One Hand Does Not Catch a Buffalo: 50 Years of Amazing Peace

City University of New York (CUNY)
CUNY Academic Works
Publications and Research
New York City College of Technology
2011
One Hand Does Not Catch a Buffalo: 50 Years of
Amazing Peace Corps Stories
Aaron Barlow
CUNY New York City College of Technology
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Barlow, Aaron, and Jane Albritton. One Hand Does Not Catch a Buffalo. Palo Alto: Travelers' Tales, 2011.
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Copyright©2011JaneAlbritton.Allrightsreserved.
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:volumeone,Africa/editedbyAaronBarlow;serieseditor,JaneAlbritton.--1sted.
p.cm.
Includesbibliographicalreferencesandindex.
ISBN978-1-60952000-7(pbk.:alk.paper)
ISBN978-1-60952047-2(ebook)
1. Peace Corps (U.S.)--Anecdotes. 2. Volunteers--Africa--Anecdotes. 3. Volunteers--Developing countries--Anecdotes. I. Barlow, Aaron,
1951-II.Albritton,Jane.
HC60.5.O542011
361.6--dc22
2010054339
FirstEdition
PrintedintheUnitedStates
10987654321
ToallwhoservedinAfrica
andtoallofthoseinAfricawhowelcomedthem,workedwiththem,andtaughtthem.
TableofContents
SeriesPreface
Foreword:ThirtyDaysThatBuiltthePeaceCorps
Introduction
PARTI:ONOURWAY...ANDBACKAGAIN
WhyIJoinedthePeaceCorps
RobertKlein
Ghana
ThereattheBeginning
TomKatus,GeorgeJohnson,AlexVeech,andL.GilbertGriffisTanzania
LearningtoSpeak
TomWeller
Chad
FirstandLastDays
BobPowers
Malawi
HenaKisoaKelyandBlueNailPolish
AmandaWonson
Madagascar
ComingtoSierraLeone
SarahMoffett-Guice
SierraLeone
ShatteringandUsingBookLearning
SusanL.Schwartz
SierraLeone
TheAdventuresOverseas
LarryW.Harms
Guinea/Niger
AToubacintheGloaming
E.T.Stafne
Senegal
FamilyAffair
ArneVanderburg
TheWorld
YourParentsVisitedYouinAfrica?
SolveigNilsen
Ethiopia
WhatITellMyStudents
WilliamG.Moseley
Mali
SlashandBurn
KellyMcCorkendale
Madagascar
TwoYearsLastsaLifetime
SallyCytronGati
Nigeria
SisterStellaSeamsSerene
StarleyTalbottAnderson
SouthAfrica
LateEvening
LenoreWaters
IvoryCoast/Côted'Ivoire
TheForty-EightHourRule
MartinR.Ganzglass
Somalia
FullCircle
DelfiMessinger
Zaire/DemocraticRepublicofCongoAPromiseKept
BethDuff-Brown
Zaire/DemocraticRepublicofCongoTheUtopiaoftheVillage
HeatherCorinneCumming
Africa
PARTII:WHYAREWEHERE?
TheEngineCatches
SusannaLewis
Mozambique
Yaka
KellyJ.Morris
Togo
NousSommesEnsemble
AnnaRusso
Cameroon
TheSweetestGift
JayneBielecki
CapeVerde
TheConference
MarcyL.Spaulding
Mali
Girls’School
MarsaLaird
Somalia
Testimony
StephanieBane
Chad
AfricanWoman
DorotheaHertzberg
BurkinaFaso
MyRiceCrop
EdmundBlairBolles
Tanzania
GentleWindsofChange
DonaldHolm
Ethiopia
LaSupermarché
JenniferL.Giacomini
Togo
Mokhotlong
AllisonScottMatlack
Lesotho
ChangingSchool
SandraEcholsSharpe
Tanzania
TheSeasonofOmagongo
AlanBarstow
Namibia
Tapping
EricStone
Kenya
TheDrumsofDemocracy
PaulP.PomettoII
Dahomey/Benin
PARTIII:GETTINGTHROUGHTHEDAYS
Boys&Girls
RyanN.Smith
TheGambia
I’dWantedtoGotoAfrica,ButthePeaceCorpsSentMetoSierraLeone
BobHixsonJulyan
SierraLeone
Breakfast
JedBrody
Benin
DailyLife
KathleenMoore
Ethiopia
WatotoofTanzania
LindaChenSee
Tanzania
BeggingTurnedonItsHead
KarenHlynsky
SierraLeone
Time
PatriciaOwen
Senegal
LearningtoPlaytheGameofLife
LawrenceGrobel
Ghana
AFirstRealJob
JoyMarburger
SierraLeone
It’sCondomDay!
SeraArcaro
Namibia
TheCivilizedWay
BryantWieneke
Niger
WhoControlstheDoo-Doo?
JayDavidson
Mauritania
TheRideHome
BinaDugan
Zimbabwe
TheLittleThings
StephanieGottlieb
BurkinaFaso
ThereWillBeMud
BruceKahn
Malawi
TheHammaminRabat
ShaunaSteadman
Morocco
StraightRazorsinHeaven
PaulNegley,Jr.
Morocco
BigButtsAreBeautiful!
JanetGraceRiehl
Botswana
MonsieurRobertLovesRats
BobWalker
Zaire/DemocraticRepublicofCongoImani
DanielFranklin
BurkinaFaso
PARTIV:CLOSEENCOUNTERS
Hail,Sinner!IGotoChurch
FloydSandford
Nigeria
AVisitFromH.I.M.
CarolBeddo
Ethiopia
MoonRocket
RobertE.Gribbin
Kenya
BuryMyShortsatChamborroGorge
ThorHanson
Uganda
NearDeathinAfrica
NancyBiller
Chad
BoeufMadagaskara
JacquelynZ.Brooks
Madagascar
TheBaobabTree
KaraGarbe
BurkinaFaso
TheSportsBar
LeitaKaldiDavis
Senegal
OneLastParty
PaulaZoromski
Niger
ThePeaceCorpsinaWarZone
TomGallagher
Ethiopia
HoldingtheCandle
SuzanneMeagherOwen
Tunisia
AMorning
EnidS.Abrahami
Senegal
ABrotherinNeed
GenevieveMurakami
Senegal
ATreeGrowsinNiamey
StephanieOppenheimer-Streb
Niger
Jaarga
BetsyPolhemus
Senegal
ForLackofaQuarter...
IreneG.Brammertz
Zaire/DemocraticRepublicofCongoCrazyCatLady
MichelleStoner
Niger
ElephantMorning
AaronBarlow
Togo
AtNighttheBushesWhisper
JackMeyers
Somalia
PARTV:SUSTAINABLEPEACE
ChildrenoftheRains
MichaelToso
Niger
Acknowledgements
AbouttheEditor
SeriesPreface
THERE ARE SOME BABY IDEAS THAT SEEM TO FLY IN BY STORK, WITHOUT INCUBATION BETWEEN CONCEPTION AND
birth.Thesemagicalbundlessmileandsay:“Wantme?”Andwellbeforetheheadcanweighthemerits
oftakingintheunsummonedarrival,theheartleapsforwardandanswers,“Yes!”
TheideaforPeaceCorps@50—theanniversarymediaprojectforwhichthisseriesofbooksarethe
centerpiece—arrivedonmymentaldoorstepinjustthiswayin2007.Fourbooksofstories,dividedby
regionsoftheworld,writtenbythePeaceCorpsVolunteerswhohavelivedandworkedthere.Therewas
time to solicit the stories, launch the website, and locate editors for each book. By 2011, the 50th
anniversaryofthefoundingofthePeaceCorps,thebookswouldbereleased.
Thewebsitehadnosoonergonelivewhenthestoriesstartedrollingin.Andnow,afterfouryearsand
withapublisherabletoseethepromiseandvalueofthisproject,hereweare,readytosharemorethan
200storiesofourencounterswithpeopleandplacesfarfromhome.
In the beginning, I had no idea what to expect from a call for stories. Now, at the other end of this
journey, I have read every story, and I know what makes our big collection such a fitting tribute to the
PeaceCorpsexperience.
PeaceCorpsVolunteerswrite.Wewritealot.Mostofusneedto,becausewritingistheonlychance
wehavetosaythingsinournativelanguage.Functioningeverydayinanotherlanguagetakeswork,andit
isn’tjustaboutgrammar.It’severythingthatisn’ttaught—likewhentosaywhatdependingonthecontext,
like the intricate system of body language, and like knowing how to shift your tone depending on the
companyyouarein.Thesestrugglesandlinguisticmishapscanbefrustratingandoftenprovokelaughter,
evenifpeopleareforgivingandappreciatetheeffort.Ittakesalongtimetoearnasenseofbelonging.
Andsoinourquietmoments—whenweslipintoaprivatespaceawayfromtheworldswhereweare
guests—we write. And in these moments where we treat ourselves to our own language, thoughts flow
freely.Weoncewroteonlyjournalsandletters;todaywealsotext,email,andblog.
Writinghelpsusworkthroughthefrustrationsofeverydaylivingincultureswhere—atfirst—wedo
notknowtherulesorunderstandthevalues.Inourownlanguagewewriteoutourloneliness,ourfury,
our joy, and our revelations. Every volunteer who has ever served writes as a personal exercise in
coming to terms with an awakening ignorance. And then we write our way through it, making our new
worldspartofourselvesinourownlanguage,inourownwords.
The stories in these books are the best contribution we can make to the permanent record of Peace
Corps on the occasion of its 50th anniversary. And because a Volunteer’s attempt to explain the
experiencehasalwayscontainedthehopethatfolksathomewill“getit,”thesestoriesarealsoagiftto
anyoneeagerandcurioustolearnwhatwelearnedaboutlivinginplacesthatalwaysexceededwhatwe
imaginedthemtobe.
Ithasbeenanhonortoreceiveandreadthesestories.Takentogether,theyprovideakaleidoscopic
viewofworldcultures—beautifulandstrange—thatshiftandrattlewhenhelduptothelight.
Iwouldliketoacknowledgepersonallythemorethan200ReturnVolunteerswhocontributedtothese
fourvolumes.Withouttheirvoices,thisprojectcouldnothavebeenpossible.Additionally,editorsPat
andBernieAlter,AaronBarlow,andJayChenhavebeentirelessinshepherdingtheirstoriesthroughthe
publishingprocessandinhelpingmemakemywaythroughsomevexingterrainalongtheway.Special
thankstoJohnCoynewhoseintroductionsetsthestageforeachvolume.ThanksalsotoDennisCordell
forhisearlyworkontheproject.
TherearetwopeoplecriticaltothesuccessofthisprojectwhowereneverPeaceCorpsvolunteers,
butwhoinstantlygraspedthesignificanceoftheproject:ChrisRichardsonandSusanBrady.
ChrisandhisPushIQteam,createdavisuallylush,technicallyelegantwebsitethatwasupandready
toinvitecontributorstojointheprojectandtoheraldboththeprojectandtheanniversaryitself.Hetook
onthecreativechallengeofdesigningfourdistinctcoversforthefourvolumesinthisset.Hisworkfirst
invitedourcontributorsandnowinvitesourreaders.
Susan Brady brought it all home. It is one thing to collect, edit, and admire four books’ worth of
stories;itisanothertogetthemorganized,tothetypesetter,theprinter,andtheteamofmarketersontime
andlookinggood.Susan’sgoodsense,extensivepublishingexperience,andbeliefintheworthinessof
thisprojectsealedthepublishingdealwithTravelers’Tales/SolasHouse.
Finally,therearethetwoothers,oneateachelbow,whokeptmeuprightwhenthemakingofbooks
mademeweary.Mymother—intrepidtravelerandkeeperofstories—diedfourmonthsaftertheproject
launched, but she has been kind enough to hang around to see me through. My partner, cultural
anthropologist Kate Browne, never let me forget that if Americans are ever going to have an honored
placeinthisworld,weneedtohavesomeclueabouthowtherestofitworks.“Sogetwithit,”theysaid.
“The50thanniversaryhappensonlyonce.”
—JANEALBRITTON
FORT COLLINS,COLORADO
Foreword:ThirtyDaysThatBuiltthePeaceCorpsbyJohn
Coyne
In1961JohnF.KennedytooktworiskyandconflictinginitiativesintheThirdWorld.Onewastosend
500additionalmilitaryadvisersintoSouthVietnam.Theotherwastosend500youngAmericansto
teachintheschoolsandworkinthefieldsofeightdevelopingcountries.ThesewerePeaceCorps
Volunteers.By1963therewouldbe7,000oftheminforty-fourcountries.
—GarardT.Rice,TheBoldExperiment:JFK’sPeaceCorpsKennedy’ssecondinitiativeinspired,and
continuestoinspire,hopeandunderstandingamongAmericansandtherestoftheworld.Inaveryreal
sense,thePeaceCorpsisKennedy’smostaffirmativeandenduringlegacythatbelongstoaparticularly
Americanyearning:thesearchforanewfrontier.
TwokeypeopleinCongress,HenryReuss(D-Wisconsin)andHubertHumphrey(D-Minnesota),both
proposedtheideaofthePeaceCorpsinthelate1950s.
InJanuaryof1960,ReussintroducedthefirstPeaceCorps-typelegislation.Itsoughtastudyof“the
advisability and practicability to the establishment of a Point Four Youth Corps,” which would send
youngAmericanswillingtoservetheircountryinpublicandprivatetechnicalassistancemissionsinfaroffcountries,andatasoldier’spay.
ThegovernmentcontractwaswonbyMaurice(Maury)L.AlbertsonofColoradoStateUniversitywho
with one extraordinary assistant, Pauline Birky-Kreutzer, did the early groundwork for Congress on the
wholeideaofyoungAmericansgoingoverseas,nottowinwars,buthelpbuildsocieties.
In June of 1960, Hubert Humphrey introduced in the Senate a bill to send “young men to assist the
peoplesoftheunderdevelopedareasoftheworldtocombatpoverty,disease,illiteracy,andhunger.”
Alsoin1960,severalotherpeoplewereexpressingsupportforsuchaconcept:GeneralJamesGavin;
Chester Bowles, former governor of Connecticut, and later ambassador to India; William Douglas,
associate justice of the Supreme Count; James Reston of The New York Times; Milton Shapp, from
Philadelphia; Walt Rostow of MIT; and Senator Jacob Javits of New York, who urged Republican
presidentialcandidateRichardNixontoadopttheidea.Nixonrefused.HesawthePeaceCorpsasjust
anotherformof“draftevasion.”
WhatNixoncouldnothaveforeseenwasthata“dayofdestiny”waitedfortheworldonOctober14,
1960. On the steps of the Student Union at the University of Michigan, in the darkness of the night, the
Peace Corps became more than a dream. Ten thousand students waited for presidential candidate
Kennedyuntil2A.M .,andtheychantedhisnameasheclimbedthosesteps.
Kennedylaunchedintoanextemporaneousaddress.Hechallengedthem,askinghowmanywouldbe
preparedtogiveyearsoftheirlivesworkinginAsia,Africa,andLatinAmerica?
The audience went wild. (I know this, because at the time I was a new graduate student over in
Kalamazoo.Iwasworkingpart-timeasanewsreporterforWKLZandhadgonetocovertheevent.)Six
days before the 1960 election, on November 2nd, Kennedy gave a speech at the Cow Palace in San
Francisco. He pointed out that 70 percent of all new Foreign Service officers had no foreign language
skillswhatsoever;onlythreeoftheforty-fourAmericansintheembassyinBelgradespokeYugoslavian;
notasingleAmericaninNewDelhicouldspeakIndiandialects,andonlytwoofthenineambassadorsin
theMiddleEastspokeArabic.Kennedyalsopointedoutthattherewereonlytwenty-sixblackofficersin
theentireForeignServicecorps,lessthan1percent.
Kennedy’sconfidenceinproposinga“peacecorps”attheendofhiscampaignwasbolsteredbynews
thatstudentsintheBigTenuniversitiesandothercollegesthroughoutMichiganhadcirculatedapetition
urging the founding of such an organization. The idea had caught fire in something like spontaneous
combustion.
Thedayafterhisinauguration,PresidentKennedytelephonedhisbrother-in-lawSargentShriverand
askedhimtoformapresidentialtaskforcetoreporthowthePeaceCorpsshouldbeorganizedandthento
organizeit.WhenheheardfromKennedy,ShriverimmediatelycalledHarrisWofford.
Atthetime,Shriverwas44;Woffordwas34.Initially,theTaskForceconsistedsolelyofthetwomen,
sittinginasuiteoftworoomsthattheyhadrentedattheMayflowerHotelinWashington,D.C.Theyspent
mostoftheirtimemakingcallstopersonalfriendstheythoughtmightbehelpful.
Onenameledtoanother:GordonBoyce,presidentoftheExperimentinInternationalLiving;Albert
Sims of the Institute of International Education; Adam Yarmolinsky, a foundation executive; Father
Theodore Hesburgh, president of the University of Notre Dame; George Carter, a campaign worker on
civil rights issues and former member of the American Society for African Culture; Louis Martin, a
newspaper editor; Franklin Williams, an organizer of the campaign for black voter registration, and a
studentofAfrica;andMauryAlbertson,outatColoradoStateUniversity.
Unbeknownst to Shriver and Wofford, two officials in the Far Eastern division of the International
CooperationAdministration(ICA)wereworkingontheirownPeaceCorpsplan.WarrenWiggins,who
wasthedeputydirectorofFarEasternoperationsinICA,wasstillinhisthirtiesbuthadalreadyhelped
administer the Marshall Plan in Western Europe. He was totally dissatisfied with the manner in which
American overseas programs were run; he called them “golden ghettos.” With Wiggins was Bill
Josephson,just26,andalawyeratICA.
TheystarteddevelopinganideathatwouldbelimitedtosendingyoungAmericansoverseastoteach
English.Butastheyworkedonit,theirvisionbroadened.Thepaperdetailingtheirrecommendationswas
titled “A Towering Task.” They sent copies to Wofford, Richard Goodwin at the White House, and to
Shriver,whothoughtitwasbrilliantandimmediatelysentatelegramtoWigginsinvitinghimtoattendthe
Task Force meeting the next morning. It was Wiggins who advocated initiating the Peace Corps with
“severalthousandAmericansparticipatinginthefirsttwelvetoeighteenmonths.”Aslowandcautious
beginningwasnotanoption.
ThreetimesinFebruary,KennedywouldtelephoneShrivertoaskaboutprogressonthePeaceCorps.
The final draft of the report was created with Charles Nelson sitting in one room writing basic copy,
Josephsonsittinginanotherroomrewritingit,Woffordsittinginyetanotherroomdoingthefinalrewrite,
andWigginsrunningbackandforthcarryingpiecesofpaper.
Shriver held the position that Peace—not Development, it might be noted—was the overriding
purpose,andtheprocessofpromotingitwasnecessarilycomplex.SothePeaceCorpsshouldlearnto
livewithcomplexitythatcouldnotbesummedupinasingleproposition.Finally,theTaskForceagreed
onthree.
GoalOne:Itcancontributetothedevelopmentofcriticalcountriesandregions.
GoalTwo:Itcanpromoteinternationalcooperationandgoodwilltowardthiscountry.
Goal Three: It can also contribute to the education of America and to more intelligent American
participationintheworld.
OnthemorningofFriday,February24,1961,Shriverdeliveredthereport—thePeaceCorpsMagna
Carta—toKennedyandtoldhim:“Ifyoudecidetogoahead,wecanbeinbusinessMondaymorning.”
It had taken Shriver, Wofford, Wiggins, Josephson, and the other members of the Mayflower Task
Force,lessthanamonthtocreatewhatTIMEMagazinewouldcallthatyear“thegreatestsinglesuccess
the Kennedy administration had produced.” On March 1, 1961, President Kennedy issued an Executive
OrderestablishingthePeaceCorps.
Andtoday,fiftyyearslater,wearestilldebatingwhatthePeaceCorpsisallabout.AsSargeShriver
thoughtallthoseyearsago,“thetensionbetweencompetingpurposesiscreative,anditshouldcontinue.”
Well,ithas!
JohnCoyne,whoisconsideredanauthorityonthehistoryofthePeaceCorps,haswrittenoredited
overtwenty-fivebooks.In1987hestartedthenewsletterRPCVWriters&Readersthatisforand
aboutPeaceCorpswriters.Thisnewsletter,nowawebsite,canbefoundtodayat
PeaceCorpsWorldwide.org.
Introduction
LEARNING WORKS BOTH WAYS.YOU CAN’T HELP PEOPLE UNLESS YOU ALLOW THEM TO HELP YOU. IDEALISTIC?YES.
Butthisisalsothevirtueandvalueoftheamateur,thepersonlearningalongthewayinsteadofbringing
along prior expertise. Rarely vested in personal advancement, the amateur is a discoverer and a doer,
concentratingonthething-at-hand.
This,ofcourse,istheideabehindthePeaceCorps.ThoughPCVsdotakeexpertisewiththem,itis
hardlyeverindevelopment.Theylearnastheygoandevenwhentheyreturn.Andtheirlearninghelps
others.
AtaboutthetimethePeaceCorpswasfounded,aprojectcalledAirliftAfrica,setupbyTomMboya
soon after Kenyan independence, brought students to the United States. Among these was the father of
Barack Obama. Another was Mboya’s younger brother, Alphonse Okuku. While studying at Antioch
CollegeinOhio,AlphonsestayedwiththefamilyofmyteachersErnestandElizabethMorgan,rooming
withtheirsonLee.
ImetAlphonseinthefallof1963andwasenchantedbythisseriousandslenderyoungman.Because
ofhim,myseventh-gradeselfbeganreadingaboutAfrica,learningofafar,distantplace.ThoughIwould
drift away from my interest in Africa until drawn back to it over twenty years later, the fascination
sparkedbyAlphonsewasalwaysthere.
Overthenextfewyears,IrememberreadingJambo,AfricanBalloonSafaribyAnthonySmith,Congo
Kitabu by Jean-Pierre Hallet, Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe, and Cry, the Beloved Country by
Alan Paton—and more. Just by his presence, and in the course of his own education, Alphonse had
openedanewworldtome.JustasthepresenceofPCVsdoes,allovertheglobe.
AfterthecloseofmyPeaceCorpsservice,IvisitedAlphonse,whomIhadwrittenfromTogo.Hedid
notrememberme,butkindlyshowedmearoundabitoftheLuoareasofKenyaandevenarrangedfora
balloonrideovertheMasaiMara,somethingI’dwantedtodoeversincereadingAnthonySmith’sbook
as a kid. It was a fitting end to my service. Now, I had seen the world Alphonse had opened for me,
makingavastintellectualbroadeningpossible.
Thesestories,today,arecontinuingthesameprocess.Theprocessofeditingthisvolumehastaughtme
morethanIhadeverthoughttolearn,now,aboutAmericansinAfrica.
Forthebetterpartofayear,I’velivedwiththeessays,goingthroughthem,sortingthem,cuttingthem
downsotheycouldallfitinthisvolume.They’veprovidedmewithrecognition,withjoy,sadness,hope,
disillusionment,andmemory.They’vetaughtme.They’vere-openedaworldIlongagoleftbehind,and
havehelpedmeunderstandthenatureofthePeaceCorpsbeyondmyownsmallexperience.Ultimately,
theyhaveconvincedmethat,whateveritslegacyindevelopment,thePeaceCorpswillalwaysbeknown
worldwideasoneoftheUnitedStates’mostsignificantcontributionstohumankind.
Each perspective presented here is distinct. Though we who served in Africa will often nod in
recognitionaswereadtheseessays,ourexperienceswereneverlockstep,butwerediverseandoften
extraordinary.Thisvolumereflectsthat,asmuchasIcouldmakeitdoso.Someofthestoriesdealwith
the small, daily events that came to be commonplace. Others present astonishing once-in-a-lifetime
events.Together,theypresentapictureastruetothePeaceCorpsexperienceinAfricaasIcouldmakeit.
The Peace Corps may not change the world in grand ways, but it does change individuals—and not
just the volunteers. Like that seventh-grader awed by an African, there are thousands and thousands of
peopleworldwidewhoseviewsoftheworldwereexpandedbynaïveandidealisticPCVswhocameto
restintheirvillagesandtowns,evenifjustforashorttime.
Thatisonegreatsuccess.
—
AARONBARLOW
PartOne
ONOURWAY...ANDBACKAGAIN
WhyIJoinedthePeaceCorps
ROBERTKLEIN
Going,atfirst,wasmuchmoremysterious,muchmoreromantic,thannowitmayseem!
IT ALL HAD TO DO WITH THE1930S MOVIEBEAUGESTE: BRAVE YOUNG MEN, FACED WITH INCREDIBLY COMPLICATED
personal lives, joined the French Foreign Legion, making their way to remotest North Africa, there to
become involved in legendary exploits. This image sustained me as I settled into being a junior high
schoolteacherinNewYorkCityinthelate1950s.WhenIhadtodealwithanimpossibleclassorwanted
tountanglefromaromanticinvolvement,Iwouldthinktomyself,“Theycan’tdothistome;I’llgoand
jointheFrenchForeignLegion!”By1961,Ihadcarriedthefantasyoutonlysofarastogrowabeard.In
dimlight,atadistanceofthirtytofortyfeet,Ididlookmysterious.
ThatitwasadifferenteraisillustratedbywhathappenedafterIfirstattemptedthatgoatee,overthe
summer vacation in 1960. It was the first day of class and my students, amidst a lot of giggling, goodnaturedlycommentedaboutthechangeinmyappearance:
“Hey,Mr.Klein,areyouabeatnik?”
“Ithinkthat’scool.Telltheprincipaltogrowonetoo.”
“Aretheygoingtoletyoukeepthatthing?”
I was pleased; I liked the beard and intended to keep it. Before reporting to school that September,
beingtheUnionrepresentativeinmybuilding,IhadcheckedBoardregulations.Theystatedthatteachers
mustbeneatlyattired(menworejacketsandties,womenskirtsordresses)andwellgroomed.Butitdid
notsayanythingaboutbeards.
ThenIheardarapidknockingattheclassroomdoor.Theprincipalwavedmeoutoftheclassroom.I
steppedintothehall.
“Youcan’tteachwearingabeard!”hesaid.
Heworehorn-rimmedglasses,hadascholarlyanddistantlook,andwas,atalltimes—exceptthisone
—calmandcerebral.Hisrecedinghairlineemphasizedhisshinyforeheadandhisquizzicaleyes;itmade
himlooklikeacrossbetweenAdlaiStevensonandWoodyAllen.Inordinaryconversations,heseemedto
bereadingfrompreparedremarks.Butnowhewasapoplectic.Itriedtorespondquietly.
“Sir,IfeelthatI’mproperlydressedandmystudentsseemtolikethechange.”
“Butitisn’tright;itwillupsettheclass.Howcanyouteachlikethat?”
“Certainlyifmyappearancecausesanoisyclassroom,Iwouldimmediatelyshaveoffthebeard.But
thatdoesn’tseemtobethecase,doesit?MayIreturntomyclass?”
Heturnedandslowlywalkeddownthehall.
Sobeganmyfifthyearofteaching.Alongwithitwerepressurestowardresponsibledomesticity.My
mom and pop kept saying, “You’re old enough to get married now; you’re thirty-two. Come home next
weekendandmeetMaxine.Herfolksthinkyouarewonderful.She’ssuchanicegirl.”
Inmyhead,IwashearingthedrumsoftheLegion.
My first attempt to answer those drums did not turn out well. I applied for a Fulbright Teaching
FellowshipatasecondaryschoolinNorthernRhodesia.WithanM.A.inHistoryfromtheUniversityof
Chicagoandfiveyearsteachingexperience,onpaperIwasahighlyqualifiedcandidate.Withinweeksof
applying,IwascalledforaninterviewatColumbiaUniversity.
Ihaddonenothingtopreparefortheinterview.
Thefirstquestionwas:“WhydoyouwanttoteachinRhodesia?”
Although it was mid-February, I immediately began to feel cold sweat uncomfortably tickling my
armpitsand,inapanic,realizedthattheseinterviewersmightnotbeimpressedwithmyBeauGestestory.
“Well,Ireallyenjoyteaching…um…um.”
“DoyouhaveanyspecialinterestinorknowledgeofRhodesia?”
Icouldfinditonamap,butIfeltthatthiswasnotthekindofanswerthattheywerelookingfor.
“No,Iaminterestedinanewchallengeandwouldliketoteachoverseas.”
“AreyouatallfamiliarwithNorthernRhodesia’scurrentstatus?”
“Uh…no…uh.”
“CanyounamethemajorcolonialpowersinAfricaanddiscusstheirinfluence?”
“Uh…England!No,theBritish;uh…GreatBritain.”
“Yes?”
Silenceandthen,tryingtobehelpful,theAfricanprofessor:“Ofcourse,you’veheardofTimbuktu.”
Of course, I had. Mom always used to tell me that if I didn’t do my share of the household chores,
she’drunawaytoTimbuktu.Ididn’tthinkthatwasthereferencetheProfessorhadinmind.Theinterview
endedshortlythereafter,andtheFulbrightFellowslostagood,thoughill-informed,prospecttothePeace
Corps.
MuchofmymotivationtojointhePeaceCorpsactuallycamefrommyexperienceswhenIservedin
the U.S. Army in Korea from 1952 to 1954. Having completed my master’s degree in History, I was
drafted. Within six months, I was assigned as Company Clerk in a Forward Ordnance Depot about ten
miles behind the front lines in Korea. I worked with First Sergeant Burl Grant, a black man who had
workedhiswayupthroughtheranksduringthisperiodwhenthearmedforceswerebeingintegrated,a
processthatwasfarfromcompletein1953.SergeantGrantdealtwiththeworldthroughbrown,deep-set
eyesfulloflife,butsometimescoldandunblinking.Theyseemedfleckedwithfirewhenhedealtwith
diehard racists in our company. He would never raise his voice, but his eyes signaled the anger and
contempthefelt.That,andhisrank,forcedmentoacceptandfollowhisorders.
Wesharedatentand,intheevenings,listeningtojazzandbe-bop(ErrolGarner,ShortyRogers,Dizzy
Gillespie).I’dlookatGrant,andhiseyeswouldnowbesoftandmellow.
OurownhouseboywasYooYungShik,whomwecalledPak.Hewasfifteenwithblackhairandeyes,
broad-faced,andwithaveryexpressivemouth.Inangerorinjoy,hislipsalwayspartedbroadlyintoa
smile,givinghimapleasantappearance.Whenhewasupset,thesmilewouldfreezeintoagrimace,but
when he was happy it would be accompanied by a slight giggle. Pak came from a small farming
communityincentralKoreathathadbeenfoughtthroughseveraltimes.HehadattachedhimselftoaU.S.
Armyunitasameansofsurvival.Whenwepaidhim,hewouldtakeofftohisvillage,buyingwhateverhe
couldwiththeMPC[militarypaymentcertificates]thatweall,KoreansandAmericans,usedascurrency.
GrantandItreatedPakdecently,andhebecameafriend,takingustohisvillagetomeetsomeofhis
family.ThiskindofrelationshipwasdiscouragedofficiallyandscornedbymanyoftheAmericansinthe
company who could only deal with the Koreans by thinking of them as “gooks” and treating them as
inferiors.
AboutsixmonthsafterIhadarrivedinKorea,Pakcametomeonedayintheorderlyroomtentwhere
Iworked.ForthefirsttimesinceIhadknownhim,hisfacewasdarkandsomber.Ievennoticedtearsin
hiseyes.Hetoldmeaboutwhathadbeenhappeninginthecompanymesshall.
OurmesshallwastypicallyAmericanwithasuperabundanceofwhateverill-preparedfoodwewere
being served. There were no shortages, and much food was wasted. Sergeant Grant had started the
practiceofallowingthelocal-hireKoreanstoeithereatortakehomethesurplusofpreparedfoodfrom
eachmeal.TheMessSergeant,Paktoldusoneday,hadbecomeverballyandphysicallyabusivetothe
Koreansashereluctantlygavethemthetablesurplus.Hehadevengonesofar,now,astothrowthefood
intothetrashcansbeforeallowingtheKoreanstotakeany.Grantstormedoutoftheorderlyroomtofind
theMessSergeant.Iwasnotwitnesstotheirencounter,butPakhappilyreportedtomewithinafewdays
thatallwas“Daijobi”[O.K.]inthemesshall.
PaksaidthatheandsomeoftheotherhouseboyswantedtolearntospeakandreadEnglish;knowing
thatIwasapproachable,theywantedmetobetheirteacher.AsCompanyClerkIdidhavealotoffree
time,whichIcoulddevotetoteachingratherthandrinkingattheenlistedmen’sclub.Withnotrainingor
preparationotherthanthefactthatIhadusedthelanguagefortwenty-fiveyearsofmylife,Ibecamea
teacherofEnglish.Itfeltgoodtobedoingsomethingcreative,ratherthanpushingmoundsofmeaningless
forms and reports through my typewriter or spending vapid hours at the club, sharing alcohol-fueled
inanitieswithmyfellowdrinkers.IalsofoundthatIenjoyedbeingateacher.WhenIfinishedmymilitary
servicein1954andcouldfindnowantadsinTheNewYorkTimesfor“Historians,”Ichangedcareers
andbecameateacherofSocialStudies.
KoreaandPakandthatMessSergeant(andBeauGeste)wereonmymindasIwenttothepostoffice
on Broadway and 68th Street in Manhattan to pick up a Peace Corps Questionnaire in April 1961. I
rememberfillingitout.Itincludedalengthylistofpersonalandprofessionalskillstobecheckedona
scalefrom“highlyskilled”to“unskilled.”Withfiveyears’experience,IhopedtobecomeaPeaceCorps
teacher,butIwasn’tsureofwhatPeaceCorpswaslookingfor(theyweren’teither).Iponderedhowbest
tomark:
“Milkacow.”
“Driveatractor.”
“Serviceanautomobiletransmission.”
“Useaweldingtorchtorepairequipment.”
Where,Ithoughttomyself,weretheitemsIwastotallyconfidentabout?Suchas:
“InterpretaNewYorkCitySubwaymap.”
“Controlaclassof8thgradestudentsonFridayafternoon.”
“ReadtheSundayeditionofTheNewYorkTimes.”
EventhoughIwasn’treadytoannouncetotheworldthatIwas“joiningtheLegion,”Iwentaheadwith
itandmailedtheformtoWashington.Inrespondingtotheiteminthequestionnairethatasked,“Whydo
youwanttoservewiththePeaceCorps?”Ihadwrittenthefollowing:
“MyexperienceasateacherinNewYorkCityandintheArmyinKoreabothconvincemethatitis
importanttoreachouttopeople.WeAmericansareaprivilegedpeopleandtoomanyofusgooverseas
andbecome‘UglyAmericans,’arrogantandinsensitive.IwouldliketoteachinanothercountrybecauseI
amanexperiencedteacherandIwouldliketoliveinanothercountrysoIcanlearnmoreaboutit.”
OnJune24thIwasacceptedtotraintobecomeaPeaceCorpsVolunteerteacherinGhana.
RobertKleinservedinGhanafrom1961-63.Heretiredin1994aftercareersasateacheranda
supervisorinspecialeducation.Forthepastseveralyearshehasbeeninvolvedindevelopingthe
RPCVArchivalProjectincooperationwiththeKennedyLibrary.HelivesinTucson,Arizona.
ThereattheBeginning
TOMKATUS,GEORGEJOHNSON,ALEXVEECH,ANDL.GILBERTGRIFFIS
ThefirstPeaceCorpsVolunteerswereguineapigsaswellastoughyoungAmericans.
JULIUS NYERERE, LEADER OF THE TANGANYIKA AFRICAN NATIONAL UNION (TANU) AND PENDING FIRST PRIME
MinisterandlaterPresidentofTanzania,wasthefirstHeadofStatetorequestthePeaceCorpsinApril
1961.FollowingNeyerere’srequest,SargentShriver,FranklinWilliams,andEdBayley,PublicRelations
Officer,visitedelevencountriesintwenty-sixdaysbeginningApril22nd.
According to the biography Sarge: The Life and Times of Sargent Shriver, “Shriver...stayed up all
nightontheflightfromNewYork,playingcardsanddrinkingginmartiniswithThurgoodMarshallwho
happened to be on the same plane.” Their first stop in Ghana resulted in a commitment from President
KwameNkrumahtobethesecondHeadofStatetorequestthePeaceCorpsproviding,“yougetthemhere
byAugust?”
Williams,aformerNAACPlawyerandprotégéofMarshall’s,hadgonetocollegewithNkrumahat
LincolnUniversityinPennsylvania.WilliamswasthefirstAfricanAmericanexecutivehiredbyShriver.
He was former California Assistant Attorney General, later to become Ambassador to Ghana and still
later,mybossasPresidentofthePhelpsStokesFund.IwascommissionedbyWilliamstoconductaSelfStudyofthePhelpsStokesFund—soIgottolearnmuchofthebehind-the-sceneshistory.
Allthree—Marshall,Nkrumah,andWilliams—hadlargeandfrequentlyclashingegos.Franklinwas
upper-class Harlem, and Kwame was a poor African student who worked in the Lincoln University
cafeteria. Kwame resented Franklin’s airs and initially refused him when President Johnson nominated
WilliamsasAmbassadortoGhana.NkrumahtoldJohnson,asthefirstAfricanHeadofState,hedeserved
thebesttop-flightambassador.However,NkrumahrelentedwhenJohnsontoldhimthatWilliams,thefirst
African American ambassador to be assigned to an African nation, had to be better qualified than the
“whiteboys.”(RalphBunchewasalreadyaU.S.ambassadorassignedtotheU.N.)
Williams was ambassador when Nkrumah was deposed by the CIA. As a consequence many
GhanaiansandotherAfricanheadsofstateturnedonWilliams.AclosefriendofWilliamsandafellow
ambassadorlaterconfidedinmethatCIAhadsetupWilliamsandhewasunawareofthecoupuntilafter
ithadoccurred.
—TomKatus
AsIrememberit,TanganyikawentintotrainingatTexasWesternonaSaturday,Ghanawentintotraining
onaSunday,andColombiawentintotrainingonaMonday.So,really,therewerethreegroupsthatcan
claimtobefirst.OurgroupgotthefirstPeaceCorpsVolunteerNumbers.JakeFeldmanfromourgroup,
nowaprofessorofcivilengineeringatCalPolySanLuisObispo,isPeaceCorps#001.I’m#014.
Ghanadidn’thavetodothePuertoRicantrainingprogram(luckythem),sotheygottoGhanafirst.Every
onceinawhile,IseeapictureoftheirgroupgettingofftheplaneinAccra,captionedasthe“nation’s
firstPeaceCorpsgroup.”Morepowertothem,althoughIwillcontinuetotellmyrelativesthatIwasin
thefirstPeaceCorpsgroup.
—GeorgeJohnson
Despite Nyerere being the first head of state to request Peace Corps, Tanganyika would not achieve
independence until December 9, 1961. It would have been embarrassing to have Peace Corps serving
underColonialrule.Thus,wewereplacedinaholdingpattern.Aftersevenoreightweeksoftrainingat
Texas Western College and the Rose Garden meeting, we were sent for four weeks to Arecibo, Puerto
Rico,toopenPeaceCorps’OutwardBoundTrainingCamp.ThecampwasrunbyBillCoffin,civilrights
activistwithMartinLutherKingandformerOSS(CIApredecessor)officer,andablyassistedbyFreddie
Fuller,formerheadofcommandotrainingfortheBritsduringWorldWarII.
—TomKatus
Tom says that our training director in Puerto Rico was Bill Coffin, “ably assisted” by Freddie Fuller.
Rather than “able,” I would describe the direction given the group by the Coffin-Fuller duo as a
combinationofprepschoolrah-rah,sophomoricanti-Communism(areactiontoanovelcalledTheUgly
American,verycurrentatthattime,whichheldthattheCommunistswerewinningthebattleforheartsand
minds in the Third World because they spoke the local languages flawlessly, ate the local foods, and
never got malaria or dysentery), and something which Jerry Green (the NBC producer of our one-hour
PeaceCorpsspecial)oncedescribedas“muscularChristianity.”
ThemuscularChristianitywasBillCoffin’sspecialadditiontotheprogram.Heusedtocallthegroup
togetherforthree-minuteoralprayers,whichincludedreferencestoChristourLordandMaster,despite
thefactthattherewereseveralJewsandatleastoneatheistinourgroup.(Guesswhotheatheistwas.)
TheAreciboprogramwasequalpartsbothsillyandobjectionable.Nobodycouldarguethatitwasn’t
a complete waste of time. It was certainly the low point of my Peace Corps experience, and my vocal
objectionstoitnearlygotmefiredfromthePeaceCorpsbeforeIstarted.
CoffinrecommendedtoheadquartersthatIbefiredattheendoftheArecibotrainingprogrambecause
I was the kind of guy who, if ordered to hold a machine gun position to the death in order to save the
othersinmyplatoon,wouldeventuallybreakandrun.Hewasprobablyright,butotherhigher-upswho
knew me at the El Paso training saved my neck. Maybe they appreciated my “intangibles,” as Eddie
Stankywouldhavesaid.
IhavesincestruckupabetterrelationshipwithBillCoffinandcontinuetoadmirehimalot.Maybe
we’ve both grown older, and maybe I at least have gotten a little bit wiser and more tolerant (not less
atheistic,however).ThankgoodnessInevergotthechancetotestmymachinegunresolve.AllIwasever
calledupontodowasquietlybuildaroadinfarsouthernTanganyika.
All that having been said, I did want the record to reflect this dissent to Tom’s opinion about the
Arecibotraining.Nooneshouldharkbacktoitassomethingtoberememberedfondlyorrepeated.It’s
bestchalkedupasoneofthePeaceCorps’manyyouthfulerrors,onewhichithashopefullygrownoutof.
—GeorgeJohnson
ItisgoodthatGeorgehasfinallyexplainedformehisanimustowardtheAreciboexperience.Thiswas
alllostonnaiveoldme.IthoughtthetraininginPuertoRicowasveryeasy,mostlyboring,justpartofthe
adventureI’dopenedmyselfto,andallinallrathersilly.Mymainrecollectionsoftrainingtherewere
playingvolleyball,drinkingrawsugarcanerumwithMcPheeinafieldonourovernighttest,seeingthe
mostmagnificentsunsetI’deverseen,andlearningthattheriflesissuedtothegeologistsforfightingoff
lions had been confiscated because the State Department was afraid we’d appear to Cuba as an armed
groupjustofftheirshoreattheverytimeourrelationswithCubawereontherunuptotheBayofPigs.
TheobjectionstoCoffinweren’tevenonmyradar,andIhaveonlythevaguestimpressionoftheman.
ActuallyIhavenoimpression,onsecondthought,he’sjustanameIrecognize.Lookingback,thetimewe
spentinArecibowassufficientlyforgettablethatitisessentiallygonefrommemory.Irecalltrainingat
TexasWesternandTengerumuchmorevividly.
—AlexVeech
Bingo!!
I thought my reference to Freddie Fuller’s “able assisting” might generate some fire. George “ably”
demonstrateswhyheremainsourchieficonoclast.
IbelievethevastmajorityofuswouldagreewithGeorge’sview—thoughsomeofusex-militaryand
youngjocksforawhilegotoffonthecamp’schallengetoourmasochism.IrememberJerryParson(JP),
ex-paratrooper that he was, jumping onto the Tarzan rope, grasping it firmly, graciously gliding high
abovetheground,sailingintothecargonetandscramblingoverthetop.PCalwaysencouragedthepress
tobepresenttoboostthePCimage.LittledidtheyknowthatoneofthePuertoRicannewsphotographers
wasstringingforCuba.Thenextday,intheCubanpressappearsmyfuturesidekickswingingintothenet,
withthecaption:“PeaceCorpsPreparesforNextInvasionofCuba.”
The cocky green kid from the Dakotas followed JP, grabbed the Tarzan rope and started to swing
towardthenet.Mygripslippedandmymatakoscrapedalongtheentireground,leavingmeingloriously
at the base of the net with considerable road rash, and I still had to scramble to the top. If the Cuban
photographerhadcoloredfilm,hewouldhavefoundmyfaceasredasmyass.
Asyoumayrecall,the“AbleFuller”hadonesetofclothes,anetshirtandshortshewashedevery
nightandjumpedbackintoat5A.M .,completewithdrillsergeantwhistletojoltusoutofoursoggysleep
—itrainedcontinuouslyintheAreciboforest.Wegroggilyrandownwetrockypathsinthedark.This
nonsensecontinueduntilex-paratrooperJerryseverelysprainedhisankle—orwasitahairlinefracture?
WhileIcouldn’tgiveadamnonewayortheotherabouttheprayers—Ithoughttheyweresilent—but
maybethatwasafterGeorge’sinitialprotest.IdoknowCoffinthreatenedtoremoveGeorge.Myrecall
wasthatmanyofusadmiredourself-appointedleaderandthreatenedtogodownwithhim.
George’smomentofsilenceorprayerprotest,togetherwiththeengineers’BridgeontheRiverKwai
were symbolic of the group’s tweaking PC’s nose. I recall that Shriver visited us late in training to
reassureusthatourbelovedGeorgewouldindeedremainintheCorpsandadmiredtheengineer’sbridge.
Despite the Mickey Mouse nature of the training, like the Combat Engineering training I had taken
straightoutofhighschool,Ididenjoytherappellingfromcliffsanddams.Oneday,IwasanchoringBob
Milhousatthetopofacliffashewasrappellingbelow.Helosthisfootingandwasspinningintheair.
TheropetemporarilyburnedaroundmybackandBob’sdeadweightnearlypulledthis155-poundkidoff
thecliff.FortunatelyforbothBobandyourstruly,theanchoringtechniqueworked.
In spite of personally enjoying some aspects of Arecibo’s physical fitness routine and the four-day
“live-in” with community families, I agree with George that it was totally irrelevant to our service in
Tanganyika.IthinkPCjustneededsomethingtodelayourentranceintoColonialTanganyikaandwewere
theguineapigs.
ArecibocontinuedasanaspectofPeaceCorpsLatinAmericantrainingforanumberofyears.Jerry
Parson, Rodgers Stewart, Gil Griffis and I later used the community “live-ins” as an aspect of our
Volunteer Training Specialists Inc. (VTSI) training of other PCVs for Kenya, Ghana, Malawi, and
Swaziland.Weeventrained“TalkingHeadChrisMatthews”forthefirstSwazilandprojectinLouisiana
—includingatwo-weeklive-inwithsmall-scaleBlackAmericanfarmers.Rednecksharassedourfarmer
partnersandtraineesbycuttingpickupcookiesontheirhomesteadsandfiringshotgunstoscareusall.
—TomKatus
TomandGeorgecertainlyhavebettermemoriesthandoIre:thenamesofsomeofthecharacterswho
managedourfateinArecibo.MymemoriesofthetraininginAreciboandexamplesofwhattheyincluded
are:
Terrifying:TheeventplannedforthenextdaywhenIwastobetossedintotheswimmingpoolwith
hands and feet tied behind my back, with the objective of learning how to overcome fear and
adversity.Andnotdrown.
ReallyAnnoying:Whentheeventwascalledoffduetorain,andafterIhadspenttheentireprevious
nightmentallypreparingmyselfforthechallenge.
Pointless:Shavingwithcoldwater.
OfDubiousValue:Theearlymorningrunsinthewoods.Theafternoonhikeonatrailalongwhich
wewereindividuallydroppedofftospendthenightbyourselves.Irememberitbeingverydarkand
ratherboring,especiallyaftermyjunglehammockfellandIhadtosleepontheground.Iremember
beingsurprisedthatsomeoftheguysfoundtheexperiencetobeveryfrightening.
OfSomeValueButaLotofFun:Learningtorappel.
Really Neat: The three-day, two-night hike through the Puerto Rican countryside. Taking the old
USAFtruckwiththeleakymuffler(TheRollingGasChamber)downtoalocalbeachtoswimand
canoe.Visitingthedambelowourcampsite,especiallynowthatitisthesiteoftheSETIproject.
Thegreatmeals.Thelibrary.Thegroupdiscussions
SomethingtoPasstheTime:BillCoffin’sdailyhomilieswereoflittlebotherinthatIwasatthat
timeaborn-againSouthernBaptistandwasusedtosermons.
Overall,Irememberwonderingwhatwasthepointoftheentireprogram,buthavinghadagoodtime
participatinginit.
—L.GilbertGriffis
TomKatuswasSouthDakota’sfirstPeaceCorpsVolunteer,servinginTanganyika(nowTanzania)from
1961-63.AftergraduatingfromtheColoradoSchoolofMinesandservingintheNationalGuard,he
volunteeredasasurveyor,buildingroadsinwhatwasthatcountry’sfirstyearofindependence.He
wentontofoundVolunteerTrainingSpecialists,Inc.(VTSI),aprivatecompanythattrainedover
2,000PCVs.HehasservedasaSouthDakotaLegislatorandisnowthatstate’sTreasurer.
GeorgeJohnson,PCV#14,servedinthefirstgroupinTanganyika.
AlexVeech,whoservedinMtwarra,Tanzaniafrom1961-63,wasabletoclimbMt.Kilimanjaroduring
histimeabroad.
L.GilbertGriffisalsoservedinTanzaniafrom1961-63.
Editor’snote:RPCVsofgoodwilloftendisagreeonwhothe“first”Volunteerswere.Wetakenoside
inthisdebate,leavingthosewhoservedinColombia,Ghana,andTanganyika(Tanzania)totheirown
interpretationsofhistory.
LearningtoSpeakTomWellerSometimestriageon
thesubjecttongueistheonlywaytolearna
language.
DURING THE FIRST DAYS OF IN-COUNTRY TRAINING, THE NEWVOLUNTEERS TOOK ORALFRENCH EXAMS.ONE BY ONE
wesatunderabaobabtreewiththeheadlanguagetrainers,allofwhomwereChadian,anddidourbest
tocarryonconversationsinFrench.Ispentmostofmyconversationtryingtoexplain,usinghandgestures
andthree-wordsentences,whyIlikedusingthedrive-throughatfastfoodrestaurants.HowIgotonthis
topicIdon’tremember.PerhapsIwasaskedwhatIlikedtodoontheweekends.OrperhapsIhadbeen
askedwhatIlikedtoeat,andwhenIgropedforfoodwordsallImanagedtoconjureupwastheimageof
MadameDoering,mytenthgradeFrenchteacher.PerhapsIsawherhorned-rimmedglasseshangingfrom
thechainaroundherneck,swayingandbumpingagainstherchestasshefloatedaroundtheroom,pointing
atobjects,rattlingthroughaseriesofnouns:“Lebureau,thedesk,lebureau.Lafenêtre,thewindow,la
fenêtre.”Yes,good,thewindow,gowiththat,Imighthavethought.
After all of the new Volunteers had been interviewed and scored, the trainers divided us into small
groups, five or six people, to begin our language classes. Some of my compatriots arrived in Chad
already conjugating French verbs, mentally sifting through lists of French adjectives in a flash,
understandingwhentousethesubjunctiveasinstinctuallyasunderstandingwhentoexhale.Thesepeople
tookclassestogether.
I sat in a class with four virtual mutes. We would arrange our chairs in a half circle around a
blackboard resting on an easel in the center of a boukarou, a type of round hut that dotted the training
center’s grounds like giant mushrooms. Our French teacher, a woman named Nemerci, would always
jounce into class bedecked in one of her traditional Chadian dresses: several layers of vibrant wraparoundskirtscirclingherlegs,intricategoldembroiderysurroundingherplungingneckline,shortsleeves
thatpoofeduplikepastriesrisingoffhershoulders.Shewouldstopnexttothechalkboard,herwidehips
shimmyingslightlyasifsomefaintmusictemptedhertodance.Thenshewouldchime,“Bonjour.”
Wemutesalllikedbonjour;bonjourmadesense.We’dalmostshoutoveroneanotherdemonstrating
ourcomprehension.“Bonjour,bonjour,”we’dallsquawkbacklikeanestofbabybirdsexercisingtheir
chirps.
Butclasswouldgetdifficult.Nemerciwouldleanintowardus,herheadpivotingslowlysoshecould
lookeachoneofusintheeye.I’dwatchherdarklipsundulate,narrowandthickenashertonguepushed
syllablesoutofhermouth,linkingonesoundtothenexttothenextuntilshehadconstructedacomplete
Frenchsentence.Often,Nemerciwouldpause,straightenherback,raiseonefingerintheairandinstruct
us to “Écoutez.” I quickly recognized that écoutez was a command to listen closely, a prompt I didn’t
need. Nemerci couldn’t have stopped me from listening closely. I craved the ability to understand and
controltheFrenchlanguage.Unlikemuchofmyformaleducation,thebenefitsofmyPeaceCorpsFrench
classeswereobviousandimmediate.Anywordorphraselearnedmightilluminatesometinycornerof
mynewlifeandallowmyownvoicetodevelop.
After écoutez, Nemerci would lean toward the class again and repeat the exact same syllables,
buildingthesamesentenceinthesamemeasured,carefulway.Allofusmuteswouldnodtotherhythmof
the growing chain of syllables. I’d rub my chin with my thumb and forefinger, stroking the beard I’d
started to grow, a gesture meant to look thoughtful. “Yes, so there it is, indeed. A sentence. How
interesting.”Buttheslightshuffleofourfeetinthesandunderourladder-backchairsbetrayedgrowing
tension,forweallknewthat,afterNemercihadlaidthesentenceinourlapstwice,itwouldbeourturn.
Wewouldbeexpectedtodosomethingwithit.
