Volunteering in France
My selfish intentions for volunteering in France were the last thing on my mind as my heart pounded through my chest in the Paris train station. A French island that the French hadn’t heard of awaited my arrival, and I had to take a train, a bus, and a boat to get there. To say I was a beginner at French would be a drastic exaggeration, and with each leg of my journey, I just prayed I was going in the right direction.
When I made it to the port town, I was able to breathe again. Other nervous and anxious volunteers were easy to spot and we soon put together our group before we even boarded the ferry. Our team was divided between English speakers, Francophones, and a few bilinguals who soon became sought after translators. Included in the translators was our 21 year old, trilingual German group leader.
Although I’m not cut out for third world means, I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. I had no idea what to expect from this island, but I figured we’d be camping out and perhaps catching fish that we would roast over an open campfire for dinner. I pictured mainland deviation, where inhabitants lived off the land and had no desire for modern day technology. After all, why would a contemporary society need a team of volunteers? I was sure there would be no running water and I was prepared to rough it.
But as soon as our boat docked, every preconceived notion simultaneously dismantled. I was in paradise in the purest form. A micro French village with modern day conveniences humbly sat amidst the remarkable natural perfection. A few dirt paths provided suggestive trails for touring the land and no cars were allowed. There were no police because they were not needed. The town pub stayed open as long as patrons wanted to stay there. Men played bocce ball in the street and dogs roamed freely. This was going to be my home for the next three weeks and I already wondered how I would be able to leave.
We weren’t even going to have to camp out. We would all sleep in Le Fort, an army barrack from the 1840s that was built for the French-English war, but never actually used. We shared one of the two dorm rooms and the other was used for tourists on the weekends. There was a large communal bathroom, kitchen, and living room and it felt like overnight camp- except a lot more fun. Le Fort soon became home to intra-island dinner and dance parties with multi-lingual conversations and eclectic music bellowing in the background.
But we were on Ile D’Hoedic to complete a project and the locals were incredibly grateful. On our second night, a town meeting was held to welcome all of us and to thank us for our anticipated contribution. Only 80 people lived year round on this far away island, but the eight kilometer perimeter did not confine them from life across the water. They were eager to get to know us and find out if our footsteps had crossed in other parts of the world. Volunteers became celebrities of the island and unadulterated hospitality was all around us.
Work began on our third day. A 50 year old, short and skinny French man, with piercingly white hair and a cigarette permanently attached to his lips lead our group to our worksite. We carried a collection of machetes, axes, picks, and saws, most of us unsure how to use any of them. Our project was to restore a forgotten stretch of land that had been ruined in a storm years before. The area was alongside a pond and inaccessible due to fallen branches and overgrown trees and weeds. An ancient stone wall bordering the pond also needed to be reassembled. We learned how to use the tools by trial and error and soon we were hauling away dead branches, surfacing mud-drenched stones, and trimming foliage.
With each day that passed, our worksite became more and more inviting and achieved recognition by locals walking by. Many of them remembered how the area used to look before the storm and were excited to have that hidden area back again. And our inexperienced group of laboring volunteers were also quite pleased by our handiwork.
We couldn’t all communicate verbally with each other and our sense of humors didn’t always match, but we all spent our free time as a group anyway. We would spend the remaining hours of sunshine after a hard day’s work lounging and playing on the beach. Being part of the human race is a language unto itself. Even though we grew up on different sides of planet and our tongues spoke one thing and our ears heard another, every foot knows how to kick a ball and every hand knows how to catch one. And when we all laughed at the same time, we knew we were all speaking the same language.
Dinner was my favorite time of time day. The volunteers took turns in pairs of two preparing meals for the entire group, which often included locals. Attendance ranged from 12-20 people, depending on who showed up. There were no guidelines for meals, just cook. Our group leader went grocery shopping a few times a week and would take requests, but what we did with the ingredients was up to us. Creativity based on national predilection manifested through every meal in tasty ways. From African flat bread to crepes to curry, our palates explored a range of creations complemented by the company of friendly strangers.
I was effortlessly accomplishing my personal intentions that inspired me to venture to the island. I had a collection of new friends from all over the world, my French was improving on a daily basis, and I was immersed into a cultural disparate from the rest of the universe, without sacrificing an extra dollar to the modest fee required by the volunteer organization. Each day was a learning experience, whether it was about life in another country, how to catch clams or use a weed whacker, or how American politics affect life in Europe. I wasn’t just learning about a new culture; I was being cultured and so was everyone else.
As we shared wine on the beach with an open fire centered in our circle, I realized what an affect my presence had on this small community. The town was used to a handful of fleeting tourists on the weekends, never posing any real relationship or contribution to the island. Now they had ten new playmates who were leaving a tangible legacy. I have no doubt that if I returned to the island ten years from now, they would remember me. Maybe not my face, but they would remember the memories we shared and how that frequented stretch by the pond came to be.
After three weeks, our project was complete and exceeded the expectations of the locals. The stone wall stood strong and a long path shielded by voluptuous trees created a perfect hideaway for bird watching, relaxing, or enjoying the company of friends. We created tables and chairs out of logs and stumps, and even a natural ashtray for the overwhelming smoking majority.
On our last night, we had a party right there on our worksite. The locals brought food, drinks, musical instruments, and t-shirts for all of us. We celebrated late into the night, making as much noise as we wanted and having one last venture onto the dark sand with the moon and stars as our only light.
If you ever find yourself an hour off the west coast of France on a speck of land called Ile D’Hoedic, you will see living proof that I was there. Maybe I didn’t solve world hunger or cure any diseases, but my presence and my work affected an entire community, tourists, and, of course, my fellow volunteers. There is no such thing as volunteering in vain, and although I still don’t feel noble about my contribution, it still feels pretty good to know I helped make a difference.
