Peace Corps Weird

During our pre service training, a current volunteer spoke to us. Perhaps it was the effects of living by herself for too long, with no other American contact. She was weird. She spoke to a crowd of 54 people and held a red hat over her face the entire time. Her right hand held the brim and the top of the hat, the rounded part that goes over your head, blocked her face. Then she put the hat on and pulled the floppy brim completely over her eyes. She was Peace Corps weird.
As if I wasn’t strange enough back home, I think my weirdness is beginning to metastasize. According to Julie’s computer, which I’ve pilfered, I’ve played Lauryn Hill’s Nothing Even Matters 86 times on my Ipod. It registers as my most frequently played song. Her Unplugged album registers as frequently played as well. That I sit at home by myself listening to Lauryn Hill, pondering about how profound she is (post Miseducation, when she was Unplugged), should be distressing. I’ve always been a Lauryn Hill fan but now I’m truly beginning to believe she’s on to something. Plenty of head doctors would diagnose this as a problem. I know I’m getting stranger because I wish Dave Chapelle were with me in Botswana. This came to me as I sat in the sun at the bus rank in Good Hope after a bad day. I realized that one of the social workers, the caretaker who does all ordering for supplies, doesn’t like me. I’ll never get anything done. She’ll continue giving me the run around. I was brooding; steeped in the fact that I hate protocol and that making friends is harder than work. That’s when it dawned on me. Julie said “Dumela” to some kids. They looked confused. I think it was her facial expression. She looked stern when she said it, but her voice was cheerful and I laughed because in my head I heard “Dumela, bitches.” Instantly, I thought of Dave Chapelle—How I wished he were here with me.
When I get home, I want to be like Dave Chapelle. Thoughtful but not too strange. Funny, unassumingly profound. What would Dave Chapelle do? Dave Chapelle would give voice to the absurdities, the complexities, and the strangeness and hilarity of my life as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Botswana. Dave should be my wingman. We could be great together. I could give him a tour of Botswana. He could provide me with a way to gracefully explain my experience when I get back home. Dave could give voice to it. He could make it funny, thoughtful, concise. Comedy with an undercurrent of truth. Truth but not so abrupt, not as heavy as Lauryn Hill would make it. Dave wouldn’t let it hit you like a tsunami. The magnitude would be there without him crying at the mic (weird). The impact would be there but it would just be an undercurrent. You’d get swept along, lost in laughter. Laughing at the truth. The hilarity of it all. If only Dave Chapelle were my wingman. I could be his Charley Murphy. As I think all of this (and then subsequently post it on the internet for the world to see) I can’t help but think back to some of the people I rode the bus with back home. Usually around the Santa Monica area was when the eventful things happened. People who were mentally ill would sometimes babble on about pop culture and Jesus. I hope this isn’t the beginning. I really need to make some Batswana friends.