Sometimes, after giving us the sentence a second time, Nemerci would straighten up, give the
command,“Répétez,”andpointatanunluckymute.Iwasnotagoodrepeater.Ialwayslistenedintentlyto
Nemerci, let her syllables float up my auditory canal. I tried to clear a spot in my brain where the
melodious French sounds could sink in and become my own. But something terrible happened to those
soundswhenforcedtotravelfrommybraintomylips.Mysyllablesmovedslowly.Clearly,whatever
theyhadgonethroughontheirtripbetweenmybrainandmymouthhadexhaustedthem.WhereNemerci’s
syllables floated and glided, mine herked and jerked, as if their trip had made them paranoid or punch
drunkorboth.Mysyllablesbecameshape-shiftingtricksters.Irecognizedthemomenttheyescapedmy
lipsthattheydidn’tflowthewaythatNemerci’sdid.Still,asIlistenedtothesoundsofmywords,the
shy,muffledh;thewild,rollingr,theyseemedspot-ontome,thekindsofsoundsthatmusthoverinthe
air over outdoor cafés in Paris. But, by the time they reached Nemerci, they must have transformed
themselves into something very different. As I spoke, Nemerci would twist up her face as if she were
listeningtomepoundawayatthekeyboardofapianowhilewearingboxinggloves.
Othertimes,insteadofrepeating,classmemberswouldhavetorespondtoNemerci’ssentencewitha
sentence of their own creation. Nemerci would stand before us and say something like “Comment tu
t’appelle? Comment tu t’appelle?” Even without vocabulary we could always tell when Nemerci
expectedananswer.Whenshepronouncedthefinalwordofaquestion,hervoicewouldsuddenlyjump
anoctave,asifshehadbeenpokedwithsomethingsharp,andshewouldraisehereyebrowsuntilthey
nearlycrawledunderherheadscarf.Whenshefinishedspeaking,shewouldcockherheadtothesideand
pointaneartowardourgroupasifanxioustocapturethebrilliantsoundsabouttoeruptfromus.Thenshe
wouldpoint.
Thefirstmutecalleduponfacedspecialchallenges.IhadtogothroughNemerci’squestionswordby
word,skimmingthroughmysparseFrenchvocabulary,hopingtofindthealchemythatwouldtransform
theFrenchwordsintoEnglishwords.Sometransformedeasily.Comment for example, became how as
soonasitenteredmyconsciousness.CommentIretainedfromhighschool.IhadheardMadameDoering
speakitathousandtimes.IalsorecalledcommenteasilybecauseIlikedtheword,admireditsversatility.
Inadditiontostartingquestions,incasualconversationcommentcouldbecomeasentenceallbyitself.
Stretchoutthemiddleosound,raisethepitchofyourvoiceslightlyasyoubitoffthesilenttclingingto
its end and it became cooommen, an expression of surprise and awe, a kind of Chadian equivalent of
“holycow.”Justasquickly,Icouldtransformtuintoyou.Pronounswerealmostimpossiblenottolearn.
They forced themselves into nearly every communication, buzzing through the air of the training center
likeswarmsofgnats.
HowandyouprovidedanentrywayintoNemerci’ssentence,butthebulkofthehardworkofmaking
meaningstillremained.Anythingmightfollowhowandyou.Howareyoufeelingtoday?Howwouldyou
likeyoureggs?Howfarareyoufromhome?HowdoyouplantosurviveinChadwithoutunderstanding
French? The most important elements of Nemerci’s questions always lay at the end, and these most
importantelementstendedtobethemostcryptic,forexamplet’appelle.
From high school French class I remembered t’appelle as an awkward-looking contraction. The
apostrophe appeared much too early, jumping up out of nowhere at the beginning of the word like
someonebargingintoaconversation,interruptingthebeginningofastory.Theconstructionoft’appelle
struckmeastenuousandugly.Thewordlackedbalance,alltheweightrestingattheend.Thet seemed
likeakindoftumorgrowingoffthefrontendoftheword,disfiguringit,obscuringitsmeaning.
Idevelopedastrategyfordealingwiththeunfamiliarandconfusingelementsofthelanguage,letters
bloominginunexpectedplaces,slashesanddotsperchingatopletters.Iignoredthem.Whenconfronted
by t’appelle, I performed mental surgery on the word, cutting away what looked problematic and ugly,
leavingmewithamuttofasentence:Howyouappelle?
TotransformawordlikeappelleintoEnglish,Ifirstscouredthealreadyconvertedwordsforclues.
Evenmundanewordslikehowandyouprovidedsomehelp.Whilethemeaningofappelleremainedwide
open,howandyouhintedatthefunctionofappelle.Inordertoformacoherentquestion,how and you
neededtheaidofaverb.
OnceIcouldmakeaneducatedguessastothepartofspeechaFrenchwordmightbe,Istartedlooking
forEnglishcognates.TheoneredeemingqualityallofusmutesrecognizedintheFrenchlanguagewas
thatitisfilledwithEnglishcognates,wordsthatsharecommonoriginswithEnglishwords.Thecognates
werelikecousinsoftheEnglishwordsIknewsowell,cousinsthathadgrownupinEuropeandacquired
exotic mannerisms and habits, but retained a familiar essence. The French taxi, stripped of its lilting
pronunciation, became the earthy English taxi. Banane affected some sophistication, but so strongly
resembledbananathattheirrelationshipcouldnotgounnoticed.
The cognates usually revealed themselves right away or not at all. I’d let a word like appelle bang
aroundinmyhead,trytovisualizetheword,investigatethelettersthatmadeitup,trytofeelthesounds
tripping across the bones of my inner ear, listening for the English heartbeat that I hoped pumped
somewhereinthebackground.Andwhenmysearchcameupempty,I’dgetdesperate.Appelle.Appelle.It
seemedtohavealotincommonwithapple.Couldapplebeaverb?Maybe.Maybeinagriculturecircles
onecouldapplesomething,maybeappleaneworchard.ButwouldNemerciaskmehowIapple?Isthis
thekindofthingthatwouldprovehandyinaChadianvillage?DidapplesevenexistinChad?Ihadto
admitthatIhadhitadeadend.
Onceacognatesearchprovedfruitless,Ihadonlyrotememorytoturnto.Foryears,Ithoughtofthe
bitsofhighschoolFrenchclassesIretainedthewaythatotherpeoplemightthinkoftherecalledflashes
ofcaraccidents.Infrequently,I’ddustoffmymemoriesandexaminethem,butonlytocringe,tofeelthe
chill run up my spine, to feel the muscles in my shoulders contract, to feel the wave of relief, like a
suddenblastofcoolair,whenIreassuredmyselfIwouldneverhavetositthroughaMadameDoering
lectureagain.
Forthemostpart,Iwasaquietandpleasanthighschoolstudent.Igotalongwithmostteachers,and
though I found some classes to be misdirected or boring, I never found any of my teachers offensive.
ExceptforMadameDoering.Everysnapofherpointy-toedshoesagainstthetilefloor,everywordthat
came out of her puckered mouth plucked at my nerves. If she would have walked into class and
announced,“Insteadofteachingtoday,I’mjustgoingtorunmyfingernailsupanddowntheblackboard
for the next forty-five minutes,” I would have been relieved. I can’t say exactly what bothered me so
much,butherFrenchaccent,thewayhervoicebecametwitteryandbirdlikewhenshespoke,waspartof
the problem. And I hated the clucking she made in the back of her throat when students gave poor
answers,thewayshewouldslowlyshakeherheadfromsidetosideasifdumbfoundedthatchildrenfrom
northernIndianaspokeFrenchbadly.
Butmyirritationwithherwentdeeper,deeperthanIcouldunderstand.Itseemedalmostinnate,akind
of allergic reaction. Pollen caused my eyes to burn and my nose to run. Madame Doering caused the
musclesofmybackandjawtotense.But,sittinginaboukarousurroundedbyNemerciandmyfellow
mutes,alleyesonme,waitingforsomeresponse,IhadnooneelsetoturntobutMadameDoering.
EverychapterofmyhighschoolFrenchtextbookopenedwithadialogue,ascriptpresentedundera
crudecartoondrawingofteenagers.MadameDoeringgavethesedialoguestheweightandimportthatthe
English teachers gave Hamlet and Huckleberry Finn. We’d spend days on every new dialogue. First
Madame Doering would read them to us, walking around the classroom, using her one free hand to
pantomime,asbestshecould,theactionofthedialogue,thepitchofhervoicerisingorfallingtoindicate
achangeofcharacter.Thenthestudentswouldreadthedialoguealoud,firstalltogether,likeachorusof
firstgradersrecountingtheadventuresofDickandJaneinunison.ThenMadameDoeringwouldcallon
individualstoread.Eventually,partswouldbeassigned.Tom,youbeJean-PaulandMary,youcanbe
Stéphanie.OverandoverI’dreadandhearthedialogueuntilthecharacters’conversationsboredintomy
memorylikeacommercialjingleIcouldn’tshake.
Finally, in Chad, I found a use for the French small talk Madame Doering had pounded into me. I
discoveredthatIcouldstillrecalllargeportionsofthosedialogues.Overtheyearstheyhadbecamean
amalgam, rather than a series of distinct conversations; all the greetings, the obvious questions, the flat
answershadjumbledtogetherinnoparticularorder.WhenIneededtodecodeawordlikeappelle, I’d
startdiggingthroughthehodgepodge,hopingtofindsomethinguseful.Itwaslikelisteningtoaseriesof
whisperednon-sequiturs.
“Commentçava?”
“Fermezlaporte.”
“Oùvas-tu?”
“Ilfaitchaud.”
“Quellehuereest-il?”
Surprisingly often, I would stumble across something useful: “Oui, ça va. Et toi?” “Je m’appelle
Philippe.”I’dfoundit.Appelle.The‘m’troubledmethough.Nemerci’sappellesprouteda‘t’.Thereisa
big difference between an ‘m’ and a ‘t’ and I worried that maybe I had wandered down a blind alley,
fallenintoatrap.Isearchedthedialoguefragmentsonemoretime.
“J’aisoif.”
“Pasmal.”
Nothing.“Jem’appellePhilippe”wasmybestoption.
I’dlurchbackintodecodingmode.Jewaseasy,anotheroneoftheomnipresentpronouns.Icouldsee
theconversiongoingoninmyhead,variablesshakenoutoftheirdisguiseslikeworkingonanalgebra
test.Je=I.Philippewasalsoeasy.Philippe=Phil.Ilikedtranslatingpropernames,likedtostripthem
oftheirFrenchness,breakthemdowntosomethingthatfeltmoreblue-collar.Icouldclosemyeyesand
seethenewsentence,glowinglikeneon:Im’appellePhil.I’dconjureupNemerci’squestionthatIhad
partlytranslated,makecomparisons,getmyequationinorder.
IfCommenttut’appelle?=Howyout’appelle?andJem’appellePhilippe=Im’appellePhil,what
doesthevariableappelleequal?I’dstartlininguptheliketermsinmyheadwhilerubbingmychinand
looking at the straw ceiling of the boukarou. Nemerci would repeat the question. “Comment tu
t’appelle.”Icouldfeelthedropsofsweatbloomingonthebackofmyneck,hearthefabricofmyfellow
mutes’pantsandskirtsrubbingagainsttheirchairsastheyshiftedintheirseats.
Howyout’appelle?Im’appellePhil.IknewNemercihadaskedaquestion.Thescrapfromthehigh
schooldialogueseemedmorelikeastatement…maybeananswer.Howyousomething.IsomethingPhil.I
startedtorecallotherlinesfromthedialogue.
Philippe:Jem’appellePhilippe.
Alice:BonjourPhilippe.Jem’appelleAlice.
PhilippeandAlicetradednames,probablypavingthewayforfuturediscussionsaboutwhattimethey
gotupinthemorningandthingstheyenjoyedbuyinginthemarket.Moreimportantly,theyhadprovided
mewithananswerforNemerci.Finally.
I’dlowermyheadasifIhadlostinterestintheboukarouceilingandmakeeyecontactwithNemerci.
Herdarkeyesgrewtothesizeoffifty-centpieces,imploringmetotakeashot,tosayanythingFrench.
“Je…”Iwouldstart.
The other mutes would always lean slightly toward any mute starting to speak, listening carefully,
knowingthattheysoonwouldhavetogiveasimilarresponse.
“…m’appelle…”
Nemerci’shandswouldcometogetherpalmtopalminfrontofherchest,almostlikeprayer.
I’dendwithaflourish,anodtowardculturalsensitivityandanattempttohangabig,flashingsignin
theairthatsaidLookHowFrenchifiedIAm:“…Toe-ma.”
I’d feel the French syllables in my mouth as I spoke them, each one slippery and alive with erratic
tremors,likeJell-Oslidingacrossmytongue.AndasI’dlaunchthemintotheair,I’dgriptheseatofmy
chair and watch Nemerci’s face and listen, hoping that the wobble of life I felt in the syllables as they
formed in my mouth could sustain them in the real world, but fearing they would simply splat against
Chad’s parched, bronze soil, absorbed into the dust, drowned out by the braying of nearby donkeys,
ignoredbythewomenandmenandchildrenI’dbeensenttohelp.
TomWeller,whoservedinChadfrom1993–95,isaformerfactoryworker,substituteteacher,and
PlannedParenthoodsexualityeducator,inadditiontobeinganRPCV.HecurrentlyteachesatIndiana
StateUniversity,whereheistheStudentSupportServiceswritingspecialist.Heeatsatleastone
poundofpeanutsperweek,abadhabithepickedupwhileservinginChad.“LearningtoSpeak”
appearedpreviouslyinAmericansDoTheirBusinessAbroad:StoriesbyPeopleWhoShouldHave
KnownBetterbutAreGladTheyDidn’t.
FirstandLastDays
BOBPOWERS
Whogainsthemost?Asimplerecountingprovidestheanswer.
IN1964,TEMBWE WAS A SMALL VILLAGE IN CENTRALMALAWI COMPOSED OF SEVEN OR EIGHT MOSTLYINDIAN-RUN
mom-and-popstores,achurch,andonebaropenthreemonths(thegrowingseason)outofeveryyear.
Iwokeup,thatfirstsunnymorning,tofindhalfthevillagestandinginalineoutsidemyfrontdoor.I’m
notsurewhoorganizedit,myMalawiancounterpartorthevillagechief.AlongwithmyroommateDick,I
wasaskedtotakeaseatinoneofthetwochairsplaceddirectlyinthepathofthefrontdoorway.
Overthenextthreeorfourhours,onebyone,fivehundredorsoMalawiansenteredournewhome.
Always respectful, they placed one hand over their right arm and, bowing slightly shook our hands.
Then,mostaskediftheycouldtouchourhair,whichtheydid,gigglinghysterically.
Isatthereandgrinnedfromeartoear.
Two years later Dick, who worked the agricultural end of the newly formed Tembwe Cooperative
Society,andI,whohelpedwiththeconsumerend,werequicklyevacuatedfromthesmallvillagethatwe
hadlearnedtolove.
Unbeknownst to us, a similar evacuation among co-op Volunteers was taking place throughout the
country.“Politics”hadreareditsuglyheadand,alongwithourMalawiancounterparts,wewereforced
toleave.
“It’sforyourownsafety,”weweretold,thoughafterfortyyearsIdon’trecallfeelingunsafe.
WhatIdorecallisthatIwenttoMalawithinkingthatIwould“changetheworld.”Ileftknowingthat
theworld,inthiscaseMalawianditspeople,hadchangedme.
And,forthatIhavebeenevergrateful.
BobPowersservedinMalawifrom1964-66.HewasamemberoftheCo-opProject.Hebecamehead
oftrainingatAT&Tandlateramanagementconsultanttosomeoftheworld’slargestcorporations.
Hehaswrittenseveralbooksonbusinessandgayandlesbianissues.Bobliveswithhishusband,
DonaldClementinPortland,OregonandLucca,Italy.
HenaKisoaKelyandBlueNailPolish
AMANDAWONSON
Whenweleave,wecertainlyleavesomethingbehind,ifnothingbutapieceofourselves.
WHEN I THINK OF VAVATENINA, I TRY NOT TO REMEMBER THE THINGS THAT MADE ME UNCOMFORTABLE, LIKE THE
slightlycreepymanwholivednextdoororthetaxi-broussedriverwhocouldn’tunderstandwhyIdidn’t
wanttosleepwithhimandhavethecaféaulaitbabieshewasoffering.Itrynottothinkofthereasons
why I left, even though I’m convinced they were valid for me at that time in my life. Instead, I mostly
rememberthechildren,theonesItaught.Thefive-year-oldgirlswhousedtodanceandsinginfrontofmy
house,theonesItaughttoplayFrisbee,andtheotherswhobecamehookedonGoFish.Thechildrenof
Vavateninawelcomedmeandbroughtjoytomyheart.
Theonewiththebiggestholdonmyheartwasafour-year-oldnamedTinowholivednextdoortome.
Itwasloveatfirstsightbetweenus,fromthefirstshysmilehegaveme,anditisimpossibletoseparate
himfrommymemoriesofVavatenina.
Tino’sbigsisterClarawasoneofmyfirstfriendsinVavatenina,atroisièmestudentdesperatetolearn
English and who was always ready to lend a helping hand in my transition to the town. It wasn’t long
beforeallofClara’sandTino’ssiblingswerefrequentvisitorsatmyhouse:theoldestbrotherandClara
topracticeEnglish,themiddlebrothertodoalittlehelpingoutandtolookaftertheyoungerones,andthe
twoyoungesttoplayandwatchwhateverIwasupto.ThetwobrothersaboveTinolovedteachinghim
oneofthefewEnglishwordstheyknewanddaringhimtorunupandsayittome.Graduallythesebrief
encountersgavewaytosomethingofafriendshipbetweenmeandthelittleboy.
Tinowouldshowupaccompaniedbyanoldersiblingoroccasionallybyhisfather,andoftenbecame
shyassoonashegotclosetome.YetClaratoldmethatitwastomyhouseTinothreatenedtorunwhen
hedidn’tlikethingsathome;therewasabondthatdevelopedbetweenus.
I’ve always enjoyed the company of little kids, and Tino was the sweetest of them all in my little
neighborhoodofBemasoandro.Someoftheotherswereloud.Someofthemwereannoying.Oneofthem
used to hit me. Tino liked to watch whatever I did. He was fascinated by my Walkman with the little
speakersIhadboughtbackhome.WhenIbroughtoutnailpolishtoagatheringofkidsonmyfrontporch,
heinsistedonwearingthecolorIchoseformyself,acolorthatIstillthinkofas“Tinoblue.”
While I played with all of the neighborhood children and loved sharing time and games with them,
therewereafewspecialritualsthatonlyTinoandIshared.Wecouldn’tcommunicatewellinwords,asI
spoke very little Malagasy and he didn’t speak French or English. All the same, I began to teach him
English.IfIheldupmyhandandpointedtomyfingers,hewouldrecite:“One,two,three,four,feeve!”
Healsopickedupquicklyon“Givemefive”and“Givemeten.”Andthentherewas“HenaKisoaKely.”
Most Americans remember “This Little Piggy” fondly from childhood, I think. And who can resist
playingwiththetoesofabarefootedchildsittinginfrontofthem?Butwhatdoyoudowhenthechildin
questioncan’tpossiblyunderstand“Thislittlepiggywenttomarket…?”Idon’tknowaboutotherPCVs,
butIcreated“HenaKisoaKely”forTino.
After only two and a half months in country, my Malagasy was extremely limited. I spoke French
fluentlyand,becausethatwasamuchmoreefficientwayformetocommunicate,Ireliedonitmuchmore
heavilythanMalagasy.Icouldn’tspeaktothewomanIpaidtodomylaundry,butwemanaged.Ididthe
samewithTino,asking“Inonavaovao?”overandover,becauseitwasaboutallIhadtosaytohim.ButI
tookwhatlittleIknewandworkedoutatranslationofthatfavoritechildren’sgame.
I didn’t know if there was a Malagasy word for “piglet” or “piggy” so I used the words for “little
pig.” That’s “hena kisoa kely.” And I knew how to say “go to market”; that’s a pretty basic phrase to
learnintraining.Sothefirstpartofthetranslationwaseasy:“Henakisoakelymiantsena.”Itgotalittle
trickier after that, but I decided on “Hena kisoa kely mipetrapetraka” for the little piggy staying home
and “Hena kisoa kely mihinana henan’omby” for the little piggy eating roast beef. In reality the two
mean, respectively, something closer to “The little pig made himself at home” and “The little pig ate
cow’smeat,”butIwasdoingthebestIcould.“Thislittlepiggyhadnone”wasprettyeasy,asIknewhow
tosay“didn’teat.”Hence,“Henakisoakelytsymihinana.”Finally,though,Iwascompletelystumpedas
to how to say “all the way home.” So that last part of the rhyme got dropped and my hena kisoa kely
merelysaid“weeweewee.”
Itdidn’tmatterifthetranslationwasexact.Itdidn’tmatteriftherewasanyculturalcontextbehindit.
It didn’t matter if I looked foolish. All that mattered was the big grin on Tino’s face when I’d play the
gamewithhim.
Onelookatthatsweetlittleboy’sface,andIcouldn’thelpbutfeelhappier.Onthetoughdays,that
meantalot.Onthedayswhenit’shardtobelieveIleft,IwonderhowTinolooksnow,asaneleven-yearoldwhoIhopeisdoingwellinschool.Iwonderhowhehaschanged,andIfeelguiltyforleavingwithout
atrueexplanationtohimandalltherest.Ileftformyself,tellingastorythatIthoughtwouldmakesense
to the people of Vavatenina, something that wouldn’t prejudice them against the Peace Corps. All the
same,IleftalittlepieceofmyheartthereinVavatenina,whereIhopealittleboystillremembershowan
American woman once painted his toenails blue, taught him to count in English, and told a silly story
whileplayingwiththosetoes.
AmandaWonsonservedinMadagascarfrom1999-2000,afterreceivingherB.A.inInternational
Studies.Shereturnedtoschoolin2001,obtaininghermaster’sinSocialStudiesEducation.
ComingtoSierraLeone
SARAHMOFFETT-GUICE
Africacanquicklybecomeapartofone,itsfutureasignaltoourown,allofourown.
THE PEACE CORPS TRUCK PULLED AWAY, DISAPPEARING DOWN THE HILL. I WAS FINALLY HERE, IN TAIAMA, MY
assignedvillage,startingmynewlifeinAfrica.
FormanyyearsIhadafinecareerathome,asanurseandhealtheducator,andcouldhavecontinued
beyondretirementage.But,forreasonsIcouldn’tfullyexplain,IwantedtogotoAfrica;thePeaceCorps
offeredmethechance.
However,theyhadhighexpectations.
Theyear-longapplicationprocessrequiredeightreferences,themoreprestigious,thebetter.Buthow
couldtheChiefofSurgery,whoknewmeonlyfrommyworkinthemedicalcenter,beexpectedtoknow
if I could function effectively in an African village? I had to submit essays also, explaining where I
wantedtogo,andwhy,andwhatIexpectedtodoonceIgotthere.
Asafemaleapplicantovertheageoffifty,Ialsoneededadvancemedicalclearance.IassertedthatI
couldliftfiftypounds,althoughIwasunabletotakeitanywhere,andthatIcouldwalkwhereverIneeded
togo,andkeepwalkingforaslongaswouldberequired.Isubmittedmyfingerprints,andassuredthe
NationalSecurityAgencythatIhadnocriminalrecordorvilehabits.
After ten months of preparation, the letter finally arrived. Twenty-nine of us, all eager trainees,
gatheredinPhiladelphiaforthefour-dayritualcalledstaging,thenflewtoSierraLeoneforeightweeks
ofcross-culturalandlanguageinstruction.
Welivedtogetherindormitory-stylelodging,sharingrooms,meals,recreation,day-longclassesanda
constant flood of new experiences. It was an intense time of developing friendships and a few
animosities.Iwaseagertodoeverythingandtryeverything,tospeakthepidgindialectcalledKrio,toeat
thehot,spicyricedishes,andeventorideabicycle,somethingIhadneverlearnedtodoasachild.In
spiteoffallsandmanybruises,Ipersistedwiththebicycleuntilourmedicalofficerfinallytoldmethatif
IbrokeahipitwouldbetheendofmyPeaceCorpsexperience.IntheendIdidn’tneedthebicyclein
Taiama.Everything,includingthebusstop,waswithinwalkingdistance.
ASierraLeoneanstaffmember,whocouldnegotiatetheprimitiveroadstothevillages,hadoperated
theLandRover;therewasroomforafewnewVolunteersandtheirgear.Onlyessentialswereallowed,a
plastic water filter, mosquito net, pillow and mattress, a medical kit with emergency drugs, and the
prophylactic malaria medicines we had to take every week. We didn’t need a lot of clothes, only
lightweightcottonsfortheyear-roundtropicalheat.
Sashi was the only other nurse in our trainee group, and our sites were less than thirty kilometers
apart,sowerodeinthesametruck.
Shewasyoung,withthepetitestature,almond-coloredskin,anddelicatefeaturesofhernativeIndia.
AsaU.S.residentandnaturalizedcitizensincetheageoftwelve,shehadassimilatedAmericanbehavior
andstylesofdress,butstillenjoyedthefoodsofhernativeland.OnoccasionalvisitstoFreetownwe
sometimeswouldgotoarestaurantservingIndiancuisine.Butforthisday,enroutetoourvillages,we
settled for a roadside “chophouse,” a collection of three or four oilcloth-covered wooden tables with
straight-backedwoodenchairsplacedintheclearedspaceinfrontofthecook’shouse.
Thewomanofthehouseboiledwhitericeoveragroundfireinthedirt-flooredkitchen,thenaddeda
spicysauceofpeanutpaste,tomatoes,eggplant,okra,andhotpeppers.Herhusbandcollectedthemoney,
served customers and kept the tables cleared, and there were chores for all the children. We all ate
heartily.
ThetwomaleVolunteersinourvan,TomandMatt,weretallandathleticandnotlongoutofcollege;
theyhadhealthyappetites.Harry,thedriver,wasshortandwiry,buthehadlearnednevertoletagood
meal pass him by. Food was a serious matter in Sierra Leone, especially for travelers, who might
encounteronlyonechophouseinawholeday’sjourneyandwouldneedtofilluporgohungry.
None of us talked much during the trip. My site was in the south, just fifty miles from the Liberian
borderwherearmedconflicthadbrokenoutthepreviousyearandalltheAmericanshadleft.ButIwasn’t
worriedaboutthat.Iwashereatlast,inAfrica.Thevillagerswouldbehappytoseemeandanxiousto
help.Whatcouldgowrong?Howcouldanythinggowrong,afteralltheplanningandpreparation?
Bymid-afternoonweweredrivingdownthesoftdustyroad,passingsmilingfacesandwavinghands.
Crimsonhibiscusblossomsontheslopinghillsideflankedthehealthcentergate.Harryskillfullybacked
theLandRoveruptothedoorofmyassignedapartmentandhelpedunloadmybelongings.
Mynewhomewasatwo-bedroomapartment,withinthecompoundgatesand100yardsupagentle
slopefromthehealthpost.Ithadbeenbuiltandfurnishedbymissionariesandwasluxuriousbyvillage
standards.Thelargelivingroomwasfurnishedwithaworngreenleatherettesofa,twomatchingchairs,
andalongwoodentable.Asolarpanelintheroofprovidedenoughelectricityforlightsacoupleofhours
eachevening,somyapartmentbecamethelocusformeetingsofthehealthcommission.
Therewasalsoatinykitchenette,withshelvesandakerosene-operatedrefrigerator.Butkerosenewas
expensive and often unavailable; I learned how to function without it by salting fish and buying fresh
produceeveryday,justasthevillagersdid.
Thebathroomservedadualfunction,asitwastheonlysourceofwater.Therewasnokitchensink,
but an elevated tank just outside the bathroom wall held a week’s worth of water, pumped from the
undergroundcisternbysolarpower,whichthenflowedbygravityintothebathroomsink,commode,and
bathtub.Becauseofgravityandtheplacementofthetank,itwasimpossibletohaveanoverheadshower.
Ofcourse,thewaterinthecisterncamefromtheheavydownpoursoftherainyseason.Afewmonths
intothedryseason,Ibegantocontemplatetheexhaustionofthesupply,andhowIwouldfunctionwithout
runningwater.ThevillagewomenwalkedtotheTaiaRivereachmorningandcarriedtheirdailysupply
homeinbucketsontheirheads.IsupposedIwouldhavetohiresomeonetocarrywaterforme,sinceI
lackedthebalancingskillsandtheneckmusclesforthetask.
Myfavoritefeatureofmynewhomewasthesmallscreenedporchwithaviewofthehillsidebehind
the health post. Tiny fragrant white flowers on lush deep-green bushes bloomed beside my porch, and
statelydatepalmslinedthepathbelow.Manyevenings,Iwouldsitonmyporchcontemplatinglifeand
howIhadcometoAfricawithsuchhighhopes.
Isincerelybelievedthatthesepeople,whoselivesandexperiencesweresoverydifferentfrommine,
wouldbebetteroffformycomingtostaywiththem,evenifonlyinsomesmallway.Iwaseagerand
optimistic, and tried to push apprehension down into the deepest recesses of my mind. Fear of the
unknown,theunfamiliar,wasnotallowedhere.
Itwaslateafternoon.Theclinichadclosedandtheworkershadgonehometotheirfamilies.Istoodin
mydoorwayandwatchedthePeaceCorpstruckdriveaway,andwisheditwouldnotleavejustyet.
One evening I sat on my small screened porch, gazing at the hillside beyond the health center, and
thinkingaboutlife:
Andwhenmytimeisdone,willIcryforAfricatherestofmydays?Thesunisburningonthewestern
slope, the first candle is lit. On the road fisherwomen trudge home carrying their hoop-shaped nets,
balancingbasketsoffreshcaughtfishontheirheads.Inthefieldofdryleavesbelowthehospital,circles
offireglowandsendpalegraysmokedriftingtowardtheriver.
I go to see what is happening, the pastor comes from his house also, probably to reassure me. He
speaks of what he thinks I want to hear—wild animals which used to live in the forest on the edge of
town,oftreescutdownandhopesforreplanting,oftimesofhisyouthandtimesofthefuture.
Duskhassettledin,murmuringshadowsdriftby,theeveningbreezefloatsonthetreetops,andtheleaf
fireshavegoneout.Itiscoolernow,thetimeforrelaxationandcontemplation.Andwhenmydaysare
done,willIcryforAfrica?
SarahMoffett-GuicewasaPeaceCorpsYouthDevelopmentVolunteerinSierraLeonefrom20042006.ShenowteachesatTamnaUniversityinKorea.
ShatteringandUsingBookLearning
SUSANL.SCHWARTZ
Learning,andwalkingaway,intherealworld,fromwhatwe’vethoughtwe’velearned!
ISHOULDHAVEKNOWNTHATPEACECORPSWOULDN’TBEQUITEWHATIEXPECTED.THERECRUITERINTERVIEWINGME
hadsaidthat,withmystrongsciencebackground,Icouldeasilygetapositionteachingmathorscience.
Huh?!IhadnevertakenevenonemathcourseincollegeandtheonlysciencecoursesI’dtakenwerea
beginningastronomycourseandageologycoursepopularlyknownas“rocksforjocks.”Theresumeshe
waslookingatwasforapersonwiththesamenameasme.
Oncethatwasstraightenedout,IwastoldthatmaybeI’dbeofferedapositionteachingEnglish.That
didnotappealtome;Iwasananthropologymajor,focusingonAfricaanddevelopment,andfeltitwas
muchmoreimportantforpeopletobeabletogrowtheirownfoodandhaveenoughtoeatthantobeable
tospeakEnglishasaforeignlanguage.
Therecruitersaidthereweren’tmanygeneralistpositionsavailableanddidn’thavemuchhope.
So I was thrilled when I received the invitation to go to Sierra Leone as an agricultural extension
agent.I’dgottenexactlythetypeofjobI’dwanted.
Mostimportantly,Iwantedtolivelikethelocalpeople.Wasn’tthatwhatanthropologywasallabout?
Blendingin,beingasunobtrusiveaspossible.Becomingapartofthecommunity,butnotinfluencingor
changingitwithforeignideasorproducts,whichwoulddamagetheculture.Waitingforthepeopletoask
formyhelpinsteadofmeproselytizingaboutthebenefitsofirrigated-swampriceproduction.WhowasI,
a twenty-two-year-old college graduate from New Jersey, to tell these people they needed to change
farmingpracticesthatmusthavebeencenturiesold?Theyfirstneededtowanttochange;Icouldn’tforce
themintoit.
Oh,Isowantedtobeculturallysensitive!
That’swhyIhadn’tbroughtaFrisbeewithme,althoughIhadseenotherVolunteersthrowingthemto
kids during training, and the kids seemed to have lots of fun playing with the toy. What would happen
whentheVolunteersleftandtooktheirFrisbeeswiththemor,iftheygavethemtosomekids,theygotlost
ordamaged?That’swhyIdidn’twanttohaveamotorcycleliketheotherPCVs:Ididn’twanttohave
somethingthatthepeopleinthevillageIwenttohadnowayofowning.Ijustdidn’tthinkitwasrightifI
could ride in and out whenever I wanted, and the villagers had to walk and depend on public
transportationtogetanywhere.
Iwassonaïve!
WhenIarrivedin“my”village,twoandahalfmilesfromamainroad—whichI’dhavetowalkfrom
nowonanytimeIwantedtogototownforsuppliesortoattendMinistrymeetings—thefirstthingIsaw
wasamotorcycleleaningagainstthewallofamud-brickhouse!Howcoulditbe?Whatwasgoingon
here?I’dbeentoldthatthisvillagehadreallywantedaPeaceCorpsVolunteerbecausetheydidn’tgrow
enoughfoodforthemselvesanddidn’thavethemoneytobuyfoodduringthe“hungryseason.”Sohow
wasitthatsomeonehadhadenoughmoneytobuyamotorcycle?
Allmygrandioseideaswereshattered.
IrealizedthatalltheanthropologicaltheoryI’dreadandacceptedincollegedidnotnecessarilyapply
out here in the real world. That was reinforced when Sierra Leoneans found out I didn’t have a
motorcycle,becausetheythoughtthatforeignerswhowerericherthantheyshouldhaveone.Withoutthat
statussymbol,IthinkIwassomehowlessrespectedbysomepeople.Ontheotherhand,beingforcedto
use taxis and minivans gave me the opportunity to meet and talk with far more Sierra Leoneans than I
wouldhaveifIhadhadamotorcycle.
Aftertheinitialshockoffeelingbetrayedbymyanthropologybackground,Ineverseriouslyregretted
nothavingamotorcycle.OnceIreconciledmyselftothefactthatacademiawasn’tatotallyreliableguide
tolifeinthebush,myknowledgeofAfricanhistoryandmyawarenessofissuesindevelopment,gained
duringmycoursework,madeiteasierformetoadjustandadapttolivinginSierraLeone.
Later,IlearnedthatthebikeI’dseenwasbrokenandtheownerdidn’thavethemoneytorepairit.
SusanL.SchwartzhasbeenateacherandteachertrainerinthefieldofEnglishLanguageLearner
educationsince1990.AfterPeaceCorpsandgraduateschool,sheworkedinChinaandIndonesia
beforetakingateachingpositionatapublicschoolinMassachusetts.Susanhastraveledwidelyin
AsiaandreceivedaFulbright-HaysSeminarAbroadgranttoIndiain2007.
TheAdventuresOverseas
LARRYW.HARMS
Whatdoesonefindinarainforestorinanairplaneoverit?
ONESTARTSPEACECORPSBYSTUDYINGAMAP.
InMay1963,attheendofmysenioryearofcollege,thePeaceCorpssentaletterindicatingthatIwas
accepted,pendingfinalclearances,asaVolunteerforassignmenttoGuinea,Africa.
EarlyJunewaswheat-harvesttimeinwesternOklahoma.So,firstthingsfirst—Ihadtohelpfamily
andotherfarmersuntiltherewasclearance.
OneeventconfirmedthatthePeaceCorpswasworkingonit.
Iwasworkingforaneighbor,tillingfieldsimmediatelyfollowingtheharvest.Itookamid-afternoon
breakforsandwichesandicetea,andtheownerandaneighborstoppedbytotalk.Theyhadbeenoverat
arebuiltbridge,checkingitout.Thepersoncheckingmeoutfoundthemthere.Theytoldmeabouttheguy,
howhewasdressed,wherehemightbefrom,andwhatkindofcarhewasdriving,thenjokinglysaid,
“Wedidn’ttellhimanything.”Theyalsosaidhewouldalwaysremembertheinterview.Standingonthe
bridge,hehadleanedagainstoneoftherailings.Theblackwoodtreatmentwasnotcompletelydry;he
leftwithsomeonbothhisclothesandhands.
GuineawasthefirstindependentFrenchcolonyinAfrica,anditsetthestageforallothers.President
SekouTourewasthekeypersoningainingitsindependence.HisreputationwithAfricanswas(andstill
is)thatofahero.WithFrance,hissituationwasverydifficult:Francehadbothcommercialandpolitical
interests that it wanted to continue after independence. President Toure turned to Russia for assistance.
ThatwasagainsttheinterestsofFrance.
Politics aside, the economic, social, educational, and other developmental progress expected by the
peoplecouldnotberealized.PresidentTourehadaverygoodreputationwithinGuineawhenwearrived,
butalotwasrapidlylostduringourtwoyearsthere.Tourewasknownforstrongopinions,andhewas
instrumentalinputtinginthePeaceCorps,oustingitafteraboutfouryears,andtheninvitingbackinafter
anadditionalnumberofyears.
WewereGuineaI,1963-65,thefirstgroupofVolunteers.IwasassignedtoMacenta,atowninthe
southeasternrainforest.TheprimaryelementsofmyPeaceCorpsVolunteerexperience,fromthetechnical
standpoint, were to introduce an improved chicken breed and meet the nutritional and other needs for
higherlevelsofproduction,toteachstudentsusingdirectfieldtrainingtoimprovevegetableandpoultry
production, and improve production of high-quality vegetables for the town market. The details seem a
littlelostatthispoint(fortyyearlater).Wecertainlydidn’tcreatetherevolutionthatwehadenvisioned!
Itisthepeople,theexperiences,andtheadventuresthatstaywithme.
At the operational and social level in Macenta, there was a small, diverse, international group of
interesting people. There was a team of Chinese who were introducing cultivation, harvesting and
processing of tea, some Russians working in forestry and the educational system, several Lebanese
merchants, a U.S. missionary couple, and some French of various professions. The working-class
Guineansdidn’tinitiallymakedistinctionsastowhoweallwere.
We were leaving the Regional Agricultural Office one day and a young Guinean rushed out of the
buildingtocatchus,indicatingthatwehadsomemail.Hegaveittous,anditwasallinChinese.Wemust
havelookedalittleconfused,andhesaidwithsomeconfusion,“YouareChinese,aren’tyou?”
IslamandChristianitywerebothpresent,especiallyinthecitiesandtowns.Thetraditionalpractices
andbeliefswerestrong,especiallyinruralvillages.Talkaboutitalwaysbroughtupwitchcraft.Someof
the PCVs, including me, were prone toward ridiculing it. One day, I fell into that with the American
missionary,andheinterruptedme.HesaidthatIshouldalwaysrespectit.Iaskedwhatthatmeant.Didhe
haveanydetailsaboutitbeingreal?Hesimplystatedagainwhathehadsaid.Alwaysrespectit.
InMacenta,therainyseasonwastenmonthslongwithseveralrainseveninthetwo-monthdryseason.
Theheightoftherainyseasonwasconstantshowersthroughoutthedayandnight.
Therainforestisaparadiseofnature.IlivedseveralkilometersoutsideofMacentaonanoldFrench
farm/research station in the rainforest. We lived with nature. Mosquitoes, lizards, and sometimes army
antswereagiven.Seeingthearmyantswasimpressive.Theirmarchwasnotanhourorevenahalf-day
affair.Itwentonforseveraldays.Indifficultspots,someoftheantswouldholdtheirbodiestogetherto
formabridgethattheotherscouldwalkover.
ShortlyaftermyarrivalinMacenta,ahuntershowedupatthedoor.Hewantedtosellmeapython
skin. It was fresh and bloody. Did I need a python skin? Maybe I’ll never see another one. Maybe, the
hunter is right—they are hardly ever to be found. So, I bought it. I cured it over time by salting and
washing.Itstank.FinallyIrolleditupandputitinabox.Iunpackeditafewyearsago.Itlooksgood,but
whatdoIdowithit?
Once,afellowPCVexcusedhimselffromtheeveningconversation,indicatingthathewasheadedfor
ashowerandbed.Afewmomentslaterhecamebackin,sayingtherewasasnakeintheshower.Iwould
havethoughtitapracticaljoke,excepthisvoicewasquivering.Hisfacewasabsolutelywhite.Yes,there
wasasnakeintheshower.
Thedrainfromtheshowerwasapipethroughthefloorandthenthroughthefoundationwall.Water
thenspilledontothegroundandthehillside.Wemusthavetakencoversoffboththeshowerdrainandthe
outside drainpipe. The snake had come in through the pipe. Many of the snakes are poisonous, so we
normallyminimizedourrisks.Ratherthangettingitbacktonature,wediditin.
APeaceCorpsVolunteer(ateacher)inMacentadecidedtogetamonkeyasapet.Itwasn’tthatnicea
pet,buthelikedthemonkey.Hekeptitoutsideinahutoffthegroundinwhichitcouldspendthenight.It
wasalsoonalongcordsothatitcouldmoveabout.Atonepointthemonkeyandadoggotintoafight.
The monkey had some wounds. The Volunteer cared for his pet as a dedicated owner does. But the
monkey’shealthdeteriorated.Afterseveralweeks,themonkeywasinbadshape.Wetookabloodsample
and sent it off for testing. The monkey had rabies from the fight with the dog. We, especially the other
Volunteer,werefearfulaboutourexposuretotherabies.AllwentO.K.forus.Butthemonkeywasputto
sleep.
TherewerealsochimpanzeesinGuinea.APCVteacherdecidedthatherpetshouldbeachimp.One
dayanotherVolunteerandIweretravelingthroughhertownandsawthelittlebeast.Beingwiththatthing
foranhourorsowaseerie.Itwasnotinacageoronaleash;itlivedinthehouse.Itseemedcleartome
that, for the chimp, we were all one family. For me, it was an uneasy feeling. The Peace Corps staff
learnedofherpetandimmediatelyinsistedthatforhealthreasons,shefindanewhomeforthechimp.
Afewweeksafterastaffvisitandcollectionofsamplesformedicaltests,Igotatelegraphmessage
thatIwastocometoConakry.Apreliminarytestforawater-bornediseasewaspositive.Iprotesteda
bit.Theywereinsistent.Iwastocomebyplane.
Imadearrangements.Ondepartureday,arainstormwasinthemaking.Attheairport,thepilotordered
usimmediatelyontheplanesohecouldtakeoffbeforethestormhit.Wegottotheendoftherunway,but
awindgustblewtheplanesideways.Hestraighteneditout;anothergusthitandagainblewussideways.
Hetaxiedback,andwesatintheplane,hotandhumid,untilwecouldfinallytakeoff.Itwasstillstormy.
He stayed below the clouds, which meant that he also had to do some maneuvering to get through the
mountains.
Wehadflownforawhile,andthenweturnedleftforafewminutes,thenright,andthenleftagain.A
manintraditionaldresslookedoutthewindowandthenstartedseriouslystudyingthings.Talkingoutloud
tohimself,hesaidinfrustrationanddisbelief,“We’reinMali,we’reinMali!”Aco-pilotcamewalking
throughtheplaneandgotamap.Soonafterthat,weturnedahardrightandflewuntilwehittheNiger
River.WewereinMali.WethenflewuptherivertoKankan.Themedicaltestswerenegative.
LarryW.HarmsisaretiredForeignServiceOfficer,UnitedStatesAgencyforInternational
Development(USAID)withextensiveexperienceinAfricaandHaiti.HeservedinthePeaceCorpsin
Guineafrom1963-65,whereheandotherPCVsintroducedanimprovedpoultrybreed,upgraded
poultryfeedforincreasedproduction,reinvigoratedalargegovernment-runvegetablegarden,and
carriedoutfieldtrainingofstudentsintheregionalsecondaryschool.
AToubacintheGloaming
E.T.STAFNE
Sometimestheculturalbarriersjustdonotgetbroken,nomatterwhatwedo.
MY EXPERIENCES IN NORTHERNSENEGAL VARIED FROM THE SUBLIME TO THE INSANE, OFTEN WITHIN THE SAME DAY.
Quite often I think of those times that seemed impossibly embarrassing and try to make sense of them,
even many years later. Most of the strangest events occurred early in my Peace Corps service, when I
spoke little Toucoulor and understood even less of Senegalese culture. Some of these still haunt me; I
knowIwillneverfullyunderstandwhathappened.
Ikeptadailyjournalduringmyservice,asmanyVolunteersdid.Mostofitwasmundane,butwhatI
reallywantedwasamemory-joggingdeviceforlaterinlife.SometimesIwillsendacertainmeaningful
passage to another RPCV that served with me, but that is becoming less frequent as time marches on.
SincemyreturntotheStatesin1996,theonlyotherpersontoreadtheentirejournalwasmywife;the
majorityofitjustisn’tthatinteresting.However,somedays,likeTuesday,June14,1994,are.
MyvillagewasNguidjilogne,nottoolarge,butithadamarketthatmadeitacrossroadsrightonthe
banksoftheSenegalRiver.NumeroussmallvillageslinedtheriverandconsideredNguidjilogneacenter
of commerce, so there were, in essence, no strangers from Nguidjilogne. Every village, no matter how
small, knew of Nguidjilogne and its residents. Occasionally, soccer matches between Nguidjilogne and
anothervillagewouldbecoordinated,andsurprisinglylargenumbersofvillagerswouldattend.Itwasin
thegloamingofthatJunedaywhenIattendedasoccermatchthatturnedintooneofthoseinexplicable,
memorableevents.
Inmyearlydays,Ihadgottentoknowtheschoolteachersinthevillage.Theyspokevaryingdegreesof
English and my French was tolerable, so we could communicate easily. It was after 5 P.M . when they
invitedmetoattendthesoccermatchataneighboringvillage.Wewalked,enmasse,tothesoccerpitch
behindthemud-brickschoolhouse.Thegatheredcrowdnumberedinthehundreds.Itwasstillveryhot,
butthesunwasslowlysetting,makingitbearable.Itookmyplaceonthesidelinestowatchthematch
with all the interest I could muster. At that time everything was still new to me: the swirling sand, the
smellofdeadanimalcarcasses,andthesharedexistenceofpeoplewholivedinthatdesolation.
Not long after the match started, it became apparent that our team was overmatched, but it was all
playedoutinfun.
When the match ended, players from both sides gathered on the pitch, as did the observers. Among
themwasahordeofchildren,whoseemedinbeinastateofagitation.Theywereloudandboisterous.
And, like the colors on a soccer ball, the interface between black and white was about to become
razorthin.
I,ofcourse,wastheonlywhitefaceformiles,andjudgingbythereactionofthechildren,theonlyone
theyhadseeninquitesometime.Asagroup,theygatheredbehindmeandbegantochantinunisonthe
obligatorywhitemandescriptor,“Toubac,Toubac.”Theschoolteachersdidlittletoquashthechanting,
althoughlatertheyclaimedtobeembarrassedbyit.
Wemarchedtotheedgeoftownwithdarknessencroaching,followedbyalmostonehundredchildren
chantingforthewhiteman.Inretrospect,Ibelieveitprovidedsomeentertainmentforthevillagersand,in
thatsenseitishardtobegrudgethemthat.So,ifithadendedthereasIwalkedofftowardNguidjilogne,I
probablywouldneverhavegivenitasecondthought.
Butitdidn’tendthere.
Iturnedtothecrowdonelasttime,inadaze,tosoakitallin.Theblackfaceswithwhitepearlsfor
teeth,allmovinginslowmotionshoutingandpointingatme.WhileIstoodtherecaptivatedandunableto
processthatstrangenessbeforeme,thehordeofchildrenslowlypartedandagirlcametowardme,urged
on by the masses. She lacked the usual dark pigmentation in her skin and had white hair. She wasn’t
completelywhite,butthatmatteredlittletothevocalgroupbehindher.Theypushedherupinfrontofme,
allalongrelentlesslychanting,“Toubac,Toubac.”Sheuncomfortablystuckoutherhandtomeandsaid,
“Toubac.”
At that point nothing made sense anymore. What was I doing here in the middle of the Sahel
surroundedbyanAfricanmob?IdidtheonlythingIcould—Ishookherhandandtriedtoputonasmile.
Whenourhandspartedsheturnedaroundandwasswallowedupbythecrowd.Itwasthentheyallbroke
outintohystericallaughter.Iturnedmybacktothemandstartedwalkingbacktomyvillage.
Icouldn’tmakeanysenseofitthenandstillcan’ttoday.Sometimesthingsgetalittlebizarreinthe
gloaming.
E.T.StafneservedinSenegalfrom1994-1996.Hewroteanovelshapedfromhisexperiencesin
SenegalcalledTheWretchUnsung.HeconsidershisPeaceCorpsserviceoneofthemostformative,
andodd,experiencesofhislife.
FamilyAffair
ARNEVANDERBURG
PeaceCorpsallinthefamily?Itcertainlycanbringonetogether.
ATLASTCOUNTTHEREWERESEVEN:SEVENOFUSBROTHERS,SISTERS,SISTERS-IN-LAW,BROTHERS-IN-LAW,NEPHEWS,
sons,wives,ex-wives,ex-husbandswho,gatheredatanyonetimeinaroom,usuallyfindoldandeven
newPeaceCorpsexperiencesfromGhana,Nigeria,Turkmenistan,Malawi,ElSalvador,Paraguay,and
Belizedroppingintoourextendedfamilyramblings.
Someofuscouldn’tgetenough.WecamebackforaseconddoseofwhateverversionofPeaceCorps
was playing in the next forty years…some for a third, fourth…even a fifth dose. As PCVs we were
teachers, archaeologists, photographers, school builders, community organizers, department chairs,
librarians,TVperformers,beekeepers,farmers,treeplanters,publicspeakersandamyriadotherthings
that, had we stayed home we would never have been, smelled, tasted, or learned in those two or three
short years. We learned what it meant to be outsiders and honored and not-so-honored guests as
collectively we brushed up against dozens of cultures and hundreds…thousands…of different beliefs,
traditions,andsubtlelittlebehaviorstowhichweweretotallyoblivious,butthatcouldmakeorbreaka
friendship—likewhenyoucasuallywavedatsomeoneontheothersideofthestreetcarryingahugeload
andtheydroppedeverythingandcamerunningtoseewhyyouhadcalledthem,oryouheldupyourthumb
tohitcharideandfoundoutyou’djustflippedsomeoneoff,oryousmelledabowlofsoupandoffended
thecook.
Welearnedthatwhenofferedadrinkonsomespecialoccasion,don’tforgettodribbleabitofitonto
theground,andmakesureyouneveroffersomeonefoodwithyourlefthand,andwhenpeoplecometo
visitgivethemsomethingtodrinkastheycomeinortheywillthinkyoudon’twantthemtovisit,andif
youaretheonlypersonwitharadioortaperecorderinthevillage,playitloudenoughforeveryoneto
hearortheywillthinkthatyouthinkyouarebetterthantheyifyouplayitjustloudenoughsothatonlyyou
couldhearit.
AneasyanswermightbethatfourofusjoinedPeaceCorpsbecause,oncethefirstonedidin1964,it
just seemed natural that the next would and then the next. But the simplicity of that belies the streak of
independence that seemed to be the one thing we all had in common. So, in trying to put reason to our
optingtoleavefriends,family,andfamiliarityfortwoormoreyears,fiveofusmightsayithadtodowith
ayoungPresidentwhogaveanidealisticspeechandgotuswonderingwhatwecoulddoforourcountry
orevenifourcountrywouldactuallyletusdosomethingforit.Someofushadalreadybeenaskedtodo
somethingelseforourcountryandthoughwewereyoungandfilledwithaspiritofadventure…nightly
networknewsphotosofbodybagsorourtrustedalliesblowingthebrainsoutofsuspectedenemiesat
point blank range encouraged us to seek our tropical adventures elsewhere…perhaps even in places
wherewewouldbetoleratedifnotdownrightwelcomed.
Inapre-draftlotteryage,PeaceCorpspromisedatleastadeferredtourofmilitaryduty.Still,even
withoutthathangingoverthemaleheadsamongstusinthoseearlyyears,myguessiswestillwouldhave
beencaughtinthecentrifugalpullthatsomanyofusfelt…asenseofadventurefulfillingyouthfuldreams
of far-off lands and unknown places, made doubly seductive by the hope we would actually be doing
somethingusefulforourselves,ourcountry,andthepeoplewithwhomwe’dbeliving.
Oncethere—wherevertherewas—mostofusfoundoutthatmuchmorewasexpectedofusthanwe
hadplannedon…orhopedfor.TheteachersofusbecamethechairsofourscienceorEnglishormathor
whateverdepartments.Ifyouhadperformedinahighschoolplay,youendedupdirectingyourschools’
dramatic presentations. One of us who dabbled in amateur archaeology was dropped altogether as a
teacher at the end of his three months of training and spent three years cataloging priceless artifacts,
publishinginarespectedjournal.Another,whohadapassionforphotography,spentasummercrawling
aroundintheWestAfricanbushtakingwildlifephotosforafledglingwildlifepreservehopingtotapinto
agrowingtouristmarket.Nearlyallofusfoundourselveswritinggrantstoaccessmoniesandorganizing
laborfortheconstructionofschoolsandcommunitylatrines,whileothersbuiltbeehivesandrantrainings
on apiculture or having healthy babies or performed American folk songs on national TV, which
admittedlyatthetimeamountedtosome200televisions.
