic bag plopped down in the seat directly behind me. As the driver slowly pulled onto the highway, the woman cut into the fruit, releasing a pungent odor into the air. She proceeded to snack on her durian throughout the journey, digging at the flesh with her fingernails and cheerfully plopping yellow bits into her mouth. I peeled the small mandarin oranges my community in Kahnyaw had gifted to me, scratching at and and tossing the small pieces of peel into my face mask in an attempt to get some relief from the dizzying smell of the durian.
That’s when the ‘ding’ on my phone redirected my attention.
Mallory | 9:01 am : We’re getting evacuated.
My chest felt tight and my face was warm and flushed as I worked to hold back tears. I rapidly began sending messages full of anxiety and uncertainty to current volunteers and trainees. Was this true? Was the ‘e-word’ actually happening? Will I have time to pack my belongings? Will I be able to say goodbye to my Myanmar family?
Why do I have to go? I’m not ready to leave. I won’t go.
The remaining four hours of that bus ride felt unbearable. I sunk deep into my seat, the tears that finally manage to break through leave a thin line of salt down my cheeks. It would be several more hours before I’d be back at the hotel in Bago, where I would be able to grieve with the rest of my cluster. A monk, who had been sitting at the front of the bus, came to console me. In my broken Myanmar and his limited English, we discussed the situation as I continued to unsuccessfully fight back tears. “Warmly welcome back to Myanmar” he smiled. I cried some more.
I would remember the remainder of this day in vivid detail. I remember stepping out of the cool relief of the bus into the humid, hot, dusty air at the bottom of the road leading up to Hotel Bago. The sun felt harsher than usual that afternoon as I walked up the dirt path to the hotel. I would feel this again as I walked home from visiting my family, delivering the news that I would be leaving in a day, maybe two.
Later that night, another trainee and I (Katie) returned to the home of my family for dinner. Spoiled with my favorite Myanmar dishes and favorite pyaw yei, I cherished every little moment from that evening with my family. I had even video chatted with my parents in America so that my Myanmar a mei and a pei could “meet” my American mom and dad.
The morning we left for Yangon, I had woken up with a terrible migraine, a result of the frequent bursts of sobbing throughout the evening. I dragged my overpacked bags, full of hand-sewn Myanmar dress, hand-painted umbrellas, and my favorite albeit unusual milk candy, to sit among the others. I watched the boys play chin lo a final time before heading down the road to greet the bus to take us into the city. After this, I don’t remember much, and it all kind of blurs together.
I watched the passing scenery through the large window as the bus rushed toward Yangon. Andrea and I recounted our visits to our permanent sites, and disbelief in the sudden evacuation. When we arrived at the hotel we had stayed at during our very first night in country, it looked unfamiliar. Everything just felt wrong being back here. By late that evening, after the tireless work of the in-country Peace Corps staff, we were all sitting in the airport with our boarding passes back to America.
30-something hours later, although I am sure it was more, I was walking through the doors of DFW and into the Texas air for the first time in two months. I was home, yet I was still so far away.
Today people in Myanmar are preparing to wrap-up celebrations of the water festival, or Thingyan. A time usually full of congregated laughter and buckets of water tossed upon anyone and everyone in close range. Things look a little different this year, with large celebrations halted due to the fears of further spread of COVID-19 in country. Despite the more mellow festivities, I am sad to not be among my neighbors, counterparts, principal, and community members to warmly welcome the new year. I am sad that I will not get to take part in the birthday tradition of feeding each guest a piece of cake from the same spoon, as my 29th birthday approaches in a matter of days. There are so many things I am sad to be missing while I ride out the crisis at home in America.
My heart aches that I cannot be there, especially at a time like right now, as Myanmar faces its own uncertainty of the effects of COVID-19. As jarring as it was to be taken out of country and have to completely reconfigure my plan for 2 years, I am much more concerned for those who I have left behind. I almost feel as if I abandoned them in a time that they may have been able to utilize me most.
There are mornings where I'll wake up, hoping to feel the humidity of the island air on my skin. Hoping to hear the roosters next door crowing, or the laughter of my young bright-eyed neighbors playing in the 'yard'. Sometimes, on these mornings, I will just close my eyes and dream I am there just a little bit longer.
The remaining four hours of that bus ride felt unbearable. I sunk deep into my seat, the tears that finally manage to break through leave a thin line of salt down my cheeks. It would be several more hours before I’d be back at the hotel in Bago, where I would be able to grieve with the rest of my cluster. A monk, who had been sitting at the front of the bus, came to console me. In my broken Myanmar and his limited English, we discussed the situation as I continued to unsuccessfully fight back tears. “Warmly welcome back to Myanmar” he smiled. I cried some more.
I would remember the remainder of this day in vivid detail. I remember stepping out of the cool relief of the bus into the humid, hot, dusty air at the bottom of the road leading up to Hotel Bago. The sun felt harsher than usual that afternoon as I walked up the dirt path to the hotel. I would feel this again as I walked home from visiting my family, delivering the news that I would be leaving in a day, maybe two.
Later that night, another trainee and I (Katie) returned to the home of my family for dinner. Spoiled with my favorite Myanmar dishes and favorite pyaw yei, I cherished every little moment from that evening with my family. I had even video chatted with my parents in America so that my Myanmar a mei and a pei could “meet” my American mom and dad.
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The morning we left for Yangon, I had woken up with a terrible migraine, a result of the frequent bursts of sobbing throughout the evening. I dragged my overpacked bags, full of hand-sewn Myanmar dress, hand-painted umbrellas, and my favorite albeit unusual milk candy, to sit among the others. I watched the boys play chin lo a final time before heading down the road to greet the bus to take us into the city. After this, I don’t remember much, and it all kind of blurs together.
I watched the passing scenery through the large window as the bus rushed toward Yangon. Andrea and I recounted our visits to our permanent sites, and disbelief in the sudden evacuation. When we arrived at the hotel we had stayed at during our very first night in country, it looked unfamiliar. Everything just felt wrong being back here. By late that evening, after the tireless work of the in-country Peace Corps staff, we were all sitting in the airport with our boarding passes back to America.
30-something hours later, although I am sure it was more, I was walking through the doors of DFW and into the Texas air for the first time in two months. I was home, yet I was still so far away.
Today people in Myanmar are preparing to wrap-up celebrations of the water festival, or Thingyan. A time usually full of congregated laughter and buckets of water tossed upon anyone and everyone in close range. Things look a little different this year, with large celebrations halted due to the fears of further spread of COVID-19 in country. Despite the more mellow festivities, I am sad to not be among my neighbors, counterparts, principal, and community members to warmly welcome the new year. I am sad that I will not get to take part in the birthday tradition of feeding each guest a piece of cake from the same spoon, as my 29th birthday approaches in a matter of days. There are so many things I am sad to be missing while I ride out the crisis at home in America.
My heart aches that I cannot be there, especially at a time like right now, as Myanmar faces its own uncertainty of the effects of COVID-19. As jarring as it was to be taken out of country and have to completely reconfigure my plan for 2 years, I am much more concerned for those who I have left behind. I almost feel as if I abandoned them in a time that they may have been able to utilize me most.
There are mornings where I'll wake up, hoping to feel the humidity of the island air on my skin. Hoping to hear the roosters next door crowing, or the laughter of my young bright-eyed neighbors playing in the 'yard'. Sometimes, on these mornings, I will just close my eyes and dream I am there just a little bit longer.
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