Andwhileattimesitactuallyfeltlikethehardestjobyou’lleverlove,oneofthehardestpartsofthe
job at first seemed to be the best…filling in the downtime in our jobs…the excessive surprise,
unscheduled,dayupondayuponweekofunplannedtimeoffduetoholidaysandcelebrations.Welearned
quickly what it meant to be an honorific society, where independence day was followed by Liberation
Day and by Christmas and New Year’s and Hero’s Day and the start, and end, of Ramadan and if in a
formerBritishcolony,BoxingDay.
Havingleftthecomfortoflivingamongstfamilyandfriendswhonaturallyoccupiedthespacesofour
lives, we were now confronted with the necessity of contriving ways to fill those gaps. Many of us
learnedthat,whilewehumansareacuriouslot,alwayssearchingoutthenew,weliketodothisfroma
familiarperspective,surroundedbyoratleastabletobesurroundedbyideas,imagesandexperiences
withwhichwecantouchbaseifwesofeeltheneed.
The reality of our new lives was in fact an ideal many of us strived for: to be in an isolated, rural
settingsolelydependentonourwitsandthegoodwilloflocalsforwhateversatisfactiontheexperience
couldprovide.ThoseofuswhoarrivedinthefirstfewyearsofPeaceCorpsdidsonotonlyamidsthigh
hopesandexpectations,butalsowithalargetrunkfilledwithwhatseemedlikemorebooksthanwerein
my high school library. What felt at the time like manna falling from heaven, in retrospect should have
beenviewedasawarning…somethingtotheeffectthatwewereherebybeingputonnoticethatwewill
havehugeamountsoftimewhenwewillhaveabsolutelynothingplannedandorneedingtobedoneand
thereforewillbeleftwiththeonlyalternativesavailablewhichare…donothing,findsomethingtodo…
orread.Soweread,andwhenwehadfinishedthebooksinourownbooklockerwetradedbookswith
thosewhohadbooklockersdifferentfromours.
We visited neighbors, studied languages, started clubs, made gardens and tapped in as deeply as
possibletolocalculture…someofusspendinglongnightsrecordingthesoundsoftraditionaldancesand
ceremonieswhilepartakingfreelyinthefestivities.Andafterthat…wereadfordaysandforweekendsat
times.
Peace Corps, even in the confused wisdom of its early years did its best to prepare us for these
realities…forajobforwhichsomegovernmentcouldn’tfindalocalwarmbodyandforalifestylethat
hadnothingincommonwiththeonewehadleft…nothing.WewonderedhowPeaceCorpscameupwith
theideaofsendingustoclassesuponWestBroadway,atBarnardCollegewherebizarrepsychiatrists
rangroupsessionsthatreducedhopefulPCVstotearsbybeatingintoushowemotionallyunpreparedwe
were for life in Nigeria or Ghana or wherever, as Peace Corps Volunteers. And we questioned the
wisdomoftheweeklyposting,afterdinneronThursdayevenings,ofthosewhowerenotbeinginvitedto
do the hardest job they would ever love or the large group sessions where we were told to complete
questionnairesaskingustonamethoseamongstourgroupwhomwethoughtmightbethebestortheworst
PCVs.(Thislastactivityweeventuallygleefullywalkedouton,enmasse.)
WedidavoidwhatothersweregoingthroughintrainingprogramsfromPuertoRicotoNewMexico,
boot-camp-likephysicalendurancetraining,thinkingmaybethatwasthebestwaytogetfuturePCVsupto
thetask.Butthegoodnewsisthatitwasonlyusearlykidsthatweresubjectedtopersonalhumiliationor
extreme physical challenge as the method of choice for preparing PCVs to be successful at living and
workinginunfamiliarplacesaroundtheworld.
Early on, Peace Corps worked hard to recruit childless, married couples…maybe thinking that two
peoplewouldbeabletorelyuponandsupporteachotherinthehardtimes.Whattheydidn’tcounton
wasthatmostAmericanshavesomanydistractionsintheirlivesthattheymayspendonlyafewhoursa
daywitheachother,oneonone.AmarriedcouplegoingtotheirPCsiteoftendiscoveredthatlivingwith
eachotherfor24hoursaday,7daysaweek,12monthsayear…elevatedthemtoawholenewlevelof
togetherness...eithertighteningbondstowhereonlydeathwoulddothempartorstretchingthelimitsof
familiarityandsecretknowledgebeyondanythinghumanlypossible.Marriedcouplesgottoknoweach
otherinthemostdetailedways,andifthehighpercentageofPCVseparationsisanyindication,alotof
usdidn’tlikewhatwefoundout.
Eventuallyweallcamehome,notrealizingjusthowmuchwehadbeenchangedbywhatwehadbeen
doingdayinanddayoutfortwo,three,orfouryears.Attimeswefeltlikewehadsteppedontoatrain
andtraveledtounexpectedplacesandexposedtounimaginablepeopleandeventswhileeverythingwe
came back to was as we had left it. There were differences…more houses, more or bigger kids, older
friends,newercars…butastheanthropologistE.T.Hallhassaid,themostimportantpartsofanyculture
are the invisible ones. It was those once unseen things that our travels had now made visible. The
attitudes,beliefs,perceptionsaboutusandtheplaceswehadbeen,thepeoplewholivedinthoseplaces
andeventheplaceswewerecomingbacktowerethesame,whileeverythinginourownworldhadbeen
completelyalteredbysteppingontothattrain.
Wehadseenaworldwherepeoplewithsolittletosparestillputhospitalityandfriendshipbefore
their own needs, where people who were in a day-to-day struggle to survive were still cheerful and
welcoming to strangers. We saw the depth of extended families and the values inherent in traditional
communities. We also saw how the introduction of religions and belief systems from the outside were
corrupting those values and destroying the families. I think we were surprised when the questions we
wereaskedonourreturnwereseldomaboutwhatwehadlearnedorwhatitwasthathadchangedus.
Homenow,ourfamilywithdeepPCconnectionshasaspecialbondthatdoesn’trequireexplanation.
Quietly,webelieve…wehope…thecollectiveexperienceshavehadapositiveimpactonus,helpingus
to give more emphasis to the people side of our lives, to the interactions we have in our jobs and
communities,totheperspectiveswebringonhowweshoulddealwitheachother;whetherthatbethe
people next door or a wider international community. Individually, we’ve turned into public health
professionals and development workers in other international organizations and NGOs, college
professors, businessmen and women, teachers and artists trying to contribute something back to the
countryfromwhichwe’dstartedbutalwayswithonefootplantedinthatthingwehaddoneinamoment
ofidealisticfervor…orinahazeinducedyouthfulconfusion…five,ten….andnowforty-plusyearsago.I
thinkmostofushavefeltweweredeepdownchangedbutitisn’teasytosaywhatthatmeans:exceptto
maybesixothermembersofaratherdeepPeaceCorpsfamily.
ArneVanderburgiscurrentlyahistoryteacherataprivateschoolinAlbuquerque,NewMexico.He
tookhisfirstplaneflighteverfromruralOhiotoNewYorkCitypreparingtobeaPeaceCorps
Volunteer.Overthenextfortyyearshewastobecomedivorcedfromthewomanwhofirstjoinedhim
onthatadventureandmarriedtoanotherwhomhemetinPeaceCorps.OneofhisbestPeaceCorps
friendsmarriedhisbrother,aformerPCV,hisnephewdecidedtoheadofftoPeaceCorpsinEastern
Europe,andmostrecentlyhisyoungestsonspentthreeyearsasaPCV.
YourParentsVisitedYouinAfrica?
SOLVEIGNILSEN
Accidentanddeath:neverfaraway,orfarfrommind.Buthomeandourfamiliesaren’t,either.
MY PARENTS ARRIVED IN SAN FRANCISCO FOR THE UNVEILING OF THEIR FIRST GRANDCHILD EXACTLY ONE MONTH
aftershe’dmadeherdebutintheKaiserPermanentedeliveryroom.Mymotherofimmaculatehousefame
would get her first glimpse of my skills as a housekeeper. She and my father would be sleeping under
theirmarrieddaughter’sroofforthefirsttime.
Fortunately, they’d never considered a trip to see us in Africa; going abroad was not much done in
theircirclesinthesixties,anunimaginableextravaganceforsomeonewithkidsincollegewhosevacation
traditionstendedtowardvisitswiththerelativesandcampinginnationalparks.Besides,ifinternational
travel could be contemplated at all, Africa would not have been on the list. First things first—they’d
fantasizedaboutsomedaymakingatriptoNorway,the“oldcountry”oftheirmothers.
ItwasinconceivabletoimaginethemmakingthetriptoAddisAbaba.Whenourplanehadlandedin
Beirutforrefueling,inSeptember1967,itwasintheaftermathofaMiddleEastwar.Theairportwasfull
of soldiers with machine guns, two accompanying me back into the bathroom to retrieve the purse I’d
somehowmanagedtoleavebehind.
Yet getting to Addis Ababa was the easy part. The three-day journey to our village in the upper
reachesoftheSimianMountainsstartedoutwithaflighttotheEritreancityofAsmara,wherewespenta
dayloadinguponprovisions:three-kilotinsofpowderedmilk,five-poundcansofDanishbutter.Local
dairyproductswereproscribed;tuberculosiswasprevalent.
Nextmorning,weboardedanoverloadedbusforthetwo-dayjourneytothevillageinthemountains
thatwouldbehomeforthenexttwoyears.Onthesecondday,webegantheclimbhighintotheSimians,a
rangeofmythicproportionsrepletewithbottomlesscrevicesandspectacularfissures.Locatedbetween
thevalleyoftheBlueNiletothewest,theRiftValleytotheeast,thisdrama-queenregionoftheworld
wascreatedbyanancientvolcaniccataclysmresultinginoneoftheplanet’smostprecipitousdrop-offs,
downto400feetbelowsealevel.AllIhadtodowaslookoutthebuswindow,andthereitwas,aview
inthedirectionofoneofthelowestpointsonearth,theDanakilDesert.Ourbusdrivernavigatedtheedge
oftheabysstotheaccompanimentofEthiopianpopblastingattopvolumefromspeakersdirectlyabove
ourheads.
Thebuscrawledupthesteepgrade,thedriverdownshifting,thendownshiftingagainuntilwewere
almostatahalt,enginegrindingandroaring.Thehairpinturnsrequiredtheskilled(wehoped)busdriver
tonavigatetheminch-by-inch,pullingtotheveryedgeofthechasm,backingup,inchingforwardagain,
backingupagainuntilwecouldproceedalongthenarrowroadcarvedintothesideofthemountain.Until
wegottothenextswitchback.Andthenext.
I tried to distract myself by imagining the moment I longed for, of disembarking in Maychew, of
openingthedoortothehousethatawaitedus.RentedonourbehalfbyaPeaceCorpsstafferwho’dbeen
senttoreconnoiter,itwas—wewereassured—indecentrepairandappropriatetoourstationinlife.The
UniversityofUtahdormroomthathadbeenourhoneymoonquartersduringthethreemonthsoftraining
wasabouttobesupersededbyourfirsthome.Tryingtofillinanyofthedetailsofthepicture,however,
wasuseless.Ihadnoideawhatawaitedus.Besideswhichtheviewoutthebuswindowdemandedmy
vigilance,crucial(Iwascertain)tothedriver’seffortstokeepusontheroad.
Wehadfabulousfront-rowseatsforthisthrillingshow,theplaceofhonordirectlybehindthedriver,
who had cleared them of the previous occupants in a mini-drama of shout and gesture. When the
unfortunateswho’dbeenoccupyingtheseatsdidn’tgowillingly,theyweredraggedoutandshoveddown
the aisle. Our protestations were ignored. We acquiesced in this humiliating situation; our rudimentary
language skills were apparently insufficient to communicate our preferences. There was, of course, the
realpossibilitythatourdriverunderstoodusperfectly,butheldtohisownbeliefsabouttheproperorder
ofseatingonhisbus.
Thefrontrowseatswerenotsuchawonderfuladvantage;theybegantofeelmorelikeacursewith
theirunobstructeddown-viewsofdeepgorges,atthebottomofwhichwesawthetwistedskeletonofa
crumpledvehiclefarbelow.Myownpersonalcurses,tendenciestowardvertigoandanxiety,weresuperactivated.Closingmyeyesdidn’thelp.
Peace Corps training staff had warned us about dangers we would encounter, including a list of
diseases so long and entertaining that we couldn’t take it seriously: elephantiasis, leprosy,
schistosomiasis,cholera,malaria,tuberculosis,RiftValleyFever,rabies,multiplevarietiesofdysentery.
Theyconcludedbytellingusthat,statistically,thegreatestdangertolifeandlimbforPCVs“incountry”
wasmotorvehicleaccident.
Abustop-heavywithcargomighthavetripletheallottedweightridingonitsaxles;thebrakesmight
notbeuptotheload.OrthetaxidriverinAddisAbabamighthavebeeninvitedinfordrinkswhenhe
droppedoffhislastfare,andbeallovertheroadonhiswayhome.Youmightbeinaquestionableplace
atadrasticallywrongtime—oryoumightbeinaperfectlyappropriateplace,exceptthetaxidrivermight
hittheacceleratorinsteadofthebrakes,plowingintoacoupleonasidewalkinfrontofahotel,hitting
one of them with such force that she went flying through the air before landing in the street a distance
away.
ThatwasthenightwearrivedinAddis.Wewerejustbarelyontheground,havinglandedatHaile
SelassieInternationalAirporttwohoursbefore.
Onthebusrideintothecity,weinhaledourfirstamazedbreathsofAfricanair,thickwithsmokefrom
cooking fires, the pungency of eucalyptus. The ride was punctuated with frequent stops, our bus driver
slamming on the brakes, honking his horn, leaning out the side window to shout and shake his arm at
shepherdswiththeirflocksofgoatsorsheepblockingtheroad.Thedarkness,at6 P.M .inthispartofthe
world close to the equator, was part of the unfamiliar territory. We were Northerners, used to long
summernightsand,oncenightcame,therewerealwaysstreetlights.
Thebusdeliveredustothehotelwhereweweretocheckinandhaveafirstformalwelcometothe
country. But there weren’t rooms enough for everyone; it would be necessary to send a few of us to
anotherhotel.Threeofthemarriedcouples,ErikandIamongthem,volunteered.WepiledintoaPeace
CorpsLandRoveralongwithSusanandCharlie,GwenandNile.Afterwe’dcheckedin,thedriverdrove
usbacktojointherestofthegroup,pullingintoaparkingspacejustoffthestreet,directlyinfrontofthe
hotel.SusanandCharliegotoutofthebackseatfirst.Ifollowed.Somehow,theymusthavelingered,for
theywerebehindmewhenIheardErikshout:“WATCHOUT!RUN!”
Maybe Susan and Charlie weren’t behind me. Maybe I ran faster, my husband’s peremptory order
being so urgent. When a person you trust, someone whose vocal modulations you know intimately,
screams out an order in a tone of voice you’ve never heard him use before, instinct kicks in; you obey
withoutthinking.Yourun,expectingascreechofbrakes,thecrashofmetalonmetal.
Buttherewerenodramaticsounds.Justthesinglethudofimpact,themuffledchillingsoundofasoft
object,apersonbeinghitbyacar.Turningbacktolook,Isawabody,airborne.
Itwasalreadyover,toolatetoreplaythescene,tocutandstartover,toretractouroffertogotothe
otherhotel,totakeafewminuteslongertosettleinatthehotelinsteadofrushing.
Someone appeared and took me by the arm, leading me away from the scene of the accident. I
rememberhearingadisembodiedkeeningsoundbeforeIrealizedthatitwasmybodymakingthatsound.
“Trytocalmdown,”theysaid.“Everythingisgoingtobeallright;anambulanceisontheway.Don’t
worry,”theysaid,“there’sadecenthospitalinthispartoftown,notthatfaraway.”
Whentheytookusbacktothehoteltheypromisedtokeepusinformed.Assoonastherewasanynews
aboutSusanandCharliethey’dletusknow.
Theykepttheirpromise.
Wewereawakenedbeforedawnbyaknockonourdoor.IremembersittingupinbednexttoErik,
afterthePeaceCorpsrephadexpressedhisregretathavingtobringustheterriblenews,leavingustogo
downthehalltoknockonGwenandNile’sdoor.Susanhaddiedduringthenight.Charlie’sinjuries,he
assuredus,wererelativelyminor.Hehadabrokenarm;hewasgoingtobeO.K.
Less than twenty-four hours before, I’d been sitting next to Susan on a bench in the airport in
AmsterdamwhenCharliecameoveranddroppedasmallglossypackageinherlap.Iwatchedheropen
thetinybottleofFrenchperfumehe’djustboughtherintheduty-freeshop,teasingheraboutwearingiton
the job in their village. But Susan never made it to her village, never opened that bottle of French
perfume,neverwokeuptoevenoneAfricanmorning,nortoanymorninganywhere.
OurheavilycurtainedhotelroomwasdarkwhenIawoke,buttherewasanarrowstripoflightonthe
floorfromagapatthecornerofthewindow.Hadweoverslept?Igotuptofindmywatchanddrawthe
curtains. I looked down on a broad avenue, across from which a high-walled compound stretched the
entirelengthoftheblock.
Sittingatopthewallweretwofull-manedmotionlesscreatures.Istared,blinking.Wewereinthecity,
trafficmovingonthestreetbelow.Theycouldn’tbeactuallions.Thenoneofthemturneditshead,and
stretchedaleg.
“Erik,”Isaid.“Wakeup.”
Ourhotel,aswesoonfoundout,wasacrossthestreetfromthepalaceoftheEmperor.
IremembervirtuallynothingelseoftheweekinAddis,ofthescheduleofeventsthatweretoorientus
tolife“incountry.”Ihavenomemoryofanyotherdetailsofthehotelacrossthestreetfromthecompound
ofHisExcellency,HaileSelassie,alsoknownastheLionofJudah,ElectofGod,andNegusaNegast,
KingofKings.Wewerefullydis-oriented;wewantedtogetoutofthere,togetonwithit,togettoour
villageinthemountains.
Aweeklater,onthelastlegofourjourney,aturnintheroadgaveuntoaviewofatownbelow.The
driver gestured toward the scene ahead, speaking to us in Italian (ferengi in northern Ethiopia were
assumedtobeItalian,oratleastbeabletospeakthelanguage).“Scusi!”hesaid,andthen,inEnglishthis
time,“Wearesoontoarrive,Maychew.Yousee?Isvisible,yourtown!”
We were about to set foot in our village, on a high plateau in the mountains of Tigre Province,
Ethiopia, the Horn of Africa. We were to be the first ferengi in residence. We’d volunteered for this.
PeaceCorpsdidn’tsendpeopletooutpostlocationsiftheydidn’twanttogo.
Weweresorelievedtobegettingoffthebusthatwewereprimedtoviewwhateverawaitedusasa
marvel and a refuge. The living quarters they’d rented for us were of typical chico construction, sticks
andmud,theEthiopianversionofadobe.Brightgreenshuttersopenedtoletinthelight,theflies,andthe
occasionalchicken.Theamenities:atinroof,cementfloorsinthelivingroomandbedroom,alightbulb
that dangled by a cord from the living room ceiling, providing electricity for two or three hours in the
evening.Inthekitchen,apackedearthenfloor,atable,threechairs.Asmallgasstovewas,forthetime
being,atantalizingbutuselessconvenience,sincethepropanetankthatwouldfuelithadn’tarrived.The
twofifty-gallondrumsinthecorner,ourwatersystem,wereempty,thewateritselfnotpartoftheonsite
package.
Thewomenwehiredtocarrywaterfromtheriverdeliveredittoourdoorinlargeearthenwarejugs
balancedontheirheads.Theypouredthewaterfromthejugsintooneofthedrumsinanevery-other-day
system dictated by the Peace Corps Health Officer so that any water we touched would have “sat” for
forty-eighthours,afterwhichtheflukesoftheschistosomiasissnailwouldnolongerposeadanger.At
thatpointwewerefreetoboilthecloudywaterforthetwenty-minuteminimum,afterwhichwepouredit
into a filter apparatus so that it would resemble drinking water, the flotsam and worse from the river
strainedintothequicklycloggedfilter.
Theintricaciesofnavigatingdailyliferequiredawholenewsetofroutines.AtriptotheWCentailed
amini-trekthroughthecompound,pastthelandlord’shouse,pastthegoats,thechickens,thedonkey,out
thebackgateintothefieldbehindustotheshintebet,newlyconstructedasapreconditionoftherental
agreement. Should the need to make this journey occur in the middle of the night, it was made to the
accompanimentofthenocturnalsongofthehyena,whoselaughinghowlweheardeverysinglenight.
No,itneveroccurredtometoinvitemyparentstovisitusinAfrica.ButentertainingtheminourSan
Francisco flat would be a piece of cake. The shintebet was down the hall. No hyenas in the alley.
Electricityflowedthroughourwirestwenty-fourhoursaday.Wehadastoveandarefrigerator.Imissed
ourbrightgreenshutters,butwithglassineachandeverywindowwedidn’tneedthem.
MyparentsinourvillageinAfrica?They’venowbeenthereviathestoriesembeddedforeverinmy
memory,thatI’velovedtorelive,overandoveragain,sothey’vebeenthereinaway,ashaveallofyou
whositandopenyourselvestothewitnesswebroughthome,lettingyourselvesbetakenallthewayto
ourvillageinAfrica.
SolveigNilsenwasaPeaceCorpsVolunteerinEthiopiafrom1967–1969.Aftersomepost-Peace
CorpsyearsinNewYork,SanFrancisco,andNewHampshire,shesettleddowninMinneapolis,
Minnesota,aslibrarianwithHennepinCountyLibraryforthirtyyears.Shehasbeenorganizerand
chiefstewardofAFSCMELocal2864andwasgiventheBermanAwardforSocialResponsibilityin
LibraryServices.
WhatITellMyStudents
WILLIAMG.MOSELEY
Don’tunderestimatetheAfricans…oryourself,either!
I AM A GEOGRAPHY PROFESSOR AT A SMALL LIBERAL ARTS COLLEGE IN THEUPPERMIDWEST.THE COLLEGE, WHICH
pridesitselfoninternationalism,tendstoattractalotofstudentswithaninterestinfarawaylands.Itis
also a somewhat left-leaning campus where students have a deep interest in making the world a better
place.ThecoursesIteachareinternationalinscope,focusingonenvironment,development,andAfrica.
Slides from my Peace Corps days and other international development experiences often feature
prominentlyinmylectures.That’swhy,clearly,anumberofstudentswalkintomyofficeeverysemester
askingaboutmyexperiencesasaPeaceCorpsVolunteer.MostofthemalsowanttoknowwhatIthinkof
thisasapossibleopportunity.WhileIhaveallsortsofresponses,Itrytobehonest,sharingbothpositive
andnegativeaspectsofthattimeinmylife.
I don’t think I was ever out to save the world. I was pretty cynical about development in general,
having read many of the classic development critiques in my anthropology, history, and economics
courses. No, I think I joined Peace Corps to experience the world in some remote part of that global
South.Iwantedtobeasfarawayfromthe“West”asIcould.IfIamtobebrutallyhonest,Ibelievethis
desiretobe“awayfromtheWest”probablyhadsomethingtodowithmymixedfeelingsaboutwhereI
grew up, in the suburbs outside of Chicago. Clearly I had benefited from the good schooling this
environmenthadprovidedme.Yetmycollegeeducationandexperiencesabroadmademeincreasingly
uncomfortable with the blatant materialism, homogeneity, and pro-business orientation of the suburbs.
PerhapsPeaceCorpswasthelogicalantidoteformysuburbanAmericanupbringing.
SowheredidIgo,howdidIliveandwhatdidIdo?Ilearnedinthespringof1987thatIwouldbe
senttoMalitwoweeksafterIgraduatedfromcollegeinJune.Ofcourse,IhadnoideawhereMaliwas
whenIreceivedmyappointmentletter—havingtolookitupintheworldatlasjustlikealloftheother
non-sophisticates.SomemembersofmyextendedfamilythoughtIwasgoingtoBali(Indonesia)orMaui
(Hawaii),tropicalstateswhichwerequitedifferentfromthesemi-arid,land-locked,WestAfricanation
whichisprobablybestknownforatownmanypeoplearenotsurereallyexists,thatlegendarycityatthe
endoftheworld—Timbuktu.
WhyIwassenttoMaliIamnotsure.IhadtoldthePeaceCorpsrecruiterIwouldgoanywhere,and
my French language skills are probably the best explanation for this appointment. Mali was also
recoveringfromamajordroughtin1984-85whichhadstruckmuchofSahelianAfrica.Asaresult,Mali
andanumberofothercountriesintheregionweretargetsforexpandingPeaceCorpsinitiatives,allunder
anumbrellaprogramknownastheAfricanFoodSystemsInitiative(AFSI).
Iunderwentfourmonthsoftraininginasmalltownoutsideofthecapitalcity,Bamako.Iperfectedmy
French, learned a local language known as Bamanan or Bambara, studied community development
approaches,andlearnedcountry-specificskillsrelatedtomychosentechnicalsectorofagricultureand
communitygardening.TosaythatIwasanagriculturalexpertwouldbeahugemisnomer.Ihadstudied
history as an undergraduate and played around in the garden growing up. About the only other
qualification I could claim was a high school career test which indicated, to the horror of the school
guidancecounselor,thatIshouldbeafarmer.
Training was amazing in terms of quality, as well as in the opportunity to bond with fifty other
Volunteerswhoformedmytraininggroup;Iwasreadytobeginmyservicewhenthetrainingperiodwas
over.
Having listened to my request for a remote, rural site, I was sent to small Bamanan village of 200
peopleaboutfiftykilometersfromthenearestpavedroad.ThereweretwootherFrenchspeakersinmy
village, the grade school teacher and the government agricultural agent who was my counterpart. I
distinctlyrememberthePeaceCorpstruckdrivingawaythatfirstday,feelinglikeIwasreally,reallyon
myown.
Overthenextsixmonths,IwouldliveintemporaryhomeswhilethevillageandIbuiltmyhouse.It
was a basic adobe structure with three non-standard (for the area) improvements: a cement floor, a tin
roof,andapitlatrine.WhileIhadmyownhome,Itookmymealswithafamilyinthevillagethathad
beenassignedtolookafterme.
Duringthoseinitialmonths,myonlyrealjobwastoperfectmyBamananlanguageskillsandtogetto
knowtheplace.Ispentalotoftimehangingout.Oneofthemainwaysmalespasstheirtimeistodotea
intheevening.(Thisis,ofcourse,whilewomenaredoingallofthework.)Overseveralhours,onewill
prepare and serve three rounds of strong, sweet tea to their friends. During the long dry season, this is
typicallydoneunderthestars.ItisherethatIperfectedmyBamanan,discussingeverythingunderthesun
withmynewfoundMalianfriends.
HangingoutisadifficulttaskformanyworkaholicAmericans.Gettingthingsdoneissoengrainedin
usthatthisinitialphaseischallengingformostVolunteers.Evenaftermyinitialstart-up,therewereoften
slowtimes,especiallyduringtherainyseasonwhenallofthevillagerswerebusyatworkintheirfields.
Ididworkwithpeopleintheirfieldsduringthistime,andevenfarmedmyownpeanuts,buttherewere
real physical limits to how much I could do. This meant lots of time reading during the rainy season. I
rememberbecomingtotallyengrossedinTolkien’sLordoftheRingstrilogyandthenemergingfrommy
huttorejoinvillagelife.Itcouldbesurreal,verysurreal.
While I was trained to be a gardening volunteer, I quickly learned that I had little in the way of
agriculturalinsighttooffertomembersofthiscommunity.Infact,themoreIobserved,themoreIbecame
impressed with the agricultural and natural resource management practices of this and surrounding
villages.Thesefarmers’tillagetechniques,theirwayofmixingdifferentcropsinthesamefield(known
asintercropping),theirknowledgeofdifferentsoils,andtheirfallowingscheduleswereallfascinatingto
me.Ibecameincreasinglyskepticalofthegovernment’sattemptstopromote“modernagriculture,”which
tendedtoemphasizecottonproductionandtheuseofpesticidesandfertilizers.
WhileIeventuallydidworkwithcommunitygardeners,Ididmanyotherthingsinresponsetovillage
interests.Ihelpedformabeekeepersco-opthatsoldhoneyinthecapitalcity;builtanimproved,cementlined well; offered basic nutrition training; grafted fruit trees; and experimented with different agroforestry approaches. Had I been a formally trained agronomist, I am not sure if I would have been as
flexibleasIwas.Beingabroadlytrainedliberalartscollegegraduate,Ineverpositionedmyselfasthe
expert,butratherassomeonewhocouldworkwiththecommunitytoaddresscertainproblems.Ialsodid
nothavelargesumsofprojectmoneywithwhichIcouldpurchaselocalcooperation.Ifpeopledidn’tlike
myideas,theyeventuallyletmeknowtheirdisapprovalbydraggingtheirfeet,orjusttellingme.
ItisataboutthispointinmyconversationwithastudentthatIpause,andletthemknowthatIamvery
biasedinmyassessmentofPeaceCorps.Itmaysoundcorny,butitwasatransformativeexperiencefor
me.Ifoundmycalling—sotospeak—whichwastostudy,write,andteachaboutagricultureandnatural
resourcemanagementapproachesinAfrica.ThiswasararemomentinmylifewhereIcouldjust“be”
andittaughtmelastinglessonsabouthowpeoplethinkandliveinasmallruralfarmingcommunity.HadI
been hell-bent on writing a dissertation at the time, or bound and determined to mount some huge
developmentproject,IamnotsureIwouldhavelearnedhalfofwhatIdid.
Mine being well-trained, critical students, it is usually at about this time that I get two to three
somewhatinterrelatedquestions.
First,isn’tthewholedevelopmentprocessaflawed,neo-imperialistproject?(ItoldyouIhaveleftleaning students.) Yes, mainstream approaches to development are highly flawed. Nonetheless, I argue
thatourjobistoreinventdevelopmentandtobegintothinkaboutthisprocessinverydifferentways.I
furtherassertthatplaceslikeMaliareincreasinglyconnectedtous,whetherwelikeitornot.Ourjobis
tofigureouthowtoengagepositivelywiththeMalisoftheworld.
OnceweacknowledgethatAfricansarealreadyincontactwiththeWesternworld(whetherwelikeit
ornot),Ibelieveweopenanewspacefordevelopment.WithitsFrierianinspired,bottom-upapproach
todevelopment,IbelievePeaceCorpsisclosertoasounddevelopmentapproachthanalmostanyother
groupactiveinthisarena.
Second,studentsoftenaskiftheyareonlyservingU.S.interestsabroadbyjoiningthePeaceCorps,
becoming“anagentoftheU.S.Government.”Inmyexperience,today’sstudentsareveryskepticalofany
goodthatcouldbedeliveredbyagovernmentorganization.PerhapsthisisatriumphofReaganism,or
Republicanism more broadly—but I suppose the right should take pride in knowing how skeptical leftleaningstudentsareofgovernmentingeneral.WhilePeaceCorpswillnotservewheretheU.S.hasno
diplomaticrelations,therealityisthatmostPeaceCorpscountriesareoflittlestrategicimportancetothe
U.S.IneverfeltlikeanagentoftheU.S.governmentinMali.IknowsomeofmyvillagefriendsthoughtI
mightbeCIAatfirst.But,asfarasIknow,theycametorealizethatthiswasnotwhatIwasabout.
Third,thereistheAmericanworkaholicquestion:DoPeaceCorpsVolunteersreallyachieveanything
meaningfulintermsofdevelopment?IcertainlyknewsomeVolunteerswhodidnotaccomplishmuchin
the way of work, but these were the exception. Some of these individuals were suffering from culture
shock and/or depression; others eventually went home early. However, by and large, most of the
Volunteers were hard working. I also remind my students that Peace Corps is more than just a
development organization, but serves as a vehicle for cross-cultural exchange. While what we actually
did as Volunteers may be difficult to quantify, the understanding we brought back home is just as
important.Godknows,thelumberinggiantwecallAmericacanalwaysuseamoreinformedcitizenry.
Inothercases,Volunteersoftenplantseedsthattakeyearstobloom.Irememberbeingfrustratedthata
large community garden was never established in my village when I was there—despite numerous
suggestions that this be considered. I went back several years later to discover that one had been
establishedandtheythankedmeforinitiatingtheidea.
There are loads of other questions I am often asked. For example, isn’t two years too long of a
commitment,orisn’titbettertoworkontheseissuesathomeratherthanabroad?IleftPeaceCorpsready
toleave(twoyearsandfourmonthswasjustaboutrightforme),butanythinglessthanthiswouldhave
beenunfairtothepeopleIwaswith.Ilaudthosewhoworkondevelopmentissuesathome,butIthink
there is something very important to be gained from living outside of your culture and country. It also
allowsonetoappreciatetheimmensepowerthattheU.S.exertsontherestoftheworld.PeaceCorps
isn’tforeveryone,andthatmypositivetenuremaynotbethenorm.ButIalsowantmystudentstomake
an informed choice, and I hope that they are open to considering what was for me a life-altering
experience.
WilliamG.MoseleyisanassociateprofessorofgeographyatMacalesterCollegeinSaintPaul,
Minnesota.HewasanagriculturalvolunteerinMalifrom1987–89.HeismarriedtoanotherMali
RPCV,JuliaEarl,andtheyhavetwochildren,BenandSophie.
SlashandBurn
KELLYMCCORKENDALE
Givingthanksthousandsofmilesfromhome—making“there”home.
THEMALAGASYHADTAKENMEFORCRAZYWHENTHEYHEARDTHEDEEPBREATHOFDEFEATIEXHALEDINTHEFACEOF
freshlybutcheredcow.Yet,now,asIglancedoutofmyhuttoseeMichelleholdingtwochickens—their
necks weeping red—I breathed with ease. This dinner would be special, and recent death no longer
hinderedme.Weplannedanambitiousmeal;consideringwehadnooven,onlyabrokentwo-burnerhot
plateandascrappytincookerthatburnedcharredrainforest,myexcitementheightened.
We’dbecookingonravinala,Ithought,oreucalyptus.Ihopednot.Evenwithsanctions,Madagascar
wasbeingstrippedofitsbeauty.Myvillageontheeastcoastof“L’illedepassion,”or,MadLand,asI
lovinglycalledthisAfricanisland,heededlittleconservationwarning.Survivaldefinedaperson’slife,
andsurvivalwassometimes“slashandburn.”Thatunderstoodandpartiallyaccepted,myfriendsandI
anticipated the feast for which we had gathered, that Saturday after the holiday exalting the gift of
survival:Thanksgiving.
WegatheredSaturdaybecauseallofushadworkedThursday:teaching,weighingbabiesorfarming,
butthisThanksgivingwouldresemblemost.IimaginedthosefirstfewthatthePilgrimshadsharedwith
NativeAmericansdespitenotfeastingonNovember’sthirdThursday.ThoughnoMalagasyjoinedus,we
bowed,inourway,tothosewho,inouryearsthere,hadeverlitafireforus,strippedalitchiofitsshell,
orhadtakenustomarketandtaughtustobarter.
TheMalagasy,liketheIndianstoourPilgrimancestors,noticedourdistinctwhiteness.“Monaohona
vazaha.” Vazaha implied paleness. Meant foreignness. And insinuated ignorance—an ignorance we
unwittinglyaccepted.
At first, we were lost without comfort—electricity, toilet, faucet. I asked questions from dawn until
dusk:What’sthis?AreyousureIcaneatthat?Youwantmetositwhere?Priorexperiencecertainlydid
notapplytocookinginmybrave,newworld.Inowhadtoassembleanoven,pluckchickensandsoften
plantains,butIwasstillavazaha—rejectingcookinglessonsbecauseIhadgonetoMadagascartosave
theworld,nottoeat.
AmannamedGabyhadtriedtoteachusbasicskillsduringtraining—aten-weekperiodafterwefirst
arrived in Mad Land. I had imagined there would be wild fruits at copious markets, but I never
contemplatedtheartofbakinginthedevelopingworldortheedibilityofmeatcoloredruby.Gaby,our
officialcook,invitedusintohiskitchenandtriedtoteachushowtomakeourfavoriteswithlimitedtools.
His delicious and warm brownies softened in my mouth while I reasoned that I would be too busy
teaching,studyingMalagasyanddevelopinglife-skillsprojectstodreamofbakingsweets.Besides,Iwas
surethatcookingwouldbeinstinctual.Icould,afterall,boilnoodles,sliceanonion,andsautétomatoes.
Godknew,Ihadlittledesiretostrayfromthesesafestaplesafterthefamadihina.
A famadihina is a celebration held every few years whereupon Malagasy families remove their
relatives’ bones from tombs and rewrap them in new lambahoany, or cloth. There is moonshine and
dancingandatraditionalfattyporkmealofwholepig.Mygrouphadattendedonesuchevent.
We sat at a long wooden table—hands folded in our laps, underneath a wet weather tarp—and
practiced our language. Bowls of vary mena—red rice—and plates of pork steamed with oil. The
Malagasy, always gracious to guests—especially the “exotic”—sought to please us. We received a
secondplateoffreshpigtoshare.Iaskedafriendtodishoutmore.Heplungedinandpulledupanentire
jaw—completewithteeth—andgrimaced,astoutlaughescapingfrommid-throat.Ideclined.
AssoonasIgottogotothecapital,IgorgedmyselfatHotelDeFranceonthefamiliar—hamburgers.
Nearlyeighteenmonthslater,itseemedanothergirlhadconsumedbothmeals.
InVatomandry,IawaitedmyfiveclosestAmericanfriends,justaseagertoseethemastheywereto
makethetrektomybeach.Theoceanroaredmeawakeeachmorning,andaseabreezeoftenshookmeto
sleep—thatandthesoundofpigsmakingsweetlovebeyondmyyard.
Litchis, papaya, ampalibe, zaty, mangoes, oranges, passion fruit, corresol, and even watermelon
abounded;Ilivedadreamfriendsenvied.Mymarkets’generousofferingsinmind,wehadplannedour
meal via letters: coconut chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, sautéed carrots and green beans, stuffing,
banana bread and as much beer as we could afford. We would pool our resources to purchase these
extravagances—sparenoexpense—butter,flour,coconut,andrum.
Stephanie had arrived a day early. When the pigs’ play awoke me, a familiar hollow feeling had
invadedmybelly:thehungry/fullsymptomofgiardia.InAmerica,weseedoctorsforthis.InMadagascar,
I co-existed with it for two years. It lay latent, waiting to strike once every month. Still, I followed
Stephanie to market where we bartered for six kilos of vegetables and fruit. On our walk home, we
stoppedatahotely—acruderestaurantsimilarinappearancetoaDepression-erashanty—andordered
fishforlunch.Aswedugin,mystomachimploded.Irushedtothekabone,orhole-in-the-ground.Once.
Twice.Threetimesinfifteenminutes.Stephanielookedupatmefromherfood.Iwasflushed,sweatyand
doubledover.
Shecouldn’thelpme;bythenIhadacceptedgiardiaasmycompanion—aforbiddenlovertowhomI
abandonedreasonwitheveryrendezvous.Minutebacteriaslunkinandrooteddeeperintomyintestines
everymonth,forInolongerfearedwhatIate,howIcleaneditorwhereIboughtit.
During training, after the pig jaw incident, I had refused to eat in a hotely. By Thanksgiving, I had
falleninlovewiththeseremindersofbar-food-gone-badatahole-in-the-wall.
WhenIhadfirstarrivedinmyvillage,Ihadtiptoedaroundmostfoodslikeonecirclesanelephant—
peculiar, obvious and maybe even deadly—at the front door. My first meal in Vatomandry had been
QuakerOats—agiftIpulledfromacarepackageafterIwavedmyJeep/escortgoodbye.
My shoulders had curled as my chest sunk and spine condensed around my abdomen: instant
apprehension. I went inside my house for the first time alone. In my concrete hut, I eyed the skeletal
kitchen and approached the stove. It was hooked to a gas bottle, so I turned the knob and heard a faint
click.Fireflared.Ireveledinjoy.
Andthenflamesshotout.Themetalontopblackenedandcaved.Ipanicked,flingingadirtytowelat
thefirebeforefumblingtheswitchoff.AlonetearslidovermycheekasIwonderedhowIwouldever
eat.
Fortunately,theotherburnerworked,andlater,asIsatonmybackstoop,thesunsettingbeyondthe
bananatree,mytinylipsstruggledaroundthewidebrimofawoodenspoonpiledhighwithbrownsugar
andcinnamon.Istillachedinsidefromfearofdeathbystarvation;theelephantstillsatatthedoor,and
wouldforawhile.
On Thanksgiving Saturday, despite my illness, we started cooking early. We soaked the veggies in
filtered,chlorinatedwater.Cubedpotatoes.Slicedcarrots.Choppedonions.Poundedgarlic.
Amber,Michelle,andIsatoverplasticbucketsenjoyingthevegetables’thudwithourknives’every
slip.StephanieandSaraperusedthemarketchickensandpickedupabagfullofcoconutshavingswhile
we awaited the arrival of Becky. The over-feathered chickens were scrappy with little meat, but we
settledonfourdecentones.MichelleandBeckyconqueredthemwhileAmberandIsiftedflourandsugar
intocreamedeggsandbananas.Wefilledthebottomtwoinchesofaten-gallonpotwithsand,placedatin
caninthecenterandtoppeditwithasmallerbutteredpot.Wepouredinthebatter.Outside,Michelleand
Beckyslitthechickens’throats.Theblooddrained.Theysteepedtheheadlesscreaturesinboiledwater
beforeplucking,andafterwards,Beckygrabbedaknifeanddividedthemattheirjoints.Wewouldeven
frytheback,neckandtailbone.
Michelle lived in a town near me. During our first few weeks, we had thought only of food, often
feelingasifwewerestarving.Atomatoandacupofpastawashedthroughourbowelslikesandfrom
shore.Weneededsustenance—heavyandthick,doughyandgreasy,chunkyandchewy.Wepreparedoillogged spaghetti and fried eggplant by the subtle glow of candlelight. We next endeavored to produce
shrimpscampiandFrenchfries.Theshrimpwerelittlelargerthanmaggots.Byourthirdmealtogether,
werealizedweneededmeat—theland-dwellingkind.
When we bought the chicken, we turned from each other to the bird. And then back again. Michelle
waswillingtokill.Iconsentedtoassist.WetookittoMichelle’sroom.Idicedvegetablesandboiled
riceasMichelleplacedonefootonitswingsandtheotheronitsfeet.Itsheadinherlefthand:knifeinthe
right.Backturned,Iknewwhensheslititsthroat;itsmelledlikeIimaginedbirth,orwar,might—arush
ofblood,shitandpisspiercingtheairallatonce,orchestratedtothebawlingdecrescendoofdeath.
ByThanksgivingoursecondyearthere,neitherMichellenorImindedtheprocess.Wehadmanagedto
create hamburgers, chili, honey roasted nuts, refried beans, nachos and tacos, tuna and salmon—even
brownies.Ondailyjauntstomarket,wefacedcowandpig,justdeadandsplayedout.Ihadlearnedto
recognize stomach by it almost furry appearance and to appreciate that hooves could be boiled into a
gelatinoussoup.
MichelleandIworkedswiftlyonTurkeyDay,awell-oiledmachine.Iseasonedflourforfryingwhile
shemixedtomatoes,garlic,gingerandonionwithcoconutmilkforsauce.Istrainedtheshavingswithhot
watertwicetokeepthemilkrich.Beckysatonthebackstepatthefantapeara—thetinycharcoalcooker
litbythatrarewood—andsautéedthegreenbeansandcarrots.Sarapulledthefinishedbananabreadout
oftheten-gallonpotwhilewearingleathergardenglovesandpouredinthesecondbatch.Stephanieranto
thestoreformorebutterandrefilledthewaterbuckets.WedrankThreeHorsesBeerandcontinuously
cleanedmytwoknives,fivespoons,andthreebowlsinaclothes-washingbin.WeplayedChristmastunes
andwipedsweatfromournecks,cheeks,andchestswithpocketscarves.
My first day at site—after the stove incident—a tiny girl had popped into the frame of my open
window. Florence. I noted her rank odor. Still, she became my teacher and best friend. Prideful, she
behaved differently from the typically timid Malagasy; whenever I whined loneliness she would try to
send me on a blind date with an eligible, clean man. Together, we de-shelled, roasted, and pounded
peanutswithsugar,salt,andhoneyuntiltheywerecreamypaste.Shetaughtmetoroundmymofogasy—a
cake-like,sweetbread.Ishowedherhowtostewtomatoes.Weatemealstogetherandtalkedpolitics,
boys,hopesanddreams.Wecommunicatedbestinthekitchen—myhandskneading,mixing,chopping.
Sitting there grading papers or entertaining neighbor kids, I realized how misguided I had been,
thinkingIwouldn’tinvesttimeinfood.WhenIneededabreakfromspeakingMalagasy,beingaliaisonto
theworldandteachingEnglish,cookingreplacedTV,theater,personalvehicle,andnightlife.
Ispenthourshuntingdownyeast.Meltingchocolateforbrownies.Marinatingbeef.Pasteurizingmilk
andmixingitwithbutterforAlfredosauce.Snappingtheheadsoffshrimp.Scalingfish.Mixingketchup,
mayonnaiseandsweet-and-sourorSzechuansauces.Fryingcrepes.AndIdidallthis,often,wrappedin
nothingbutthethinlambahoanyofthedead,asifItoohadbeensenttoheavenanew.
ThecolorfulwrapkeptmeaboutascoolasanapeinagreenhousewhenIstoodoveraflameduring
thehotseason,butIstillinvitedmystudentstocookwithme.TheylovedthatIadoptedtheirdress.ThatI
enjoyedMalagasy“compose”andsugaredavocadoes.Ateplatesheapedwithvarymena. We sang and
talkedlife.ListenedtotheBlackEyedPeas.Theyperusedmymagazinesandflippedthroughpicturesof
myfamily.
Thegreenbeanssautéed,bananabreadbaked,potatoesmashed,stuffingsoggybuttasty,twochickens
friedandtwosimmeredincoconutsauce,myfriendsandIsatdownat4o’clock—beersinhand—toa
warmThanksgivingdinner.Weatefromtheonlypotsandplatesnotfilledwithfood.SaraandBeckysat
onthetsi—awovengrassmat.MichelleandStephanietookthewoodenchairs.AmberandIsatonraffia
stoolsandplacedourfoodonourlaps.Weallsaidoursilentthankyouandate.
Mykitchenfloor,agrayplaneofcrackedconcretedappledblue,resoundedwithcrunchfromthesand
beneathourfeetandbottoms.Theroomwashot,butmypeach-coloredcurtainsbillowedwithabreeze.
The sun shone in, pawing at our skin like cactus thumbs. We laughed about my bubble-blue walls and
defectivestove.Wegrazedwellintodark,and,whenFlorencecameby,wegaveherfamilytheleftovers.
Inoticed,duringmyfirstThanksgivingbackintheStates,thateverythinginthegreenbeancasserole
came from a can. The turkey arrived at our door as cold and white as a snowflake. The bread just
appeared, wrapped in plastic. Cooking started at 9:00, and we feasted at 11:30. Around the oval oak
table,wecouldn’tagreeonmusicorpoliticsorevenfunnystories.
AndthenitwasasifIhadflippedthechannelonalazySunday,suddenly,backtoMadagascar.Ieven
feltafissureofheartachecrackinsideformyoldbeau—giardia.Iwantedthescentofcoconutchicken
ticklingmytongueandcoconut-rumpunchslurringmyspeech.
During Thanksgiving in Madagascar, tired and frazzled, I had not silently thanked the inventor of
ovens.Ihadnotwishedfortheeaseoffrozen,skinlesschickenbreastandarefrigerator.Ihadnotpraised
theingenuityofsinks.Instead,Ihadmarveledwithanewappreciationofallthingstrulyculinary—from
rawtoripeandovercooked.
Ihadbeenthankfulforawarmkitchenwheresixteen-year-oldgirlsshedtheirculturalinhibitions.I
hadslashedandburnedbothexpectationandegoforsurvival.Ilearnedthatittookstrippingideologies—
andfood—bare,beyondbeauty,toappreciateprogress.
ButIknew,despiteitall,sittingthereandsingingalongto“SilentNight,”thatIwouldstillalwaysbe
innatelyAmerican.
Evenso,nowhavingtransitionedbacktothatoverfedandunder-appreciativeAmerican,withevery
spoonfulofQuakerOatsoramicrowavemeal—toobusytoeatanddrinkwithjoy—Iyearnforsomething
more.Thesmellofrawgingerandgarlic.PerhapsabucketofcoolwaterandoneknifeasIstandata
lone table in an azure-blue kitchen, demanding more butter for bread. My friends laughing beside me,
drunkongratitudefortheskillswehadacquiredthatenabledusnottojustsurvive,butdosowithjoy.
Filledwithimmenselove,notjustforeachother,butalsoabig,redisland—drifting,almost,unnoticedin
theIndianOcean.
AfterservinginMadagascarfrom2004–2006,KellyMcCorkendalelearnedtheothersideof
developmentasanadminassistantintheEuropeandCentralAsiaRegionattheWorldBank.Life
orderingofficesuppliesandbookingplaneticketswasquitedullcomparedtoteachinginaMalagasy
village,soshewentbacktoschool—completinghermaster’sdegreeinInternationalTrainingand
Educationin2010fromAmericanUniversityinWashington,D.C.,wheresheresides.
TwoYearsLastsaLifetime
SALLYCYTRONGATI
Weteachbestwhenwearealsolearning.Andtheteachingwedocanreturntous.
“ASKNOTWHATYOURCOUNTRYCANDOFORYOU—ASKWHATYOUCANDOFORYOURCOUNTRY.”WHENIWASABOUT
tograduatefromUCLAin1963,IthoughtaboutPeaceCorps.Myanthroprofessor,CouncilTaylor,talked
aboutfascinatingexperiencesinGuineaonthewestcoastofAfrica.Itwasalsothetimeofthecivilrights
movement,andIwasreadyandinterestedtolearnmoreaboutAfricafirsthand.Goingstraighttograduate
schooldidnotinspireme.
What did was a chance happening on campus. One of the first groups going to Ghana was training
there,soIsatinonalecture;thatwasthesparkIneeded,andIknewthiswastobemynextmove.Ifilled
outtheextremelylongapplicationformandwasinvitedtotrainforaprograminBrazil.Thatwouldhave
beenfinebut,sinceIknewthattherewouldbeatrainingsessionforNigeriaatColumbiaUniversity,I
askedtobeconsideredforthatinstead.
Nothingseemstobeeasy;inthosedays,thiswasalsotrue.PeaceCorpsWashingtonheldmeupuntilI
had lost weight. Besides that, they didn’t let me go to Nigeria with my group because the FBI hadn’t
finishedmybackgroundcheck.Ihadtowaitandgobymyself,arrivinginNigeriaaboutamonthlater.
WhenIfinallygotthere,Iwasassignedtoahighschoolinthecapitalcity,Lagos;thiscausedraised
eyebrowsinmygroupfromthosewhobelievedthatthereasonIcamelate,alone,anddidn’tgeta“bush”
assignmentwasthatIwasreallyworkingfortheCIA.
MyassignmentwastoteachEnglishliterature,grammar,andwritinginaboys’highschool—United
ChristianSecondaryCommercialSchool.Iwasgivenaone-bedroom,air-conditionedapartmentthathad
a kitchen, bathroom, and living room. It was in a six-unit building about twenty minutes walk from the
schoolinaveryniceareaofLagoscalledApapa.Frommyfrontwindow,Icouldviewanundeveloped
fieldwithasmallcommunitycenterrecreationbuildingbehindwhichwasabigKingswaysupermarket.
There were shops that sold fruit and vegetables, a beauty parlor, a bakery, a butcher shop, a clothing
store,andaplacetobuygascontainersforheatingwater.
Down the block from my place, separated by a parking lot, was the fancy Excelsior Hotel and the
famousMoroccanRoomwithabandandbarandnightlydancing.I,ofcourse,wasagoodgirl,andonly
visited to see what was going on there. I lived on the corner lot. The “ashewos” (Yoruba word for
prostitutes) used to stand in front of my apartment. When the headlights of cars came down the road,
they’dshineontheseladiesbeforemakingtheturn,andI’dwatchthemfrommythird-floorbalcony.
Itwasn’teasybeinggreen,neverhavinghadaclassofmyown.TheschoolwasorganizedintoFive
Forms, the first, corresponding to Freshman; the second, Sophomores; the third, Juniors, the fourth,
Seniors,andthefifth,thosewhowereinschoolforanextrayeartoprepareandtakeadvancedplacement
tests.Iwasluckyinonesense,though,becauseanotherPeaceCorpsteacherwasatmyschool,andhe
wasalreadytherewhenIarrived.
DuanewasamathteacherfromSeattle.Howniceforbothofustobeabletocommiserateandtotalk
about our situation, especially when things weren’t going well. I had a shoulder to lean on when the
headmastercanedmyP.E.classfornotcominginontimebecauseIhadnotinsistedthattheystoptheir
soccergame.DuanehelpedmewhenIhaduncomfortableencounterswithanBritishEnglishteacher,who
told me, “Sorry, Sally, we can’t have an American in charge of the English Department.” When my
monthlyallowance(about$150)wasstolenbymy“houseboy,”Duanewastheretohelpmethroughthe
month.WhenDuane’sgirlfriendcameasaPCV,Iwaspleasedtobeawitnessattheirwedding,attended
byPeaceCorpsDirectorBillSaltonstallandhiswifeKathy.
BothDuaneandIwereactiveatourschoolandinthecommunity.Duaneorganizedprojectsforthe
LagosWorkCamp,gettingvolunteerstobuildaconcretereceptacleforgarbage.Ihadamusicclub,in
whichIhadstudentsplayingtraditionalNigerianinstruments.Wemetonceaweek,andthekidspracticed
andgotsogood,wewereaskedtobeonNigerianTV.Ialsoorganizedaswimmingclub.
TheoneprojectoutsideofschoolthatIfeelmostproudofwasasleepovercampthatIorganizedthat
gavetwenty-fourboysfrommyschoolachancetohaveaterrific“scoutlike”experience,swimminginthe
lagoon,canoeing,fishing,cooking,buildingacampfireandcuttinglogsforseatssurroundingit.Iworked
with a wonderful man from the Ministry of Social Welfare, got the Chief of Police to release one
policemanwhowasafineswimmertobeoneofmycounselors,hadanOlympicswimmerasswimming
coach,hadtwoPCVshelpascounselors,andaMarinerScouttodothecanoeingclasses.Wehadsome
publicityinNigeriabecauseofanarticleintheNigerianDailyTimes,butmorefunwastohearfrommy
momintheStatesthattherewasareportononeofthemajorAmericanTVnewsprogramsonChristmas
Evetellingaboutmyboys’camp.
WhatIlearnedaboutmyselfwasthatwhatevermyinterests,experience,andabilitieswerebeforeI
wenttoNigeria,Iexpandedon.Iwasinterestedinmusic,folkinstruments,andfolkartandfoundNigeria
the perfect place for all of these. I collected many traditional instruments and loved to “jam” with the
students.IoftenwenthighlifedancingwithNigerianfriends.HavingbeenaScoutcounselorforyearsin
California,Ibroughtaninnocencecoupledwithenthusiasmthathelpedmemoveforwardtoorganizethe
camp in Nigeria. I was good at sports and loved the idea that when our school became co-ed, I could
introducevolleyballtothegirlsinmyP.E.class.IloveShakespeareandenjoyedtheopportunitytoteach
someofhisplaysinmyclasses.IlearnedtocookNigerianstewwithcayennepeppersandokraandeatit
withcassavawithmyfingers.Ifriedplantainandmadeitregularly.IrodeonmymotorizedSolexbicycle
withmycrazymonkeyUkhekhe,andwewatchedthegoingsonfromourbalcony.
I saw a country in turmoil: coups, killings, corruption, cultural clashes, and political instability. I
marveled at the many living languages spoken by divergent tribes, fell in love with the folk art, came
awaywithnewperspectives,andmademanymeaningfulfriendships.
WhenIreturnedfromthePeaceCorps,Iwentbacktograduateschool,gotanM.A.inComparative
Folklore and Mythology at UCLA with an emphasis on African Studies and did a master’s thesis on
Yorubafolklore.MyfirstjobwasinLosAngelesasanA.B.E(adultbasiceducation)teacherandlaterI
began teaching ESL (English as a Second Language). When I moved with my husband and son to San
Francisco,IbeganteachingESLfortheCommunityCollege(nowCityCollegeofSanFrancisco),andI’m
stillhappyintheclassroom.
Besidesmyfull-timeESLjob,IalsoteachaSeniors’classinWorldCulturesinOaklandonceaweek.
I can immediately recognize when a Nigerian is speaking English. One day, not so long ago, as I was
doing my attendance sheets at the Pleasant Valley Adult School Office in Oakland, I heard someone
speakingwithadistinctandrecognizableNigerianaccent.Itwasanotherteacher,anewhire.Whenhe
acknowledgedthathewasfromNigeria,ItoldhimthatIhadspenttwoyearsatUCSCShighschoolin
Apapa,Lagos,Nigeria.
He then told me that school was where he had been a student. Now that was something! Out of 55
million people in l964 and 180 million today, how unlikely would it be to find someone who not only
knewofmyNigerianhighschoolbuthadbeenastudentthere?
Aswetalked,hestartedtellingmeaboutvariouspeopleinhisclass,abouthismathteacher,Duane,
andaboutotherteachersandstudentswebothknew.HeaskedmewhatmynamehadbeenwhenIwasin
Nigeria.Itoldhim,“SallyCytron.”Hespelledmylastnamecorrectlyandsaid,“Believeitornot,you
weremyEnglishteacher.”
‘Dapo,Duane,andIgottogetherinOaklandandhadamini-reunioninAprilof2008.MyPeaceCorps
experiencecamefullcircle.
A Yoruba proverb says, “One does not easily or casually take the child from the palm-nut.” Mr.
Oyekan Omomoyela (in The Good Person: Excerpts from the Yoruba Proverb Treasury) explains: “It
takes effort to accomplish a good end.” I never knew if the effort I made as a Peace Corps Volunteer
reallybroughtaboutanythinggood,butthebenefitsandgoodmemoriesformehavedefinitelybeenlong
lastingandhavespreadovermylifetime.
Sally(Cytron)GatiwasaPeaceCorpshighschoolteacherinLagos,Nigeria,from1964-66.She’s
beenteachingforoverfortyyearsandstillteachesESLatCityCollegeofSanFrancisco.She’salsoa
teacher/trainer,textbookwriter,anddocumentaryfilmmaker.HerwebsiteisHTTP://FOG.CCSF.EDU~SGATI.
SisterStellaSeamsSerene
STARLEYTALBOTTANDERSON
Thoughthingsdon’talwaysworkout,theexperiences—andtheplaces—staywithus.
ITWASALONGWAYFROMAWYOMINGRANCHCORRALTOASETSWANACHIEF’SKRAALINARURALVILLAGEOFSOUTH
Africa. The cultural distance may have been even further for this ranch-raised sixty-year-old woman
travelingtoAfricawiththeUnitedStatesPeaceCorps.
ThesightsandsoundsoftheJulydayIbeganmyjourneyareburnedinmymindlikeabrandonacalf.
Hightrillvoicesrangoutingreetingovertherocky,redhills,echoingbacktothechief’skraal. Black
potsbubbledoveropencookfireswatchedbyblackfaceseagertomeettheAmericansarrivingonabig
busfromPretoria.Thechief’skraalharkensbackhundredsofyearstowhenitwasactuallyacorralto
hold livestock or a cluster of buildings to hold the chief’s family and their possessions. The modern
kraal, however, is a cluster of buildings housing offices similar to a city hall in any city in the United
States.
SouthAfricantelevisioncameraswhirred,recordingthenewsthatthePeaceCorpshadarrivedforthe
firsttimeintheNorthwestProvince.VolunteershadbeenservingintwootherprovincesinSouthAfrica
foronlyafewyears.Ourmissionasschoolandcommunityresourcevolunteersandforanewprojecton
AIDSeducationwaseagerlyanticipatedintheProvince.Althoughwewouldonlyremaininthevillageof
Morulengfortenweeksduringtraining,thevillagerswerequiteexcited.
Dancing, singing, eating, and speeches filled the middle of a sunny winter day (the seasons are
oppositethoseinthenorthernhemisphere).Then,itwasofftoourhosthomestogetacquaintedwiththose
whowouldbeourfamiliesforthenextfewweeks.Thevillagehadconductedmeetingslongbeforeour
arrival to seek those who would like to have a Volunteer as a guest. Hosts would not receive
compensationforhospitality,butinsteadasmallbiweeklyboxoffood.
Igreetedmydiminutivehostess,Stella,afifty-three-year-oldwidow,motheroffourgrownchildren
andgrandmotheroffour.OnegrandchildlivedwithStellawhilehismotherattendedcollege.
Iwastolearnofthelifeofthisamazingwomanovertheweekstocome.
“Wedidn’tthinkyouwouldreallycome,”Stellatoldme.“And,wedidn’tthinkyouwouldreallylive
withus.Itistrulyamiracle,tohavewhitepeopleactuallystayinginourvillage.”
After a ride on public transport, a fifteen-passenger van, I toured Stella’s rather surprisingly large
homebuiltofbrickandcement.Thehomecontainedthreebedrooms,livingroom,kitchen,andasewing
room. It also had space for two bathrooms, which lacked any plumbing whatsoever. But it did boast
electricity, an electric range, refrigerator, television, and telephone. Most of the rooms had not been
finishedontheinsideandtherewasnoinsulationorcentralheat.
The house was surrounded by an expansive yard of dirt that was swept clean each day. In the back
yard was a spotlessly clean cement outhouse divided into two separate cubicles. The yard also had a
coveredareausedforoutdoorcookingandlaundry.
Thehomehadpipedcoldwaterintothekitchen,althoughthepipewasbrokenthroughoutmystay.We
carriedwaterfromatapinthebackyardtobestoredinalargeplasticbarrelinthekitchen.Waterwas
usuallyheatedwiththeuseofanelectrichotpot.Bath,dish,andlaundrywaterwasrecycledtowaterthe
fruit and decorative trees bordering the yard. I soon learned to take a bucket bath and deal with the
inconvenienceofnoindoortoilet.
ThefirsteveningwithStellaandhergrandson,Kele,wasdelightful.StellaandIbondedimmediately
andfoundwehadtheloveofsewingincommon.Stellaearnedherlivingfromsewing,mostlyclothingfor
otherwomeninthevillage.Shereceivednopensionorsocialsecurity.
Most of the younger Peace Corps Volunteers came to fondly refer to their host women as “Mom.”
StellaandIfeltthatweweremorelikesisters,soshebecameSisterStella.AndIbecameSisterStarley,
or Ausi Naledi. (Ausi is the Setswana name for sister and naledi the Setswana word for Star.) I also
becameKele’sgrannyorkokoinSetswana.Keleproudlytoldallhisclassmatesatpreschoolthathe“has
awhitegrannynow.”
Stella’s youngest daughter, Tsolofelo, mother of Kele, was home for a few days before she had to
returntocollege,soshecookeddinnermyfirstnightthere.Weallhuddledinthelivingroomedwrapped
inwoolblanketsandateourmealinfrontofthetelevision,whichcametobeourcustomduringmystay.
The meal consisted of chicken, beets, squash, cabbage slaw, and the staple food of most natives, a
cornmealmushcalledpap.Ineverlearnedtolikepap,butIlearnedtocookitandoccasionallyatesome.
OurPeaceCorpsliteraturehadwarnedusthatitmightbecold,butIhadn’trealizedhowbone-chilling
it really would be. As a soon as the sun set, the cold began to creep into every corner of the unheated
cementhouse.Bybedtime,myfingersandtoeswerenumb.IdressedineverylayerofsleepwearIhad
brought,includingsocks.ThenIsnuggledunderneathfourlayersofwarmwoolblankets.
Iwasupat6:00A.M .,becauseIfoundittookmetwiceaslongasitdidathometoperformmymorning
chores.ThePeaceCorpsvanarrivedat7:30topickupthethreeofusinourneighborhood;wejoined
eleven others already packed into the van for a ten-mile trip to the college. Thirteen other Volunteers
stayinginadifferentvillagemetusthereforourjointtrainingheldonedayeachweek.Otherdaysduring
trainingwerespentonlanguagelessonsandtechnicaltrainingatvariouslocations.
StellaandItreasuredoureveningsgettingacquaintedandteachingeachotherofouruniquecultures,
fulfillingoneofthegoalsofthePeaceCorps.StellaspokeexcellentEnglish,sometimestomydetriment.
WeweresoanxioustoshareourlifeexperiencesthatwespokemostlyinEnglish;Iwasnotlearningthe
Setswanalanguageveryquickly.
“WhydidyouwantaVolunteertostaywithyou?”Iasked.
“IwantedtolearnaboutAmericansandIwantedtoknowmoreaboutwhitepeople.Ourpeoplehave
workedforwhitepeople,butwehaveneverhadthechancetoreallybecomeacquaintedwiththem.I’m
interestedinlearningwhateverIcanaboutpeopleandtheworld,andIjustwantedtohaveanAmerican
livewithme,”shesaid.
It seemed that nearly all of the people of the village were keenly interested in learning about
Americans.ShortlyaftermyarrivalIwalkedtothepostofficeduringaworkshopbreak.Ayoungman
tappedmeonthebackandthencamearoundtofaceme.
“Don’tbeafraid,”hesaid.“Ijustwanttolookatyou.Iwanttolookintoyoureyes.”
Themangentlytouchedmygrayhair,thenmyface,myearrings,andbacktomyhair.
“Veryold,verywise,”hecommented.
Then,apparentlysatisfiedtohaveseenawhitepersonupclose,hewalkedaway.
I found that people were often totally fascinated with my gray, curly hair. The children, especially,
seemedtoenjoytouchingit.
I usually arrived home exhausted after a day of language classes, workshops, and guest speakers.
SomedaysIwalkedthetwomileshome,scuffingmyfeetinthereddirtpathwaybesidetheonlypaved
two-lanehighwayrunningthroughthevillage.Bylateafternoonthebrilliantsuninacloudlessbluesky
hadwarmedthewinterday.Ibrewedtwocupsofrooibos(redbush)tea,whichStellaandIsippedaswe
visitedinhersunnysewingroom.Shenearlyalwaysstitchedbusilyuntildarknessenfoldedus.
As a chill invaded the house, I gathered the teacups and returned to the kitchen to make dinner, the
choreIinheritedwhenStella’sdaughterreturnedtocollege.Stelladelightedineatingsuchcreationsas
tuna casserole and spaghetti with tomato sauce, which she had never tasted before. Our conversations
continuedduringmealtime;thenIwashedthedishesandpreparedeachofusatwo-literglasscokebottle
filledwithhotwatertowarmourbeds.
Throughoutthenextseveralweeks,Stellawovethethreadsofherlifeasserenelyasshestitchedthe
beautiful blue-and-white cloth symbolizing village traditions. By the time she completed a traditional
clothskirtformetoweartoaweddingcelebrationinthevillage,shehadseamedtogethermanystoriesof
herlifeasablackwomaninSouthAfrica.
Shehadcomeasabridetothevillage.TheyhadmetinJohannesburg,whereStellawasrearedina
familyofsevenchildren.Asayoungadult,Stellahadlivedinfairlycomfortablesurroundings,andshe
foundmarriedlifeinthevillagetobeachallenge.“Ihadtocarrywoodfromthemountainandcookonan
outdoorfire.Ihadtocarrywaterfromtheriverforcooking,bathing,andlaundry.AndIhadtolearnthe
manycustomsofthevillageandhowtofitintoafamilythatreallydidn’twantme.”
The couple had four children and eventually built a home. But before the home could be finished,
Stella’shusbanddied.Hehadledsomethingofaclandestinelifeoutsideoftheirmarriageandlefther
penniless.Stellahadalwaysvaluedlearningandinsistedthatthechildrenbeeducated.Herhusbanddid
not share that ideal, and so she put much of her own earnings into sending three of the four children
through college. In addition to being a seamstress, she had worked at the nearby resort of Sun City for
manyyears.
Thissmallandtirelesswomanmadeherentirelivingasaseamstressforseveralyears.Atonetime,
whentherewerefactoriesemployingmanypeopleinthearea,shehadeightseamstressesworkingforher.
But now the factories are closed and she is only able to employ one seamstress, part-time. She spends
severalhourseachdaystitchingononeoftwomodernsewingmachinesinaspaciousroomwithsouthern
windows. A clothing rack holds the many colorful costumes of the village including church uniforms,
aprons,andfestivalclothing.
Stellaholdsnogrudgeagainstwhitepeople,eventhoughdiscriminationstillseemstoprevailinsome
sectors of post-apartheid South Africa. She recalls the kindness of her mother’s white employer during
someoftheworstatrocitiesofapartheid.
“My mother had a beautiful home in Sophiatown in the 1950s and a good job cleaning for a white
woman.Myfatherhaddied,butweweredoingfine.Someoftheolderchildrenwereworkingorliving
outofthehome.Iwashomewatchingmythreeyoungersiblingswhenanawfuldayunfolded.”
According to history, the white people of Johannesburg decided they wished to live in Sophiatown.
BlackpeoplewereforcedtorelocatetotheSouthwesternTownship,laterknownasSoweto.Mostofthe
homesofblackpeoplewerebulldozed.Stella’sfamilyhomewasoneofthelasthomesleftstandingin
Sophiatown.
“Motherhadbeenlookingforanotherhomeforus,andthatdayshehadagainlefttolookforahouse.
Whileshewasgone,thebulldozerscametotakedownourhouse.Iwastenyearsoldandmysiblings
wereagestwo,five,andseven.Thementooksomeofthefurnitureoutintotheyard.Isatonthecouch
with the little ones. While they cried, we watched the big machines tumble our home into a pile of
rubble.”
Stella didn’t know what to do, but eventually some friends saw the children and went to find their
mother. Stella’s mother returned and was able to get the younger children to relatives. Stella and her
motherwenttothehomeofhermother’semployer.
“Thatkindwhitewomentookusinandhidusinherhomeforsometime.Itwasillegaltodoso,but
she did it anyway. She had always treated us kindly. We ate from the same dishes as the white family,
sleptintheirbedsandusedthesamefurniture.Often,blackpeoplecouldnotevensomuchastakeadrink
fromthesamecupawhitepersonused.”
Stellalearnedfromthatexperiencethatnotallwhitepeoplewerecruel.Shetookeveryopportunityto
learnasmuchasshecouldandwasdiligentinlearningEnglish.Whenherchildrenattendedschoolshe
studiedtheirbooksatnightandreadeverythingthatwasavailable.Shewasopentolearninganythingand
especiallyinterestedinlearningabouthygieneandcooking.
IattendedchurchwithStella,notunderstandinganyofthesermondeliveredinSetswana,butbasking
inthewarmandenthusiasticmusic.Itseemsthatnearlyeveryonehasanearandvoiceforsinging.
OnoneSundayweattendedatraditionalweddingwithmixed-inWesternflavor.Iwasembarrassedto
receiveasmuchattentionandrousinggreetingsasthebride.AsIstrolledamongstthenearlyfivehundred
guests at the outdoor reception at the groom’s family home, I was greeted with the familiar loud voice
trill.Itsentchillsupmyspine.Itookmyturnstirringthehugeblackpotsofporridge,servinghomemade
beer,cuttingupvegetablesforamyriadofsaladsandinspectingthesidesofbeefbeingpreparedforthe
barbecuegrill.SouthAfricanslovetobarbecue(braie,asitiscalledthere,derivingfromaDutchword).
Afterthebrideandgroomarrivedtosoundsofabrassbandandmarchedtotheweddingfeastheldin
a large orange tent, I partook of the meal. I astonished people later by dancing a lively jitterbug with
anotherweddingguest.
“Did you teach her to dance?” several guests asked Stella, as they formed a circle, clapping and
laughing.
“No,shealreadyknewhowtodance.”Stellareplied.
Ialreadyknewhowtodance,butIdidn’tknowhowmuchcaringandgenerositycouldbegenerated
betweenourdifferentcultures.TowardthecloseofmyadventureinMoreulengIaskedStellaaquestion
andtheanswerwillalwaysbringasmiletomylipsandateartomyeyes.
“HowdoyoufeelabouthavingawhiteAmericanguestinyourhomenow?”
“Oh,itislikehavingadeliciousmeal,”Stellasaidwithabroadsmileonherbeautifulface.
Onlyafewshortweekslaterwehuggedandsaidgoodbyeforthelasttime.Ihadtoleavetrainingand
South Africa due to a medical problem. I wrote a poem for my fellow Peace Corps Volunteers, ending
withtheselines:
FromSouthAfricaIhadtodepart
FlybacktoAmericawithasadheart
Carryondearfriends,upthesteepslope
PeaceCorpshasboundusforeverinhope.
StarleyTalbott,akaStarleyAnderson,servedinSouthAfricain2001.Starley’sstintwiththePeace
Corps,traininggroupSAVII,wasshortenedduetoamedicalproblem,thoughherphilosophyand
spiritareforeverconnectedtotheidealsofthePeaceCorps.SheresidesinWyomingwheresheisa
freelancewriterandrecentlyreleasedherfifthbook.
LateEvening
LENOREWATERS
Sometimesthebestofromancecomesfromthebanal.
I WALK DOWN THE MIDDLE OF A WESTAFRICAN ROAD. THIS IS THE ROAD WHICH, DURING DAYLIGHT HOURS, THE
womenofthetownusetogatherwoodforcookingfuelandtendtotheirsmallvegetablegardensinthe
forest.Theywalkslowly,basinsontheirheads,babiestiedtotheirbackswithcolorfulbitsofcloth.
Thisistheroadonwhichtrucksbringcacaoandcoffeebeanstothetowncenter.
This is the road to the Child Health Center, where mothers and teachers bring the children for
vaccinations,eachchildscreamingeverytimeaneedlegoesin,nomatterwhosearmisstuck.
This is the road the Boy Scouts march along, practicing parade techniques. But tonight the road is
quiet,veryquiet.
Thenightisblack.Ofcoursetherearenostreetlights,andthereisnomoon,whichiswhyIcanlook
attheskyandseesomanystars.CanIrecognizeanyconstellations,Iwonder.Ofcourse,Iamverynear
theequator,isitasouthernsky?Oh,whatthehell.Doesitmakeadifference?Thereareaboutamillion
starsupthere;Iwon’tbeabletonavigatemywaythroughthem.IwonderiftheAfricans,liketheGreeks,
foundtheirlegendsinthestars.
SuddenlyIbecomeawareofthesoundofaflute,anancientshepherd’sflute,perhaps.
AmIhearingthings?Isitanillusionbroughtonbymalariapills?AmIstarstruck?
The music stops. The road has ended. Beyond is the forest. I turn back, back to my cinderblock
“professor’shouse,”myhomefortwoyears.
But what am I doing here, in a small African town? I have left my grown-up daughters, my job, my
agedmother.AmIfulfillingadreamoftheKennedyera,doIthinkmybeingherewillmakeadifference
inanyone’slife?Isitjustforadventure?OrisitbecauseIoncepromisedanAfricanfriendIwouldsome
daycomeand“helphispeople?”
AmIheretolookatthestars?
AsI’malmosthome,Iseetheelderlygentlemanwhoisguardianofmyneighbor’shouse.Efulooks
afterme,andeveryoneonthisroad.Wegreeteachotherwitha“bonnenuit.”
Afewweekslater,IfindoutthenightmusicwasaFrenchneighborplayinghisrecorder.
LenoreWaterswasbornin1925inNewYorkCity.ShewasanESLteacherinIvoryCoast1980-81.She
haslivedinBerkeley,California,since1976andhasbeenamemberoftheNorthernCaliforniaPeace
Corpssince1981.ShehastwodaughterswhoareveryproudthattheirmotherservedinthePeace
Corps.
TheForty-EightHourRule
MARTINR.GANZGLASS
Theroleofthepolicemaninanunruledland.
I AM ONE OF THE FORTUNATE FEW LAWYERS WHO JOINED THE PEACE CORPS AND WAS ABLE TO SERVE AS BOTH A
Volunteerandattorney.
When I arrived in Mogadishu, Somalia had been an independent nation for less than six years. The
SomaliRepublicconsistedoftwoformercolonies,thenorthernpartofthecountryontheRedSea,which
had been British Somaliland; and the southern part along the Indian Ocean from Cape Guardafui to
Kismayo,whichhadbeenItalianSomaliland.OnJuly1,1960,thetwobecameonecountry,withafivepointed white star on a field of blue as the national flag. Each point of the star symbolized a Somali
population divided by the colonial powers in the late nineteenth century: French Somaliland, (now the
independentcountryofDjibouti),theOgadenRegion(thenandnowpartofneighboringEthiopia),andthe
Northern Frontier District of what was the British East African colony of Kenya (and remains part of
Kenya,despitetheBritishColonialAdministration’spromisetoholdareferendum).Weusedtojokethat
iftherehadbeenanotherSomalipopulationdeprivedofunitingwithSomalia,theflagwouldbethesame
asIsrael’s.
Somali, at the time, was an unwritten language. All laws were printed by the Government Printing
Office in English, Italian, or Arabic. The Somalis desperately needed legal translators, primarily to
translatethelawsfromItalianintoEnglishandviceversa.
Somewhere in the process of applying for our group of Peace Corps Volunteers, the Somali
governmentthoughttheyhadaskedforlawyersqualifiedaslegaltranslators.Yetwewereneithertoldof
nortrainedforthisjobdescription.WedidattendrudimentaryItalianclasses.Onascaleof1to10,with
10 being the highest language proficiency, we were probably slightly above 1 by the time we left for
Somalia.
MymarketSomaliwasbetterthanmyItalian.
It was immediately apparent to the officials we met at the Somali Ministry of Justice and Religious
Affairs,theCommitteeonLegalIntegration,andtheUniversity,thatwewerenotthelegaltranslatorsthey
thoughttheyhadrequested.LikemanyotherPeaceCorpsVolunteers,wethenhadtoimproviseandfind
meaningfuljobsforourselveswherewecouldatleastcontributesomething.
IendedupasLegalAdvisortotheSomaliNationalPoliceForce,replacingaFordFoundationlawyer
whoseassignmentwascomingtoanend.(ThatattorneywentontobecomePoliceCommissionerofNew
YorkCity.TheNYPD,whenhewasCommissioner,waslargerthantheentireSomaliNationalPolice.)
TheCommandantofthePoliceForcewasGeneralMohamedAbshirMusa.Freshfrommemoriesof
theKennedyAdministration,IthoughtIwasworkingforTedSorenson.TheGeneralwasanintellectual,
anideamanwithastrongsenseofnationalism,andapragmatist.HehadmoldedthePoliceForceintoa
nationalorganizationandinculcatedasenseofnationaldutyinhisofficersandmen.Hehadovercomethe
divisivetribalandclanloyaltiesthatmademostothergovernmententitiesineffective.
As legal advisor, I drafted entire codes and amendments to existing laws for consideration by
Parliament,preparedandrevisedregulations,assistedtheAttorneyGeneralinacasebeforetheSomali
SupremeCourtinvolvingtheunjustimprisonmentoftwoSomalipolicemen,andwrotecommentarieson
theCriminalProcedureandPenalCodes.Ievendidsomelegaltranslating,withtheableassistanceofa
policelieutenantwhohadgonetolawschoolinItaly.
IalsotaughtatthePoliceAcademy.
Unlike in the United States, where government attorneys prosecute criminal cases, Somali police
officers were the prosecutors (except for major cases, which were handled by the Attorney General’s
office).Itaughtthepoliceofficerstheelementsofcriminaloffensesandhowtoproveacase.
Forthelowerranks,thoseinthefieldwhomadethearrests,IprimarilytaughttheCriminalProcedure
Code.
The Code contained a provision called “the forty-eight hour rule.” Every policeman who arrested a
personwasrequiredtobringthesuspectbeforeajudgewithinforty-eighthoursofarrest.Idrummedthis
intomystudents.NomatterwhatsectionoftheCriminalProcedureCodeIwasteachingonaparticular
day, I wrote the number “48” on the blackboard or flip chart. Before dismissing them, I would ask
differentpolicementhesignificanceofthenumberandtoexplaintheforty-eighthourrule.Itaughtatthe
AcademyeveryweekformostofmytwoyearsinSomaliauntilIleftinMay1968.
Somalia’s brief democratic experience came to an end on October 21, 1969, when General of the
ArmyMohamedSiadBarreoverthrewtheelectedgovernment.PeaceCorpswasexpelledbytheendof
the year, allegedly because the Volunteers were American spies. Somalia entered into a dark period of
dictatorshipcharacterizedbyanationalsecretpolice,specialmilitarycourtsandarbitraryimprisonment
withoutchargesortrial.
TheSiadBarreregimewagedwaragainstitsownpeople.Itfomentedtribalwarfareandarmedone
clanagainstanother.TheArmypunishedthosethoughttosupportanyopposition,bypoisoningwellsand
shellingandbombingcitiesandtowns.
Twoofmyclosestfriends,thePoliceCommandantandanotherPoliceGeneralwereheld,forseveral
years, in solitary confinement, in underground cells in an East German-built prison. They were
imprisoned because of their integrity and commitment to the democratic principles embodied in the
SomaliConstitution.
This particular Somali nightmare ended in 1991 when Mohamed Siad Barre, the President for Life,
was overthrown and ignominiously fled the country. A new catastrophe befell the Somalis as warring
factions,basedontribalandclanlines,foughteachotherforpower.Thedifferentwarlordsengagedin
wholesale extortion of relief agencies trying to provide food, medicine, and shelter to the hundreds of
thousandsofdisplacedcivilians.
In November 1992, President Bush initiated Operation Restore Hope. This was a real international
coalition.U.S.troops,alongwithsoldiersfromAustralia,Botswana,France,Nigeria,Pakistan,andother
nations,wenttoSomaliatoprotectthedeliveryofhumanitarianassistance.PresidentClintoncontinued
this policy of armed humanitarian intervention, although his Administration never made up its mind
whethertheOperationalsoincludedso-called“nationbuilding.”
InFebruary1993,IwascontactedbysomeonefromtheStateDepartmentandaskedtogotoSomalia
andadvisetheU.S.AmbassadorandtheSpecialRepresentativeoftheU.N.SecretaryGeneralonhowto
rebuildtheSomalijudiciaryandpolice.
I arrived in Mogadishu in April 1993 and found a city I barely recognized. After three years of
unrestrictedtribalwarfare,Mogwastotallydestroyed.Buildingswerepockmarkedwithshellandbullet
holes.Thestoneminaretofafourteenth-centurymosqueontheroadtothebeachhadbeentargetedand
partiallydestroyed.NeverinthehistoryofSomaliahadMoslemreligioussitesbeenattackedbySomalis
engagedinclanwarfare.
ThecapitallookedworsethanmanyEuropeancitiesthathadbeenbattlegroundsinWWII.Anymetal
that could be sold for scrap in India had been stripped from Mogadishu’s buildings and utility poles—
windowanddoorframes,hinges,locksanddoorknobs,wiring,transformers—allweregone.Therewas
athrivingopen-airarmsmarketinthecenterofthecity.Iftheyhadthecash,Somaliscouldbuyanything
fromasimplerifletoanAK-47toarocket-propelledgrenadelauncher.
TherewasnofunctioningSomaligovernment.Twowarlords,eachclaimingtobepresidentandeach
usinghisownclan-basedmilitiasofheavilyarmedyoungmen,controlleddifferentsectionsofthecity.
PriortothearrivaloftroopsunderOperationRestoreHope,residentsonbothsidesofthedividing
linewereshelledindiscriminately.Thenumberofciviliancasualtieshadbeenenormous.Thousandsof
refugeesfledthecapitalandlivedinrefugeecampsinthecountryside,solelydependentonhumanitarian
reliefforfoodandshelter.
Under the rules established by the military coalition, Somali police were not allowed to carry any
guns except in joint operations with coalition forces. I found the police in Mogadishu investigating
crimes,arrestingsuspectsandgenerallycarryingouttheirduties,armedsolelywithbatonsandwhistles.
ThisatatimewhenmostyoungSomalimeninthecapitalopenlycarriedAK-47s.
Inordertocompileinformationformyreport,Ivisitedasmanypolicestationsinthecityandaround
thecountryasIcould.AtonestationinMog,thepolicemanincharge,whowasnotanofficer,welcomed
me with a broad smile. He called me Mr. Martin, which was how I had been known during my Peace
Corps service. He remembered me from the Academy. He said the police in Mogadishu had a very
seriousproblem,andheneededmyadvice.Ithoughthewasgoingtoaskforweaponsandwasalready
preparedtotellhimIhadnoauthoritytoevenpassthatrequestupthemilitarychainofcommand.
“Mr.Martin,”hesaid,inananxiousvoice,“wehavearrestedmanybadpeople.Weareholdingthem,
buttherearenojudgestotakethembefore.Undertheforty-eighthourrule,dowehavetoletthemgo?”
Ifithadn’tbeensoforeigntoSomaliculture,Iwouldhavehuggedandkissedhimonthespot.After
the collapse of the Somali state, and a period of anarchy, lawlessness, absolute chaos, and the
indiscriminateviolenceandwantonmurders,thisdecent,honestSomalipolicemanwasconcernedabout
thelegalityofholdingsuspectsformorethanforty-eighthours.Igavehimmyopinionthattheforty-eight
hourruledidnotapplyiftherewerenojudgesbeforewhichtobringthosearrested.However,assoonas
judgeswereappointed,Itoldhim,thepolicehadforty-eighthourstoproducethesuspects.
Unfortunately,Somalishaveenduredmuchworsesince1993.AftertheU.S.andtheU.N.pulledoutin
thefallof1993,Mogadishudescendedintoaspiralofsenselessviolencewithinnocentciviliansdying
eitherfrombeingcaughtbetweenwarringfactions,disease,orstarvation.Morethanfifteenyearslater,
thereisstillnoendtotheSomalis’horrificnightmare.Fightingcontinuestoday.Factionsbasedontribes
orclans,orundertheguiseofIslam,killinordertocontrolterritoryandseizepower.InMogadishu,and
manyotherareasofthecountry,thereisnorealfunctioninggovernment.AccordingtotheU.N.,Somalia
istheworsthumanitariancrisisinAfrica.Yet,thedecencyandadherencetothelawofthatsingleSomali
policemangivesmeaglimmerofhopethatsomeday,theruleoflawwillreturntoSomalia.
The former Police Commandant is alive and well in Minnesota. I testified at his asylum hearing
severalyearsago.TheotherPoliceGenerallivesontheWestCoastandisagrandfathermanytimesover.
WeusuallyseeeachotheratRamadanwhenhecomeseasttovisithisdaughter’sfamily.Wecalleach
othereverySundayevening.
Although I can’t go back to visit Somalia, like all other RPCVs I continue to enjoy the close and
enduringfriendshipswithSomalisIfirstmetalmostforty-fiveyearsago.Andourchildrenhavebonded
withthechildrenofourSomalifriends.Perhapstogether,inthenottoodistantfuture,theywillbeableto
returntoapeacefulSomalia.Insha’llah—Godwilling.
MartinGanzglassservedasLegalAdvisortotheSomaliNationalPoliceForcefrom1966-68.He
taughttheCriminalProcedureandPenalCodestopoliceanddraftedlegislation.Hereturnedto
Somaliain1993asSpecialAdvisortoU.S.AmbassadorRobertGossendeaspartofOperationRestore
Hope.HehasalargeextendedSomalifamily,stemmingfromfriendshipsestablishedmorethanforty
yearsagoandsevenSomalichildrenconsiderhimtheir“white”grandfather,atitleofwhichheis
especiallyproud.
FullCircle
DELFIMESSINGER
Goingback,toleaveagain.
THEPEACECORPSTAUGHTMEHOWTOMAKEADIFFERENCE.ALTHOUGHIWASMAINLYOCCUPIEDWITHBONOBOSFOR
eleven years as a “volunteer” after leaving my Peace Corps assignment in Zaire, I also started a
children’smagazinetherecalledBleu/Blanc,whichexiststothisday.
In 2000, I traveled back to what is now known as the Democratic Republic of Congo to see what
remainedofmyprojects.OntheeveningofmydeparturefromthatcountryIhadachancetowritedown
mythoughtsandreflectonmyvisit.
Ourtruckhitapothole,jarringmyreflections.Besideme,passengerswerenoddingtotheslap-slapof
thewindshieldwipers.Theskyhadlightenedandsuddenlywebrokeoutofthestorm.Asthewaterran
off,fogsteamedupfromthehot,damppavement.Ontherightthesunsetwasrussetandmauvedipping
behindtheCongoRiver.
Clever,Imused.Worksmarter,notharder.Massalawasright;aclever,roundaboutwaymaybethe
mostdirectroutetochange.Thenitstruckme:Themagazinewouldcarryon.Amazingly,thegamesand
puzzles,stories,cartoons,poems—thesparkingofminds,thethirstforlearningandliteracywouldbemy
legacy.Onashoestring,onawhim,andalmostunwittingly,Ihadplantedasmellycropofseedsforthe
nextgeneration.Thoseseedsweretherealgoldengrains.
Nightfallsfastontheequator.OurconvoyreachedtheoutskirtsofKinshasaamidpedestrianshurrying
homebeforenightfall.Istaredatthesunset’sreflectedglowfromtheriver,knowingthatthiswouldbethe
last time. Abruptly, the sun slid into the Congo’s vast waters. The sky turned a streaky silver, and the
mamanssellinggoodsalongthehighwayhurriedtolighttheirlanternstoluretheeveningcrowd.Traffic
thickenedandslowedaswepassedtheairportandheadedintotown.
Icrackedawindowandthecleansmellofrainblewin.Thepalmsalongthesideoftheroadlifted
theirlacyfeatherdusterheadsagainstthefadingsunsetcolors.Thethrong—manystillontheirwayhome
from work—were hundreds deep at the truck stops and along the dirt paths lined with wooden tables
sellinggrilledturkeytails,soap,cigarettes,andskin-lighteningcreams.
God,Iwashomesickforthisplace!Thisvile,gorgeous,snarly,exhilarating,insane,deep,andterrible
place. For two years now, I had been dreaming of this Congo and in a few days I would be leaving
forever. Through tear-lashed eyes, I remembered the birds—the kingfishers that splashed in my water
barrelandthenightingalethatsangeveryeveningaroundeight.Ithoughtoftheflocksofmousebirdsthat
hung like long-tailed ornaments in the trees, and the grass finches that eluded our rat-trap cat. I
rememberedthecattleegretsoverheadthatgavemecourageunderfire.
Zaire,Zaire,I’dlovedyouso!And,oh,howI’dhatedyou.YoutaughtmealifetimeoflessonsthatI
would never have learned in any other way—you gave me the human side of myself. I’d been close to
tearsalldayandmaudlinthoughtsfloatedtothesurfaceofmymind.Noflowers,Ithought.Whyhadn’tI
thoughttobuyflowersforTamibu?(OneofmyworkerswhodiedofAIDSinthebrieftimethatIhad
beenvisiting.)
ItwasdarkinthecarandIwipedmyfaceclearoftears.Don’tbesoharsh,Ithought.Insteadofstuff,
yougaveyourselfandthatwasworthwaymore.Istraightenedinmyseat.Asthecloudsdriftedaway
andthestarscameout,Isawmoreclearly.IknewthatIcouldleavetheCongobehind,eventhoughapart
ofme—thepartthatheldthefuture—wouldalwaysremain.
DelfiMessingeristheauthorofGrainsofGoldenSand.SheservedinZairefrom1984-87.Herwebsite
isdelfisgrainsofgoldensand-bonobos.blogspot.com.
APromiseKept
BETHDUFF-BROWN
Goingbackagainraisesquestions,retrievesexpectations,andremindsoneofpromises.Itisnever
easyand,inmanyplaces,spanstragedyandloss.
ISATINABACKPEW,LIGHTLYSWAYINGTOTHEBAMBOOXYLOPHONES.BUTTERYLIGHTSTREAMEDACROSSTHEWHITE
altarfromthestained-glasscrosscarvedintotheredbrickchurch.Ipretendedtopray,tofindaprivate
moment,toclosemyeyesandreflectonwhatIhadseenintheweeksincereturningtothisvillagewhereI
hadlivedalifetimeago.
AstheCatholicsermonwasendingandthehymnsgrewlouder,Iwavedbye-byetothebare-bottomed
babywhohadbeenmakingfaceswithmeandattemptedtoslipunnoticedoutthesidedoor.
A vicar caught me and pulled me before the congregation, where I had stood ten years earlier, and
fifteenbeforethat.Weather-beateneyessmiledinencouragement;severalwomenululatedandcalledout
“MissElizabeth”beforeasternglancefrombehindmesilencedthem.
“Ijustwantedtothankyouagain,”Isaidwithembarrassingsimplicity,asmyeyesbegantostingandI
fumbledwiththesleevesofmywhitecottonblouse.“ThankyoufortakingcareofmewhenIwasjusta
girl,foryourprayers,formychild.”
BeforeIcouldfinish,Istoodthereintears,unabletomove,unabletospeak,humiliatedatmypublic
displayofemotion.Icriedforhavingkeptmypromisetocomebackagain.Icriedforayoungwoman
wholaydyingalone,nolongerabletowalktochurch.Icriedforonceagainhavingbuiltupfalsehopes
withmyreturn,fornothavingdonemoretohelpthosetiredfacesnowlookingupatme.
Theywoketochurchbellseverydawn,ambledfromthesamemudhutsinwhichIhadsattwenty-five
yearsago,gatheredtosweeptheaisle,polishthepewsandadjustthesamecurledpostersoftheStations
oftheCrossinbrokenframes,tackedtothecrumblingbrickwalls.
AndIcriedbecausetheonemanIhadbeenlookingforwasnotoutthere,lookingback.
Truthbetold,Ialsocriedformylostyouth,thefreckle-facedCaliforniagirlwhohadarrivedontheir
mud-hutdoorstepsin1979asaPeaceCorpsVolunteer,soidealistic,braveandfulloflife.
ThisvillageinCentralAfricawaswhereIhadcomeintomyown.It’swhereIfeltthatfirstheadyrush
thatcomesfromteachingagreatclass.It’swhereIovercameachingisolationanddiscoveredthesimple
pleasureofjustsittingalone.
Kamponde is where I prayed for rain so I could wash my long hair; where I danced around fires,
learned to play a better guitar with a Peace Corps boyfriend who visited from time to time; where I
walkedbehindmotherscarryingbabiestotheirgraves.
The Democratic Republic of Congo—known then as Zaire—was where I wrote for hours by
candlelight,preparingmetogoontowriteasaforeigncorrespondentfrompointsaroundtheglobe.
IleftKampondein1981,thelastVolunteer,pulledoutascorruptionoverrantheInstituteUntu,whereI
taughtEnglishfortwoyearswiththeconvictionIwastrulydoingsomethinggood.
MyjobwithTheAssociatedPressallowedmetoreturntoKampondein1996,torenewmytieswith
thevillagersandwriteaboutwhowehadallbecomeovertheyears.
IhadtoldthevillagersthenthatiftheirprayersformetohavethechildChrisandIhadlongedfor
werefinallyheard,Iwouldsomehowletthemknow.ButIknewitwasunlikelymyletters—filledwith
photosoftheblue-eyedbabygirlwithwhomwewereblessedonlyayearafterthatvisit—wouldarrive
byCongo’spitifulpostalsystem.
NowIwantedtothankthemforthoseprayers.
Thecivilwarbreakingoutduringthatfirstreturnin1996wentontodevastatetheCongo.Itwasn’ta
waroverideologyorreligionortribalhatred,butaboutwhichwarlordwouldwinthebattletoexploit
thecountry’svastmineralwealth.ThoughfarsurpassingtheongoingconflictinSudan,Congo’sneighbor
tothenortheast,thewarherehaslargelybeenignored,asitscomplexityeludeseasydefinition.Therehas
been no Mia Farrow or George Clooney to shine that brilliant celebrity light upon the humanitarian
heartbreakofCongo.
Thoughitofficiallyendedin2002,theconflict’sresultingdiseaseandstarvationhasgoneontoclaim
nearly5.4millionlives,accordingtotheInternationalRescueCommittee.Ihadfollowedthestatistics,
wonderinghowmanyofthenameless45,000Congolesewhostilldieeverymonthfromthestrainsofthat
warmightbefromamongKamponde’s5,000villagers.
BythetimeIleftformytripinthesummerof2006,withasenseofdread,Iwonderedifthepeopleof
KampondewouldknowtheyhadsurvivedthedeadliestconflictsinceWorldWarII.
IwastravelingwithClaudeKamangaMutond,oneofmyformerstudentswhoistodayoneofCongo’s
mostwell-respectedandbest-connectedjournalists.Wehadfoundeachotheragainbyaccident,locking
eyesindisbeliefaswestoodamidshoutingdemonstratorsatanelectionrallywewerebothcoveringin
1995. He went on to string for the AP and several big American dailies; the Internet now allows us to
keepintouch.
MyinterviewswouldbeconductedinFrenchorTshiluba,thelocalBantudialectofcentralCongo,
andthentranslatedintosouthern-accentedEnglishbyJimMukengeofKananga,theprovincialcapitalof
KasaiOccidentalaboutonehundredmilesnorthofKamponde.
JimgraduatedfromAppalachianStateUniversityinBoone,NorthCarolina,andthenwentontobea
manageratTacoBell.“Runfortheborder!”isoneofhisfavoritelinesaboutthejobheactuallyliked.
HiswifeBernadetteworkeddownthestreetatacompetingWendy’s.
But they missed home, gave up the American dream and returned to Kananga. She works as an
administratorattheU.N.peacekeepingmissionandthetwoofthemrunseveralsmallbusinesses.People
hammerJimaboutgivinguplifeintheUnitedStates.
“Everybodyhastheirownvillageandminejusthappenstobehere,”shrugsJim,whochangedhisfirst
namewhenhearrivedintheStates,afterhishero,JimmyCarter.HespeaksfluentEnglishandFrench,his
nativeTshilubaandtheSwahiliofeasternCongo,whichwouldlateraidmeinaninterviewthatwould
leavemespeechless.
I waved at children along the dirt road, some little faces frozen in fear at seeing their first white
woman.Myheartpoundedaswecrossedtherustedrailroadtracks,asignthatwewerenearthevillage.
Itookinthesoursmellofmaniocroot,thesmokefrombrushfiressettoscatterthesnakes,asourjeep,
lent by the U.N. peacekeeping mission in Congo, approached the church where I had spent Sunday
morningsdaydreamingandworkingoutnewlessonplans.
Thatfamiliarsalmonsunwassettingbehindthatched-reedroofs,downintothegreensavannawhereI
hadwatchedgrazinggazellesfrommyclassrooms.Barefootwomeninsoiledsarongs,carryingbucketsof
waterorbundlesofsweet-potatoleavesontheirheads,ranintothetallbrush,alarmedbythegrinding
gearsofour4X4.
There was the dingy Peace Corps house, white with royal-blue trim, across from the church, in a
compoundthathadoncebustledwithBelgianmissionaries,electricity,andcolorfulbougainvillea.
ThepeopleofthisCentralAfricannationhavebeensodrainedbywar,corruptionandneglect,thatI
feared for the worst and hoped only for a few familiar faces. Most of all, I longed for the face of
TshinyamaMwananzoi.
AnotherformerstudentinKinshasa,theCongolesecapitalwhereIhadbegunmyjourney,toldmehe
believed the easygoing man who had cooked for Peace Corps Volunteers for two decades had died.
Thoughsaddened,ithadnotsurprisedme.Theaveragelifespanhereisonlyfiftyyears,andTshinyama
wouldhavebeenwellpastthatbynow.
Momentsafterwearrived,thevillagepriestlookedupatthedarkeningskyandsaidthatthecookwho
had worked for the foreigners had passed. Then where was his grave, I demanded to know, with a
bitternessthatcaughtbothofusbysurprise.
“Lifeislikeacircle,andyou’vecomehome,”Tshinyamahadsaidwhenwelastmet.“Youhaven’t
changedoveralltheseyears.That’sbecauseitwasherethatyoufoundwhoyouare.”
Josephwasthefirsttoemergefromtheshadowscastbykerosenelanterns,barefootandtremblingin
histhreadbarewhiteshirt.Heclaspedmyhandsandsaid:“Youkeptyourpromise.”
Iwasstiffandwearyfromdaysofhardtravel.Thereareonly400milesofpavedroadsinacountry
thesizeofWesternEurope;justonebadlyrutteddirtroadtakesyoutoKamponde.
Joseph’sfamiliarfurrowedbrowmademesmilethroughmytears.
“IthankGodforinspiringyoutocomeback,MissElizabeth,rememberingtheplacewhereyouonce
taughtourchildren,”saidJoseph,whohadcleanedhouseforFatherPaul,theoldBelgianpriestwho,like
me,wasthelastofhiskindtolivehere.
Joseph and his lifelong neighbor Placide, their elderly wives and dozens of other villagers were
shakingtheirheads,calling“MissElizabeth?”astheygatheredattheoldwoodendoorsoftheterracottaroofedchurch,beneaththemoonnowrisingabovethemangotrees.
Joseph and Placide’s children had once built fires behind my house. We would often sit around
togetheratnight;Iwouldstrummyguitar,practicemyTshilubaandtheywouldaskmequestionsintheir
brokenelementaryschoolFrench:Howdoesthesunstayupinthesky?IsittrueAmericanshavemagic
boxesthatcarrythemfromonefloortothenext?Wasyourpresidentreallyjustapeanutfarmer,likeours?
Thosechildrenwerenowgrown—Iwouldlaterlearnsomehadalreadydied—andIwasstunnedthat
JosephandPlacide,bothintheirseventies,werestillalive.Oneinfivechildrenwillnotliveuntilage
fiveinCongotoday,yettheseoldfarmershadpersevered.
But apparently not Tshinyama. Now I would put wildflowers at his grave, share stories with his
grandchildren about his magical mango pudding and his belief that God had put him on Earth—and his
fatherbeforehimfortheBelgians—tonourishtheWhiteMan.
Icouldseehimwipinghishandsontheapronfashionedfromanoldfloursack,hisambereyesredrimmedfromthehotcoalfireandbrickovenonwhichhewouldboilhispili-pilipeppersauceandbake
sweetbananabread.
Theclassroomswereghostlyquiet;agentlebreezecameoffthesavanna,throughwindowsthathad
notseenglassinyears.Cursivelessonsfromlastyearstilllinedtheblackchinkedchalkboards.
Isatinoneofthewoodendesks,carvedwithsweetheartinitialsslashedbyanarrow.
Iclosedmyeyesandcouldhearthewolfishlaughteroftheyoungmen,someofwhomhadbeenmy
ownageandhadterrifiedmeatfirst.MyrowdiesttwelfthgraderswouldmakesmoochingsoundswhenI
turnedtotheboard,soIhadoncewalkedout,refusingtoteach.Thesameclasslaterwonmebackafter
avertingtheireyeswhenagustofwindblewopenmywraparoundskirt.
Theconcrete-and-brickschoolwasbuiltandoncestaffedbyBelgians,whosecountryruledtheCongo
for seventy-five years, until independence in 1960. Father Paul had taught history for decades at the
InstituteUntu.
IneverhadthecourageduringourSundaylunchestoasktheoldmanwiththelongwhitebeard,who
stillheldSundaymass,whetherhislessonsincludedKingLeopoldII,theBelgianmonarchwhoamassed
apersonalfortuneintherubberplantations,loppingoffnativehandswhenquotaswerenotmet.
Mostofthestudentswerenowoutinthefields,theirbacksbentastheyhelpedteachersplantstaples
ofpeanuts,corn,manioc,andbeansbeforetherainyseasonreallysetsin.Thoseteacherswereonstrike,
demandingbackpayandalong-promisedwagehike.
Someofmyformerstudentsarenowteachersattheschool.Theirsalaryof20,000Congolesefrancs—
about$45in2006—hasnotbeenpaidintwomonths.Theheadmastershrugged.Yes,heknewitunfair,
buttheburlapsacksfilledwithwadsofgovernmentcash,typicallydeliveredonthebackofabicycle,
hadyettoarrive.
MarcelineKanyiMushimbiandKamulomboMutongohadbeentwoofmyfavoritestudents.Hewould
jumpoffhisbenchwitharadiantgrin,topickthepronounorfillintheverb.Shewasshybutdetermined
tograduatewithahandfulofgirlsalongsidehundredsofboys.
Thetwowentontomarryandnow,intheir40s,lamenttheirstatusasunpaidteacherswhomustwork
thefieldstofeedtheireightchildren.
“Weareintellectuals,butourhandsarealltornupfrommachetes,hoesandworkingunderthesun,”
saidKanyi,assheshowedmehercallousedpalms.“Eventhevillagersmockus:‘Lookatyou,thesmart
oneswhowenttoschool,butnowyouworkwithusinthefields.’”
Kamulombolaughedloudlyandshruggedoffmysuggestionthatperhapsfewerchildrenwouldhave
easedtheirburden.“I’mlaughingnow,butI’dratherlaughthancry,”hesaid.“Butatleastwehaveour
eightchildren,whichmakesusproud,whichmakesusrich.”
Thenextmorning,afteracoldbucketbathbehindtherectory,Kanyiapproachedwithabigsmileand
gentlypushedmebackintotheroomwhereIhadbeensleepingonacot.Shepulledasquawkingchicken
frombeneathherorange-and-bluesarong.
I’d been telling a lie this trip, saying I was a vegetarian. As a young woman here, I tried it all:
squirminggrubworms,grilledpython,flyingtermites.Inolongerhavethestomach.
Not wanting to offend Father Urbain Musuila, with whom we ate every night, I had brought bags of
riceandbeans.Iusedthevegetarianfibtoavoidthebushmeat,smokedeel,andcaterpillarstew.Iateas
littleaspossible,knowingthatunlessTshinyamahadpreparedthefood,itcouldleadtoyetanotherbout
withparasites.
MarieKabuangaMutanga’sbrowneyes,madelargerbyherhollowcheeks,pleadedwithme.
Unabletospeak,tooweaktoeat,shetuggedattherattanmatonthedirtfloorofherhut.Hermother
explainedthatheremaciatedhipbonespokepainfullyintothehardground.
A tin cup with plastic rosary beads and a twig of bougainvillea made a makeshift altar near her
baldinghead.
This beautiful young woman, twenty-eight, had cooked and cleaned for the parish priest when I last
visitedtenyearsago.Shehadcharmedmeintoleavingbehindsomelipstickandclothes.
Ihadcometospeaktohermother,afunnyandoutspokenprostitutewithwhomIusedtobefriendly,
halfheartedlypleadingwithheraboutstayingawayfromthestudents.Thatwasbackwhenamysterious
sexuallytransmittedvirusnowbelievedtohaveoriginatedinCongowasspreadingacrossthecountry—
buthadyettobecalledAIDS.
“We’reonourown,”saidKamilongoKamukenji,proppingupherdaughter’shead.“Thevillagehas
donenothingforus.Peoplearejustmoreconcernedaboutstrugglingforaliving.”
She told me her daughter was dying of a parasite. But Sister Kapinga Clementine, the dynamic
Catholicnunandregisterednursewhoworksinthevillagematernityclinic,latertoldmeMariehadan
incurablecaseofwhatshecalledthe“four-letterword.”
ThepriestforwhomMarieworkedhasdied,somesayofAIDS,thoughnoonecanbesure.
Sister Clementine said malaria, pneumonia, parasites and tuberculosis, as well as lack of medicine
andtransportationmadeworsebythewar,aremuchgreaterkillersthanAIDSthesedays.
There was little I could do for Marie. She brought back the pain I had often felt here, of feeling
useless,ofraisinghopesthatcouldnotbemet.Iknewhereyeswouldhauntmeforever,asdothoseofall
thelostliveswhohavehelpedmetellmystoriesovertheyears.
I left her mother enough francs to buy a foam pad to soften her daughter’s final days, and the fuzzy
purplepoodleCaitlinhadtoldmetocuddlewhenImissedheronthistrip.
The night before I left Kamponde, another pretty young woman who now cooks and cleans at the
missionalsoaskedmeforsomelipstick.
IhadheardthatsomeRwandanHutushadlandedinthevillage.Kasaians,likemostCongolese,are
fiercely,sometimesviolentlyloyaltotheirownethnicgroupsandfamilylines.
As each day went by, I kept asking about the Hutus, thinking their story would help illustrate the
changingfaceofCongo.
EveryonesaidtherewasaHutucouplethere,butnoonecouldseemtofindthem.Igottheimpression
thateitherthevillagerswerehidingthemorthattheydidnotwanttobefound.
OnmylasteveninginKamponde,Ihadjustfinishedplayingwithabunchofkidsonthesidelinesofa
soccer match, when a stick-thin woman with wild hair approached me. She asked if I was the “U.N.
lady,”hereyesfilledwithfear.
WhenIhadarrivedintheU.N.emblazonedjeep,IhadbeenwearingtheU.N.pressbadgethathelped
get me past soldiers and thugs as I traveled in Congo. As soon as they heard of my arrival, Anatazi
Mukaluzitaandherhusbandhadrunintothebush.
TheybelievedIwastheretotakethembacktoRwandatofacetheTutsis,whohadchasedhundredsof
thousandsofethnicHutusintoeasternCongoaftertheRwandangenocideof1994.
Herhusbandwasstillhiding,butshefiguredshehadnothinglefttolose.
“Itoldhim,‘Wearealreadydead,soImightaswelljusttalktoher.’”
AnatazibegantocrywithreliefwhenJim,speakinginhernativeSwahili,assuredherallIwanted
was to hear her story. She didn’t want to say where she’s from in Rwanda as she feared for her six
children,iftheywerestillalive.
Militants from Rwanda’s Hutu ethnic minority, known as the interahamwe, had slaughtered half a
million mostly Tutsis and moderate Hutus in the 100-day massacre of 1994. In the years that followed,
some2millionHutusfledintoTanzaniaandeasternCongoasTutsisexactedtheirrevenge.
Anatazi, who couldn’t recall what year they were forced to flee, says she and her husband were
workinginthefieldswhenTutsimilitiamenattacked.Theyranintotheforest,Anataziwithabulletinher
leftlegandafriendwhosebreasthadbeenloppedoff.
AlongsidethousandsofHutus,theymarchedthousandsofmilesacrossCongo,anescapethatwould
takethemseveralyears,untilthecouplecollapsedinKamponde.Afterthetwinsshewascarryingwere
stillbornandherfriendwhohadlostherbreastdied,Anatazisaidshelostherdrive.
“Weweresotiredofrunning.Wejustdecidedtodiehereandtheothersleftusbehind.”Shesaidthe
villagers took them in and allowed them to work their fields in exchange for food. Their situation is
murky;somevillagerstoldmequietlytheHutucoupleisforcedtoworklikeslaves.Butshewasquickto
saytheyweregratefulforbeingallowedtoliveinpeace.
AnataziquicklyhidbeneathhersweaterseveralpackagesofglucosebiscuitsandbarsofsoapthatI
have given her. When asked if they would remain in Kamponde or return to Rwanda in search of their
children,shereplies:“MylifeisinthehandsofGod.Ihavenoidea.”
Isheepishlywatchedthefatblackgoatbeingledofftowardthebigblackcauldronsbehindthechurch.
Cooks were boiling manioc and corn flour for the hot mounds of sticky bread known as fou-fou. Men
werecomingbackfromtheforest,balancingjugsofpalmwineonsticksacrosstheirshoulders,tapped
fromthesametreeswheretheygettheirnutsforcookingoil.
Laterthatevening,slowlyandwithgreatpomp,couplesandtheirchildrenwereledintothechurch
courtyard. Chief Jean-Baptiste Katende Kamponde—who earlier had presented me with an ancient
copper cross once used as currency—and the nuns were seated near me in the best rattan chairs. The
bambooxylophonesandgoatskindrumswarmedupthecrowd.
Long wooden benches had been set in a circle. The men sat on one side, laughing and guzzling the
wineandcornwhiskeythatwouldsoongetthemdrunk.Thewomen,asalways,wereofftotheside.I
joinedthemtodance,provokingcheersfromthecrowdandpursedsmilesfromthenuns.
Tshinyama’s wife, Marie, stood off in the distance and raised her chin with a timid smile when I
waved.Hisyoungerbrother,Kabunda,arguedwithothermenaboutwhotheyhadjustvotedforinthefirst
multipartyelectionsinfortyyears,nowPresidentJosephKabilaorthen-rivalJean-PierreBemba.
They were not convinced either former rebel leader could rise above the weapons that had brought
himtopowerandbringthecountrythestabilitytheycraved.SomeevenmissthekleptocracyofMobutu
SeseSeko,thedictatoroncereveredandfearedbythosewhobelievedhissignatureleopard-skintoque
heldthemagicthatkepthiminpowerforthirty-twoyears.
As the night wore on, I stood before the villagers, a few hundred by now. I thanked them again for
protecting me, and told them if I could, I would one day bring Caitlin to sit and share palm wine with
them.
The women sashayed to the words of an impromptu song about an Elizabeth tree whose roots had
growndeepintheirvillage.Theseedofthattree,“littleCaitlinKamponde,”mayhavefallenfarfromthis
ground,theysang,butwasstillthebelovedfruitofKamponde.
OnmyfirstnightinKamponde,amanbicycledbymoonlightformilestocatchmebeforebed.
Icouldnotseehiminthedark,butheardothersgreethimasheapproached.Ismiledtomyselfand
triednottocryasIlistenedtotheeldersaskinghimabouthishunts,thegrandchildren,thevillagewhere
henowlived.
He came from the shadows; we stood grinning and shaking our heads in disbelief. We embraced
awkwardly,amiddle-agedAmericanwomanandanoldAfricanhunterwithgrayingbeard.
“Ahh-ahh-ahh,MissElizabeth,Ican’tbelieveit,youkeptyourpromise,”saidTshinyamainhissingsongvoice.WeaskedmanyquestionsaboutfamilyandotherPeaceCorpsVolunteers,jokedaboutwho
had put on or lost more weight, had the most wrinkles. He was thrilled to hear of Caitlin, looking at
photosbythekerosenelight.
“Maybeyoucanneverforgetmebecauseyourbellywasalwaysfull?”hesaidinhisfamiliargoodnaturedway.
OthershadconfusedhimwithFatherPaul’scook,whohaddiedseveralyearsago.
TshinyamahadcookedforthePeaceCorpsforadecade.WhenIlearnedin1981thatIwouldbethe
lastVolunteerinKamponde,IbroughthimuptoKananga,totheregionalPeaceCorpshousewhere’dwe
gotogetourmedsandmail,andhewentontocookthereforanothertenyears.
After the Peace Corps evacuated all its Volunteers in 1991—widespread rioting and violence had
madeittoodangerous—Tshinyamawalkedhomeandintendedtogobacktohisfields.Butotherfamily
membershadtakenoverhiscrops.Itwasuncleartomewhetherhewasostracizedorchosetoleaveon
hisown.
“YouguysspoiledmeandIneededtomaintainastandardofliving,”hesaidwithagrin.Withnoone
to cook for and no fields to plow, he packed up his brood at age forty-five and moved to Mfuamba
Kabang,somefourmilessoutheastofKamponde.
Bynow,Mariehadgivenbirthtotwelvechildren,buthadlostatleastfive.Someonewouldlatertell
me Tshinyama left Kamponde in fear of sorcery, believing a spell had been cast against his family,
causingtheirbabiestodie.
Aswehadtenyearsagoduringmyfirstvisitback,webegantoplanthevillagefeastforwhichhe
wouldcook.
MylastmorninginKamponde,aftermyhumiliatingsceneinchurch,wesetoffonfoot,mypinkfloppy
hatshadingmefromthesunasweheadedthroughthegreensavannatowardTshinyama’snewhome.
Children gathered to see the first foreigner to ever set foot in the desolate village of a few dozen
squarehuts.ItwassogrimandsmallcomparedtoKamponde;onceagainIhadtoholdbackmoretears.
Weatewithourhands,arichmealoffou-fou,chickenspicedwithhistrademarkpili-pilisauce,and
boiled manioc leaves. Tshinyama apologized for not having the ingredients for the mango pudding so
manyPeaceCorpsVolunteershadoncecraved.
HeshowedoffhishomemaderifleasItookintheantelopeantlersandotheranimaltalismansusedto
decorate his home. Faded magazine ads of Western food on gleaming plates were tacked to the
whitewashedwallsofhislittlemudhut.
Anadoptedson,ayoungmanhetookinafterhisparentswerekilled,atfirstcriedwithfearthatIwas
there to take Tshinyama away, then serenaded us with a love song for his father on a guitar he had
fashionedfromanOkipeanutoilcan.
Afterlunch,andtheobligatorysipofpalmwinewiththevillagechief,ItoldTshinyamathatitwas
timetogo.
IgaveIndianclothtoMarie,thoughglaucomahascloudedhereyesandIdidn’tknowifshecouldsee
thebrightpaisleypatterns.Therewerenotebooksandpensforthegrandkids,aredrubberball.
TshinyamawouldnotmeetmyeyesasIpushedanenvelopewith$150inhishands,suggestinghebuy
a new bicycle and a cellular phone. I told him there was now a weak signal in Kamponde, that a few
clevertypesweremakingmoneysellingphonecalls,hintingitmightbeawayforhimtoreturnhome.It
wasn’tmuch,yetstillmorethantheaverageannualincomeinhisravagedhomeland.
We said our last goodbye before I headed back up the path. I hated leaving him in the bleak little
villageandpledgedtotryandreturnonelasttime.
Webothknewitunlikelywewouldevermeetagain.
“Washala bimpe, tatu,” I choked, as we grasped each other’s hands, my fair freckled ones clasped
betweentheroughdarkfingersthathadcookedsomanymealsforhundredsofPeaceCorpsVolunteers.
It’sasimpleTshilubanfarewell:Staywell,father.
Tshinyamasoftlyreplied:“Wayibimpe,mamu”—Gowell,mother.
BethDuff-BrownwasaPeaceCorpsVolunteerintheDemocraticRepublicofCongofrom1979-81.It
wastherethatshedeterminedshewouldbecomeaforeigncorrespondentandshehastwicevisitedher
villageofKampondeasajournalisttoreportonconditionsthere.ShehasworkedforTheAssociated
Press—mostrecentlyastheDeputyAsiaEditor—fortwentyyears,basedinAfrica,Asia,andNorth
America.ShecurrentlyisaJohnS.KnightfellowatStanfordUniversity.
TheUtopiaoftheVillage
HEATHERCORINNECUMMING
WecarryMotherEarth,andallshegives,withinus.
IN THE YEARS THAT HAVE PASSED,I FIND MYSELF LONGING FOR THE INTANGIBLE—A DREAM THAT EXISTS UNDER THE
raw,ruggedspacesofearth,theplaceswheretherootsoftreessleep.Underburiedearth,bruisedpatches
that both grow and decay with time. I can smell Africa in places where it doesn’t exist: in dreams, in
cornersoftheroomsinmymother’shouseinAmerica,inpartsofmyfleshIcouldswearI’vewashed
hundredsoftimessinceIwasthere.
ImisstheheatofAfricathatIoncehated.Africaisathick,slowheat—seepingintotheblood.It’sa
differentkindofheatthananywhereelseonEarth.Itsheathasgirth,coulddrownamanthewaytheocean
coulddevourhim.Itisakindofunforgivingheatthatwillnevercareaboutpeople,thewillofNaturethat
willalwaysremainuncontrolledbyhumanbeings.
ImissthescentofAfrica.Imissthedevelopingworld.Ilongforaplacewherepeopledefecateonthe
sidesofthestreetandthinknothingofit—itisawayoflifeforthem,justasusingcleantoiletsisaway
oflifeinWesternizedcultures.Isearchoutpoverty;IamdrawntotheedgesoftheEarthwherepeople
sleep on hay and worship the gods of the trees and thank the Divine for the food that fills their bellies
eachday.Ilongtoliveinsilenceamongpeoplewhowillunderstandsomethingthathasnowords.
WhenIcomebacktomyhomecountry,Iamoverwhelmed.Itistheplacewherethepeoplealllook
likemeandtalklikemeandsharemylanguage,andIamoverwhelmedtobeinaplacewhereIcantalk
toanyonebecauseweallspeakthesamelanguage.Ilongtoleaveagain,togotoaplacewherepeople
don’tspeakmylanguageandIhavetolearntospeaktheirs.Orsimplynotspeakatall.
IfthatplaceevenexistsonEarth.
ItiscalledtheMuteEarthanditisasilentheaven,aplacewherenoonesaysanythingbecausewords
cannotmakesenseofnonsense,andsometimesIwishtonothavewordsalthoughwordsarethethingsthat
oftensaveme;theyaremytherapy.
Iamawriter.
IloveAmericabecausesheismyMother,mywomb.WhereIlearnedmyselfandgrewandlearnedmy
language.AndIloveAfricaforallthethingsAmericanevercouldhavegiventome:acertainstrength
thatcomesfromsuffering,astrengthIhopeneveragaintolivewithout.Africaistherawearth,theroots
ofthetreesstrugglingbelowtheground;AfricaisNature,andgod.Buttheyaremytwochildren,andI
lovethemthesame,butfordifferentreasons:AmericaandAfrica.Amotherlovesherchildrenthesame
butindifferentways.WearegiventheopportunitytoliveonMotherEarthforsuchashort,sacredtime.
Wemustfindthesignificanceinallthings,aboveallwithinourselves.
HeatherCorinneCummingservedasaPeaceCorpsVolunteerfrom2004-06.Shereturnedand
publishedherbook,TheMessagesofTrees,VolumesI-IV.In2008shereturnedtoZambiatobeginthe
SimwatachelaSustainableAgriculturalandArtsProgram,whichhelpstopromotewater,food,and
nutritionsecurityandsustainabilitycreatedbythepeopleandcommittedtoservingtheneedsofthe
peopleinZambiaaswellasinSierraLeone,WestAfrica.
PartTwo
WHYAREWEHERE?
TheEngineCatches
SUSANNALEWIS
Littlebylittle,peoplecanmakeadifference.
THIRTY PEOPLE, INCLUDING FOUR TEACHERS AND TWENTY-SIX EIGHTH-AND NINTH-GRADE GIRLS, ARE CROWDED
behindarusty,lightgreen,open-backToyotatruck,ourbodiespoisedtopush.“Um!Dois!Tres!”andwe
jam our bodies against the truck. We use all of our strength, but the truck only moves in almost
imperceptibleincrementsuntil—atlast—theenginecatchesandwehearthewhirofthemotor.Wechase
afterthetruck,grabatthegreenmetalandpullourselvesupandin.
Once everyone is in the truck, we are packed liked sardines—girls are sitting on each other, their
handsarearoundeachothers’waists,andweareclingingtothesidesofthetrucktokeepfromfallingout.
Thewindblowsatthegirls’hair;theirsmilesareunrestrained,broadandtoothy.Palmtreesandmud
housesblurpastusaswemakeourwaytoIlhadeMocambique.
IamtheassistantcoachoftheEscolaSecundariadeMonapogirlssoccerteam,andweareonourway
toagameagainsttheteamfromIlhadeMocambique.Ilhaisa500-year-oldtownforty-fiveminutesfrom
ourownvillage,Monapo.ItisatinyplacesituatedjustofftheMozambicancoast,anditservedasthe
firstPortuguesecapitalofMozambiqueuntiltheturnofthetwentiethcentury.Itisahauntinglybeautiful
place of 300-year-old churches, navy and green waters, and women dressed in colorful capulanas and
iridescent earrings. Ilha’s gently crumbling, centuries-old Portuguese buildings and sturdy Mozambican
mud-and-reedhousesareafascinatingjuxtapositionofthiscountry’spastandpresent.
Wecansee,hear,andsmellpresent-dayMozambiqueaswedriveacrosstheone-lanebridgetoIlha.It
islowtide,andfemalefigureswalkonthewatermorethanamileintothesea,onpathswornintothesea
floorbythousandsoffishermenbeforethem.Theylookforfishwithnothingbutapailandafreehand.
The air is fresh and fishy, and shirtless men ride bicycles with sacks of charcoal and cassava between
theirknees.
We make our way to the soccer field, which is next to the Portuguese Forteleza and the glimmering
wateroftheIndianOcean.ThegirlsandIchangeintoouruniformsinsidetheFortelezaandtheygigglein
excitement—thisistheirfirst“real”gameagainstanotherteamandtheyarenervous.Thecoachsaysa
fewwordsandIsayafewmore,tobuildtheirconfidenceandtoremindthemthattogetherwearestrong
andthatwecanwinthisgame.
Weplayabigger,tougheropponentonsandydirt,andthegirlsplaybarefoot,thoughIplaywearing
sneakers. The girls play better than they ever have before; they do what we taught them to do in our
practices, and they play like mature soccer players. They pass the ball well, talk to each other on the
field, and dominate the other team. During halftime, the coach and I tell them how much they have
improved,andhowproudweareofthem.Whenwescorethegirlsdocartwheels,hug,runovertome
withtheirarmsopenandclaspmyhandsintheirs.Ican’thelpbutsmileandhugthemback.Ihavenever
feltsocomfortableandlikemyselfwithMozambicansbefore.Thegirlsflashtheirbigsmilesandweare
inthemoment,weareateam.
Wedotheunthinkable,achievingaresoundingvictory,5-0.
After the game, we push the truck to start its engine, pile into the back and make two victory laps
aroundtheisland.Thegirlssingtotaunttheotherteam,theirvoicesnasalandimperfect,butsomehowthe
disharmonies are beautiful. They sing, “Silencio toda a gente, Monapo esta a passar!” (Everyone be
quiet, Monapo is passing!). They sing, and I sing with them. Next to me a girl blows on a whistle to
accompany the singing, on my other side another girl has her head on my shoulder. Sea salts are in my
nose, and the gravelly road throws us up and down against the metal of the truck. The girls’ glee is
palpableandmyownhappinessispure.WedrivebacktoMonapointhefadinglightoftheday,andwhen
wereachourtownthegirlssingagain,“Silenciotodaagente,Monapoestaapassar!”
Aswepassbytheirdifferentneighborhoodsandgirlsjumpoffofthetruck,theysaytome,“Goodbye
Teacher!”andgivemebighugs.EventhoughIhadbeenrunningteampracticesforacoupleofmonths,
andteachingthesegirlsEnglishfornearlyayear,itwasonlyafterthatgamethatIfinallyfeltlikeIwasa
partoftheirteamandamemberoftheircommunity.
Tome,beingaPeaceCorpsVolunteerisworkinghardeverydaytobelong,everydaytolearnnew
customs and change your perspective. You don’t know that you are changing or that your community is
slowly accepting you until, like those pushes that finally get the truck’s engine to catch, you have an
amazing,surprisingmomentwhereeverythingcomestogether.Forme,thesoccergamewasthemoment
that,aftermonthsofpushing,theenginecaught.AfterthatgameIfinallyfeltconfidentthatIwasamember
ofmycommunity,andknowingthatIhadtaughtmygirlstobebetter,moreconfidentsoccerplayersmade
mefeelthatIhadaneffectonthem,too.
ProgressasaVolunteerisslowandoftendifficulttodetect.Eventhoughitmayseemimpossibleat
times,servinginthePeaceCorpsguaranteesyouonething,thatyouwillchangeandyouwillseechange
inothers—eveniftorealizeityouneedarideinarustyoldtruck,asoccerballandtwenty-sixwonderful
girls.
SusannaLewisservedasanEnglishteacherattheEscolaSecundariadeMonapoinMozambique.She
wasapartofthetenthtraininggroupinMozambiqueandherservicewasfromSeptember2005-07.
SusannanowlivesinBaltimore,MarylandandisteachingEnglishtorefugees,aswellaspursuinga
master’sinSocialWorkattheUniversityofMaryland.
Yaka
KELLYJ.MORRIS
OneofthebestthingsaPeaceCorpsVolunteercandoismakehimselforherselfunneeded.
IN JANUARY 1969, I WENT TO TOGO AS A PEACE CORPS VOLUNTEER TO WORK AS A COMMUNITY DEVELOPMENT
extension worker for community self-help construction. It was my job to help communities and their
leadersdeterminetheirneedsforclassrooms,clinics,bridgesandculvertsonfarm-to-marketroads,and
other infrastructure; to prioritize their needs and inventory their resources; and to organize self-help
projectstoaddresstheirhighestpriorityneeds.Thecommunityprovidedlaborandlocalmaterials(sand,
gravel, rocks, and water); the local officials provided transport and skilled artisans; and Peace Corps
helped to obtain grants for the materials that were not locally available (e.g., cement, reinforcing steel
rods,woodplanks,tinroofingsheets,etc.)andorganizationalandtechnicalsupport,i.e.me.
IwasshockedwhenIwenttovisitoneofthevillagechiefswithwhomIwastowork.Itwaslessthan
ten years since Togo had become independent. To my surprise, the chief of Yaka welcomed me by
lamentingthedepartureofthecolonialgovernmentandcomplainedthatthecountryhad“gonetohellina
handbasket”sincethewhitesdeparted!Wehadbeentoldthatourmissionwasto“workourselvesoutofa
job.”ThiswasnotwhatIwasexpecting.
Ipersevered,nonetheless,andworkedwiththechief,theneighborhoodsub-chiefs,thewomen’sgroup
leaders,andlocalartisanstobuildseveralbridgesandculvertsonfarm-to-marketroads.Theworkwent
well. The people needed the bridges and worked hard to help obtain something that was in their own
interest.
During the dry season, I had to go to Lomé, the capital city, to buy building materials and transport
thembacktoourworksiteabout450kilometersinland.IrodemyredCZCzechoslovakmotorcycledown
totherailheadabout200kilometerstothesouth.MymotorcycleandIspenttherestofthevoyagesitting
on100-kilogramsacksofmilletinafreightcarwithasquadofsoldiers.Weboughtsodabi,thedistilled
palmwinethatisAfrica’s“WhiteLightning,”fromwomenwhocrowdedtherailcaratruralwhistlestops
andpunishedourinnardswithitfortheremainderoftheagonizinglyslowtrip.
IspentseveraldaysinLomébuyingmaterials,arrangingtohireseven-tontrucks,loadingthem,and
expeditingthemnorthward.Myplanwastohoistmymotorcycleontothelasttruckandtoridebacktomy
siteonit.Fate,however,intervenedintheformofamangystreetdog.AsIwasridingonmymotorcycle
downthestreetthenightbeforemyproposeddeparture,thedogrushedoutfromanalley,bitmeonmy
ankle,anddisappeared.
The next morning, before departing, I dutifully reported the incident to the Peace Corps Medical
Office.
“Whereisthedog?”thedoctorasked.
“Longgone,”Ireplied.
“Well,Ihavetoassumethatthedogwasrabidandtreatyouaccordingly,”heannounced.
Therebeganaseriesofsixteendailyshotsthathemercifullyrotatedinfour-shotcyclesbetweenmy
bicepsandthighs.
“I’llgiveyouthevialsofserumandthethrow-awaysterileneedlestotakewithyoutoyourpost,”the
doctorsaid.“Youcanhavethenurseatthenearestclinicinjectyou.”Iwasreadytodepart,onlyoneday
behindschedule.
Myplanwasfoiledagaininamostunexpectedway.Forseveralhoursaftermyfirstinjection,Ihada
reactiontotheshotthatleftmewoozy,light-headed,andunsteadyonmyfeet.
“Youaren’tgoinganywhere,”thedoctordecided,“untilyourshotsarecompleted.”
Isentthetrucksaheadandthenwhiledawayanunplannedsixteendaysinthecapitalcity.
WhenIfinallycompletedmyshotsandwasliberated,Ihoppedthenexttrainbacknorthtomypost.
ThechiefofYakawasnottoopleasedwithmewhenIwenttocheckonourworksite.Heberatedme
formyextendedabsencethathecharacterizedasavacation.Thenhetreatedmetoalonglistofallthe
thingsthatheandhiscollaboratorshadtodoinordertokeeptheprojectgoinginmyabsence.Thanksto
them,theworkhadcontinued.
“I know what you were doing,” he concluded. “You were drinking beer and chasing after women.
That’swhatyouwerereallydoing!”
Of course, he was right. Young, single, trapped, and bored in Lomé, I had spent my time, after the
dizzinessfromeachday’sinjectionworeoff,drinkingbeerandchasingwomen.
Mylocalfriendswhocaughtupwithmeatthebeerbarthateveningfoundmeinadeliriouslygood
mood.Idescribedmysagaandmydressing-downbythechief,whichpleasedmenoend.
“You white people are crazy,” they said. “Why does getting chewed out by that old chief make you
happy?’
“Because,”Ireplied,“inYakatheyfiguredoutthattheydidn’tneedme.Inthisonevillage,atleast,I
workedmyselfoutofajob.Missionaccomplished.”
KellyJ.Morrisisaninternationaldevelopmentconsultantandwriterwhoservednineteenyearswith
thePeaceCorps.Beginningin1969,hewasaVolunteerandcountrystaffforelevenyearsinTogoand
stafffortwotoursinWashington.HeistheauthoroftheBightofBenin:ShortFictionandthe
upcomingAfricanDemocracy:APrimer.HeisthefounderandlistowneroftheFriendsofTogo.
NousSommesEnsemble
ANNARUSSO
Perhaps“globalization”issimplyrecognitionofabasictruth.
THE SANDY DIRT FOOTPATHS IN MY VILLAGE WOVE AN INTRICATE DESIGN IN BETWEEN THE THATCH-ROOFED HUTS.
These pathways carried the community: motorcycle taxis; skittish goats hurrying to get out of the way;
chickens; dogs; cattle; children on their way to school; women carrying stacks of bowls, firewood or
waterontheirheads;peoplegoingtothefieldsorheadinghomewiththeirharvest.Iwalkedthesepaths
everyday,gettingtoknowtheshortcutstothemarketandhome,maneuveringmywayaroundtherutsthat
formedduringtherainyseasonandtryingtoavoidgettingmybiketiresstuckinthesand.Eventually,I
became familiar enough with the paths that I could walk them at night without a flashlight, using the
moonlightforguidance.
ItwasonthesepathwaysthatIfirstheardthephrase,“nous sommes ensemble.” On my way to the
market I crossed paths with a man coming back from that direction. We stopped, shook hands and
commencedtheusualgreetingcustomofaskingavarietyofquestionstofindouthowtheotherpersonis
doing.Howareyou,howisyourhealth,howiswork,howareyourfields,howisyourhouseandfamily,
howareyourgoatsandcattle,howistheheat;allthewhilestillshakinghands.Hefinishedbystating
noussommesensembleandwentonhisway.
Ittookmeawhiletoregisterwhatwasjustsaidtome,noussommesensemble—wearetogether.What
didhemeanbythat?Arewetogetherinspirit,inwork,inlife?Thatwasthefirsttimewemet,andIdid
notworkwithhim(atleastnotyet).Whydidheassumeweweretogether?Itwasnormaltostopandsay
hello if our paths crossed; and if I saw him again, I was sure we would repeat the multiple question
greetingcustom,butIwasuncertainifIwouldendwithwearetogether.
As it turns out, this was (and still is) a very common phrase in Cameroon. Heard often between
passersby on the street, from guests and hosts at a party, or at the end of a long day’s work; generally
speaking, it means “see you later” or “see you soon.” However, this simple phrase has many other
meaningsaswell.Itsuggestsourworktogetherisnotfinishedandwewillmeetagainsoontocomplete
it.Itmeansyouaremybrotherorsister,apartofmyfamily,evenifwedonotshareabloodrelationwe
willalwaysbepartofthesamecommunity.ItalsomeansIamhereforyou;soifyouneedhelp,justask.
A simple statement that literally means we are together, we are not alone. This phrase, these three
little words, taught me a lot about humanity and togetherness. Despite our myriad differences as human
beings, we do share certain emotions, actions, and behaviors. We are independent as individuals, but
thereareuniversalswhichwecollectivelyshare.
The grandmother in America who spoils her grandkids with sweet treats is no different than la
grandmère in Cameroon who gives afternoon snacks made with peanut butter to her grandchildren.
MothersandfathersinAmericafeelproudwhentheirchildrendowellinschool,justasparentsinAfrica
do.GirlsinAmericashopforhoursfortherightoutfittoweartoaschooldanceoronadate,toimpress
the boy they have a crush on. Girls in a small African village get dressed-up in their best clothes on
marketdaytoimpresstheyoungmenwhowillbethere.
Thedeathofachildorlovedoneisnodifferentforthesubsistencefarmerwhomakes$200ayearor
forthefamilyinadevelopedcountrythathasanannualsalary200timesthatamount.Despitethedifferent
circumstances,wesharetheseexperiencesbecausewesharethesameworld.Wehavethiscommonality
ofbeinghuman,whichbringsusclosertogether.
Wearehuman—language,race,ethnicity,geographiclocation,andreligionshouldnotdivideus.As
humans, our dreams, frustrations, successes, happiness, and sorrow bond us together. This idea is
probably shared by many cultures worldwide, but in Cameroon we say it out loud. Nous sommes
ensemble.Wearetogether.
AnnaRussoservedinCameroonfrom2000-2002(SahelAgroforestry).ShemovedtoRwandain2008
afterfinishinganM.A.inInternationalDevelopmentattheUniversityofDenver.Currentlylivingin
Kigali,shemanagescommunitydevelopmentprojectsforaU.S.-basedcoffeecompanywhichnotonly
buyscoffeefromRwandabutalsoinvestsinthesocialwell-beingofthefarmersandtheirfamilies.
TheSweetestGift
JAYNEBIELECKI
Thelittlethingsdooftenbecomethesweetest.
I WENT INTOPEACECORPS THINKINGI WOULD BE HELPING THE NEEDIEST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD.IT MADE ME PROUD
tothinkthatIwassacrificingtwoyearsofmylifeforothers.Noteveryonecanforgotheircomfortable
lifestyle or live such an uncertain life in an unknown land. I was positive I would teach the locals
something,improvetheirlives,andbegintheprocessofsavingtheworld.ThePeaceCorpswarnedus
aboutthinkingtooidealistically,butIknewIwasdifferent.IhadknownforyearsthatIwantedtobea
nurseandserveasaPeaceCorpsVolunteerinanAfricancountry.
Thiswasmycalling.
ItwasearlyoninmyPeaceCorpsservice,andIwasinthethroesofculturalshock.Somedaysitwas
allIcoulddototalkmyselfintogoingoutinpublic.Todaywasagoodday,though.Iwasreadytodeal
with the staring eyes and inescapable barrage of conversation I met with whenever I ventured into the
societyofCapeVerde.
My Peace Corps post was on Maio, a round, sun-baked pancake of an island in the Cape Verde
Archipelago approximately 600 kilometers off the west coast of Africa. The islands are volcanic in
nature, and known for their consistent weather and beaches, which came in either black or white sand.
Maio,althoughoneofthesmallestislands,wasoutlinedinbeachandhadthereputationfortheloveliest
in the entire country. Wealthy people came from all over to enjoy them. Although some money came in
throughdomestictourism,Maiowasalsothepoorestandleastdevelopedoftheislands.
IlivedinthelowerareaofthevillageofCalheta,calledtheBaxona,nearthebeach.Itconsistedof
twostripsofbrightlypaintedhomessharingonewallwiththeirneighbor.Thissharedwalldecreasedthe
costofconstructionandlabor.Thehouseswereoneroom,twoatthemost,andallmadeofcinderblock
andcement.Betweenthecolorfulhomes,acobblestonestreetranfromnorthtosouthandfadedintothe
whitesandbeachatthesouthend.Onthenorthendwasthechafaris,atanbrickstructureabouteightfeet
tall with one small spigot. Women came once a week with their twenty-two-gallon pails to receive
potable water from the chafaris attendant, the most powerful women in the village. On a water day,
energy levels ran high. The street would be noisy and bustling with exuberant children and chattering
womencarryingwaterontheirheads.Today,anon-waterday,thesmallstreetwasquietandempty.
Mycurrenthomewasagenerousdonationmadebyasuccessfulcarpenter.Itwasthelargesthousein
the entire village, with two bedrooms, a living room, a small kitchen, a bathroom, and a quintal with
stairstotheroof.Theinsidewaspaintedinyellowsandblues,thefloortiledingoldenbrown.Ialsohad
the luxury of a built-in cement washing board and a clothesline. The roof had a large room on it for a
generatorandanunusedtankforwater.
TheaverageCapeVerdeanfamilyonMaiolivedwithfivetosevenpeopleinahousethesizeofmy
livingroomandkitchencombined.
AsIleftthesecurityofmyhugesky-bluehousewithyellowtrim,Iclosedthewhitemetalgateand
mademywayupthepathtothemainvillage.Itziggedandzaggedaroundrocksscatteredthroughoutthe
tan-grey,lunarlandscape.Itwouldbeaten-minutestrollinthedeadspacebetweenthetwosectionsof
thevillage.Ienjoyedthispartofthewalkthemost.Ilookedouttomyleftandfollowedtheturquoisesky
andthegreen-blueoceanuntiltheytouchedatthedistanthorizon.
Enfameira!Enfameira!Ilookeduptoseetwoyoungfishermenmakingtheirwaytothebeach.They
waved excitedly and I waved back. Then three school-aged children came running toward me. They
stoppedabruptlybeforewemetonthepath,andthenbegantowalkrespectfullypastme.Theyhadbig
smilesontheirfacesandeachgreetedmeaswepassed.Bomdia!Bomdia!Bomdia!Smiling,Ireplied
inkind.
Icouldhearthefunanaplayingclearlyonaradioandvoicesinanimatedconversation.Ibeganmy
innermonologue—apeptalkofsorts.Iwasheadingin.Icautionedmyselfaboutbeingoverconfident.I
reminded myself that culture shock was an out-of-control emotional roller coaster, so low expectations
wereimperativetosuccess.IknewIcouldanticipatealotoftalkingandgawkingatthestrange,skinny,
whitecreatureploddingintotown.SomedaysIdreadedthis,butnottoday.Thingsweregoingwell.
Isteppedoffthepathandontothecobblestonestreetofthecentralsquare.Peoplesmiledandgreeted
mewhiletheystaredwide-eyedandunabashed.AwomanIdidn’tknowstoppedhersweepingofleaflitteredcobblestonestotalktome.Shewasmyheightwithamuscularbuild.Sheworeasleevelessshirt,
nobra,andaknee-lengthblackskirtwithascarfcoveringherhair.ItwastypicalCapeVerdeandressfor
ruralMaio.
Imadeanearnestefforttolistenandunderstandwhatshesaid,butmyconcentrationquicklywithered.
Iletmyselfbecomedistractedbyacoupleofboysplayingnearbyasshecontinuedwithherone-sided
conversationatarapidpace.
Afteramoment,oneoftheboyswalkedovertous.Hestaredatme,cautiouslyinchingcloserandthen
backingaway.Iimaginedhowbravehemustfeelforbeingsoclosetothepalestranger.Iimaginedhow
he would tell this story to his family and friends. Everyone would wait in suspense to hear about the
strangewhitewoman.Yes,howbravehewas.Ismiledatthethought.
Hesmiledback.Oureyesmet,andweheldeachother’sgazeforamoment.Hecouldn’thavebeen
more than three years old. He was skinny and naked. His big, dark brown eyes were framed in long
eyelashes and a shaved head. He sucked on a piece of candy and had developed a black ring of dirt
aroundhismouth.Hisnoseranwiththickgreensnotthathewipedawaywiththebacksofhishands.His
handswerecoveredinstreaksofblacksnottymud.Slowly,hereachedoneofthemouttowardme.
He opened his hand wide. Inside, a beautiful bright gold wrapper now glimmered in the sun. I
hesitated, mesmerized by its loveliness. Thinking I hadn’t understood, he thrust his hand forward and
noddedhisheadatmetotakehislastpieceofcandy.Idelicatelyreachedouttotakehisgift.Iopenedthe
wrapperandputthetreatinmymouth.Ismiled,workedtocontrolmyshakyvoice,andthankedhim.He
smiled huge and stood next to me. We stood there together, smacking on our pieces of hard candy and
enjoyingit.Ilookedathimagain,holdingbackmytears.“Obrigada,”Isaidoncemore,wantingtomake
sureheunderstoodhowmuchhisgenerositymeanttome.ThenIquicklysaidgoodbye.
As I walked away I stumbled on the crooked cobblestones, overcome with emotion. A child with
almostnothinghasgivenmehislastpieceofcandy.WordscannotdescribehowunworthyIfelttoreceive
suchasweetgift.
MymindreeledasItriedtocomprehendwhathadjusthappened.Ihadspentmoneyonmeaningless
keychainsandpenstopresentthelocalsassouvenirsofmystay.Iwasalreadylivinginamonstrosityof
a house with indoor plumbing that no one else in the village could afford. It all seemed worthless and
ridiculous compared to his generosity. I had been so sure I would leave the villagers with a better
existence.IhadsomestrangenotionthatsacrificingmygreatAmericanlifefortwowholeyearswouldbe
thegreatestthingIeverdid.
Anditwas.Notformyoriginalreasons,butbecauseIwasshownthetruemeaningofkindnessand
unselfishness.IntheendIreceivedthesweetestgift,andIcarryitwithmeeverywhereIgo.
JayneBieleckiworkedasawatersanitationandhealthcarevolunteerinCapeVerdefortwoyears,
1995-97.AfterreturningtotheU.S.andreadjustingtolifewithtoomanytoiletpaperoptions,she
earnedhermaster’sdegreeandtookateachingpositionattheUniversityofWisconsin-EauClaire.
Sheliveswithherhusband,twodogs,andavarietyofcatsonanoldhomesteadinwesternWisconsin,
appropriatelydubbedtheFunnyFarm.
TheConference
MARCYL.SPAULDING
Whennothinggoesright,it’shardtoremainpositiveandenergetic.
Ankamusomaninwkabolokolidabila!
Bolokolibetoorolasemusokakeneyama.
(Let’sstoptheexcisionofyounggirls!
Excisionisharmfultowomen’shealth.)
—FromaposterattheConferenceonExcision,Kita
JOURNALENTRY:MAY16,2001,BENDOUGOUBA:TODAYI BIKED TWENTY-FIVE KILOMETERS TO SEE WHATMALIANS
havetosayaboutfemalecircumcision(or,excision,asitiscalledhere,alsoknownintheWestasfemale
genitalmutilation,orFGM).ExcisionisdeeplyingrainedinMalianculturesinmostpartsofthecountry.
There are various types, the most common being the removal of all or part of a girl’s clitoris. Some
peopleclaimit’sdoneforreligiousreasons(thoughIslamicteachingsdonoteithercondemnorcondone
thepractice),someconsideritariteofpassageforagirlcomingintoadulthood,somesayitspurposeis
to make a girl “clean” and less promiscuous, and others just cite tradition. Sometimes the excision is
performedonadolescentgirls,sometimesonyoungergirls,andsometimesoninfants.
Oftentimes,excisionsareperformedunderunsanitaryconditions,andmanygirlsmaybeexcisedatone
time,usingthesameknife—puttingthemathighriskforHIVinfection.Onceexcised,agirlcancontract
various infections and have difficulty in childbirth. And the excision itself can be psychologically
traumatic. Practices are changing now, but the movement of Malians to educate each other about the
dangersandconsequencesofexcisionisnew,andthepracticeisstillverywidespread.Whileafewof
the younger generation would like to abolish it, I’ve heard stories of grandmothers taking away their
younggranddaughterstobeexcisedwithouttheirmothers’knowledge.Thereisanoldfearthatagirlwho
isnotexcisedwillneverhaveahusband;manystillbelievethis.
AsanAmerican,Ifeelshockedandhorrifiedthatsuchapracticecouldexist.ForMalians,Iknowthat
the situation is much more complex. I’m always very interested to hear Malian points of view on the
matter.
AdoctoratPLANInternationaltoldmeabouttheconferenceonexcisioninKita.Ofcourse,itwas
scheduledjustbeforeandduringmyfirstbighealthcommitteetrainingsession.Ireallywantedtogo.In
ourPeaceCorpstraining,wehadbeentoldaboutthepractice,butweretoldnottotalkaboutit.It’stoo
sensitiveanissue,andsincetheMalianHealthMinistry—theorganizationwithwhichItechnicallywork
—hasnotofficiallycomeoutagainstit,wearenot“officially”todiscussit.SoIhaven’ttalkedaboutitat
all,notuntilrecently.
IdecideditwassomethingIwouldbeveryinterestedindiscussingwithMalians,butIwouldnotbe
theonetobringitup.Untilabouttwoweeksago,noonedidbringitup.Finally,Fatima(Adama’swife)
did,thenmyfriendLassinaandsomeofhisfriends.SoIhadaone-on-oneconversationaboutitwitha
woman,andanotherwithfiveyoungmen.Fatimaiscertainlyagainstit,butleavesitatthat.Sinceboth
sheandherhusbandareagainstit,herdaughtersarenotexcised.Asforthemen,I’mnotsosureabout
whattheythought.They,too,seemedtothinkitbad,butweren’ttooclearaboutwhy.Traditionsarehard
tochange,theysaid.I’mguessingpeoplewhoarestronglyforitarelesslikelytobringitup,atleastwith
me.
Duetothetrainingsession,Ihadalmostmissedtheconferenceentirely.IreturnedfromKitatospend
thedaypreparingforthehealthcommitteemeeting.Bynightfall,Ihadn’tfinished.Adamacamebackfrom
theconference’sfirstdayandIaskedhimaboutit.Hetoldmeaboutthepro-excisionargumentsofthe
very religious older men who were there, and it upset me incredibly. I had to hold back tears of
frustration, which were due in part to the fact that I had missed something important to me, merely to
prepare a meeting for a health committee that constantly has me tearing my hair out because people so
rarelyseemtotakeitseriously.
I had even skipped out on possible vacation plans for this committee. I could be in Senegal now,
sitting on the beach. I’m tired of making sacrifices for this committee. That’s part of what made me so
angryyesterday—andwhyIhadtogotoKitatoday.Ihadtodowhatwasimportanttome.SoIfounda
waytodoitandstillberesponsible.
Icamehomerightafterdinnerlastnighttofinishmypreparationsbythelightofakerosenelamp.Igot
upthismorningatthecrackofdawnandbikedtoKita—inaskirt,blastingmy“RoadTrip”mixtapeon
myWalkman.Asidefromthedifficultyofridinginaskirt,theridefeltgreat,anditremindedmeabout
passionandcalling.
Ifyou’rereallypassionateaboutsomething,youoftencastasidecommonsense.Commonsense,for
example, tells you that you need eight hours of sleep and that biking in 110-degree weather under a
blazingsunisstupid.However,Ineededtogotothisconference,andIdidn’tcareifitmeantIhadtostay
up all night preparing for the meeting. Now I’m angry that my sense of responsibility is once again
slappingmeintheface.Iwouldhaveverymuchlikedtohavestayedattheconferencetoday,butinstead
I’mwaitinghere,onceagain,forpeople—anyone—toshowup.
MoreandmoreI’mbeginningtounderstandwhysomanyPeaceCorpsVolunteersbecomesojaded
anddisillusioned.Wewanttodosomething.Butourgoodintentionstoooftenbiteusintheass.Webust
ourbutts,andmoneygetsbouffed.Wewantvillagerstotakecontroloftheirowncommunity’shealth—but
unless there’s a tangible and immediate incentive, it’s a low-priority affair. My daily life is spent just
tryingtounderstand,sothatIcanhelp.Butpeopledon’tcareabouttryingtounderstandme—oh,no,they
alreadyknowallaboutme.I’marichtoubabfromacountryofstreetspavedwithgold.Italkfunny,I
don’t understand anything, I can’t do anything, and it’s pretty damn funny to watch me dance. I’m
consideredtobeextremelyselfishbecauseIdon’thandoutmoneywhenIwalkthroughthevillage.So
whatgoodamI?Whatuseisatoubabifshedoesn’tgivethings?
If the approach of the Peace Corps—“Don’t hand out money, know the community, work toward
sustainability”—istheonlywaydevelopmentcanworkforthebenefitofthepeople,thenIambecoming
more and more convinced that it’s not possible. Unless people can (1) open their minds; (2) recognize
which behaviors and practices benefit the community and which harm it and alter their behavior
accordingly;(3)thinkaboutthefutureandnotjustthepresentmoment;and(4)recognizeinthemselvesa
powerandadesiretomakechange,thendevelopmentcannothappen.Peopleherearepoor;that’safact.
But the influence of Western culture makes them feel poorer than they are, makes them want what they
can’thave,thusmakingthemfeelpowerlessandhelpless.
5:20P.M.Bintou,thepresidentofthehealthcommitteeandthemostmotivatedpersoninthevillage,just
arrived. When I got here at 3:00, I was feeling good, feeling energetic, and ready to work. Now I feel
discouragedandfoolish.Ifthingscontinuelikethisfortwoyears,Imayhavetoshootmyself.Ihavehere
whatIconsidertobeanalmostidealsituation.AndIhaveapositiveattitude(thoughthat’sbeingcrushed
littlebylittle).
I don’t know how other Volunteers do it. I really don’t. Well, I know some make it through only
becausetheystopcaring,ortheyneverdidcare.Idon’twanttostopcaring.So,consequently,IfearI’m
goingtocontinuetogethurt.
Thankgodnoteverydayislikethis.Buttheroller-coasterrideI’vebeenonforthepastninemonthsis
tiring.
Later, the same day: Well, a couple of people came. And I was clearly upset. Bintou yelled at me.
Adama yelled at me. “You shouldn’t have gone to that conference; you should’ve stayed here and
prepared, called people to the meeting!” That did it. If he had any clue how important it was to me to
attendthatconference,orhowcompletelydestroyedIwouldfeelhadInotgone…well,Iwasaboutto
burstintotears.SoIgotupandlefttocalmmyselfdownandavoidhavingeveryonewatchmecry.And,
everyonelaughed.
Bintoucametomeandyelledsomemore:“Angerisbad!Angerisbad!Youhavetocomeouthereand
listentous!”Itookacoupleofdeepbreathsandwentback.ButIneededmorethanthatcoupleofminutes
toholdbackthetears.Isatdown,andtheyyelledatmeforbeingangry.Thentheypickeduponthetears
streamingdownmyface.“Wait,she’snotangry;she’scrying!That’sbad!Cryingisbad!”Nottomention,
quitefunny,apparently.
Adamawaspracticallyrollingontheground,yellingandlaughing.Whatagreatwaytomakeaperson
feelbetter.Oneofthejoysofvillagelifeisthatthingsthathappenthatarefunnytodayarenotjustfunny
today,they’refunnyfordaysandweekstocome.Idon’tthinkcryingiseverforgotten.Noonetookme
seriously before—now it can only be worse. And the whole village will know by tonight that I cried
whennooneshoweduptomymeeting.Fabulous.
I know, of course, that the reason for my crying is much deeper. One, I needed it. In the past nine
months I’ve cried twice. Two, I desperately need a vacation. Three, I had an emotionally disturbing
morningexperiencingclosedmindsandwatchingvideosoflittlegirlsbeingcut.Four,I’vebeenputting
up with all this for nine months. Five, my emotional support system consists of people who laugh
uncontrollablywhenIcry.Insane—youhavetobeinsanetodothisjob!
May17,2001,Bendougouba:Yesterday’swritingwasveryinteresting—awrittenrecordofmyrapid
descentfromenergyandpassiontoshameanddisillusionment.Ifeltgreatyesterdaymorning.Ipursued
somethingthatwasimportanttome,didwhatIneededtodoeventhoughcommonsense(andAdama)told
meIshouldn’t.AttheconferenceAdamaseemedhappythatIwasthere.Itwasonlybeforeandafterthat
hechastisedme.SoIwasuponhigh—butthehigheryouare,thefurtherandfasteryoufall.Still,Idon’t
regretgoingtotheconference;hadInotgone,Iwouldfeelalotworsetoday.
Unfortunately, I now feel less likely to have faith in the people I work with, to put my soul into
something, only to be disappointed. If people don’t want to take control of their community’s health, I
can’t help them. If something is really important to me (and this job is), I put my all into it, I make
sacrificesforit.And,timeaftertime—likeyesterday—Igetshotdown,withnoonearoundbutmetopick
upthepieces.Eachtimemyfaithisweakened,littlebylittle.Fromtimetotimeitgetsrestored—whichis
soimportant—butagainitalmostmakesthefallsharder.
I honestly don’t know if I can continue in this way for two years. It may prove to be too much of a
sacrifice,toomuchofmyselfbeingpusheddown,takenaway.Idon’tneedtobehere.Ican’tcontinueto
give of myself this way with so little result. On top of difficulties with work are the difficulties of my
personal life—my limited support network, my need to feel loved, my need to feel like part of a
community.ThekindofsupportIneedislimited.Inthevillage,IgetsomeofitfromAdama,Fadiala,and
Bintou.But,asevidencedyesterday,thatdoesn’talwaysworkwell,althoughBintoudidpostponetravel
plans for me last night because I was upset. Otherwise, I have Sima and Karin—my two closest
teammatesandtwopeopleIlovedearly.WhenI’malone,Ihavemyjournalsandmythoughts.
Asfarasfeelingloved—IknowthatIamlovedhere,butthemannerofexpressionoflovehereisnot
whatI’musedto.It’snotexplicit.Attimes,it’sevenharsh.Somylovingcomesfromthechildren—the
verysmallones,theinnocentoneswholovemeunconditionally,nowthatthey’vegrownaccustomedto
mypresence.Unlikeadultshere,IcanlovebabiesinthesamewayIwouldintheStates.Andtheylove
mebackthesameway,too.Ourloveisnon-verbal.It’ssmiles,touches,closeness,laughter.Nopressure,
noexpectations.Butagain,it’slimited.Granted,thereisnoshortageofbabies,butasanadultwomanI
needmore;IalsoneedtofeelIbelong.
Ifeelwelcomedhere,butIdon’tfeellikeapartofthecommunity.Ifeellikeanovelty,appreciatedin
thesensethatit’sfuntohaveatoubabaround(“Whatisshedoinghereagain?”),nicetohavesomeoneto
helpwiththework,makeuslookgood,makeuslaugh.I’mverymuchaffectedbythetemperamentand
attitudeofthosearoundme,andsoItendtoderivemyownmoodfromthat.ItbecomesaconstantbattleI
fight to remain positive and energetic while others are apathetic, to continue doing my best to be a
memberofthecommunityandtobeaccepteddespitethelaughter.Totrynottoseemisunderstandingon
mypartorinothersasmyownfailing.
Well, I sure have done a lot of thinking in the past two days. Happy six-month anniversary of
installation!It’snotallbad,ofcourse.I’matalowpointnow,butI’llrebound;Ialwaysdo.
MarcyL.SpauldingservedasahealtheducationvolunteerinMalifrom2000-02.Afterreturning,she
publishedherjournalsinamemoirentitled,DancingTreesandCrocodileDreams:MyLifeinaWest
AfricanVillage,thebookfromwhich“TheConference”isexcerpted.MarcymissesherfriendsinMali
andonceinawhilecravesabigbowlofriceandtigadegena,adishwhichshehaswoefullybeen
unabletorecreateathome.Shealsomissestakingbathsunderanopensky.Marcycurrentlylives(and
loves!)inSanFrancisco,California.
Girls’School
MARSALAIRD
Thoughthehopesofearliertimeshaveoftenbeendashed,thebeliefinthepowertochangecan
remain.
IPRESENTEDMYSELFTOTHEHEADMISTRESSTWODAYSLATE.
MyheartwashammeringandmylegsfeltweakasIstammeredoutanapology.Ihadbeenfelledby
foodpoisoning,Iexplained,andthiswasmyfirstdayoutofbed.
Shesaidnothing.
Itriedatouchofhumor,remarkingthatIhadhopedforaquickdeath,butthatitseemedIwasdestined
to hang around a little longer. Her lips compressed into what was clear evidence of a dour Scottish
disposition.Sheorderedmetoreturnintwohourstoteachmyfirstclass.
TheschoolshepresidedoverwasthefirstinSomaliatoeducateyoungladiesbeyondtheABCs,andI
andafellowVolunteerweretobethefirstteachersofthenewuppergrades.Duringourtraining,oneof
the lecturers had commented that when we taught boys, we taught boys; but when we taught girls, we
taughtanentiregeneration.SoIwalkedbacktomyhouseandtriedtokeepupmycourage,thisgoalin
mind.
WhenIreturnedtwohourslater,Iwasterrified.
The girls, ages twelve to sixteen, were already assembled in their classroom. At a nod from the
headmistress, they stood at attention and recited in a sing-song voice, “Go-od mor-ning, Miss Marsa.”
Thenshewasgone,andIwasalonewiththegirls,rowsofthem.
They looked beautiful in their white-cotton school dresses, concealed under long wraps of colorful
fabric pulled over their heads whenever they left the school. This was less a matter of religion at that
time:theprevailingattitudewasthatgirlsandwomenwerethepropertyofthemenintheirfamilies.The
wrapshadtheaddedadvantageofhidingthegirls’livelinessandcuriosityfromoutsiders.
ThatwaswhyIwashere,toliberatethem!Thiswasgoingtobemymission,tohelpthegirlstaketheir
rightfulplaceinsociety.
WhileIwasformulatingtheseloftythoughtsofyouthful,untestedidealism,IrealizedthatifIdidn’t
gesturetomystudents,theywouldstandallday.
Thelarge,sparselyfurnishedclassroomopenedtotheoutsidealongtheentirelengthofonesideofthe
cinder-block building. Besides the students’ desks, it contained a long table and a blackboard on legs.
Thatwasit.Glancingaround,consciousoftheexpectantlooksonthegirls’faces,Isawanopencloset.
Theshelveswerepiledhighwithruledcopybooksandboxesofpencils.Nothingelse.ButIwasaPeace
Corps Volunteer. Our motto, like the Boy Scouts—or was it the Coast Guard?—should be “semper
paratus.”Iwouldadlib.Icoulddothat.
Iwasalreadythinkingahead,planningtoinspirethemwiththestoryofMadameCurie,whohadwon
two Nobel Prizes in science. (Maybe an edited version of Eve Curie’s biography of her mother was
availableinaseriesofEnglishreadersforAfricanstudentsIhadseenelsewhere.)
Iaskedmypupilsabouttheirambitions.Aftersomehesitationitturnedout,remarkably,thattheyall
wantedtobedoctorsandowncolorTVs.ItoldthemIwouldbringataperecorderthenextday—which,
in1962,wasaboutthesizeofasmallsuitcase—tointerviewthemandletthemhearhowtheysounded.
Theyweretransfixed,althoughIwasn’tsureiftheyknewwhatataperecorderwas.
Everything seemed to be going really well when I became aware that they were looking down at a
point near my feet. Some of them were even holding their hands up to their mouths trying to suppress
titters.AsIlookeddown,tomyhorror,Isawahuge,fatwormwithasegmentedbodyandmanypairsof
legsslowlycrawlingalongthecementfloortowardmysandaledfeet!
Itturnedouttobeamillipede.Ihadneverseenoneofthesecreaturesbeforeanddidn’tknowthatthey
wereonlyugly,notdangerous,soIyelledinfright,bangingmyheadagainsttheblackboardasIranfrom
itspath.Mystudentswerecompletelydelighted,shriekingandclappingtheirhandswithpleasure.
I looked at my watch and saw with relief that it was time to dismiss them; the girls appeared
disappointedthattherewasnomoreentertainmentontheprogram.Astheyshuffledout,Ireflectedwith
morethanalittletrepidationthatthiswasonlymyfirstdayasaPeaceCorpsteacher.
Mystudentslookedbeautifulastheyparadedacrossthesquarewithjustatouchofself-consciousness.A
crowdhadgatheredtowatchthedifferentcontingentsmarchpasttohonorthefirstpresidentofthenew
SomaliRepublic,AdenAbdullahOsman.Thatimageremainedvividtwenty-fiveyearslaterasagroupof
Returned Peace Corps Volunteers walked across Memorial Bridge to Arlington, Virginia, waving
handmadeblue-and-whiteSomaliflagsandsingingtheSomalianthem“SomaloWanachsen”(Somaliais
Great).Mystudentswouldbemiddle-agedwiththeirownfamiliesnow,MadameCurieforgotten.
ThemillipedefiascoonmyfirstdayattheGirls’SchoolinHargeisabroughtmystudentsandmetogether.
TheydevelopedaprotectivefeelingtowardtheirignorantAmericanPeaceCorpsteacher.Theygiggled
overprivatematterswhentheyweresupposedtobestudying,butIstillthinktheyweretryingtoplease
me.Whatthegirlslikedmostweregamesanddancing.Especiallydancing.Theyalsolikedtosing.
Onegirlfollowedmearoundwhenevershehadthechance,offeringtodothingsforme:“CanI,canI,
Miss Marsa?” She had a narrow face, large eyes and a curved forehead, a facial feature distinctive to
manySomalis,addingtotheirunusualgoodlooks.Ihadacrushononeofmyteachers,too,whenIwas
aboutherage.
Iwouldcomeovertotheirdormitoryaftersupperfrommyhousenearbytosaygoodnight.Mymaidin-waitingwouldalwaystakemyhandswhenIstoppedbyherbedsideandmurmur,“Youaremydream,”
intheexaggeratedflowerywaySomalisoftenusedwhenexpressingthemselves.Theyhaveagiftfororal
poetry.
Oneday,thistouchingritualcametoanend.Theschooldiscoveredthatthegirlhadtuberculosis,and
shewassenthome.LaterIlearnedthatshehaddied.Thistaughtmenottogettooclosetoanyofmyother
students,althoughIlikedmostofthemandencouragedtheirextracurricularchatterwithmeasameansof
practicingtheirEnglish.
Theirfavoritemethodofpracticewasusingmytaperecorder.Theywerefascinatedbythemechanics
ofitandlovedtohearthemselveswhileIattemptedtocorrecttheirpronunciation.
Attheendoftheschoolyear,aVolunteerorganizedanEnglishpoetryrecitationcontestandIentered
oneofmystudents.ShehadworkedveryhardrecordingherEnglish,spendinghourswithmeafterclass.I
picked Wordsworth’s “Daffodils” for her to learn because it was available and I liked it. To hear her
intone“Ahostofgoldendaffodils,”withherhandsclaspedtoherheartalternatelybroughttearstomy
eyesandsuppressedlaughtertomylips.Shewonthecontest!
Thegirlslikedfairytales,listeningraptlytostoriesofabductedchildren,orphans,cruelstepmothers,
wicked witches, handsome princes, and enchanted animals. Afterward, I would have them draw their
favorite parts and write captions. They often chose sad episodes. Their drawings were childish; they
weren’tusedtofigurativeart,andinthepasthadonlypaintedinterlaceddesignsofflowersandbirds.
OneexampleIsavedshowsamotherwithherhandsuptoherfaceandaboyhalfhersizewithhairlike
palmfrondswhofloatedintheair.Thecaptionreads“o.don’ttakmychild.”
ThelessonmygirlsfoundparticularlydistastefulwasEnglishgrammar.Ididn’tblamethem.Weused
bookletsprintedbyaBritishcompanythatspecializedinteachingEnglishtoAfricanstudents.Manyof
theexercisesconsistedofparagraphswithblanksinwhichtheyhadtowritethepropertenseoftheverb
indicated.ThechiefobstacletothiswasthattheBritscouldn’tgetitintotheirheadsthatEastAfricawas
not a suburb of London. The girls didn’t know about Liverpool Station or afternoon tea. So I used to
substituteexamplesthatwerefamiliar,suchasMrs.Hasanabi’sDryGoodsShop,or“aherdofsheep.”
It’sforty-fiveyearsnowsinceItaughtinHargeisa.Someofmystudentsareprobablydead.Hopesfor
theSomaliRepublichaveallbutvanished.Todaytheplacewheremyschoolstoodispartofabreakaway
regionoftheoriginalSomaliRepubliccalledSomaliland.It’snotrecognizedbytheUnitedStates,butit’s
doingwellincomparisonwithSomalia,whichislargelydevastated.AwhileagoIreceivedaletteranda
fewphotosfromafellow-SomaliRPCVwhoisinvolvedwithafundraisingprojecttosupportamaternity
hospital in Somaliland, the first of its kind there. At the hospital babies are delivered and women are
trainedtobecomenurses,midwivesandfirst-aidworkers.Andtwoyoungwomenarestudyingtobecome
doctors. They appear in one of the photos in traditional Somali dress, their eyes staring intently at the
camera.
Lookingattheirsmilingfaces,IrememberagainthewordsofourPeaceCorpslecturerallthoseyears
agowhosaidthatwhenyouteachaboy,youteachaboy,butwhenyouteachagirlyouteachageneration.
PerhapsMarieCurie’saccomplishmentsmaynothavebeenentirelyforgottenafterall.
BeingaPeaceCorpsteacherinSomaliafrom1962–63changedMarsaLaird’slife.Shegotagraduate
degreeinancientart,whichgaveherthechancetodosomeexcavatinginIraqbeforethebaddays
shotdownhercareer.So,shetaughtarttocollegestudentsinNewYorkCityfortwentyyears.And,as
itturnedout,thetimespentteachingEnglishtogirlsandboysinSomalia,whoseownlanguagewasn’t
evenwrittenthen,wasgoodexperiencefordealingwithkidswhoresistedartatallcosts.
Testimony
STEPHANIEBANE
Disease,sodistant,bringsallofushome,allofustogether.
I BARELY KNEW HELENE BEFORE HER SON DIED. SHE FLUTTERED AROUND THE EDGE OF THE FAMILY, SLAVISHLY
devotedtoheroldercousinYvette.
Yvetteranahealthclinic.Wesattogetherintheshadeofamangotreeonehotafternoon,talkingabout
healthissuesinthecommunity.Unasked,Helenebroughtusatrayofhotsweettea.SheservedYvettewith
her head bowed. The tea was sticky with sugar. In Chad, the sweeter the tea, the greater the sign of
affectionandrespect.
“Whydon’tyousitdownwithus?”Yvetteoffered.
“No,thankyou.”
Heleneturnedtome,averyseriousexpressiononherface.
“Yvettesavedmylife.Iloveherlikemymother.”
The remark was unexpected; I thought I’d misunderstood. Before I could ask the obvious, Helene
walkedaway.IlookedtoYvette.
“Igotheroutofaterriblesituationinthecity,”shesaidvaguely.Itwastheonlyexplanationshewould
offer.
YvettewasthefirstwifeofThomas,thevillagechief.Thomashadfourwives,threeinourhousehold
andoneinaneighboringtown.Hetookcareofthemallfinancially,andalloftheirchildren.ButYvette
wasthewifeofhisheart.Heconsideredherhispartnerinthedevelopmentofthecommunity.Hewould
doanythingforher.SowhensheaskedthatheradultcousinHeleneandhertoddlerbeallowedtocome
live with them, it was done. Never mind the expense of supporting them, or the shame Helene clearly
carriedwithher.Heevenpaidforhertogobacktoschool.
Helenewashumbleandshy.Atschool,thoughshesatnearthefront,sheneverspoke.Inthecrushof
ninetystudents,itwasweeksbeforeIevenrealizedshewasinmyclass.ThenIwouldseeher,watching
mewithwide,cleareyes,takingeverythingin.
When she occasionally found courage to make conversation with me at home, her French was
beautiful, much better than my own. But that was rare; she would send her son David to see me in the
afternoons, an emissary between us. He would totter back and forth while Helene labored over the
evening meal and I wrote anxious letters to my mother, who had recently been diagnosed with breast
cancer.
Yvette was out of town, or it would never have happened. Helene would have told her David was
sick,andshewouldhavedonesomethingaboutit.Ididn’tseeitmyself,eventhoughIspenttimewith
him.HewouldbringmeamangoorsomeothertreatthatHeleneaskedhimtodeliver.Hewasn’tafraid
ofmywhiteskin.Heleanedagainstmeifhewastired.IgavehimatasteofwhateverIwaseatingand
listenedtohimchatterifhehadsomethingtosay.Ineverunderstoodasingleword.Hewasonlythree,
andhespoketomeinN’Gambaye.IansweredhiminEnglishorFrench.Mostlywejustsmiledateach
other,easycompanions.
The morning of the day he died, I saw Helene holding him. He was dehydrating rapidly. He looked
shrunken,likeaninfant.Shehadmixedsomehoneywithwater,hopinghewoulddrinkmore.
Asthedayworeon,theolderwomeninthevillageheardwhatwashappening,andgraduallycame
intotheyard.TheysataroundHelene,notsayingmuch,justkeepinghercompany.Ididn’tunderstand.I
wasgettingreadytoattendaschoolplaywithoneofmystudentswhenIheardHelenestarttowail.Iran
outofmyhutandsawherholdingDavidclose,cryingout.
Terrified, I stayed where I was. The old women sat quietly, letting Helene cry until she was spent.
Minutespassed.Anotheroldwomanenteredtheconcession.Shemusthavebeenwaitingoutside—forthe
commotionthenthecalm—beforesheentered.Shewasthewomanwhopreparesthedeadforburial.
Helenestartedscreamingwhenshesawher.ShescreamedoverandoverandclutchedDavidtoher
chest.Shewouldn’tlethertakehim.Theoldwoman,lovingandawful,priedDavidfromherarms.
Asswiftandcruelasitwas,lettingHelenelingeroverDavidwouldhavebeenworse.Itwasnotlong
aftertwoo’clockandthetemperaturewashigh.Itwaseasilyover110,probablyover115.He’dbeen
dyingforhours,andthesmellofitwasalreadyonhim.
Iretreatedintomyhut.Isatatmydeskonmywoodenfoldingchair,staringatthewall.Theheatwas
unbearable,butIhadnowhereelsetogo.
Itwasquietoutside.IcouldhearthelowvoicesoftheoldwomenastheycaredforHelene.Ilistened
tothemurmurandsloshastheybathedherinbucketsofcoolwater.Shesobbedquietly,andcriedout
onceortwice.
Eventually, I heard more noise and shuffle. I went to the door and saw that the women had placed
severalmatstogetherintheshadeofanearbymangotree.TheyledHelene,whowasfalteringandcould
barelywalk,tothecenter.They’ddressedherinsomeoneelse’sclothing;theoutfitshe’dworneveryday
I’dknownherwasgone.Shesatuprightwiththeirassistance;whentheylethergo,sheslumpedtothe
ground.Theybegantoseatthemselvesaroundher.Morewomencameintotheyardandjoinedthegroup
onthemat.
Iturnedbackinside,panicked.Ididn’tknowtherules.Ididn’tknowwhatwasexpected.ThepersonI
could have asked was prostrate with grief outside my door. Most of my friends in Chad were men; I
wasn’tpartoftheritualsofwomen.Iwasn’tsureifIwaswelcome.Sweatdrippeddownthebacksofmy
legs,andIprayedintenselythatwhateverIdidnextwouldbetherightthing.Idecidedtojointhewomen
onthemat.
The few yards I had to walk from the doorway to the mango tree were long. Everyone but Helene
turned to look at me; she lay motionless, eyes shut. I‘d never met most of these women—they weren’t
educated, didn’t speak French, and had no reason to socialize with the white schoolteacher. I braced
myselfforanegative,suspiciousreaction.ThewomenshiftedslightlytomakeroomformeasItookoff
mysandalsandsatdown.TheyturnedtheirattentionbacktoHelene.
Wesattogetherforanhourormore.
Helenewasinshock,stillandsilent.Thewomenweptonherbehalf;mostweremothers,mosthad
lostchildren.Icriedwiththem;thesorrowofitwasterrible.
Atdusk,amancametoletusknowthatpreparationswerecompleteforthefuneral.Westoodupand
made our way slowly to the graveyard. Thomas joined us, together with the men from the village. He
noddedingreeting,butdidnotspeak.Hewaspale,andhisfacewasgroovedwithpain.
Themensatonroughwoodenbenchesintheopenair.Wesatinfrontofthem,stillclusteredaround
Helene on a mat. The service and the singing in N’Gambaye were brief. David’s little body was
swaddledinthefamiliarclothofhismother’sskirt.Thegrainylightoftheeveningpassed;whenitwas
over,wewalkedhomeinthedark.Ithadonlybeenfivehoursfromthemomenthedieduntilweputhim
intheground.
Two or three days later, Thomas summoned me to speak with him. We sat together outside of his
office.HestillworethedevastatedexpressionI’dseenonhisfaceatthefuneral.
“Didshetellyouhowsickhewas?”
“No.Shedidn’t.Ididn’tknowuntiltheafternoonthathedied.”
“Meneither,”hesaid.Wesatinsilenceforalongtimelookingatthedirt,ourfeet,ourhands.
“Ihaveatruck,”hefinallysaid.ThehospitalinMoundouwasonlyanhouraway.
“Ihavemoney,”hesaid.
“Ido,too.”
“Idon’tknowwhyshedidn’taskusforhelp.”Heshookhishead.Helookedup;oureyesmet.Neither
ofuswouldsayitoutloud,forfearthetruthwouldcomealiveandfinditswaytoHelene.Toknowit
rightnowwouldbreakher.Itwasonlydysentery.Daviddidn’thavetodie.Weweretoorichforthat.
Theweekafterthefuneral,oneoftheolderwomeninthevillageaskedmeformoney.Theywereall
chippingintobuyHeleneanewoutfit,toreplacewhatDavidwasburiedin.Iknewtheywerestruggling
tocomeupwithenough,andIcouldeasilyhavepaidforthealltheclothandtailoringmyself.Butthey
wantedtogivehersomething.SoIgaveenoughforthecloth,andleftthecostoftailoringtothem.
Helene missed school for the next two weeks. The heat was still brutal, and she was listless and
barelyfunctional.Shelaymotionlessonamatduringtheafternoonhours.Shelostweight,herskinlooked
yellow.
SheshowedalmostnoemotionuntilYvettereturned.WhenYvettewalkedintotheyard,Heleneleapt
toherfeet.Sheletoutamiserable,ululatingcryandrantoher.Yvetteletoutthesamecryandopenedher
arms. The rest of us clustered around. Someone pulled together several mats under one of the mangos,
enoughforthewholefamily.Yvettesatinthecenter,withHeleneatherfeet.
Thomas joined us and gave a speech to welcome Yvette back home. He talked about what had
happened in her absence. He told us he was shocked that death could come to the family, that he had
believedhiswealthwouldprotectthem.Icried,andsodidThomas’secondandthirdwives.Wehadall
beengrievingsilently,alongwithHelene,anditwasgoodtoshareitagain.
Yvette told us about her trip. She had been summoned to the capital by the wife of President Idriss
Déby.Shewaitedatthepresidentialpalaceforweeksbutwasneverreceived.Shebitterlyregrettedthat
she’dbeengone,andfornothing,whenDavidgotsick.
Thehouseholdresumedanormalrhythm,thoughHelenedecidedtodropoutofschool.Shehadmissed
toomuchtocatchup,andshewasexhausted.Yvettefussedoverher,urginghertoparticipateinthelifeof
thefamily.Slowlyshestartedtoengage,preparingmealsagainandhelpingtheolderchildrenwiththeir
homework.
For me, life in the family and the village got sweeter. The women relaxed around me. Wherever I
went,Iwasmorewelcomedthanbefore.
The heat finally broke; the first rain of the year swept through the village. It happened one night at
dinnertime,anditwasatorrentialdownpour.IusuallysharedamealunderthestarswithYvette,butthe
rainforcedusintoourhuts.
Iheardaknockatthedoor;itwasHelene.Shehadatrayoffood.
“IaskedYvetteifIcouldeatwithyoutonight,”shesaid.Shewasnervous.
“Comein,”Isaid.“This’llbefun!”IhopedIsoundedenthusiastic;doingthiswashardforher.
I cleared off my desk to make room for the food. We ate together in the lantern light. The rain
hammeredontheroof.Itwassoloudwehadtoraiseourvoices;forthemostpartwesatinsilence.It
wascozy.
After we finished eating she gestured toward the letter I’d shifted onto the floor when she came in.
“Whoareyouwriting?”
“Mymother,”Isaid.
“Doyoumissher?”
“Yes,terribly.Itwasn’tsobadwhenIfirstgothere,butnowshe’sbeendiagnosedwithbreastcancer.
I’mworriedaboutherallthetime.”
“Breastcancer!”
Helenewasshocked.BreastcancerissomethingChadiansdon’ttalkabout.ButIwasn’tgoingtreatit
likeashamefuldisease.Iwasverydirect.
“Yes.Shehadamastectomy.Herentirerightbreastwasremoved.”
Helene was silent. The expression of shock was gone, and she didn’t look judgmental. In fact she
lookedhappy.Excited.
“Iwanttoshowyousomething,”shesaid.
Instantlysheliftedhershirtuptoherneck.Itriednottolooksurprised.
“Ihadbreastcancer,”shesaid.
Therewasalongraisedscaraboveherrightbreast.Shetouchedit.
“Ihadatumor,andasurgeoninN’Djamenaremovedit.I’mcurednow.”
Webothlookedatthescarforaminute.
“Howscary,”Isaid.Shenodded.Breastcancerdoesn’toftengettreatedinChad.There’stoomuch
stigma,andtherejustaren’tthemedicalfacilities.
“Didyouhavetohaveanytreatmentaftersurgery?”Iasked.“Mymomisgoingthroughchemotherapy
becausehercancermightspread.”
Helenelookedatmeblankly.Sheshookherhead.“I’mcured.”
Iregrettedasking.TherewasnochemotherapyinChad,whethersheneededitornot.
Shewasstillholdinghershirtup,reluctanttocoverherscarnowthatitwasoutintheopen.
“I’vegotthisscar,butit’snothingtocomplainabout.Ishouldhavedied.”
ThatwasthesituationYvettehadsavedherfrom.Helenedidn’tsharethedetails,butIcouldguess.
Her husband might have refused to let her seek medical care. Perhaps he shunned her because of the
disease.Heclearlydidn’twantheranymore,evenaftertheoperation,orshewouldn’tbeherewithus.
Shewasn’tlikelytoremarry,andnowherbabywasgone.
Slowlyshepulledhershirtbackdownoverherbreasts.
“Doyouwantsometea?”Iasked.
“Iwouldlovesome.”
Wetalkedaboutother,easierthingsasImadeteaoveraBunsenburnernearthedoorway.Iputallthe
sugarIhadintothepot.
StephanieBanewasinChadfrom1993-95.ShecurrentlyworksasanAccountPlannerinanad
agency,andisgettinganMFAincreativewritingfromPacificUniversityinOregon.
AfricanWoman
DOROTHEAHERTZBERG
Whatwelearn,whenwewatchwhatothersendure.
YOU CAME IN LATE TONIGHT TO THE HOSPITAL; IN A SHARP AND RUSTED METAL CHAIR YOU SAT. YOU LOOKED
straightaheadintothedimflashlight.
Behindyoutwomenstood.
Theyhaveaccompaniedyouandstealyourvoice.
Theywillhaveaman-to-mantalkwiththedoctorabouthowyoufeelandthepainthatyoubear.
Youwilllookatthefloorandlistenasyourbabyscreamsforyoufrombehindthemetaldoor.The
doctorwilloverprescribeyoumedicineforthepaininyourbreast.Themenwillgoandbuyit.
Yourbaby’surgentcriesintensifyandawomanbringshertoyourbosom.
Youholdyourbreathinfear,wonderingwhichbreastyourmalnourishedchildwillsuckle.Hiscries
turn to a whimper as he clasps onto your nipple. Oblivious to your pain, his little fingernails and teeth
gripyourswollenandagonizedbreast.
You wince and bear down on your lip as the baby sighs and takes in its heavenly sips. The pain is
unbearable,youbegintopant,everymusclestrainingandtense.Thetwomenhavereturnedwithsatchels
ofmedicine,astheybeholdyourstruggle…andnowitistheireyesthatturntothefloor.
InthismomenttheyrelentandrecognizethatitisyouwhofeedsAfrica.
Me,Isitinhorrorandawe.Thiskindofstrengthisunknowntome.Anacceptancetonourishandbear
the suffering of a nation—without pride, without choice, and without apparent anger—you succeed in
raisingAfrica.
Agoldbraceletboundtightaroundyourwrist,symbolizingthatyouarebutanobjecttobegiventoa
man. Two gunshots go off into the night, and you become an arranged wife and mother for life. Your
chancestodreamfadingwiththesoundoftheexplosion.
Withhiddenkneesandhumbledcurtseysyoucarryaheavyburden.Eachdayasthesunstreaksthesky
youwillcultivatethelanduntilallofitschildrenhavefeasted.
WillIeverknowthiskindofcourage?
PriortojoiningthePeaceCorpsasanAPCDforHealthin2008,Dorothea(Dee)Hertzbergservedas
aPeaceCorpsVolunteer(1999-2001)andasaHealthTechnicalTrainerforPeaceCorpsPre-Service
Training(2002and2003),bothinBurkinaFaso.Deehasconsultedforseveralinternationalagencies
including:TheCarterCenter,IntrahealthInternational,theUnitedNationsDevelopmentFundfor
Women,JHU-CCPandJHPIEGO.DeeholdsaMaster’sofArtsinInternationalDevelopmentanda
BachelorofArtsinSocialThoughtandPoliticalEconomy.
MyRiceCrop
EDMUNDBLAIRBOLLES
GettingmorethanwegavehasbeentheexperienceofmostPeaceCopsVolunteers.
ISAID,“HAVEASHOE,”ANDHANDEDTHEHEADMASTER’SWIFEAPOTATOFROMTHESCHOOLGARDEN.
ExchangeslikethathappenedwhenIpushedtheedgeofmySwahiliskills.
Iexcusemyself:thereisasimilaritybetweenthewordforshoe,kiatu,andtheoneforpotato,kiazi,
butstrangersinastrangelandtendtoberidiculous,nevermoresothanwhentheytrytoadoptsomeofthe
localways.
TherewasthetimeItookmysixthandseventhgradersouttotransplantricefromthenurserytothe
farmland.Intheory,thisprojectwasanimportantdemonstrationofabetterwaytogrowrice,thevillage’s
staplecrop.Transplantingwasaprovenwaytoincreaseyieldperacre:Iknewthatbecauseitsaidsoon
thesheetofmimeographedpaperthatthePeaceCorpshadgivenme;Iwasinnopositiontodoubtit:I
didn’tknowwhatriceinanurserylookedlike.
Flashback to the first night of Peace Corps training. One of the women in the group dropped her
voiceandasked,“Doanyofyouknowaboutfarming?”
Thecathadpoppedfromthebag.WewerealltypicalVolunteers,freshoutofschool,bright-eyedand
citified, knowing nothing about farming. Yet somehow we had been selected to teach agriculture to the
primary-schoolchildrenofsubsistencefarmers.
Wedidbringenthusiasmtoourtask,runningtofindandgrabahoewhentherewerenotenoughtogo
around.Wedidn’twanttomissthechancetoworkunderthesummersun.Andwhenitcametimeforone
ofustovolunteertocastratealamb,Isteppedforward.
TruthbetoldIhadnoideawhatIwasdoing.IknewzilchaboutfarmingandzilchaboutAfrica.That
means I knew zilch squared about African farming. During training, we consoled ourselves with the
witticism,“Farmingcan’tbethattough,orsomanypeoplewouldn’tbedoingit.”Itturnedouttobenotso
easy.
No,wait!Therewassomethingeasy—radishes.Ipoppedradishseedsintothesoilandinnotimeat
all,evenwithoutmuchrain,Ihadarowofsaladvegetables.Forty-fivedaysfromplantingtoharvestwith
no maintenance. Now that’s easy. It was also pointless. The people didn’t eat radishes and didn’t like
radishes.AndIcouldn’teatafifty-yard-longrowofradishesbymyself.
Eggswereeasy,too.Almosteveryvillagerhadafewchickensfree-ranging,scratchingalivingfrom
the ground and providing the occasional egg as a bonus for its “owner.” Rooster-doodle-do echoed
aroundtheteachers’houseseverydawn.Ihadsomehensofmyown.ThePeaceCorpshadprovidedme
withtheleghornandtwoNewHampshireredsIkeptcoopedupbehindmyhouse.Theyweretwicethe
sizeofthevillagebirds.Oneofthelocalroosterseventuallydiscoveredtheirpresenceandusedtohang
aroundoutsidemychickenwiremakingeyesatthem.
Betweenmythreebirds,Igottwoeggsaday.Therewasalwaysawhiteonefromtheleghornanda
brown one from the reds. Every so often the reds outdid themselves, and I had a three-egg omelet for
breakfast.Mystudentswerethunderstruckbythefertilityofthebirdsandthesizeoftheeggs.Theirown
birdsdidnotdelivereggswithanykindofregularity,andtheeggstheydidmanageweresmall,notquite
robin’s-eggsized.
Thevillagerscouldseethateggsflowedontomytablelikehoneyandwereproperlyimpressed.Even
so,theywerenotreadytofollowmyexamplebecause,whilemyeggscameeasily,theywerenotfree.
TheonlyreasonmybirdsstayedfatandfertilewasthatIfedthemeveryday.Imadeafeeder(probably
half of the practical things I have ever made in my life were made during my Peace Corps years) and
boughtlargebagsoffeedatastoreahundredmilesaway.Whocouldaffordthat?ByAmericanstandards,
theeggswereveryinexpensive;bythelightsofaTanzanianvillagertheywereprohibitive.
The kind of farming the villagers did was hard work. Preparing the ground was just plain
backbreaking labor, and then harvesting was even more painful. “Stoop labor” we call a lot of that
harvestwork.IfoundIcoulddoitfornomorethanfiveminuteswithoutkeelingover.Pickingtomatoes
whilebendingoveraplantisnotasimmediatelyexhaustingasusingahoetobuildaridgeforplanting,
but the blood rushing to the head made me dizzy. The students were more determined than I and lasted
longer,buttheydidn’tfinditmucheasier.
OneofthelessonsIlearnedinthePeaceCorpsisthathardworkishardwork,nomatterwhoyouare.
You’dthinkIwouldhaveknownthatbeforegoingtoAfrica,andinawayIdid,butthereisknowingand
thenknowing.First-handknowingisbestandbeforethePeaceCorps,Iknewverylittleatfirsthand.
Likerice.IhadeatenplentyofricebeforegoingtoAfricaandwaspleasedtofinditwasmyvillage
staple.MaizeormilletwasamorecommonstapleinEastAfrica,butmyvillagewasonafloodplainat
thebaseofahighlandmassif,perfectforgrowingriceduringthefloodsofthelongrains.Mpunga was
the Swahili word for rice, and it was a big word in Kidodi village. Naturally, as the new agriculture
teacher, the first the school had had in years, I was determined to have a good rice crop. The parents
complainedthattheysenttheirkidstoschoolsotheywouldnothavetofarm.YetthereIwas.
The school did have plenty of land available for planting out behind the school building, and it
probably once had a fine garden, but nature had reclaimed it. In Africa, nature does not fool around: I
couldn’tseeverydeepintothefield,whichwasovergrownwithelephantgrass.Atleast,Iguessthat’s
whatitwas.Anyway,anelephantcouldhavehiddeninit,sotallweretheblades.
Usinghoesandmachetesweclearedaplaceforanurserywherewecouldstartgrowingourrice.My
PeaceCorpssheetonricesaidtoplantitinanurseryandthentransplantit.Thelocalmethodwastoplant
it straight in the field, so our project would demonstrate a superior yield from a superior method the
villagerscouldadopt.
Whenitwastimetotransplantthericefromthenursery,Iledmykidsouttothefield.Thenurseryhad
come along fine, although it seemed to have a lot of fresh grass growing alongside the rice. I told the
students the plan. Carefully remove the individual rice plants from the soil and carry them over to the
largerfieldforreplanting.Sure,saidthekids,andbegancarefullyremovingthegrass.
Nope,nope,Isaid.Theystoppedandlookedatme.
Takethericeshoots,Isaid,andplantthemoverthere.
Atoncetheybeganagaintotakethegrass.Wewentthroughtheroutineonemoretimebeforethepenny
dropped in my slow-moving brain. The grass was the rice. What I thought was rice were weeds. So,
O.K.,theyknowwhatricelookslikeandIdon’t.
Afteracertainamountofbendingandgettingdizzy,wemovedthericefromthenurserytothefield,
justintimetotakeadvantageofthegreatrains.Morewatercamedownfromthehighlandslopes,bringing
fertilesoilwithitandsittingontheground.Allthevillagerswerelookingforwardtoharvestingayear’s
worthofeating,andseedsforthenextyear’splantingbesides.
Whentherainsstoppedandthewaterbegantorecede,thepeopleofmyvillagebegananactionnot
mentioned on the mimeo sheets. They built makeshift platforms that rose above the rice and sent their
childrenouttositonthem.Whenbirdscameintothefields,thekidsontheplatformswouldslingstones
at them to chase the winged grazers away. I did not discuss it with the head teacher, but probably he
wouldhavebeenagreeabletosettingupasimilarsystemattheschool.Iwasn’tagreeable.Thestudents
hadcometolearn,nottomissclasswhiletheyactedaslivingscarecrows.Wewouldlosesomeofthe
ricethatway,butthatwastheprice.
It turns out, however, that birds are not partial grazers. By the time the water was down and others
wereintheirfieldsharvestingrice,ourricewasgone.Didthetransplantingsystemleadtobetteryield
peracre?Onlythebirdsknewforsure,andtheykeptmum.
OnedayayearlaterInoticedthatIcouldseeclearacrossthewholeschoolgrounds.Theschool’s
fieldoftallgrasshadbeencleared,worked,andplanted.Andnotwithricenorwithradishes.Wenow
grewthingsschoolchildrencouldgrowandpeoplewouldeat,foodslikeokraandeggplant;tomatoes,too,
despitetheagonyofthestoopedharvest.Iwasn’tanylesspronetodizziness,butIcouldn’tletthekids
workwhileIvoicedenthusiasm.
Theycalledmeteacher,butIdidanawfullotoflearning.
EdmundBlairBollesservedinTanzaniafrom1966-68.Heistheauthorofoveradozenbooks,
includingASecondWayofKnowingandEinsteinDefiant:GeniusversusGeniusintheQuantum
Revolution.
GentleWindsofChange
DONALDHOLM
Tiltingatwindmills…ortryingtobuildthemwheretheyhavenobusinessbeing:perhapsthat’sthejoy
ofPeaceCorps.
AS IF OUT OF A FAIRY TALE, ON ONE SIDE OF MAKELE, TIGRAY, IN NORTHERN ETHIOPIA, ON A RISE, STOOD THE
castle of Ras (or prince) Mengesha, descendant of centuries of Tigray’s monarchy. His lovely wife,
PrincessAida,wasagranddaughterofEmperorHaileSelassie.
Sincethedawnofcivilization,Makelehadbeenacaravan-tradingcenter,especiallyforsalt.Perched
at 8,000 feet in the Abyssinian Highlands, to the east an escarpment plunged below sea level to the
DanakilDesertintheGreatRiftValley.There,nomadscutsaltintoblocksfromevaporatedlakes.Camel
caravanstotedtheirpreciouscargoonancientpathsthatsnakeduptheescarpment.
Noteveryonelivedhappilyeverafter,however.IntheeraofSolomonandSheba,whoselegendary
kingdomwaslocatedthere,Tigraywasagranary,producinganabundanceofthemillet-likegraincalled
teff,themainingredientofEthiopianflatbread,injera.Aftermillenniaofcultivationinagraduallydrying
climate, yields steadily declined. Precious little topsoil remained. Farmers steered their oxen-pulled
plowsaroundrockslitteringthefields.Thespecteroffamineloomed.
MytaskwastoteachEnglishasasecondlanguagetoseventhandeighthgradersinthetown’slone
school.IwashonoredthatoneofmystudentswasthesonofRasMengeshaandPrincessAida,whomay
normallyhavesenthimawaytoaboardingschoolforhiseducation,buthadelectedtokeephimathome
nowthatthePeaceCorpshadarrived.
Mystudentstaughtmepracticalthingsabouttheirworld,asItaughtthemaboutmine.Theyshowedme
localpointsofinterest,likethemarket.Tradinginsaltwasthecenterpiece.Attheteemingcamelsection,
mystudentsgavemetipsonhowtoselectagoodone.Strangelyenough,oneofthemostimportantways
to recognize a camel’s mettle, I learned, involved the animal’s ability to stick its long tongue way out,
halfwaytoitsknees,withsalivadroolingtothegroundasthecamelwentintoastupor.“Oh,sir,gobez,
gobez(theAmharicwordforstrong,awesome),”theywouldshout.
We were always looking for ways to enrich our contribution. One PCV developed expertise in
buildinglatrines,whichhesucceededinerectingatvariouspointsaroundtown.
AnotherVolunteer,Dick,andIstumbledacrossanabandonedwindmillkitinafieldbehindtheschool,
inwoodencrateswithweedscanopiedaroundthem,displayingfadinglogosoftheclaspedhandsofthe
U.S.AgencyforInternationalDevelopment.TocynicalPCVs,thiswastypicalofUSAID.Ourschoolhad
twoGeneralElectricstovescollectingdustinourfacultyroom,withovensusedasfilingcabinets.Just
thethingifyouwerelookingtotrackdowna“hotitem.”Theproblem:ourschoolhadnoelectricity.Ata
PeaceCorpsconferenceinAddisAbaba,IaskedaUSAIDrepattendinghowitwaspossibletheywould
senduselectricstoves.Hisnonchalantresponse:“Wehadnewstuffcomingin,sowehadtomoveitout.”
Butwasthewindmillkit,liketheelectricstoves,reallyawhiteelephant?Strangelyenough,itseemed
to Dick and me that a windmill might actually make sense. With the persistently encroaching
desertification,ladieshadtofetchwaterfortheirhouseholdsfrommuddypoolsinarivertricklingmiles
fromtown.Theyluggedtheessentialliquidonswayedbacksinearthenjugsthatweighedasmuchasthe
watertheycarried,anagonizingtask.AsIsleptatnight,Idreamtoftheseladiessmilingaswatergushed
fromanimaginarywindmillinthecenteroftown.
We picked a central spot that the local government said we could use. It was like an erector set on
Christmasmorning,tryingtofigureoutwhichpartwentwhere.Oureffortsdrewamusementfrompeople
ontheirwaytothemarket.WhatwerethesezanyAmericanstryingtodo?Constructalaunchpadfora
moonrocket?
OvermanySaturdays,weputtogetherthefirsttier,thenthesecond.Complexitiessprangup.Howon
earthwerewegoingtodrillthewellunderthewindmill?Justasintimidating,howintheworldwerewe
goingtobeabletoliftitsheavymotortotheapex?Weblindlyworkedon,withthespiritandenthusiasm
typicalofearlyVolunteers,thatwecouldchangetheworldbyforceofwillalone.
Weneededamiracle.Then,onequietafternoon,asmallplanedroppeddownattheairstrip,apasture
ontheedgeoftownwheregoatsgrazed.TheAmericanAmbassadorhadbreezedinfromAddisAbabaon
a field trip. He was staying at the castle hotel at the other end of town, a bookend to the castle of Ras
MengeshaandPrincessAida,constructedfortheoccasionalVIPsandtoencouragefledglingtourism.
TheAmbassadorinvitedalleightVolunteersinMakelefordrinksatthecastlethatevening,following
hiscallonRasMengeshaandPrincessAida.
Iputonmyratty,rust-coloredsportscoatandmygreenpolka-dottiethatdidn’tmatch.Aswearrived,
we overheard the Ambassador speaking to one of the staff working at the hotel, who was presenting a
bottleoftejhoneymead,Ethiopia’snationaldrink,asagifttotheAmbassadorfromtheRasandPrincess.
The servant asked the Ambassador what he would like him to do with the tej, and the Ambassador
growled,“Dumpitdownthetoilet,I’vegivenenoughofmyintestinestothiscountry.”Welookedateach
otherandshuddered,knowingthisinsultwouldbereportedbacktotheRasandthePrincess.Itwasnotan
auspiciousstarttotheevening.
The Ambassador went around and asked each of us what we were doing in Makele as Volunteers.
Whenmostofusrespondedthatweweresecondaryschoolteachers,heimpatientlyraisedhisvoiceand
tiredlyblurtedout,“Butwhatareyoureallydoingtohelpthesepeople?”Thissparkedpangsofguilt.We
harboredsuchhighexpectationswhenwehadidealisticallyansweredPresidentKennedy’scalltodoour
partinbringingthedevelopingworldoutofpoverty.
Dick and I volunteered that, well, we were working on weekends to build a windmill. The
Ambassador’smoodchanged.“Whythat’sideal,”hebeamed.Giventheincreasinglyaridclimate,andthe
steady strong winds coming up from the escarpment, we sensed that he was thinking big, chasing
windmillsinhismindspreadingacrossthehorizonlikeoilderricks.
Intheweeksthatfollowed,DickandIfeltevenmoreinspiredtocompletethewindmill,constructinga
thirdtier.
One Saturday afternoon as we were lunching at the town’s only restaurant, a great commotion
occurred.Ahelicopterswoopeddownintothemarket,scatteringcamelsanddonkeysandpeopleinevery
direction.Mostofthepeopleinthemarkethadundoubtedlyneverevenheardofahelicopter,muchless
seenone.Forthem,itwasasifaspaceshiphaddocked.DickandItookswigsfromourwarmbeers,and
wonderedwhatthiscouldpossiblybeabout.
Two well-built men in U.S. Army fatigues stormed into the restaurant asking where they could find
PerryandHolm(Dickandme).Theleadman,withblondcrew-cuthairandsportingcoloneleagleson
his lapels, snapped to us long-haired, unkempt PCVs, with obvious irritation, that they were Army
engineers sent by the Ambassador from the small Army base in Asmara to team with us to finish the
windmill.Theirhelicopterwascapableofliftingthewindmill’sgearboxintoplace.Butfirst,theywanted
tocheckouttheoverallfeasibilityoftheproject.
Wetookthemtothesite.TheArmyengineerswentbacktotheirhelicopterandreturnedwithsounding
gearandaugers.Theylaunchedintotests.Wheneverwetriedtoassist,theybarkedthatweweregetting
intheirway,soDickandIreturnedtotherestaurantandsippedsomemoreonourwarmbeers.
Acoupleofhourspassed.ThetwoArmyengineers,bynowsunburntwithsweatdrippingdowntheir
faces,paradedintotherestaurantagain.Thecolonelsnarledthatthattherewasnoaquiferbelow.Thesite
wehadchosenwouldproducenotmorethan“acupaday.”Thetwostompedoutoftherestaurant;their
helicopterthrasheduparepeatwhirlwindofdustandcommotionastheydepartedintheir“spaceship.”
And the windmill? Dick and I thought about tearing it down, but our final days crept up on us so
quickly,wenevergotaroundtodoingit.ForallIknow,itstandstodayasametaphoricalmonumenttothe
spirit of the Peace Corps in its early days, a testament to tireless effort and goodwill, tempered by the
sobering acknowledgement that development remains a worthwhile goal, but one which cannot be
achievednearlyaseasilyorasquicklyasearlyVolunteersmayhaveimagined.
Withitcomestheresignation,callitwisdomifyoulike,thattheimpactofthePeaceCorpshasnot
beeninspectacular,stronggustsofwind,inshowyprojectslikewindmills,butratherinday-to-daytasks
liketeachingschoolinremotelocales,actsofkindnessthataregoodinthemselves,fosteringgentle,yet
steady, zephyrs of change that enhance the image of America, and through us, increase America’s
understandingofperspectivesofthedevelopingworld.Thatiswhatwehavereallybeendoing.
DonaldHolm,PCVinEthiopiafrom1965-67,isasemi-retiredForeignServiceofficerwhosecareer
hastakenhimtoSouthAmerica,SoutheastAsia,WesternEurope,theEasternCaribbean,andbackto
Africa.Hecurrentlylivesonaridge,oftenbuffetedbyChinookwinds,lookingoutonsnow-capped
mountainsaboveBoulder,Colorado.Cometothinkofit,withtheemergingenergycrisis,whatan
idealspotfora…?
LaSupermarché
JENNIFERL.GIACOMINI
Canseeingwhatsomethingcanbemakepeoplewantittobe?
AFTER LIVING IN VILLAGE FOR JUST OVER A YEAR, I TOOK MY MAMA, ELISE, TO DINNER AT A GERMAN-OWNED
restaurant.ElisehadwantedtotraveltoKaraforawhile,buthadtoputitoff.Eachtimeshepreparedfor
her departure, something came up in the village prompting her to stay. Last time, her husband simply
refused to let her go. I think he didn’t want to endure his thirteen-year-old daughter’s cooking during
Elise’sabsence.
Finally, I had an idea: I would take Elise to her brother’s house and out to dinner. I would pay for
everything.JustasIknewhewould,Papaagreed.
So, one Friday morning, we biked to Guèrin-Kouka and eased into comfortable seats in the second
row of the taxi. Elise had her eye on me, a form of sisterly protection. She watched me navigate the
systemwiththefamiliartaxidriverswhotriedtomakesureIwascomfortable.
WearrivedinKaraafewhourslaterandmuchdustier.Thedrivertookthebackway,allowingusto
enter Kara near Elise’s brother’s house. Only Elise’s youngest brother Jean, a student, greeted us. He
spenthisoff-seasonsinKatchambaandwasjustafewyearsyoungerthanI.Iinvitedhimtogowithus.
We sauntered to the restaurant, dodging cars, bikes, children, and livestock on the road. La
Supermarché,aGerman-ownedrestaurantandgrocerystore,provideddesiredtreatsfromAmericaand
Europe.Ioftenbrowsedthegrocery,longingforthelusciouscheeses,meats,candies,andcookies.They
were way too pricy for my meager Volunteer salary; I bought a cheap candy and went on my way. The
adjacentrestaurant,however,wasmyfavorite.Icouldpurchaseahamburgerandfries,alongwithabeer
or two. It provided a welcome change from my regular village meals of pâte, or polenta, with pepper
sauce.
I had spent many hours in this open-air restaurant, dining and watching CNN or BBC on the largescreenTVsmountedtopostssupportingthestrawroof.Therestaurantopenedintoagardenfilledwith
colorfulflowers,abeautifullymanicuredlawn,andachildren’splayset.Itwasawelcomepieceofhome
andmomentaryescapefromTogoleselife.
Eliseshylyinformedmethatshehadneverbeforebeeninarealrestaurant.Shehadtraveledbut,like
most,hadeatenstreetfoodatoutdoorfoodcourts.Thisdidn’treallysurpriseme;thecostofonemealata
restaurantcouldfeedherfamilyforaweek.Iwas,however,surprisedwhenJeantoldmethathetoohad
never eaten at a restaurant. He had been a student in Kara for four years, and I often saw students at
restaurants,mostlydrinkingbeersbutoccasionallydining.Icouldn’tbelievehewasneverone.Iln’ya
pasd’argent—there’snomoney.
Weopenedthemenus;theirfacesfell,shockedbythesteepprices.Elisewantedtoaskquestions,but
the only one she mustered was if the restaurant had everything on the menu. I explained that you get to
orderanythingyouwantandsomeoneelsecooksitandservesit.
However,oftentimesIwouldorderanitemataTogoleserestaurantandonlythenwouldtheserver
informmethattheydidn’thaveitthatday.Iwouldorderanotherwiththesameresult.Thisoftenoccurred
severaltimesbeforefindingsomethingtheydidhaveavailable.
I persuaded Elise and Jean to order cheeseburgers and fries. I mentioned other places one might
encounterthem,likeabarbecueorapicnic.IthenlaunchedintoatiradeonthefastfoodnationAmerica
isquicklybecoming.Theydidn’tquiteunderstand,soIgaveup.
Weordered,andIgotuptousetherestroomandwashmyhandsandfacefromthedustytaxiride.I
warned Elise and Jean that, despite the African custom, the servers do not bring a bowl of water for
washing.Iftheywantedcleanhands,theyshouldgototherestroom.Neitherofthemseemedtocare.
When I returned, Elise leaned over and whispered, “Ma sœur, je dois pisser.” My sister, I have to
piss.Sheaskedifshecouldgoonthelawn.Iwassogladsheasked;Ipromptlytoldherno,shehadtouse
therestroom.Whilethismayseemcrasstosome,IknewthemannerismsandcustomsoftheTogoleseand
knewitwascommontofindanoutsidecornerandurinate.
Soweproceededtothebathroom.Itwashysterical!Elisehadneverevenseenatoilet,muchlessused
one. I had to pantomime the entire process of entering a stall, shutting the door, using the toilet and
flushingit.Ionlymadeitabouthalfwaythroughthisactbeforesheburstoutlaughing.YoumeanIhaveto
peeinthere?Sure,saidI,thisistheonlyplacewegochez-nous.Everyresidencehasatleastone.
So,Elisedecidedtohaveagoattheforeigndevice.Ittookherseveralminutes;Idobelieveshewas
nervous about using it correctly. Meanwhile, I contemplated a world that allows such a massive
differenceinseptictechnology.Theydigholes,squatintheforest,andusesticksorcorncobsfortoilet
paper.NotallfacetsofTogoleselifeareonparwiththeWesternworld.
IsnappedbackwhenIheardEliseflush.Shepracticallyfelloutofthestall.Ishowedherthesink,
soapdispenser,andpapertowels.Shewasunsureofthehand-washingprocessandkeptmuttering,“Les
Américains-la,”thoseAmericans.Shecouldn’tbelievethatcleanwatercamefromthefaucetallthetime.
Shedidn’thavetowalkafewkilometers,collectit,andthenwalkbackwiththeheavybasinbalancedon
herhead.Itwassoeasyandclean.Shestoodthereandwatchedthewaterjustrunforafullminute.
FinallywereturnedtothetableandEliseorderedherbrothertogowash.IthinkshewantedJeanto
haveaneye-openingexperiencelikehers.Hetookmewithhimtoexplain,buthewasn’tasmuchfun.He
hadseenandusedbothatoiletandsinkbefore.
WereturnedtothetabletofindEliselookingatourmeals,noideawhattodo.Iexplainedgarnishes
and showed them how to pick up a cheeseburger with both hands and take a bite. Yum. Elise was
horrified.EatwithBOTHhands?Tousetheleftforanythingbutwipingwasprobablythebiggesttaboo
inTogoleseculture.Ihadtoexplaintoiletpaperandsoapandthatitdoesn’tmatterbecauseweconsider
ourselves,andbothhands,clean.
Itoldhertocuttheburgerinhalfandjusteatitwithherrighthand.Shehappilymunchedawayand
really enjoyed it. Her brother also cut his burger in half, but began eating it with a fork. He ate it one
ingredient at a time, forking the bread, then the cheese, then the meat, etc. I tried to explain to him the
culinary delights of the melding of all these into one bite. Unsuccessful, I tried a different approach. I
explainedthattoeatthisdishwithaforkwouldbelikeeatingpâtewithafork.Noonedoesit.Hedidn’t
care.
Followingourtrip,EliseandIhadseveralconversationsabouttechnologicaladvancesandwomen’s
rights.Iwasleftwithdeepfrustrationbecausesheunderstoodsuffrageandtechnologicalimprovements,
butsheneverwantedtodoanythingaboutthem.C’estlavieenAfrique.LifeinAfricarevolvedaround
thatfatalisticattitude,stuntingdevelopmentandmakingitdifficulttoaccomplishmuch.Thevillagersin
Katchamba thought that it would be great to have latrines, running water and electricity, but would not
worktoaccomplishthesegoals.
Instantgratificationworkedperfectly.Whysavemoneywhenwemaynotbeheretomorrowtouseit?
Death was such a huge part of life that it became their reason for not looking into the future. Let the
women spend hours upon hours collecting potable water and send the children off into the woods to
defecate.Whysavemoneyforthefuturewhentheymustfeedtheirfamiliesnow?
We had several village meetings to discuss building latrines or an accessible well in Katchamba.
People wanted them; they just wanted someone else to buy and build them. I refused to do it myself
withouthelpfromthevillageinplanning,savingmoney,andimplementingtheproject.Thechiefandother
elders told me to continue my work with the health clinic and not worry about building something the
villagewon’tworktomaintain.
Ibelievethewomenknewthebenefitspotablewaterandlesswastecouldofferthevillage.Andthatit
wouldmakelifelessexhausting.Buteveryargumentendedwiththemensayingno.Thewomencontinued
arguing, but their husbands just walked away. One day, maybe, these women will learn to stand up for
whattheybelieveandfollowtheirsistersfromfiftyyearsagoinwomen’ssuffrage.Maybe,justmaybe…
JenniferL.GiacominiservedinTogofrom1999-2001,aftergraduationfromHamiltonCollege.Sheis
nowtheExecutiveDirectoratGrandCountyRuralHealthNetworkinColorado.
Mokhotlong
ALLISONSCOTTMATLACK
Youcan’tlearnaculturewithoutattemptingitslanguage.
THEREISAGIRLOUTSIDEMYREDWOODENDOOR.
Her world is there. She does the family’s washing and cooking in her patched skirt and bare ebony
feet, two meters from my front step. She plays games there, sings hymns there. And she communicates
withtheneighborsfromtherethroughthetremendoustrumpetingpowerofhertinylungs.
HernameisSebueng,andwhilemySesothoisnotatallfluent,Ithinkhernamewouldtranslateto“in
theplaceoftheonetalking.”Basothochildrenarenamedafterthecircumstancesoftheirbirths;perhaps
hermotherwasbusyinconversationwhenherbabytookherfirstbreath,orperhapssomeonewastalking
withhertotryanddistractherfrombirthingpains.
At any rate, the Sesotho language is grammatically simpler than English. The se- prefix generally
indicatesthatthenounisaperson(althoughnotalways)andthe—ngsuffixdenotes“intheplaceof.”Itis
whentheBasothothrowidiomsaboutcowsandentrailsatmethatmylanguageskillsfalter.But,asthey
sayhere,“Seqanqanesesenglesesengseaiqomela”:Everytoadjumpsforitself.
WelcometoLesotho.
ItsclaimtofameisthatithasthehighestlowpointofanycountryonEarth,andthusitproudlycalls
itself“TheKingdomintheSky,”or,morecommonly,“TheMountainKingdom.”Anditisbelievable:asI
looked this morning at the tips of the mountains of my humble village (elevation approximately 3,200
meters)surroundedbybillowycloudslookingasiftheirrockyheadshadpuncturedthecapoftheworld,
it truly felt like I was in the sky. In fact, just a hop, skip, and really long hike away is the mountain
Thabana-Ntlenyana,thehighestpointinSouthernAfrica.
IliveinthevillageofThoteng,anoffshootofHaSenkoaseinthedistrictofMokhotlong.Mokhotlong,
ifyourememberthatsuffix,translatesto“intheplaceoftheMokhotlo.”TheMokhotloisaverystrangelooking bird, a bald ibis in the books. I have heard it referred to as “that Dr. Seuss bird.” With its
shimmeryblue-blackfeathersandtremendouslylong,thin,curved-yet-somewhat-pointyreddishbeakand
white head, I think the good doctor would have approved. Out of all ten districts in Lesotho, ours is
(supposedly)thebirds’onlyhome.
IsawthreeMekhotloonthedayImovedin,andtheycontinuetobeanominousyetoddlycomforting
presence.Theysomehowheraldchange,earmarkalreadymemorableoccasions,andremindmethatlife,
fullofweirdlittlecreatureslikethemandme,shouldneverbetakentooseriously.
WhileonemightthinkmyspellingofMekhotloatypographicalerror,itwasspelledsoonpurpose.
Nouns in Sesotho belong to one of about six different classes based on prefixes, and the formation of
plurals and pronouns, ubiquitous in ways unimagined by native English-speakers, dictated by the
appropriatenounclass.
ThesenounclassespresentproblemsfornewLesothoPCVswhojustwanttoknowthewordforthis.
Had our infinitely patient trainers begun to explain the intricacies of noun classes in week one or two,
saying that the word this could be ena, tsena, mona, or a number of other words, depending on its
referent,ourbrainsmightwellhaveexploded,sowehadtogritourteethandaccepttheresponse,“Oh,
don’tmind,we’llgettothatlater.”
With this, we began our long journey to fully understand the definition of the word mamello
—“patience.”
IthoughtIwaspatientinAmerica.Ihadbecomeagoodlistener.Ididnotyellwhenwebpagestook
longerthanthirtysecondstoloadorwhenIwasstuckintraffic.Imeditatedoccasionally.Ievensteadily
trudgedalongthroughdietandexerciseuntil,overthecourseofayearorso,Ihadlostsixtypounds.
ButIhadneverwaitedforataxi(intheformofaToyotaminibus,whichholdsfifteenpassengers)for
overfourhourstofillsothatIcouldgohome.Ihadnevertriedtoteachbefore,muchlessEnglish(which
mustbethehardest subject to teach due to unexplainable, illogical idiosyncrasies), in dirt-floor rooms
packedwithseventy-plusteenagerswhospokealanguagethatIdidn’tknow.Ihadneverlivedwithout
electricityorrunningwater,andbelieveme,thattakespatience.
And walking suddenly became a problem. At my slowest natural stride, I soon realized I outpaced
everyone else in the vicinity. “Why are you running?” they ask as I amble slowly up a hill. “You are
alwaysinahurry!”
Aboveall,Ihadneverbeforehadtolosemyself—letgoofmyingrainedhabitsandassumptions—in
ordertobeabletoevenstarttounderstandfolksfromadifferentculture.
Meetings, for instance, take place ka nako ea Basotho, “at the time of the Basotho,” or, as we
Volunteersliketosay,onBasothoTime.Thingsstartwhenpeoplearethere—meetings,taxis,funerals—
andonceIletgoofpreconceivednotionsIwasn’tevenawareIhad,Irealizedthatthismethodofliving
isactuallyrelativelyfreeofstress.You’llgettherewhenyougetthere,andchancesarethatwe’llwaitup
foryou.It’snoMotel6,butit’lldo.
OneseriousproblemIhadwiththeSesotholanguageisitslackofvocabularyrevolvingaroundthe
wordlove.Tosay,“Iloveyou,”onesayskeaorata.However,tosay,“Iliketea,”onesayskeratatee.
Whatdoesthismean?Doesthismeantheintensityofyourlovefortearivalsyourloveforme?Or
doesthismeanyourloveformeissocommonplacethatitequalsyourloveforyourmorningcupoftea?
TheBasothohaveatermforwhitepeople,makhooa(singularislekhooa,partofthe“le/ma”class),
buttheyalsouseitasaderogatorytermforpeoplewhobelievetheyarebetterthaneveryoneelse,people
whoactsuperior.
Idon’tlikeit,andIdon’ttolerateitwhenusedinreferencetomyfriendsorme.
IhadneverbeenpersonallyexposedtoracisminAmerica.Atleast,nottotheextentthatIhaveseenit
in South Africa. But all I have seen here, in Lesotho and just across the border, makes me extremely
sensitive to judging people based on their color. And to point me out as different—as a lekhooa—that
putsmeonmyguard.Weareall,underneaththemulticoloredclothesofculture,human.
Weallcelebrate.Wealldanceandsing.Weallcookandeat,eveniftheingredientsdifferslightly.We
allaskquestions.Weallhaveseenstrangebirds,butIswearthestrangestlivehere.Andweallsuffer
loss,eachacceptingandfacinggriefinhisownway,inhisowntime—perhapseveninBasothoTime.
One can even see similarity in the languages. When I told a coworker that my cat was pregnant, he
said,“Ejeleyeast!”“Itateyeast,”onlyababystepawayfrom“shehasabunintheoven.”Andthatsame
man,whenheaccidentallyhurtmyhand,tookitandkissedmypalm,amanifestationof“kissandmakeit
better.”
“Esenglekhooa;ke‘M’eThandiweKao,”Isay.“Na,kengoanaoaMoshoeshoe.Kemothojoaloka
oena.”(“Notlekhooa;IamMadamThandiweKao.Me,IamachildofMoshoeshoe—thefounderand
firstkingofLesotho.Iamaperson,justlikeyou.”)
Ievenlivewithyou,herebehindmyredwoodendoor.Iworkwithyou,foryouandforyourchildren.
Ihavegivenupmyownfamilyandfriendstobeapartofyourlivesforthisshorttime,tobeapartofa
newfamily.Iamamotherofover200childrenwhosefaceslightupwhenIwalkontocampus.Theirpain
—your pain—is my pain. And my hope is that one day, you will not see me for my skin, but for the
laughterIhaveshared,theknowledgeIhaveimparted,thehardworkIhavedone,andthetearsIhave
shedinthisbeautifulplace:theplaceoftheMokhotlo—myhome.
AftergraduatingsummacumlaudefromAppalachianStateUniversityin2005(B.A.English),Allison
ScottMatlackservedinLesothoasaneducationvolunteer(Englishteacher)from2005-07.Shegot
marriedinOctober2008toafellowedvolunteer(see,PeaceCorpsromancedoesworkout!)andthey
arebusyreadjustingto“therealworld.”Thecompleteversionthisstoryisexcerptedfromwhat
sealedheracceptancetotheSewaneeSchoolofLetters,anM.F.A.creativewritingprogram.Shekeeps
hereyesopenforabaldibisortwo.Realehopotse,Lesotho!
ChangingSchool
SANDRAECHOLSSHARPE
Collisionsofcultureandnecessityarenotnecessarilylimitedtothosefromfaraway.
IN JANUARY OF 1965, I BOUGHT ALL OF THE NECESSITIES TO FILL MY MBEYA, TANZANIA, SCHOOL COMPOUND:
reading materials, science equipment, paraffin (kerosene), some clothes, a book locker, and my
certificationfromNYU-SyracusethatassuredmyqualificationtoteachasaPeaceCorpsVolunteer.But
whenyouareinMbeya,shouldyoudowhattheMbeyansdo?Meca,theLandRoverdriver,loadedmy
paraphernalia,drovethroughthetown,turnedontotheChunyaroad,andheadeduphilltowardachurch
missioncompoundsixmilesfromthecenterofMbeya.
Ah! Wonderment...a stream-washed cloth, sun-dried...draped around a linearly plaited hill...a
multiplicityofpotatoplantsallgrowinginmagnificentbrown-greenrows....Mudhouses,maizefields,
peoplecarryingfruitandvegetablebaskets,localbuses,andfieldsofpyrethrumflowerstraversetheRift
Valleyroad.Inlessthanthirtyminutes,Meca’sunbridledRoverturnsleftwildlyontoanarrowclaystrip,
jerkilypot-holingitswaydownagradualincline.Asitcrossesanerodingone-lanewoodenbridge,we
rollpastthedispensaryandcometoafullhaltinfrontofarowofteachers’houses.
Theviewontheleftisofawhitestuccobuilding,thatdispensary.Ithasafadedrougeporchwithan
open door. It looks vacant and hollowed out like an old gourd. Medicines have long since evaporated
with the cool, misty, morning rains of the season. In front, five slab-mud, cement-covered homes are
nested in a valley of rolling hills, picturesque and soothing to a tiring traveler. A morning rain plays a
mightydrumrollonthecorrugatedroofs,welcomingmetothecompound.Statelyeucalyptustreeshurl
down,fromscentedbranches,rollsofraindrops.
At eight o’clock, Meca unloads all of my worldly possessions in my home, wishes me well and
leaves.
Onehundredstepsfromtheteachers’quartersaretheclassrooms.Theelongatedmud-brickbuilding
featureswindowlesswindowsanddoorlessdoors.Thedarkentrancesemptytheircontentofsky-blueAlinedresses,whiteshirts,andkhakipants.Theteachersinspectthemandbeckontometojointhem.The
studentsstandatattention.AsIwalktowardtheschoolcompound,ahugeroundfieldappears.Inthedry
season,itwillhostsportsevents,communityceremonies,andschoolevents.Onthefarsideofthefield
are the gardens and storage buildings, which house dried beans, rice, and other foodstuffs. I am
introducedandaskedtotakemyplacewiththeteachers.Nowwewaitforthenewheadmaster.
Smiling,anolderteacher,atraditionalman,watchestheroadasanewheadmastercomestoreplace
him.
Striding in to the rhythmic music of his irimba (thumb piano), Mr. Mpacama arrives at the Ngoba
UpperPrimarySchooltobeginhisdutiesasheadmaster.TheBoardofMissionariesplacedhimhereto
upgradetheschool.Becauseheisastrict,punctualman,theyexpecthimtobeagreatdisciplinarian.
With the changing of the guard, indulgences disappear. If I want coffee or tea, I must bring it in my
thermoseverymorning.Imustalsosupplymyownbiscuits(cookies).Early,around6:30,thepounding
feetofchildrenruntothemiddleoftheschoolcompoundtoreceiveassignments.Theheadmastertells
groupone,“Sicklethehighgrassyareasaroundtheschoolonly,andthensortthecuttingsintoacompost
heap.”Hesaystoanothergroupofolderstudents,“Beginkitchenduty.”Theyclanglargepotsandpansas
lunchisprepared.Thecuttingandsimmeringoflargequantitiesofvegetables,boilingofriceandteaand
theslicingofpapayaorseasonalfruitsaredailyroutines.Thesweepingofthecompound,andmopping
the storage areas, and liming the latrines are a necessity for maintaining sanitary conditions. The
headmastereveninitiatestheinclusionofasewingclass.Itisscheduledattheendofeveryday,therefore
lengtheningtheaverageamountoftimestudentsspendinschool.
Mr. Mpacama checks each group’s work, then signals for the students to return to the front of the
schoolandlineup.Heblowsthewhistleandsays,“Tusagewa,begintheexercises!Letthemrunonemile
aroundtheschoolcompound!”
“Yes,headmaster!”
While most students run and chant, a small group remains to whisk away footprints from the drying
schoolyard.
Promptly at 8:00, I ascend the concrete steps to the headmaster’s office. The smooth, mud-finished
interiorwallandtherecentlyscrubbedconcretefloorlendamuddycreek-watersmelltothekhakipants
andwhiteshirtheiswearing.Theheadmastersays,“Welcomeagaintomyoffice.Pleasesitdown.Let
meseeyourlessonplansfortheweek!I’mhappytoseeyouareincludingthesewinglessonsafterschool
aspartofyourteachingload!Theboltoffabric,newspaperformakingdresspatternsandtheneedlesand
threadswillbeinthestoragecabinetby4:00P.M .foryoutouse.”
“Thanks,” I say. “May I also use the microscopes tomorrow for the unit on one-cell organisms, and
mayIshowpicturesduringgeographyclassofthefloraandfaunaoftheIndianOceancoastline,around
DaresSalaam?”
“Yes,”hereplies.
I continue, “Sarah and I share photos and borrow reading materials from other Peace Corps
Volunteers’ book lockers. We pool information when we can illuminate the ecology of the coast. Our
studentsarenowseeingthenaturalbeautyofthearea.”
Theheadmasterreplies,“Pleasefeelfreetoexhibitresourcematerialsinyourclassroom.”Ileavehis
officeandheadtowardtheteacher’sworkroom.
Myfeetkeepwalking,butmymindisawhirlingcloud,driftingintohistory.Zanzibar:Iwillhaveto
teachaboutthediaspora!IwillhavetoteachaboutMombasa.
Raincomes!RAIN.RAIN.RAIN.Foamygraywater,gallonsofitmakethecompound,inaninstant,
looklikethickmudsoup,withoursmallteachers’cottagesstewingaroundinthemiddle.
Thecoldrainsubsides.Theonevillagecarandthecottagesshakeoffthevision,fillupandlooklike
sanctuary. Now the chanting of the math students and the lecturing voices of the other teachers become
louderasrainwatertricklesintothecompound.
Theheadmasterleaveshisofficeandwalkstohiscar.Hesays,“Iamgoingdowntowntopickupmore
cansofoil,sacksofrice,andmedicine.Yougivefirstaidtomanyofthestudentswithyourownointment
andband-aids.Thankyou!”
The headmaster continues, “If I don’t see you any more today, I will see you tomorrow mwalimu
[teacher].Enjoyyourchakulaatnoon!”
Ireturntotheteachers’workroomuntilthehistoryperiodbegins.Thedaypassesslowly.Attheendof
fortyminutes,geographyclassbegins.ThenIteachEnglish;wereviewforatest.Pressureison!Students
mustpasstheeighth-standardexitexamsbeforetheygotohighschool.
Itisnotlongnowbeforeweseea1956Austin-Healyburpingalongtheone-lanedirtroadtowardthe
schoolwithMr.Mpacamaandperhapstwostudentsinit.Wecouldnotseethemclearlybecausethecar
windowsaretapedwithnewspaper.Theshiftinggearsandill-repairedclutchseemtoenhancetheoldfashionedscoldingtheyreceive.Whenthecarstops,thebadgeringcontinues.
“Itamazesmethatnoneofyourteacherscouldseeyourunawayfromschool,inthemiddleoftheday,
overthebridge,upthehilltomeetthebus!Whydoyoudothis?”saysMr.Mpacamaangrily.“Justtobuy
fish!Isawyouwaveyourhands,andstopthebus.Thenyouboardedit,unpackedthefish,andplaced
them on the steps, stacking your purchases on the bus steps! You have no discipline! You should be
studying!YoucausedthebustobemuchlaterthanusualgettingtoMbeyatown!Thisisaboldact!Meet
metomorrowafterschool,andIwillgiveyouyourpunishment!”
Apologetically,thestudentslookathimandsay,“WehaveaFridayritual;wepurchasefishforour
families!”Afterschool,Mr.Mpacamacallsameetingathishomebriefingusabouttheincident.Hunger
gripsus;wenearlytastehisboilingcurrymeatandugalidishcookingonthestove.
Heinformsusthattheschoolsuffersfromalackofdiscipline.Therearetoomanybrokenbricksthat
needtobere-made.Thecompoundsuffersfromalackofpaint;justlikemanyofthestudents,itsuffers,
needingrevitalization.Thefieryheadmastersays,“ItissadthatourschoolisbehindItope,Iringa,and
Mpala,andotherwell-knownschoolsinthedistrict!”Hecontinues,“Yesterday,duringschoolhours,two
ofourmodelstudentsleftthecompoundtobuyfishfromalocalbusdriver.ThepunishmentIwillgive
requirestheeffortsoftheentireseventhandeighthstandardssinceothersprobablyhavebeenguiltyofthe
samemisdemeanor.Beginningtomorrowafternoon,studentswillmakebrickstoreplenishtheexhausted
supply.”
Therearehissesandcheersamongthefaculty.Oneteachercautionshim,“But,Mwalimu,thetradition
of our school will be ruined if students make bricks for a punishment.” Nevertheless, the headmaster
insistsandteachersaredismissed.
Nextday,afterschoolisover,theseventhandeighthstandardstudentsmeetinthecompound.
Asworkbegins,theoldteacher,whoisatraditionalman,watchesagain.Hepullsoffhisshirtand
jumpsintoapit.Thearduoustaskofmakingbrickscontinuesasheandthestudentsdigthreehugepitsin
theground.Moundsofcutgrassesarethrownintotheseholesandchoppedupintosmallparticles.Then
thewaterbearersbringlargecansofriverwateranddumpitintothepits.Studentsjumpinandpressthe
wetclaywithparticlesofgrassesintoasmoothconsistencywiththeirfeet.Stillotherslineupandscoop
out the wet clay mixture and pour it into wooden brick molds, rectangular wooden frames. Each holds
enoughmudtoformonebrick.Theoldmanandthestudentsfinallydumpthefirstsolidifyingbrickonthe
ground to dry, followed by the second and third ones. Unfortunately, I must oversee the brickmaking
project.Ifeellikeacamelherder.
Attheendoftheatonementweek,twoenormouspyramidsofsun-driedbricksarepiledupinavacant
spaceneartheroad.Theoldteacherisnolongerwatchingorsittingbythesideoftheroad.Thebricks
arefiredusinghugeeucalyptustrees.Theyturnhardandindestructible.
Theraindescendsgentlyuponthecoolingpyramids,butitdoesnotabatetheoldteacher’sanger.He
walks five miles to visit the district officer whose office is in the government boma (center). The old
teacherexplainsthepunishmenttothedistrictofficer.Mr.Mpacamaissummoned.
Thedistrictofficersays,“HeadmasterMpacama,howcouldyouinflictsuchahorriblepunishmenton
your students? You know they walk barefooted seven to ten miles a day, over mountains and through
valleysofmaizetogettoschooleachday.Surely,youcouldhavepunishedonlythetwoguiltystudents
andallowedtheotherstogohometohelpwiththeafternoonchores!Surely,youcouldhavewaiteduntil
springtomakethebricks.”
Mr.Mpacamasays,“Sir,lookattheprogresshere.Wehaveplantedgardens.Nowwesellvegetables
tocustomersatthemarketandhavecashtopayformanyoftheschool’sexpenses.Alsooursoccerteam
isexcellingandmoreofourstudentsarepassingthestandardeightexamsthisyear!”
HowcouldMpacamapossiblyhaveachievedallofthishavingbeentheheadmasteratforonlyshort
time?“Enough!”thedistrictofficerreplies.“Sincetraditionallythemakingofbricksisalaboroflove
andnotofatonement,Idismissyoufromtheschool.”
Mr. Mpacama was sent—loudly protesting—to pick tea on a plantation in Tukuru, in the southern
districtofTanzania.Accordingtotheoldteacher,whoisatraditionalman,certainritualsofworkmust
bemaintainedinordertogivestabilitytoacommunity.Theseritualsoutweighanynotionofprogressthe
headmaster could conjure up. To the old teacher, the headmaster is like an empty can, for the Swahili
proverbevensays,“Anemptydebecan[forcarryingkerosene]makesthemostnoise!”
SandraEcholsSharpeservedasateacherinTanzaniafrom1965-67.ShenowresidesinGreensboro,
NorthCarolina.
TheSeasonofOmagongo
ALANBARSTOW
Sometimesthethingsweseeandbelievemightbetterbeseenandbelievedalittledifferently.
TATESHIKONGOTELLSTIMOTOFETCHTHEWHIP:“ETAONGODHI,” HE SAYS INOSHINDONGA.HE ADDS INENGLISH,
“Bringithere.Iwantit.”
Timo returns with the three-foot water hose. His nine-year-old frame, all beanpole arms and legs,
walkseasily.HehandsTatethehosewithhisrighthand,hislefthandcuppinghisrightelbow,andkeeps
hiseyesloweredinthewaytheOwambopeopleofnorthernNamibiashowrespecttotheirelders.Then
Timotriestojumpaway,butTate’scallusedhandgrabshiswrist.HeholdsthehoseaboveTimoandsays
inOshindonga,“Youleftthecattletowanderintothefields.”
“Yes,”Timosays,hiseyesshuttightabovehisbullishcheekbones.TatewhipshimtwiceandTimo
criesoutandtriestobreakfree.
“Because you were playing soccer,” Tate says. The thick muscles of his arms—arms that I’ve seen
plowfields,fixengines,fireAK-47s—standoutashewhipsTimoagainandagain.
“Thecattleatethemahangu,”Tateshouts.“Thecattledestroyedthecrop.”
Tate Shikongo’s eldest son, Petrus, is sitting next to me with the twenty-five-liter omagongo gourd
betweenhisfeet.Heremoveshisthin-rimmedglasses,wipesthemonthecollarofhisbusinessshirt,and
laughs a thirty-years-ago-Tate-whipped-me-for-letting-cattle-into-the-field laugh. Tate Angula, the
headmanofOkatopevillageandTateShikongo’solderbrother,sleepspeacefullynexttous,barefootin
thesand.
I’ve seen Timo whipped before—the first time, two weeks after I’d moved into Tate Shikongo’s
homesteadduringtraininginlate2002;Icouldn’tsleepuntilIheardthemidnightrainonthealuminum
roofofmyroom.IsignedupforPeaceCorpstoteachEnglishasaforeignlanguagejustoutofcollege;I
wanted to work in development, travel to little-known places, learn a new language and culture; I
believedPeaceCorpstobethebestfaceoftheU.S.government.
A year after 9/11, as Bush made plans to invade Iraq, I arrived in Namibia confident that what
Volunteers did here—teach in schools, coordinate AIDS awareness activities, find the common ground
between Namibians and Americans—was a better way to spread goodwill and curb terrorism than
invadingcountries.But,duringthetimesthatTateShikongowhippedoneofhisgrandchildren,I’veturned
away,thinkingnomatterhowmuchOshindongaIspeak,howaccustomedtothetraditionalfoodanddrink
Ibecome,orhowacceptedandwelcomemyworkhereis,Thesearenotmypeople.Iamdifferent.
Tate Shikongo can seem the antithesis of a lot of what I stand for. He disciplines with corporal
punishment,hasaconservativeinterpretationoftheBible,andfoughtasaguerrillaandterrorist.Yet,I’m
drawntohimandIrespecthim.Hefoughtasaguerrillafighterforhiscountry’sindependencefromthe
racistapartheidregimeofSouthAfrica.Atseventy,hestillworksasamechanictomakeenoughtocare
fortheAIDSorphanshewelcomesintohishome.Hecriesatanymentionofhisdeadwife.Irefertohim
astate(pronouncedtah-tay),whichmeansfather,notjustbecausehe’smyelder,butbecausehe’slikea
fathertome.
TateletsTimo’swristgoafterthebeating.Theboyfallsback,hisskinnychestrushingforair.Tate
flicksthehoseagainsthisownlegandhandsittoTimo,whoreplacesitinthehouseandreturnswitha
usedtonguedepressorandaBlackCatPeanutButterjarfilledwithtar-likeointment.Tatetakesthejar
andrubstheointmentontheringwormrashesonTimo’slegsandarms,remindinghimtostayoutofthe
stagnantpoolsofwaterasheherdscattle.Therearenoweltsormarksfromthehose—nothingsavehis
laboredbreathingshowsthathewasbeatenatall.
Timojoinshiscousinsintheirhutforsleep.TateandPetrustalkaboutthefields,thecrops,therain.
TateAngulasnoresevenly.OnlymyearstillhearsTimo’scriesandthesmackofthehose.IknowTimo
shouldbepunishedforneglectinghischores,butIdon’tthinkawhippingwillteachhim.Iforcethisto
thebackofmymind,remindingmyselfthatI’veseenchildrenfacefarworsethancorporalpunishment,
likebeinghungry,orphans,orHIV-positive.
TateShikongosaystome,“Alona,youaretoomuchquiet.”
IamAlona,butAlonaisnotme.ItoldTateShikongomynamewas“Alan”thefirsttimeImethimand
Itraceditinthesand.Tatesaid,“Goodname.Biblename.”
“Mynameisn’tintheBible,”Isaid.
WiththeauthorityofamanwhosefatherwasoneofthefirstOwamboministers,ordainedbyRhenish
missionaries, Tate said, “Alon brother for Moses. Moses no speak word of God. Alon carry message.
YouareAlon.Youspreadingmessage.”
IhadbeeninNamibiaforlessthanaweekanddidn’tknowthereisno“R”soundinOshindonga—”L”
and “R” are interchangeable, so Alan becomes Aaron becomes Alon. Nor did I know that Owambos
believepersonalqualitiescanbeattributedtopeoplethroughnamesand,thus,whatthisnamesaidabout
me. I was eager to be accepted, to feel a part of the family, and I hoarded whatever endearments I
received,includingtheaffectionate“a”theytaggedontotheendofAlon.
Now, when he says my Namibian name and I think the of the significance of it, feeling impotent to
preventTimo’sbeatingandsomehowculpablebecauseIwitnessedit,Ithinktomyself,Mynameisnot
Aaron.Ihavenomessage.
Petrus takes the dipper from the omagongo gourd between his feet and fills a wooden cup with the
lime-greenbeer.HeoffersittomeandIdrinkit,tastinglimeadeandtonic.
Heasks,“Whatdoyouknowabouttheseasonofomagongo,Alona?”
“Notmuch,”Isay.
Petrus says March is the season of omagongo. The small, green marula fruit is picked, peeled,
pressedbyacowhorn,andlefttofermentingourds,withfruitflieshoveringlikesteam.“It’sagoodand
badtime,”hesays.Goodbecauseitisatimeofrestbetweentheplantingandcultivatingofthecropand
theharvest,whenthestalksofmilletstandlikewarriors,spearsintheair,andtheOwambowatchtherain
turntheirdusty,semi-aridlandintoacrop-bearingland,whenthesunisshroudedbyraincloudsandthe
rainfallslikeamother’stouch,nurturingthelandafterninemonthsofdrought.It’sabadtimebecause
everyone is drunk for weeks. So drunk, Petrus says, tribal law bans carrying a panga—a machete—
becausepeopleoftengetintoargumentsduringthistime.HenodsatTateAngula,thevillage’sheadman,
whorepresentsthetribalking,andsaysit’sallsoludicrousthetribalcourtswillnothearanydisputesin
thisseason.
Petrusrefillsthewoodencupwithomagongoandhandsittome,saying,“WhenyoumarryatTate’s
house,Alona,Iwillgivetwocows.”Helaughs.“Butmybrother,youarealwaystooquiet.”
“Youlongingyourhome,”TateShikongosays.
“No,”Isay,takinganotherdrinkofomagongo.
“Telluswhatyou’rethinking,”Petrussays.
Notwantingtotalkaboutthewhipping,Iask,“WhowillbethenextpresidentofNamibia?”
Petruscoughsandsays,“Pohamba.”
“Why?”
“He’sthemostpopularbecausehe’stheMinisterofLandReform.Thepeoplewantland.”
Iaskaboutlandreform.
Petrus coughs again and says that during the apartheid regime of South Africa’s colonial control of
Namibia,theblackswereforcedtoliveonsmallhomelandsthatweresurroundedbyfences,knownas
redlines,andtherestofthelandwasgiventowhitefarmers.SinceNamibia’sindependencein1990,the
governmenthasstruggledwithhowthelandcanbeboughtfromthewhitefarmersanddistributedtothe
people.“Thewhitessetunfairprices.Saythiscupofomagongoisworthfivedollars,butthewhitesask
onehundreddollarsforit.Thegovernmentcan’tpaytheprice.There’shundredsofthousandsofhectares
offarmablelandoutsidetheredlines,andthepeoplewhoownthemliveinGermany.”
“SomeinAmerica,”TateShikongosays.Hiseyesarebigandwetinthelight,astheyarewhenhe’s
talking about his time in exile or his dead wife. He’s shirtless and sitting on the end of a rusted gas
cylinder.Amisplacedbonecrownseachofhisshoulders.Theoneontheleftisthelegacyofhistimeasa
prisonerofwar;theoneontheright,hetoldme,grewtomatchit.WhenIhadaskedhimaboutit,Tate
Shikongosaid,“Yourgovernmentsendsteachers,buttheyshouldsenddoctors.”
PetrustakesalongdrinkandsaysthatevenafterindependenceinNamibia,theredlinesstillinhibit
hispeople’sgrowthbecausetheycannotaffordtopurchaselandoutsideofthehomelands.
Hetakesmycupandgesturestothebroadnessofthenightaroundhim.“Yousee,withthegoodcomes
thebad.”
Itakealongdrinkofomagongo,sweetandrank,andalthoughI’vebeendrinkingitallday,inthis,the
seasonofomagongo,I’mnotdrunk.
The omagongo. The dry, empty air. The chorus of bell frogs. The clink of wooden cups. Tate says,
“Twelveo’clock.Timeforsleep.”PetrusandIkeepdrinking.“I’mtired,”Tatewhispers.Noonemoves.
“Tell me, Petrus,” I say without making eye contact. “Why am I here? What do you want me to do
here?”
Heputshiscupdownandcoversitsbasewithsandsoitwon’tspill.“Todo,”hesays.Heputshis
handstogetherandlooksatme.“Americansmustalwayshavesomethingtodo.”
PetrusspreadshisarmsandIfollowthebroadmovementsofhishandsbeyondthebubblesoflightin
thetreestowherethehomesteadendsindarkness.There’snomoon.AlthoughI’velivedinNamibiafora
year and a half, the southern sky is still foreign to me: the upside-down Big Dipper, Orion rotated 90
degrees,thekite-likeSouthernCross,scoresofotherconstellationsIdon’tknow.Thesouthernskyholds
shapesandpatternsthatI’monlybeginningtorecognize.
Petrussays,“You’vecomeheretoteach,Alona,butyou’relearningmorethanyou’reteaching.When
youreturnhome,spreadyourmessage.Teachyourpeople.”
“Twelveo’clock,”Tatecries.“Timeforsleeping.”
PetruswakesTateAngula,whostandsupslowly,patsmeontheback,andsays,“Alona,youmarry.I
givethecow.”Helaughs.“Kalaponawa.Staywell.”
“Indaponawa,”Isay.“Gowell.”
HefollowsPetrusoutofthehomestead,andIhearPetrus’truckstart.Iwatchtheheadlightsinthetops
of the marula trees until they’re absorbed by the darkness. Tate takes the omagongo gourd and goes
inside.
I move the oil barrel in front of the opening in the homestead fence so the goats and cattle won’t
wander in during the night. Walking back, I pass Tate’s window, fixed open. My young, white face is
reflectedintheglass.MynameisnotAaron,Ithink.
Inside the house, Tate switches off the electricity and I feel my way through the darkness, past the
framed picture of his wife, his diploma from the German university he attended as a refugee, and the
mortarshells—relicsofNamibia’swarforindependence—thatholdlittlesouvenirNamibianflags.My
handbrushesagainstthehoseTatewhippedTimowith,thesamehosethatwillbeusedinthemorningto
drawwaterfromthetap.Ipinchthehoseinmyhand,feeltheveinsintherubber.Withthegoodcomes
thebad,Petrushadsaid.
I undress in the room I slept in as a trainee, crawl under the mosquito net, and lie on top of the
blankets.IwonderwhatTimowasthinkingbeforehefellasleepafterthebeating,ifhecriedinthehut
amongst his brothers, if he learned to never leave the cattle untended. I look at the corrugated tin roof
aboveme.
Their voices surface in the silence of the room: war, your father and your mother, God bless
America, Alona, Alona, Alona. I’m a Volunteer and my country is at war. I know Petrus is right, I’m
learningmuchmorethanIeverthoughtIwould.
Ashealwaysdoes,Tatecallsthroughthehouse,“Alona,kalaleponawa.”
“Yes,Tate,sleepwell,also.”
AlanBarstowtaughtEnglishasaforeignlanguageinNamibiafrom2002-04.Awriterandteacher,
BarstowhaspublishedseveralpiecesaboutandinspiredbyhisexperiencesasaPCV.Thefullversion
of“TheSeasonofOmagongo,”ofwhichthisisanexcerpt,appearedinAmericanLiteraryReview.He
isforevergratefultothePeaceCorpsforopeningupanewworldtohim,andforthefamiliesand
friendshemetinNamibiathatopenedtheirhomes,lives,andhearts.
Tapping
ERICSTONE
Beingaway,withthepatiencethatcanbringandtheexamplesonecomesacross,canteachusforour
return.
IAMINASUBWAYCARINMANHATTANAT8:30INTHEMORNINGONAMONDAY.PEOPLESQUEEZETHEMSELVESINTOA
narrowboxcarlikecattle,pressingandpushing.Eyesarecastdownward.Nobodyspeaks.Withfurtive
glares they eye one another, but do not speak. Tension, annoyance, determination. There is a singlemindednessandfocuswhichIfindstriking.Thisfocusmakesmefeellost.Newspapersbegintoquickly
unfold, headphones are turned to the highest volume, eyes are closed, hands grasp the bar tightly, with
tension.Amanbumpsmeandapologizestwice.Theyalllookambitious.Ayoungteenagergirlstepson
anolderman’sfoot.Sheimmediatelyapologizesandmovesbackward.
Before Africa I, too, was an ambitious busy American. I thought myself and my existence quite
important.Ihadsomuchtoproveanddoandbecome.SoItraveledtoAfricainaflurryofexcitement,
deludedinamazeofself-centeredambition.IdepartedarealNewYorkerwitharealNewYorkattitude.
Thankfully,IwasnotfoolishenoughtothinkIcouldmakemuchofadifference.ButonedarknightI
foundmyselfstaringoutawindowintotheendlessblacklandmassofruralKenya,itsdarknessgoingas
farasthemoonhiddenbehindhills,andambitionoozedaway.Insteadaneedtonurture,adesiretobe
thereinthelifeofachild,becametheonlythingthatmattered.
Iaminadoctor’sofficewaitingroomontheUpperWestSideofManhattan.Iamalone.Ontheradio
playsalightFMsongthatmakesmewanttocryinhorror.Thesetypesofsongsmakemefeelcheapand
manipulated like a tool. Overly produced instrumentals, tampered vocals, swelling strings to make one
feel gushy and nostalgic. The secretary, a large-framed, attractive African-American woman, clicks her
longpinkfingernailsonthedeskwithoutlookingup.
“Signthesepapersandmakesuretogiveyourinsurancenumber.”Ifumblethroughmywallet,flipping
smallplasticcards.Theinsurancecardismissing.Istartbecominganxious.“Icannotfindthecard,”I
say. She still is not looking up and now seems annoyed. She makes a gesture with her eyebrows and
pursesherlipstogethersarcastically.“Ifyoudon’thavethecardyou’llhavetopaythefullfee.Ifyou
can’tpaythefullfee,youcan’tbeseen.”Shedidnotmakeeyecontactandappeareddisgusted.
“Howmuchisthevisit.”
Shesnapsback,“Fourhundreddollars.”
“Ifoundit,”Isay,feelingthecardinmysidepocket.
A white older male with a large protruding stomach walks out of an office in the back. He walks
towardme,isserious,direct.
“IamDoctorDevins.Comeback.Whereisthepain?”
“SinceOctoberIbeganfeeling…”
“Isaidwhereisthepain,notwhendiditstart.”
“IfeelapressurelikeIwanttohaveabowelmovement.Itsometimesfeelssore.ThenIfoundblood.”
“Liedown.”Heisfirm,appearsharried,humorless,mildlyirritated.Hebehavesasthoughheisbeing
putout,bothered,doingsomebodyafavorhewishesnottodo.
“Youwaitedalongtimetoseesomebody,”hestates,soundingaccusatory.
“Iamnotnormallyinarushtohavetotallystrangepeoplestickobjectsupmyass,”Isay.Hisattitude
provokesme.Anditwasalsothetruth.“Imeanwouldyouliketobeinthisposition?”
Hechucklessarcastically.“Oh,Idothisallthetime,”hesays.
“Yes,butIdon’t,”Isay.
“O.K. You’re really really tense. You need to relax.” I am curled up on a cold steel table with my
pantsdownasheprodsme.
“You must be joking,” I say. “If there is a time to be tense this is the time,” I say. I tried to make
awkwardconversation.“Ilikethisbuildingalot,”Isay.
“Good,youcanbuyit,”hesays.
Althoughhetellsmewhatheisgoingtodobeforehedoesit,heiscoldinhisaffectandmanner.“I
willputatubeinandpumpsomeair.Iwillgentlyputinasmallscope,whichyouwillnotfeel.Itisone
centimeter in length and has a small camera on it. The good news is it will not hurt, but will feel
uncomfortable.”
The examination is done relatively quickly but without any further conversation. At one point, he
walks out of the room and I feel ridiculous, vulnerable, and confused; flattened out in such a strange
positionlikeaslabofbeefonabutcher’sblock.
Attheendoftheday,wearereallyjustbodiesofwaterandblood.Inmomentslikethisitbecomes
clearandobvious.Hecomesbackinwithjelly.“Thiswillbecold,andthismayhurtbecausethiswillbe
myfingerthistimewhichisfatterthantheotherinstruments.”
“Iamthrilled,”Isay.
Theexaminationisnowover.“Putyourpantsbackon.”
“Ifeellikeacheapwhore,”Isay,tryingtobefunny,tryingtosoothebothhimandmyself.Hedidnot
laugh.Helaughedatnothing.Istruggletopullthepantsupquickly.
“Iamworried,”Isay.Heisnonreactive.
“We’regoingtocheckthingsoutwithanotherdoctor.”Thismakesmeworryevenmore.“Ifounda
smallgrowth,eitheratumororapolyp.Couldbeanything.”
Thesesarethescenesonedreadsinlife:Youonatablesittinginfrontofadoctor.Thedoctorlooksat
youanddirectly,withlittleemotion,sayswordslike“tumor”andthenrefersyoutoaspecialist.Yousee
the patient, or yourself, deflate like a balloon. “What are the chances it could be cancer?” I ask. The
secondlineofdialogueanddread.
Hedoesnotlookconcerned;hisvoicedoesn’tbecomesoothingorsofter;hedoesnotleanintomeor
touchmyhandlikeIwouldnaturallydoforsomebodyelseinsuchaposition.Thereisnotasinglething
he says or does that is assuring, convincing ,or comforting. He seems unmoved and unaware that I am
nervous,scaredandconfused.Hespeakstomelikeachild,scoldingandaccusatory.“Youreallywaited
toolong.Reallyunwise.Youreallydidyourselfadisservice.You’llhavetohaveasurgicalprocedure,a
colonoscopy,andhaveabiopsy.Thenwewillknowmore.”
I left the examination flustered, perplexed, and terrified. I was angry at the insensitivity of the
secretary,thedoctor,thecoldandclinicalinhumanfeelingoftheoverallexperience.Hetoldmenothing.
He made me feel bad. I knew that night I would go home to a Manhattan hovel with nobody to talk to,
home with my thoughts, a tight New York existence, pressured and detached. No girl holding a plastic
pitcher above my hands, no empty bowl beneath them. No warm water to gently caress my palms. No
mothersettingplatesinfrontofme.Nocramped,lightlesshousetositinforhourswithneighborsand
mamasandchildren.Noshakyfencetoclimb.Noflickeringlanternlighttoguideme.Nomoontohopeto
see.
SevenlargeAfricanmamasaresittingonoldwoodenbenches.Theseladiesareenormous,sturdyand
steely, as tough as tanks. In a sweltering room, they fan themselves and their offspring diligently with
close attention. Their breasts hang out freely as babies suck heartily. Sick African children. Toddlers
curledupagainstthegargantuan,assuringframesoftheirmothers.Thebabiesandchildrenlooksullen,
exhausted,defeated.Theairisstiffandmiserablyuncomfortable.Thesunblaststhroughasmallwindow
heatingtheroomintoafieryfurnace.Sweatpoursoffallourfaces;womenwipetheircheekswithpretty
whitecloths.Theydabtheheadsoftheirbabies.Adoorcreaksopenbutnobodyisbehindit.Amama
slowlystands,entersthedoor.Twotoddlersfollowher.Ihaveafeverandamcoughing.Ihunchforward.
Thewomennotice.
InLuo,onesays,“Youhaveatouchofmalaria.Youmustseedoctorfirst.Youaresickerthanus.You
areasicklywhiteman.Yourbodycannottakewhatwecantake.Please,youmustseedoctorbeforeus
all.”
Theotherwomenshaketheirheadsandhum,yes.Children’seyesneverstopstaringatme.Children’s
eyesfixated,obsessed,fascinated.Sickchildren’seyes,solovelyandsowide.“Yes,themzunguhasa
touch of malaria. Please see doctor first.” They seem to have a consultation then come to a mutual
consensus.Iamdefensiveandsilly.“Ihaveaflu!Iamnotstrickenwithmalaria.YouAfricans,yousay
everything is a touch of malaria. You cannot have a touch of malaria. You either have malaria or you
don’t. You don’t have a touch of it! Can you be a touch pregnant? Imagine? Imagine being a touch
pregnant?”
Theylaughandarehighlyembarrassed.InAfricathewordpregnantisneveruttered.Awomancould
beburstingwithtwinsinherninthmonthandwillnotadmitsheispregnant.Thewordshallneverform
andfallfromherlips.Thebabiescouldbehangingoutinlaborandshewillnotuttertheword.
I like teasing them. “Imagine being a touch pregnant.” They are howling now, cackling and
embarrassed.Sickmamascarryingsickbabies,havingwalkedfortenortwentymilesfromthefieldsand
villages, seeking medical treatment from a town Indian woman with colorful medicines in glass jars—
theyarelaughing.“Mzunguyouarestrickenwithmalaria.Youmustseedoctorfirst.Wearestrongerthan
you.”Oneemerges,walkstowardmeandputsherhandonmyhead.Shebeginshumming,thenmoaning
loudly.Theotherwomanfollowsher,chanting,humming,thenmoaning.
Suddenlytheyaresingingbeautifullyandmelodiously.Iamchilledwithgoosebumps.Thechildren’s
eyes,wideassaucers,neverflinchawayfromme.Theyareasstillasstatues.Wavingtheirlargearmsto
theheavens,theyarenowprayingtoGodtohealmysickandstrickenmalaria-infectedself.Thetinydoor
creaks open again. The singing comes to an abrupt halt. “Go. Get the malaria treated. Your touch of
malaria.”Theyscreamlaughing.
BehindasmalldeskheldupwithskinnylegssitsanIndianwomanofaboutfifty.Shehaslarge,blackframedglassesperchedattheendofhernose.Herhairispoofedout,withslim,neatlytrimmedsideburns
thatlookpaintedon.Shehasgoldringsonherfingers.Streaksofwhiteshootthroughcertainpartsofher
hair,embellishingheralreadystrikingandrefinedbonestructure,anextraflairofdramaticexoticism.Her
longnailsaremanicuredintoperfecttrianglesandpaintedabrightpurple.Hereyesarewideandgreen
andalmond-shapedlikeadoe’s.Theyareglisteningandseemtoolargeforherdelicatefeatures.
“IwantyoutoknowImakemyownmedicine,”shesaid.“Youseethose?”Shepointstodozensof
glassjarslinedinneatrowsonshelves.“Imadeallthosemyself.Aren’ttheybeautiful?Howcolorful
theyare,right?Iimagineyoumightwanttotakeoneortwohomebecausetheyarejustsobeautiful,can’t
you tell?” She is smiling like she just told a joke. The jars look more like sweet candied syrups for
childrenthanmedicines.Iwantedtodrinkawholeonemyself.
“Theylooksosweet,”Isay.
“Nowtellme,”shesayssoftly,makingdirecteyecontact.“Howareyoufeeling?”
ItellherIamvomiting,feverish,exhausted,aching.Shewritesthesethingsdownonalittlepad,likea
waitress taking an order. She shakes her head “yes” silently. “Very typical. This is Africa you know?
Everybodyfeelsthisway.”Shelaughs.“Iamjoking.Youmustlaughinlifeinthemidstofourstruggleor
youwillbecryingdayandnight,no?”Sheissmiling,waitingformyreaction,listening.“Tellmeabout
yourself?HowareyoufeelinginAfrica?Youcomefromsofaraway.Thisisadifferentlife,hee?”
“Itisdifficult.”
She shakes her head in agreement. “You see those taps over there?” she asks, pointing to a small
porcelainsinkandaspigot.“Waterhasnotcomeoutofthosetapssince1969.Itisadecorationpiece.
The sink is used for storage. And you see that light switch behind you? Hasn’t turned on since the
EmergencyinIndiaprobablybeforeyouwereborn,1975orso.”
“Iwasbornin1975,”Isaid,proudly,butnotsurewhy.
“Imagine.Lifeisfascinatingandsocomplexandmysterious,isitnot?”
Iagree.
“Youwillbecheckedformalaria,andforotherthingsthroughabloodtest.Don’tworry.Butinorder
toassessyourconditionImustknowaboutyoursoul.Whoisthismansittinghere?Wheredidhecome
from?WhyisheinAfrica?Howhasthisplaceaffectedhim?Haveyougivenanyofthismuchthought?”
BeforeIcouldanswershesaid,“Ihaveseenmanywhites.Ihavebeensittingbehindthisdesktalking
tosickanddyingpeopleforoverthirty-fiveyears.Imaginethat?Imaginethatinthirty-fiveyearsbehind
thisdeskIhavenevergottenboredonetime?Interestingandfascinating,hee?Lifeissomysteriouslike
that,doyounotagree?Iseeinyourbody,inyourface,youarenotdying.Inthree,fourdaysyouwillbe
O.K.Althoughyouwillhaveabloodtest,Iamsureyouarefine.Iamabletoseethings,thingsalmost
instantly now. I now see things other people do not see. It is a sad and blessed gift I have received.
ImagineIseesomuchsufferingdailyandnightly.IcannottellyouhowmanyIhavetreatedfornopay.In
thirty-fiveyearsIhaveonlybeenpaidabouthalfofwhatmostoweme.Theyaresopoorhere,asyou
knowandasIknow.Ijustacceptit.Iacceptthattheycannotpay.Ilovetohelppeople.Ireallyloveitso
much,andInevergetbored.”
ShetoldmeaboutawhitemanwhostayedinAfricaforseveralyearsblowingbubbles.Anotherone
developedafeverof103°forthreeyears,buthadnothingwrongwithhim.Anothersleptforweeksafter
consumingtoomanypotatoes.
“YouareIndian,”Isay,asthoughshedoesnotknowit.“IloveIndianfood.”Theveryideaoftasty
spicyIndianfoodseemsintoxicatingandextremelyappealinginacountrydevoidofsuchdelicacies.The
contrastbetweenthemouth-wateringcomplexitiesofIndiancuisinewiththetastelessKenyanstaplediet
ofdry,heavy,plainfoodisstriking.Kenyancuisinethatmerelyfillsthestomach,foodthatconvincesa
personheorsheisfullandsatisfied,survivalfood,foodthatsitsinyourstomachlikeanancientbrick.
“IamsohappytohearitthatyouloveIndianfood.Youaremulticultural,hee?”Shelaughs.“Amost
fascinatingword,hee?‘Multicultural,’”shesaysagain.“Isn’tthatabeautifulword?Itmeansthesoulis
notalone,thesoulmixeswithmany,manyculturesbeingsharedandexperienced.”Sheshookherhead,
seemingpleasantlysurprisedandastonishedbythisconceptandbyherowndescription.
“Awonderfulword.AndIndianfoodiswonderful,”Isay.“Ilovemottopaneer.”
“Imakeawonderfulpaneer.Iwillmakeitforyouoneday,”shetellsme.
When would she make it for me? A doctor, a foreign Indian woman who knew me for all of three
minutes,offeringtoservemeherhome-cookedpaneer.Theideaofit,thegestureofit,thenotionofit,
wasalmostmoreappealingthantheactualactofit.
“Nowtellmeyourlifestory,”shesays.
“From1975?”Iask.
“As I examine your body, you talk. How are you feeling in Africa? You must miss your mother so
much.AndIcanassureyouthatpeoplegetmaladiesandsicknesswhentheyaresadandalone.”
“Sometimestheymockme,”Isay.“Theteenagersmostly.Theymakefunofme.Theymodulatetheir
voicestryingtosoundverynasal.Theythinkwhitestalklikethis.Theymakefunofme.”Itellherthis
likeaschoolboyontheplaygroundtattle-tellingtoaprincipalorteacher.Iamsurprisedbythesoundof
wound in my voice. When verbalized, this sounds absurd, even embarrassing, and I am immediately
ashamedforhavingtoldher.Wounded,stabbedintheveryheart,byshoelesshungryAfricanteenagers,
hurt by young women who will become middle-aged women who will become old women, always
withoutrights,withoutoptions;womendominatedbymen,meninpoverty.Iamwoundedbytheirsilly
mocking,mockingwhichisnotmockingatall.
Thedoctorchuckles,leansforwardandtakesbothofmyhandsintoherhands.Ifeeltheringsonall
herfingers,andthesoftnessofherskin.Shepatsandsqueezesmyhandsfirmly,thenholdsthemforlong
minutes. I did not expect this gesture, how I longed for this gesture without knowing until this moment.
“Theymeannoharm,”shesays.“ThatIamcertainof.Onecannotbecertainofsomanythingsinthislife,
butthisIamcertainof.Itismerelyignorance.Itisfear.Itisfascination.Itisapowerfuldesiretomake
youfeelseenandappreciated.Infact,believethisornot,itisagreathonor.Theyaregivingyouthetime
ofday.InAfricathisisthebiggestcompliment—seeingsomebody,reallyseeingthem.Iftheyknewyou
werewoundedtheywouldbedevastated,theymayevencry.AnAfricanhasmanyfaults,manyjustlike
everybody. But an African would almost never deliberately hurt the soul of another, honestly. They are
reachingouttoyou.Youhavemuch,soverymuch,toofferthem.Openyoursoultotheseignorantand
vulnerableyoungpeople.”
Istruggletocontainwellsoftearsinmyeyes,tearsIknowshecansee.
“Childrencanbecruel,butthesechildrenarenotcruel.Theyaredeprivedanddepraved.Theyknow
solittleoftheworld.Youhavegiventhemhope.Thewhitemanstirsupsomanyemotionsinpeoplehere.
Thereissomuchhistory.Buttheteenagers.Theyareinawe,theyhonoryou.”
“Iunderstandnow,”Isay,andmeanit.
Shepullsmyshirtup.“Anenviablyflatstomach,”shesayspattingit.“Breathedeeply.”
“Wheredoyougetyourwater?”Iask.“Youhavenowaterinyourtaps.”
“Thewomenbringit.Ipaythemsomethingsmall.Theyenjoyworkingforsomethingsmallratherthan
handouts.Handoutsarewhatruinedthiscountry.”
“Youmustbefrustratedtohaveasinkinfrontofyouthathasn’tworkedindecades,”Isay.
“One accepts things. You see it as corruption. It is all corruption. You can see the young people
walkingaroundhere.Theygetafewshillings,andtheyaretryingtosaveforaradio,atelevision.Butyet
theyliveinagrasshouse.Theybuildtheirhomesoutofcowdungandyettheyhaveatelevisioninsideit?
Whatisthissense?Itisthethinkingofcorruption.Ourpoliticianshavebillionsandmostlyeverybodyin
thiscountryisdirtpoor,dyingofdiseasesfromhundredsofyearsago?Doesitmakeoneounceofsense
that people here are dying of typhoid? Imagine! Typhoid. This is a disease from the Middle Ages you
know.Thisislifeincorruption.Breathedeeply.Iamnowgoingtofeelyourneckandlookdownyour
throat.”
“You never get bitter here?” I ask. “You see the corruption and you are making no money. You are
trainedinIndiaright?”Shenodsyes.“InIndiayoucouldmakequitethesalary,correct?”Iask.
“Let me tell you. In India with my degree I could be living like a princess. I moved to Africa forty
yearsagowithmyhusband,aKenyanborninHomabay,aLuo.WecameheretoKisumu,tohisfamily.
ThenIwentbrieflytotrainintheU.K.IdidmyresidencyinahospitalintheU.K.ButIwasinagony,let
metellyou,betweenjustus.Totaldespairanddespondence.PeopleintheU.K.,theyactsoarrogantand
so serious. It was so cold there on every level, let me tell you. Standing far apart from one another.
Nobodyseeinganybody.
SoIcamebacktoAfrica.Imakepenniesadayyouknow.Butintheevening,attheendoftheday,and
theendofthislifetimewhatwillIsay?WillIsaygoodbyetomygoldandmypennies?Attheendwe
only remember the good we did. It is the good we did that matters, the people we helped. We are not
aloneinthisuniverse.Wearepartofeverybodyelse.Thetapestryishere.”Shepointstoherfaceandto
myheart.
“Igetbitter,”Isay.“Igetsoangryatalltheinjustice.IwishIcouldbelikeyou.”
“You have to accept. And you have to enjoy. Enjoy everything. You have a choice. You can enjoy.
Please enjoy. Be happy. Learn to be happy.” She is pressing gently on my neck, looking into my ears,
rubbingmyarms,smiling.“InyouIseesomething.Youarereallyagoodold,oldsoul.”
“Thankyou.”
“Youhaveamaladyofsomekind.Asmall,smallmalady.Butyouwillbefine.Youmustdrinklotsof
boiledwater,lots.Restandsleep.Thismaladymaybeavirus.ButIaminthemindsetthatitismoreofa
soulmalady.Yoursoulmaybeshiftingabit.Thisiscommon.ButifyoustayinAfricayouwillmendthat
soulandthenitwillshiftagain.Thatislife.Youhavetoworkwiththatshifting.”
How does one respond to this? This was like a scene in a fairy tale, the wise Indian sage giving
advicefromthebeyondtoanignorant,lostandsearchingyoungpersonsetadriftinaforeignland.And
yetitfeltreal,solid,comfortingandhealing.AsIemergedfromthetableIfeltatouchofrelief,Ibreathed
alittledeeper,lifeseemedlighterandmorehopeful.IthankedherkindlyandaskedhowmuchIowedher.
“Youpaywhatyoucanpay.IdonotwishtostripaVolunteerofallfundsandassets.Youaresuffering
enough.AsIsay,IhavewhatIneedtoenjoyeverything.Youenjoyeverythingtoo.”
AsmyhandgraspsthedoorknobIstopstillandstareather.Iwanttotaketheentiretyofherin:her
delicatefacewitheyestoowideforrefinedfeatures,thedramaticflairofwhiteshootingthroughherhair
likealightningbolt,theshinygoldringsonherfingers,therowsandrowsofcolorfulmedicinesinglass
jars,herstiflinghotlittleroom,thewoodendeskshehassatbehindforthirty-fiveyearslisteningtothe
agoniesandsufferingsofthesick,theforgotten,thedespondent.
“Oh,canIbuyyouaslabofpaneer?”sheasks.“Iknowhowmuchyoulikeit.”
“Iamfine,”Isay.“IamfinerthanIhaveeverbeen.”
Iwonderhowmanypeoplehadleftthissmallroomfeelingbetter,healedslightly,orevencompletely,
withoutswallowingevenonepill.Iwonderhowmanypeoplediedinthisoffice,ordiedbeforereaching
thisoffice,ordiedafterleavingthisoffice—dyingfromsomanyeasilycurablediseases.Iwonderhow
manypeopleactuallydidpayher.Iamconvincedshediditallforfree,neverchargingasoul.Shelived
off her husband’s earnings, earnings she found more than sufficient. She has treated thousands in thirtyfiveyears.Sheneverchargedasingleone.
“Ifeelalotbetter,”Isay.Shesmileslikesheexpectedmetosaythis.Sheknowstherarityofgrace
hasbestoweditselfuntome.Sheraisesherhand,wigglesherfingers,theringsmakingsoundslikebells.
“Believe me when I say you can enjoy everything,” she says. “Nothing is too good to be true. Just
laughmore.Seepeopleandreallyseethem.Seeitall.Seethetapestry.”
I experienced the failures of nations on the faces of Kenyan people. I realized what oppression and
humangreedandthethirstforpowerdoestocontinents,tocountries;howitobliteratesself-worth,selfesteem,self-determination.Irealizedwhatwhitedominanceis,andhowitmassacredandstymiedaonce
proud and dignified continent of kingdoms and tribes. I realized the true meaning of corruption, how is
seepsintoeveryelementofordinaryhumanlife,howperformingasimpleerrandcanlandyouinjailor
beatenorraped.Irealizedthatlifeiscomplex,thatcultureiseverything,thatpeoplearefundamentally
selfish, that people are fundamentally good. But what I realized most of all was that humans, when
stripped to the raw, need only their feelings and relationships to exist. When money and power and
possibilityisunknownorstrippedaway,peopleareleftwiththeirfeelingsandrelationships.Ilearned
howcommunitiesinAfricathriveintimesofneed,andhowtheyacceptandlovetheoutsideroncethey
feel non-threatened. I learned that Africans are the most forgiving people I’ve ever met. I learned that
communicationcansurpassanylanguagebarrier,thatculturaldivisionscanbebrokendown,thathonesty
andhumilitycanreachbeyondborders,beyondraceandpoverty.
TheconcernsIhavenowarenolongertheconcernsIoncehad.ThepeopleIonceknewarenolonger
thepeopleIknew.ThecountyIknewisnowaforeigncountry.AndyetasIrunbytheHudsonRiver,Isee
theshimmeringlightsoftheStatueofLibertyshining,illuminatingthewater.Ithinkoftheimmigrantswho
witnessedthattorchforthefirsttime,thosewhoriskedtheirlivesonshipstoenterthiscountryseekinga
betterlife.Ithinkofthemanypeopleallovertheworldwhostilldreamtocometothiscountryinspiteof
anyhatredorresentmenttheymayhaveforAmerica.IthinkofthemanyUgandans,Sudanese,Kenyans,
Somalians,andEthiopiansIencounteredthroughoutAfrica—inthepostoffices,fields,bodegas,onstreet
corners; the smiling running children who will never leave their village—and feel tremendous
appreciation to live in a country devoid of daily bribes and diseases easily treated. I feel profound
sadnessthattheworldissoimbalanced.
Days stressing in New York City. Disconnecting from people attempting to connect. Meetings with
acquaintances in restaurants that feel more like appointments. We meet, we part, we enter our small
boxes.
AftergraduationfromNewYorkUniversity,EricStonetaughtESL/ESOLinChina,Braziland
throughoutNewYorkCity.HethenjoinedthePeaceCorps,launchingandmanaginganHIV/AIDS,
malariaandTBcareandsupportcenterinWesternKenyafrom2004-06.Hewentontoearna
master’sdegreeinSocialWork&InternationalAffairsfromColumbiaUniversity,andisnowasocial
workerwiththeDepartmentofVeteranAffairs.
TheDrumsofDemocracy
PAULP.POMETTOII
“They”maytrytostopit,butthedrummingliveson.
MANYPEOPLEIMAGINETHESOUNDSOFAFRICATOBETHEROAROFALION,THELAUGHOFHYENAS,ORTHECALLSOF
exoticbirds.ThismaystillbethecaseifyouarecampingontheledgeofNgorongoroCraterinTanzania
orstayinginaguesthouseinoneofNamibia’sorSouthAfrica’snationalparks.InOuédo,whereIwas
livingfortwoyearsasaPeaceCorpsVolunteer,themostacutesoundsof“myAfrica”werethedrums.
Everynight,therewerethesoundsofthedrums.
Priortoassignmentstoourvillagesin1974,thePeaceCorpshadflownustoCotonou,theeconomic
capital of Dahomey, and trained us for three months in the culture of the nation, French (the national
language),someFon(thelanguageintheregionofmyfutureassignment),andbasicagriculturalmethods
(grainstoragebeingmyproject).Welearnedwithinourfirstweekstheimportanceofusingonlytheright
handforeatingandgreeting,thepracticeoftastingallliquidsbeforeofferingthemtoourguests,andother
basiccourtesies.Wealsolearnedfairlyearlyaboutanimismandtheimportanceofthevoodooculturein
everyday life to Dahomeans. This included the sacredness of pythons and a similar respect for baobab
trees,whereinpeoplebelievedsomeoftheirancestorsresided.Duringoneofourfirstreceptions,which
wasatthehomeofthePeaceCorpsDirector,thestaffconsultedawitchdoctortoensurethatitwouldnot
rainontheevent.Dailyrainswerepartofthisparticularseason.Indeed,itdidnotrainintheyardwhere
thereceptionwasheld.
Ouédo was located on a dirt road perhaps eight miles from Abomey-Calavi, which was the closest
townwithapostoffice.Backin1974,Volunteersdependedonlaposteforreceiptofmailandmonthly
allowances.Eachofushadbeenissuedasmallmotorbike—amobylette—thatfacilitatedtripstothepost
office and our job sites. Cotonou was about ten miles south of Abomey-Calavi. The official capital of
Dahomey—PortoNovo—wasfurthereast,towardtheNigerianborder.Ialsousedthemobylettetovisit
thefarmswhereIwaspromotingandassistingtheconstructionofsmall,cementgrainsilos.Attheendof
eachday,Ilikedtoeithertakeawalkorarideonthebiketovisitdifferenthomesteads.Dahomeanswere
most hospitable and seemed always to enjoy my visits. Over time, they returned visits to my tin-roof
bungalow.ThisishowIlearnedabouttheFonpeopleandsomeofthepracticesoftheirvoodoobeliefs.I
wouldlearnlaterthatmillionsofpeoplepracticethisreligionallovertheglobe,includingintheUnited
States.
On one of my rides down an unknown path, I spotted a revenant (meaning “ghost,” in the French
language) in the distance and it was coming my way! I had learned about these ancestors coming back
from the other world, but had never “met” one up close. It appeared like a small haystack floating or
dancing up this narrow dirt alley with high grass and trees on either side. Even though I understood a
humanwasinsidethiscostume,itstartledmeasIstruggledtoturnaroundthebikeinthenarrowwalkway
toracetheotherdirection.
AvisittotheTempleofPythonsinOuidahwasparticularlyimpressivetoourgroupofPeaceCorps
Volunteers. The temple was simple—round and made out of clay—but it contained dozens, perhaps
hundreds,ofpythons.Wewerecoachedonhowtoapproachthesesymbolsofdeity,andattheappropriate
moment,totouchorpickuponeofthesnakes.Wehadalreadybeeninstructednevertodisturbapython
thatwascrossingourpathortheroad.Inacar,wenearlyalwayscametoahalttopermitapythonto
crosstheroad.Unfortunately,thereweretimesatnightonpavedroadswhenwedidn’thaveenoughtime
tostop,thoughsomeofthesesnakeswerestrongenoughtosurvivesuchbumpsintheroad.
Onedayin1975,myassistantranintomyhuttoinformmethatthenationhadchangeditsflag.Hewas
concernedbecauseIhadjustpaidforatailor-madeflagofDahomeyformyowncollection.Nonplussed,
Isimplyaskedthetailortomakemeanotherflag,usingthenewdesign.Aboutaweeklater,hementioned
tomethatafewmorechangeshadoccurred.DahomeywasnowthePeople’sRepublicofBenin,there
hadbeenarevolution,andMarxism-LeninismwasthenewphilosophyofPresidentMathieuKerekou.I
alsolearnedthatitwasagainstthelawtomakethenewflag.Onehadtopurchaseflagsthathadrecently
beenmadeinNorthKorea.MoreimportantlytoOuédo,thepresidenthadbannedvoodoopracticesand
theplayingofthedrums!!
Thesilencingofthedrumschangedtheentireenvironmentofmyvillage.Ouédohadnotelevisionsor
theaters;ithadnoelectricityorrunningwater.Iwascontenttospendsomeofmyfreetimereadingbythe
light of a kerosene lantern, but I missed the music of the drums. There were exceptions, however,
including one for July 3, 1976—my twenty-fifth birthday. I had talked with Dahomean (now, Beninois)
friendsandneighborsabouthavingagreatcelebration,inpart,becausetheyhadinvitedmetosomany
family ceremonies. Fortunately, one of my friends was the brother of President Kerekou’s driver, and I
wasgivenpermissiontohavetheparty.TherewasfoodanddrinksforallwhovisitedfromOuédoand
othervillages.Stiltdancersexcitedthegatheringandthedrumsplayedwildly.
Though the earlier spread of both Christianity and Islam had banned voodoo practices to no avail,
Kerekoumadeabraveattempttoendthispractice;however,bythe1990s,hehaddroppedtheMarxistLeninistpolicies,the“People’s”inthenation’sname,andthebanonvoodoopractices.When,in1991,
KerekousteppedasidetopermitthevictoriousNicephoreSoglotobecomepresident,manyaroundthe
worldtooknotice.BeninhadbecomethefirstAfricannationwhereinademocraticallyelectedpresident
followedadictatorwithoutbloodshed.BythetimeKerekouwonthefreeandfairelectionsof1996and
2001, the nation was celebrating an annual Voodoo Day! Kerekou retired from office in 2006 upon the
electionofthecurrentpresident,BoniYayi.
ThedrumshavecontinuedtobeatasademocraticandpeacefulsocietyevolvesinthisareaofWest
Africa. In fact, the call of those drums reached 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W., Washington, D.C.,
otherwiseknownastheWhiteHouse.ThatPresidentandMrs.BushvisitedBenininMarch2008wasa
testamenttothatnation’sgrowth,toU.S.andinternationalsupportforBenin’sevolvinginstitutions,andto
therecognitionofaculturethatevenincludesanimismasthenationalreligion.PeaceCorpscelebratedits
fortiethyearinBeninin2008.
PaulP.PomettoIIisDeputyChiefofMissionattheU.S.EmbassyinDjibouti.Hislongcareerinthe
ForeignServiceistheconsequenceoftwoyearsofserviceasaPeaceCorpsVolunteerinBenin,where
heservedfrom1974-76inthegrainstorageprogram.PaulisanativeandresidentofWashington,
D.C.
PartThree
GettingThroughtheDays
Boys&Girls
RYANN.SMITH
AsnapshotofAfricanlifeinthetwenty-firstcentury.
RIGHTNOWIT’S106DEGREES,ANDI’MINMYHOUSEWHEREIT’SONLYINTHE90S,WRITINGANDLISTENINGTOTHE
radio. My host-brother, Ibrima, is at the neighbor’s compound, drinking tea, talking to his friends, and
listeningto50Cent.Myhost-mother,Jarkong,isoutsidepoundingrice,preparingforlunch.Shestartedat
noonandwon’tbefinisheduntil2:30,whenthemenreturnfromthemosque.Fatou,theeldestdaughter,
sitsnexttoJarkong,tediouslyremovingrocksandbugsfromtherice.Herdaughter,Niima,hasherhead
underhershirt,breastfeeding.
After lunch, the brothers will return to 50 Cent and other pleasantries. The women will scrub the
bowlsandpots;thistime,NiimawillbestrappedtoFatou’sbackwithalongpieceoffabric,knottedjust
aboveherpregnantstomach.Fatouandherhusbandhavefourchildren,allgirls.ForFatou,eachattempt
ataboymeansmorericewithbugsthatneedtoberemoved,moretimewithababystrappedtoherback.
Betweenmealsyoucanusuallyfindabouthalfofthewomenwashingthefamily’sclothesbyhand.The
otherhalfaretendingtheirvegetablegardens,atwenty-orthirty-minutewalkfromthecompound.
Asthebabiesfinallyfallasleep,twoofmyhost-brotherswatchanearly’90sepisodeofTheBoldand
theBeautifulonatinyblack-and-whitetelevisionhookeduptoacarbattery.Thewomenironclothesor
sort vegetables to be taken to the market tomorrow. Ibrima is still over at the neighbor’s, where he is
workingonhiseleventhcupofteafortheday,andwherehe’lllikelybeuntilmidnightorlater.He’llbe
thelastonetogettobedtonight.Tomorrow,beforesunrise,Fatouwillbethefirsttowake,willstrap
Niimaonherbackandstartwalkingtothegarden.Hervegetablesaren’tgoingtowaterthemselves.
BornandraisedinCentralIllinois,RyanN.SmithservedinTheGambiafrom2007–09asanAgroForestryExtensionVolunteer.Heservedwithhiswife,LeslieColeman,andtheyenjoyedbaking
dessertbreadsintheirsolarovenandsneakingintocoastalresortpools.RyanhasaB.A.in
EnvironmentalPolicyfromIllinoisWesleyanUniversity.
I’dWantedtoGotoAfrica,ButthePeaceCorps
SentMetoSierraLeone
BOBHIXSONJULYAN
Youth,snakes,fantasies,age,andacountry’slatertragedy…
WHENI ARRIVED AS APEACECORPSVOLUNTEER IN THESIERRALEONEAN VILLAGE OFYONIBANA INAUGUST1965,
Sierra Leone, the Peace Corps, and I were age mates. We all were young, untried, unformed, with the
eageroptimismofyouth,fledglingsforwhomthefuturewasopenandauspicious.In1961SierraLeone
hadachieveditsindependencefromBritain,thePeaceCorpshadbeencreatedbyPresidentKennedy,and
Ihadlefthighschooltoentercollege.Nowjustfouryearslater,weallfoundourselvestogether,ninety
milesupcountryfromthenation’scapital,Freetown,inavillagewhosename,Yonibana,means“bigant”
inthelocalTemnelanguage.IwastoteachEnglishinthevillage’snewsecondaryschool.
APeaceCorpsvehicledroppedmeoffatwhatwastobemyhomefortwoyears,awell-builtcement
house, painted yellow, with six empty rooms, a porch and, behind, an outhouse-shower and a small
building with a kitchen and room for a houseboy or, in my case, five schoolboys. Like the rest of the
village,thehousehadnoelectricityorrunningwater.
I was the first and only PCV assigned to Yonibana; an agricultural missionary who’d worked in the
villagethepreviousthreeyearswasonsabbatical,andasidefromtwolocallybornLebanesetraders,I
wastheonlynon-Africanforthirtymiles.
JustwhatIwanted.
For this was Africa! The Dark Continent. Land of mystery and adventure. True, the secondary bush
aroundYonibanawasn’texactlythegreatgameplainsofEastAfrica,norwerethepeopleofYonibana—
khaki shorts and trousers, gaudy cotton shirts bearing portraits of Kwame Nkrumah and President
Kennedy, and cheap plastic sandals—exactly the tall Masai warriors with red robes, ostrich-plume
headdresses, and assegai spears I remembered from National Geographic. Sierra Leone, despite its
name meaning “Lion Mountain” in Portuguese, didn’t even have lions, nor any of the continent’s other
iconicanimals.Imadeabadjokeaboutthiscontrast:I’dwantedtogotoAfrica,butthePeaceCorpssent
metoSierraLeone.
No matter. I was young, and even Sierra Leone and Yonibana allowed me to indulge my explorer
fantasies,whicheventhenIknewwereonlythat.
At the Christian Missionary Society bookstore in Freetown I bought a leather-bound journal and, in
trueexplorerfashion,beganrecordingmyadventuresandobservations:
October 5, 1965: I went into the bush today with two other teachers and some students to cut
sticks.Afterwefinished,andaswewerewalkingback,wetalkedofsnakes.Themostdangerous
snake in Sierra Leone, they said, is a small, brown snake, about eight inches long. It is called
anlofotand“thekingofsnakes,”forthoughsmallitwillkillallothers.Itappearswhentherains
come;ithasanastytemperanddoesn’thesitatetoattack.Thesnakecharmersandsnakejugglers
willhandleallvarietiesofsnakes,evenpoisonousones,buttheywillnottouchthissmall,brown
snake.
TalessuchasthesehelpedmetobelieveIwasindeedlivinginthelandofdangerandadventure.And,
perhaps morbidly, I turned to snakes to confirm this. After all, in the absence of lions, leopards, and
rhinos,snakeswerethemostdangerousanimalsaround.
Soonafterhearingaboutthe“kingofsnakes,”Iwassittingonmyporchwhenvillagersspottedand
killed one of these snakes that had been crossing the dirt street toward my house. Another time, while
walkingaloneinthebushIcameacrossagrasshutinsidewhichamanhadsomethingsuspendedbystring
overafire.Thinkinghewassmokingmeat,Iaskedhimwhatkind.Hejustlookedatmestrangely;thenI
sawthatthe“meat”wastheheadofanenormousrhinoceros-hornedviper.Themanwaspreparingmagic,
notameal.
Itooklonghikesthroughanearbyforestpreserveandalwayssawsomethingunexpected.
May1,1966:Inthetreesoverheadtherewasalargenumberofbee-eaters.Abirdmoregracefully
designedIcan’timagine—slendercurvedbill,longforkedtail—andquickandnimbleinflightas
well.AsIsattherewatchingthebee-eaters,amovementinthebushbeneathcaughtthecornerof
myeye.Itwasagreensnake,atleastfourfeetlong,anditwasmovinginandoutandalongand
around the vines. My first thought was that it might be a green mamba, and indeed I later
confirmedittobeso.Itglidedquicklyfrombranchtobranch,itsbluetongueflickeringinand
out.Iwatcheditforsometimewiththeglasses,andwhenitslidoutofsight,Irosetolookcloser,
butithadvanished.Afterseeingthesnake,Inolongerfeltateasesittingbeneaththetree.
I was almost desperate to find in Sierra Leone and Yonibana what I expected from Africa. I took
photosofgrass-thatchedhuts,evenifalltheotherhousesinthevillagehadmetalroofs.Itookatwo-day
backpacktripintoaremoteareaand,withanativeguide,climbedthe1,945-meterBintimani,thehighest
pointinWestAfricawestofCameroon.IstudiedArabicwithaMuslimteacherfromSenegal,drinking
teawithhimbycandlelight,andIsatwithalocalLebanesetraderanddranksweetlocalcoffee.Atnight,
IlistenedtothebeatingofdrumsfromthenearbyforestwherethePoroandBundusecretsocietiesmet.
November 20, 1965: There is a Bundu bush about fifty yards from my house. Now that the dry
seasonhascomeandtheharvestisin,peoplehavetimetoworkwiththeirsecretsocieties.Last
nighttheBunduSocietywasperforminginitiationrites,sotherewasdrummingandsingingand
clappingofhandsallnightlong,wildmerrymaking.
DespitethelocalpeoplenotbeingMasai,Ifellinlovewiththem,especiallywiththeirhumor.Iliked
andenjoyedmystudentsatthesecondaryschooland,whileIknewIwasn’texactlyAlbertSchweitzer,I
nonethelessfeltIwasfulfillingthePeaceCorpsmissionoffosteringinternationalunderstanding.Atnight,
bythelightofanoillantern,IsatwithAfricanschoolboysandteachersonmyporch,andtogetherwe
laughed and told stories and kidded one another, while on the porch of the house across the street tiny
childrensangnativesongs.
November29,1965:Thisevening,someschoolboyscamebythehouseandaskedmetopointout
someconstellations;theyneededtoseesomeforascienceclassassignment.Onequestionledto
another, and soon a student asked me about thunder. I told him what science says it is; they,
havinglistenedtomyversion,begantellingmetheirs.HereinAfrica,feartakesmanyforms,and
therearefewaccidents:everymischanceresultsfromsomespirit,witch,devil,orevensomeone
havingspecialpower.HereinYonibanatherewasawomanwhowasabletocrythethunder.Ifa
thiefwereaboutthetown,shewouldswearthethunderandswearaswelltothepeoplethatsoon
the thief would be found out. Sure enough, within a week a mighty crack of thunder would be
heard,eveniftheskywascompletelyclearofclouds,andthethiefwouldbestruckdead,evenif
hewasinahouse.
The Africa of Yonibana was good, at least most of the time. Outside the village, Africa wasn’t so
good. I made journeys at least once a month to the capital city for supplies and to connect with other
PCVs. They tended to live together in compounds. Instead of schoolboys, they were waited upon by
houseboys,servants.Theyouthstheytaughtwereoftenarrogantandcheeky.Thecitywasnoisy,crowded,
andfilthy.Theftwasapervasiveproblem.MyfellowPCVscertainlyweren’thavinganyoftheAfrican
adventuresIwashaving,thoughwedidshareadventuresaswetraveledaroundSierraLeonetogether:
climbingtheBintimani,visitingtheremotebeachatShengewhererustingcannonslayonthebeach,and
travelingtothediamondareaofKono,wherealocaldiamondtraderallowedustoholduncutdiamonds
acquiredillegally.Wedrankpalmwineandfieryomole.
Asourtwo-yearassignmentsworeonandexoticismwaned,webeganfeastingupontalesofjusthow
delightfullydysfunctionalSierraLeonewas.EveryexpatriatehadafavoriteWAWA(WestAfricaWins
Again)story.
March 5, 1967: I was anxious to go to Magburaka because Yonibana is boredom’s native home.
AlsoIwaslookingforwardtolisteningtoKent’srunningdiatribeagainstSierraLeone.Hekeeps
saneherebecause1)hedrinks,and2)heopenlyridiculesthiscountryhecan’tstand.
SierraLeonewentfrombeingersatzNationalGeographictosomethingoutofGilbertandSullivan.
TheFreetownnewspaperstoryofthebodyfoundmissingmostofitsinternalorganshadthepolicequoted
assaying,“Wehavenotruledoutfoulplay.”Theprimeminister,theSierraLeoneanscalledToadface.A
countryasawkwardandinexperiencedasanyadolescent,stumblingandbumbling.Eventhemilitarycoup
was comic opera. Who could take seriously soldiers who rode around in lorries painted with mottoes
suchas:HelpusOGod,BlackZorroAgain,andShanghaiJoe?
Thesecondschoolyearended,andIandmyfellowPCVsdeparted.AfterI’dloadedmybelongings
intothelocalmissionary’struckandweweredrivingawayfromYonibana,Ilookedbackatmyhomeof
twoyearsandtheschoolboyswithwhomI’dsharedit—andIwept.
Thatwasfortyyearsago.Thecountrynolongeriscomicoperabutdarktragedy.Coupsdevolvedinto
civil war and then into anarchy. Bands of teenage brigands, ragged but heavily armed, roamed the
countryside pillaging, raping, murdering, and—their special signature brand of savagery—severing
victims’ arms and legs with machetes. Most foreigners departed, including the Peace Corps; the
governmentcollapsed.Whilethecivilwarandanarchyfinallyhaveendedandforeignersarebeginningto
return, Sierra Leone, despite significant natural resources, has remained the nadir of global economies;
the2007UnitedNation’sHumanDevelopmentIndexofnationsrankedSierraLeoneatthebottom.
The Sierra Leone I experienced, the Sierra Leone that disappointed me for not being Africa, was
indeedAfrica,therealAfrica,ofordinarypeoplefacingdiseaseandinadequatehealthcare,pervasive
corruption, food shortages, and lack of opportunities. What most Americans see—the animals, the
photogenic tribesmen, even the exotic snakes—are just an Africanized version of Buffalo Bill’s Wild
WestShow.
Iidentifiedthe“kingofsnakes”throughafieldguideasanightadder,GenusCausus:“Althoughthis
snake is poisonous, its venom is not very potent and causes mainly pain and swelling. There are no
recordeddeathscausedbythissnake.”Deathiscausedbydiseasesandpeople.
WithallthathashappenedtoSierraLeoneinthefortyyearssincewewereyoungtogether,Iwonder:
Wasitalljustafantasy?Ifmysnakeadventureswerejustyouthfulfancies,whatofmyhopesofmakinga
difference?Werethey,too,justfantasies?Perhaps.
Yet without fantasies—and the idealism and optimism they engender—I and countless other young
Americans would not have left home for places like Yonibana—and we needed to go there, if only to
encounter the real Africa. And there are still young Africans who need to stop by these Americans’
verandasintheeveningandtogethertellstoriesandkideachotherandtalkabouttheworldnotonlyasit
isbutalsoaswewishittobe.
BobHixsonJulyanhastakenadifferentcoursethanthecountryinwhichheservedfrom1965-67.
UnlikeSierraLeone,hechangedhisname,fromHixsontoJulyan,andhegaveuphisindependence
whenhemarriedhiswife,Mary,andbeganafamily.Heistheauthorofseveralbooksabouthistory,
geography,andoutdoorrecreation.HeandMarynowliveinNewMexico,farremovedfrom
equatorialAfrica,wheredangeroussnakeshaverattlesontheirtails.
Breakfast
JEDBRODY
Whatisittheysayaboutagoodbreakfastbeingthemostimportantmealoftheday?
MYALARMGOESOFFATSIX,BUTROOSTERSAREALREADYCROWING.THEY’VEBEENCROWINGFORTHREEHOURS;I’VE
learnedtosleepthroughit.Iopenthemetal-slatwindows.Twentyminutesago,someoneatthemosque
ascendedtocallthefaithfultoprayer;this,Ihaven’tlearnedtosleepthrough.
Blinkingsweatfrommyeyes,Iglanceatthethermometer:33degreesCelsius.Itrynottothinkabout
what this means in Fahrenheit. I delay getting dressed, packing my bag with lesson plans and a bright
yellowmeterstick.Iplacemystubsofcoloredchalkinmyshirtpocketbeforeputtingitonjustforthat
extrasecondofrelativecoolness.
Outside,motorcycleexhaustandcrinkledbrownstalkscontributetothefragranceofthemorning.
I ride my bicycle two blocks, to have breakfast outside the school. I pass the old man I pass every
morning. He’s riding a bike that might be older than he is; he’s wearing the kind of cap Oliver Twist
wore.Heshiftshisweightfromsidetosideashepedals,thefoldsofhisrobeflowingliketallgrasses.I
wonderwherehe’sgoing.AgainIdon’task.
IsmellmangopeelsdryingwhenIreachthewomensellingfood.I’mearly;onewomanhasn’tfinished
settingup.Hersmallson,nomorethaneight,iscarryingalongwoodenbenchonhishead.He’shavinga
littletroublewithbalance.Helookslikeaseesawthatgotupandwalkedaway.
I hear forks scraping metal plates. I lean my bike against the fence and walk around the chickens
peckingatfallenrice;somearesprayedhotpinksotheirownerscanidentifythem.Severalstudentsare
standingtogetherandeating.“Dolikeme!”theysay,extendingtheirplatesinasymbolicoffertoshare
whattheyhave.“Merci!Bonappetit!”Ireply.
Iapproachthebeansandricetable.Eightorninestudentsjostle,wavingtheiremptyplatesintheface
of the woman who serves them. Her head is ornamented with a gauze-like black-and-orange scarf and
glittering balls of sweat. Her outfit, yellow and brick-red, depicts baby chicks and eggs. “Bonjour,
Yovo,”shesaysaffectionately.”“Yovo”means“foreigner.”“Bonjour,Mama,”Ianswer.
Shovingasideprotestingstudents,sheselectsaplateforme.Shereachesforthemountainofcooked
ricerisingoutofametalbasin.Ashermetalscoopscrapesawayaplateful,steamgushes.Sheladleson
somechickpea-likebeans,thebeansthatI’mgoingtoeatforeverintheafterlife,ifI’mgoodandkind.
Finally,shedipsherspoonintothesauce,pasttheredoilysuperficiallayeronwhichgreenhotpeppers
float,throughmurkyregionsdensewithmashedtomatoes,untilatlastshereachesthesourceofflavor.
When I finish, I lower my plate into a sudsy bucket; a young girl scrubs it immediately. As I hurry
towardtheclassroom,IprepareforthelessonI’mabouttogive.
JedBrodywasaPeaceCorpsVolunteerinBeninfrom1996-98.HeteachesphysicsatEmory
University.Hehasnothadadriver’slicensesince1995.
DailyLife
KATHLEENMOORE
It’sinthesmallthingsthatwelearnthemost.
INJANUARY1965, THEPEACECORPS SENT ME TOEMDEBER, AN ISOLATED VILLAGE IN THE HIGHLANDS OFETHIOPIA.
ThepeopletherearecalledsabatbetGuragi,thesevenhousesofGuragi.Justlivingtherefrommoment
to moment took a concentrated effort. Drinking a glass of water, for example, was not something I did
hastilyorwithoutthinking.Iheldtheglassunderthetinyspigotofthewaterfilterwhileitslowlyfilled
withliquid,thecolorrangingfrompaleorangetodeepreddependingonhowlongithadbeensincethe
filterwasnew.
While the sediment in the water settled, I looked out the back door at the hills in the distance,
wondering how to teach the passive voice, say, to my ninth-grade English class. Finally, I sipped the
waterslowlysoasnottostirupthelittlepileonthebottomoftheglass.WhenIgotclosetoit,Ipoured
theremainingdropsonastrugglingcarrotplant.
Everythingwasconnected:thegarden,thestudents,theriver,anddrinkingaglassofwater.Ibecame
accustomedtothecomplexroutinesoflivinginthatgrasshouseandfoundIdidnotwantalifethatwould
requirelessofme.
Iawokeinthemorningtothecrowingofaroosterheldcaptiveinmyouthousesothehyenaswouldn’t
gethim,butIdidn’tmovefrommyflea-infestedmattressuntilIheardtherhythmicthud, thud, thud of
coffee beans pounded in a wooden mortar, a soft, comforting sound, a morning sound. It meant that
Demaketch,mylandlord’sdaughter,wouldsoonbringmegood,strongcoffee.
Shetriedtosneakinwiththecoffeeandslipoutlikeashadow.Iwonderedwhatshethoughtofme.
Sheknewmemoreintimatelythananyone;shewashedmyclothesintheriver,poundingthemontherocks
anddryingtheminthebrightsuntomakethemcleanagainafterthereddustofEmdeberhadcreptinand
evendyedmyskinred.ShecookedlentilstewformeMondaythroughFriday;IneverateitallbecauseI
knewshewouldeatwhatwasleftwhenshecametowashthedishes.
OnSaturdays,shecleanedmyhouseandputanewcoatofcowdungandwateronthefloor.Iwouldn’t
comehomeuntilthesmellwasgone,soshehadlotsoftimetolookthroughmybooks,stareatphotos
tackedonthewall,examinemywardrobeandmarvelatmykitchenutensils,evenslipalittlesugarinto
herpocket.ItwasDemaketchwhobroughtmetheeucalyptusbranchtoputinthesugarwhenIfoundants
init.Nextday,theyweregone.
IoftengottoschoolafterthestudentshadsaidtheLord’sPrayer,justintimetohearthelastrefrainsof
thenationalanthem,“Ethiopia,Hoy!”Itremindedmeofmyschooldayswhenweprayedeverymorning
and said the Pledge of Allegiance, “one nation, under God,” putting patriotism right up there with
godliness.
Firstthroughseventh-gradeclasseswereinroomsmadefromthineucalyptustreeswithahalf-hearted
attempttofillinthecrackswithmud.Fortytofiftystudentssqueezedintoeach.Theonlylightcamefrom
asmallsquarecutinthewallthatpassedasawindowandfromthedoorway.Therewasnodoor.There
were no desks, just benches, worn so smooth that the students’ skinny bottoms slid off. Most of them
didn’t have paper or books or pencils. I talked and they repeated. I wrote a few words on our tiny
blackboard, passed out scraps of paper and stubs of pencils, and they got on their knees behind the
benches,putthepaperonthebenchandcopiedmywords.Icriedaftereachclassforthefirstweek.
ThenIgotoverit.
Watchingachildplaywithahomemadetoycar—apieceofwoodtowhichhehadlooselynailedfour
bottlecapsaswheelsthatrattledlikethoseontheLandRoversthatoccasionallycametoEmdeber—it
dawnedonmethattherewerenowheelsinEmdeberotherthanthosethatcameattachedtovehiclesand
thenleftwiththemagain.Therewerenocarts,nowagons,nopulleys,nobicycles.Nothingrolled.There
wereonlyfeetandbacksandhips.Womenandchildrenanddonkeyscarriedeverythingfrombabiesto
stacksoffirewoodtoclayjarsheavywithwater.
TheGuragiwayoflifehadnotchangedoverthecenturies.Inlargercitiestherewerehospitalsand
highschools,postofficesandtelephones,electricityandforeigners;influencesthat,likethincracksinan
antique Chinese vase, doomed it to break apart from the pressure of change. Emdeber had no cracks
except for us, the Peace Corps Volunteers. Emdeber’s language, food, customs, beliefs, and social
structurewereyetuntouched,andwewereprivilegedtoliveinthatsecludedtimecapsulefortwoyears.
Howisitpossibletoliveinaplacesodifferentfromwhatyouhaveknownthatyoumightaswellbe
onthemoon?Thetruthisthatplacedoesn’tmatter.Thetruthisthatlanguagedoesn’tmatter.Thetruthis
thatrunningwaterandelectricitydon’tmatter.
IfIhadhadrunningwater,IwouldnothaveknownAtoTesfaye,themanwithadonkeywhobrought
metwometalcansfullofspringwatereachweek.Iwouldnothaveknownwhenhisbabydaughterdied.I
would not have walked behind his family to the cemetery, would not have shared the grief of a mother
whohadhadfourbabies,buriedtwo,andwasnoolderthanI.
IfIhadhadrefrigerationandcouldhaveboughtdeadchickens,thenmyboyswouldnothavehadtoput
theroosterfromFriday’smarketinmyouthousetokeepitfrombeingeatenbyhyenas.ThenIwouldnot
have been aware of the hyenas nor understood their part in the grand scheme of things. I do not like
hyenas.Theyareuglyandmakehorriblesounds.Buttherearepredatorsinthisworld,andIneededto
learnhowtolivewiththemandnotbecapturedandeatenbythem.Ineededtoknow,too,thatthereis
safetyandprotectionfromthesecreaturesand,whenitisofferedtome,Icanacceptitandshareit.
There was room inside my saar-bet house for all of us, teachers and students, Americans and
Ethiopians,evenalittlekittenandpuppythatsurelywouldhavebeenahyena’sdinner.Whilethoseugly
animals laughed outside in the darkness, pretending their hunger was funny, we inside had light and
laughterandlove.Thehyenasgavemethattruth.
If we had had a paved road out of Emdeber, we surely would have used it most weekends to visit
largercitieswhereotherPeaceCorpsVolunteerslived.Wewouldn’thavespentallourtimeinEmdeber
andthenearbyvillagespeopledwithGuragis.Wecouldonlygoasfaraswecouldwalk,butwefoundas
muchmysteryandsurprisejustmilesfromourdoorwayasothersdidwhotraveledgreaterdistances.We
visitedthewealthiestmaninsabatbetGuragiwhowehadseenridethroughtownonhismulewithhis
entourage of men and boys walking barefoot beside and behind him, carrying spears and swishing the
flies from his face with their chiras. We were amazed at his huge saar-bet, the beautiful hand-carved
furniture, and his handwritten books of genealogy tracing his ancestors back to Adam and Eve through
generationsofOldTestamentkingsandprophets.
Wevisitedthesacredtree,thecenterofanimistworship,anancient,pre-Christianreligionthatnoone
admittedtobutmanystillbelievedinatleastalittlebit.Thetreewassooldandsohugeandsobeautiful
thatitmusthavebeenhometospiritsolderthantimeandunrestrictedbytheology.Wecelebratedwitha
Muslimsheik,sowealthyheownedageneratorandcouldproduceelectricityforhisvillagewheneverhe
wantedto.ThousandsofMuslimfamiliescamefromalloverEthiopiatohonorhim,bringingwiththem
camelsthatlookedasoutofplacethereastheywouldhaveathome.Wesawthecamelsslaughtered;their
long, bloody necks and heads left lying on a grassy slope while men butchered and women cooked the
meat.Weatethecamelstewasthehonoredguestsofthesheik,sittingunderhispavilionwithhiswives
andtrustedfriends.Ifwehadhadthewheel,Iwouldhavemissedsomuch.AplacelikeEmdeberputs
everythinginperspective.Youcomeawayknowingwhatmattersandwhatdoesn’t.
AfterservinginthePeaceCorpsinEthiopiafrom1965–67,KathleenMooreworkedforthePublic
HealthDepartmentinDetroit’s“ghetto”untiltheriotsbrokeoutin1967;thenwenttoWisconsinto
workinaJobCorpsCenterwheretheboyshadbeentoldbyajudgeto“gotojailorgotoJob
Corps.”ThentoMinneapolisfortheWaronPoverty,theModelCityprogram,andfinallythecounty
welfaredepartment.SheisretiredandplanstoreturntoEthiopiatoteachEnglishagain—bringingit
fullcircletoendupwhereshestartedout.
WatotoofTanzaniaLindaChenSeeOutofthe
mouthsofbabes…orunderstandingthesourcesof
joyintherealitiesofpoverty.
WATOTO MEANS CHILDREN INKISWAHILI.THEY AREPOTE POTE(EVERYWHERE).LIKE THE BREEZE AND THE SUN AND
thesky,watotowereapartofoureverywakinghour.TheyaretheheartofAfrica.
WatototaughtusourfirstKiswahiliword.WhenourplanelandedinDaresSalaam,wewereherded
intoopen-backedLandRovers.Jostledalonginthesaunaheatalongthecoast,werodethroughstreamsof
people. Women, covered in bright cloths of all colors and designs, humpbacked with babies tied onto
theirbacks,claspedsmallerhandsbesidethem.
Children pointed, yelling, “Mzungu!” “Mzungu,” we learned, means European. We were rightfully
“Merekani,”Americans,yetwewouldremain“mzungu.”Icanstillclearlyhearachild’svoiceyelling
“mzungu”asifIwereinAfricatoday.
WestayedataSalvationArmylodging.Inthetallpalmtreesaroundourcabins,largebrownbatshung
upsidedowninbunches,chatteringandscreechingwhenoneoranotheraccidentallybumpedaneighbor.I
hadasmallbandofchildrenwhofollowedme.TheyknewnoEnglish,soIwouldpointtoanobjectand
state its English name. They responded with the Kiswahili equivalent. Popo is bat, jua is sun, ua both
fence and flower. Mtoto is one child, and watoto are children. I was taken heart and soul with their
openlyfriendlyways,andtheirquick,eagersmilesandlaughter.
After a brief stay in Dar es Salaam, we were transported to a coastal mission village named
Bagamoya.Itstranslationis“laydownmyheart,”givenbecauseofitsinvolvementwiththeslavetrade.
CountlessAfricanssawtheirhomelandfortheverylasttimethere.
We stayed at a Teachers’ College for Kiswahili language training. Another group of Volunteers had
alreadypassedthrough.
The local village children were delighted with this second wave of mzungu. The former Volunteers
had started a project to ship shoes to Bagamoya. We saw many watoto in shoes, some laughably
oversized, but protecting small feet from the parasitic worms known as chiggers. Chiggers can only be
removedbybeingcutout.
OneofthefirstchildrentheyhadhelpedwasaboyoftenyearsnamedJoseph.Hehadaninfectious
smileaswideashisface.WesawJosepheveryday.Withus,heseemedtofindhisplaceintheworld,
beingbothlikedandaccepted.
A year later, when I visited Bagamoya on my own, I found a bit taller Joseph, still wandering the
TeachersCollege.HeyelledmynameandrantowhereIsat,placinghisheadonmylapandhuggingmy
legs tightly, bringing tears to my eyes as I hugged him back. I couldn’t help thinking that we had
abandonedhim.
JosephhadasisternamedPaulina.Shewasalsopartofourwatotofollowers.Therewasalsopetite,
naturallybeautifulKaboko,andFaki,aboytheothershadwarneduswasathief.IhaveapictureofFaki
taken on the steps outside our dorm. While most of the children smiled, Faki scowled, eyes narrowed,
hands outstretched, palms up with an expression that said, “Give me the camera.” One day, Faki came
runninguptoourgrouptoreturnateacher’sforgottenwristwatch,averyexpensiveblackmarketitem.
The unspoiled beach and crystal turquoise ocean of Bagamoya were irresistible. The first time we
went into the water, the watoto walked out with us, holding our hands. Only when we ventured out to
wheretheycouldn’tstanddidtheirwide-eyedterrorastheyclungtoustellustheydidn’tknowhowto
swim.Livingthisclosetotheocean,yettheyhadneverlearnedtoswim.Wenevermetanyparents,never
sawfamiliesenjoyingthebeachortheocean.Adultswerepreoccupiedwithsurviving.
Wewereassignedtoourposts.MinewasNgudu,avillageaboutfortykilometerssouthofMwanza,a
cityonLakeVictoria.
AnotherPCV,Debbie,hadarrivedonemonthbeforeme,andwaslivinginaguesthouse.OurGermanbuilthomewasbeingpaintedandrepaired.Shehadbeencheckingonitsprogress,andwasaccustomed
tohearing,“labdakesho”(maybetomorrow).Itwasaphrasewewouldhearoften.
OneearlymorningIwalkedintotowntobuysomematches.Ihadcheckedoneduka(shop),andwas
told, “hamna” (we have none). Standing outside, I heard shouting nearby and then saw a bare-chested
manwearingalongoff-whiteclothwrappedaroundhiswaistdowntohisfeet.Hestartedyellinginsome
tribal language. His anger frightened me. I was new in town, still just “mzungu,” and saw no familiar
faces,justavertedeyes.Istartedwalkingquicklytowardanotherduka,followedbyhisyelling.Iducked
insidethedoorwayandhurriedinamongthosegathered,waitingformyeyestoadjusttothedarkinterior.
Suddenly, a child started screaming loudly. I turned around expecting to see my crazed follower. The
screaming child had run behind the counter and was being held by an adult. Our eyes locked, hers in
terror,mineinshock.Iwasthesourceofherfear.
Alotofchildrentherehadeitherneverseenamzungu,exceptforamissionarydoctorgivingpainful
injections.
WeleftourGermanhomeaboutsixmonthslater,atthegovernment’srequest,forasmalleroneina
villagecalledNgudulugulu.Wesettledintoourroutinesand,again,watotobecamethecentralpartofmy
life.
There was a footpath between our house and our outhouse, and many little bare feet passed by, to
school or town. The watoto always greeted us, some mumbling shyly, others curtsying respectfully.
Beyond was a pit where we threw our paper trash followed by watoto, happily searching for anything
salvageable.Everyevening,wewatchedsmallboysreturninghomewithherdsofcattle,sheepandgoats
incloudsofdust.
IworkedinfisheriesandDebinforestry.Thegovernmentbreedingpondsforourtilapiawerelocated
inasouthernvillagecalledMalya.ImademanytripstoandfromMalya,mostlytocollectfingerlingsto
stockotherponds.Weeachhadapikipiki(motorcycle)fortransportation,andIcouldcarryaboutone
hundred fingerlings in a can previously used for cooking oil. On my return, some of our watoto would
greetme.TheywouldappearjustasIroundedthecurveatthebottomofahilloutsidethemainpathto
ourhome.Iwouldhearchantingof“Maisha”andseethewatotowavingtothebeatofthechant.Maisha
wasthenameofthemonkeyIhadadopted,andwhowasverypopular.Thewatotowouldrunbesideme,
stillchanting,closeenoughtotouchme,untiltheyfinallyworeoutnearthetopofthehill.
OneofmyfishfarmerswasamannamedShripolongeofNgudulugulu.Hewastall,softspoken,and
alwaysworecleanyettatteredlong-sleevedshirts,shorts,andatansunhat.Likemostofmyfishfarmers,
hesimplycalledme“Mama.”Thesefarmerswerehighlymotivatedmenandoftenapproachedmetodig
orimproveafishpond.Shripolongehadbuiltapondyearsago,fringedwithbananatreesandsugarcane.
OnedayIstoppedtotalktohim,butcouldn’tfindhimaroundhispond.SoIwalkedacrossthepathtohis
mudhutwiththatchedroof.Tanzaniansdidn’tknock,butyelled,“Hodi,”“Isanyonehome?”Hearingno
response,Ihodiedmywaytotheback.AsIapproachedtheothersideofthehut,Ispottedababysitting
intheshadealongtheoutsidewall.WhenshesawmeInoticedhersurprise,andpreparedmyselftohear
aterrifiedcry.Ispokesoftly,“Oh,pleasedon’tcry.I’mleaving.”Shestudiedmeandthensmiledsoshy
and sweet, I laughed. I sat down and talked in Kiswahili until I remembered she probably only knew
Kisukuma,soItalkedinEnglish.Shesat,calmandpatient,smilingherunderstandingasItoldherabout
myday.
We bonded. Finally, a sibling showed up, a small child herself, and adeptly lifted the baby to a
protrudinghip.Iwavedmygoodbyeandthebabysmiled.Ilaterlearnedthatthebaby,Lugwa,wasthe
youngestofthefamily,lessthanoneyearold.Iwouldseesomeofherfirststepsandhearsomeofher
first words. I brought her homemade dresses at a village duka; cans of juice and beans for her family
whenIcouldfindthem;andtomatoes,potatoesandonionsfromouropen-airmarket.Iprayedthatsome
ofthefoodtrickleddowntoLugwa.Intime,sheraisedupherarmswhenIapproached,andIpickedher
upandsatheronmylap.Iusedtotalktoherandsinghersongs;whenIhuggedhercloseIsmelledthe
earthandsmoke.
IusedtothinkaboutadoptingLugwaandtakingherbackwithmetotheStates,especiallyafterher
motherdiedunexpectedly.Fromnecessity,herfatherremarriedquickly.Butshewaslovedbyherfamily
and the villagers. She had an industrious father who provided fruits and vegetables grown without
chemicals and home-raised fish and rabbits. She had days of sun, warmth, and too blue skies. She
witnessed complete rainbows spanning an endless plain, and dancing to the beat of drums, and singing
withinthevillage.Therewereclearcoolnightslitonlybymillionsofstarsandalargemoon,andsostill
youcouldhearthesilence.
I remember tops of heads outside high glassless windows, some comically bobbing up and down
tryingtogetalookatthemzungu.Theyfollowedmeandwereawedbymypikipiki.TheywatchedasI
turnedthekeyandthemonsterroaredtolife.Theyscreamedandbackedaway,butremainedtransfixed.I
wouldlookattheirlittleshockedfaces,andplayfullypattheseatbehindme,saying,“Twende!” (Let’s
go.)Screams,headsferventlyshakingno,watotobackingaway.
I often heard watoto singing as they walked together in small groups, or in huts or at schools. The
sweetestsongIeverheard,though,wasatavillageaccessedonlybyfootpaths.Iwashelpingawoman
makeaclaystoveinsideherhut.Asweweremixingthesand,clay,andwaterwithourhands,weheard
singingoutside.Iaskedthewoman“Vipi?”(Whatisthat?)andsheresponded“Sijui”(Idon’tknow).I
toldherI’dberightbackandwalkedbehindthehuttowherethreesmallgirlsinraggeddressesstood
lined up all alone beside a footpath. They had short reddish hair, and distended bellies, signs of
malnutrition. Yet, they were singing in beautiful harmony: to no one. It was joy, pure and simple, and
extraordinary for something so ordinary. I listened until the clay on my hands started to dry and itch. I
walkedbackinsidethehutasthegirlssangon.
Ofcourse,therewasadarkside.Therewasdisease,malnutrition,death,andtears.ButIrememberthe
light.Irememberthecountlesswatotowhohadtimetobekindtome—astrangerintheirworldandtime,
whoalwayshadwillinghandstopushmystalledpikipiki,draganetthroughapond,orwalkMaisha.I
livedinaworldstrippedofgreed,envy,jealousyorpower.There’salotofhappinesstobefoundina
worldrichinspirityetpoorinmaterialwealth.
Thewatotoespeciallytaughtmemuch—toliveinthepresent,smileandlaughoften,tobekindand
learnfromthosedifferentfromyourself,andifeverthejoywithinyouoverflows,justsing.
LindaChenSee(Hain)wasaPCVinTanzaniafrom1981-83.Herexperiencebroughthermuchjoy
andshowedhertheconnectionwehavetoeachother.Sheiscurrentlywritingarealisticfictional
bookwithmanymemoriesofthattime.
BeggingTurnedonItsHead
KARENHLYNSKY
Begging,perception,giving,andreality:comingtotermswithourownpreconceptions.
“ABEG,DUYA,FI,FISEN!”
“Ibegyou,please,givemefivecents.”
Wearingblueshortsandwhiteshirtschooluniforms,fourboysfollowedmetowardthemarket.Even
withoutuniforms,theBicpenstheboyscarriedshowedthattheywerepupils.Barefoot,theyworetheir
feet like shoes, their hard, calloused soles spreading beyond the bottoms of their feet from years of
walkingwithoutshoes.
“Fi,fisen,duya,fi,fisen.”
Laughingatthechanceforafewcents,theywereinnocentofthefactthattheirbellieswouldswell
frommalnutritionduringthecomingleanweeks.Theythrustouttheirhandstome,gigglingastheybraved
talkingtoawhitewomanteacher.
Withnootherexcusetotalktome,beggingwasawaytoconnect.
Iturnedtothemasusualandlaughedback,“Yougivemefivecents!”
“What?”theysaid,“Abegduya!”
Extendingmyrighthandtothemandpointingwithmyleft,firsttothemandthentomyselftomakesure
theygotthepronounsright,Irepeated,“YOUgiveMEfivecents!”Enjoyingthejoke,thesillinessofMY
beggingTHEMformoney,theyranoffstillgiggling,kickingthedustup.
Inacountrythatneitherunderstoodnortoleratedsolitude,apersonalonedrewotherslikeavacuum.
ButwhatofthebeggarwhosataloneonintheshadowsofKoidu’spostofficesteps?Whywerethereno
childrenathisfeetgivinghimsilentcompany?
Therewasnoobviousreasonthatheshouldbeabeggar—noleproushandsorfeet,noblindness,no
witheredappendage.YeteverySaturday,hewasreadyforthoseofuswho’djustcomefromthebankwith
moneyforstampsorairmailletters.
Because he had no obvious reason to be begging, I saw him as an intrusion—someone to ignore,
circumvent,shakeoff.ButasItriedtoscurrypasthimundetected,he’dcryoutwithhissandpapervoice,
“Money, ma! Money, ma!”—the “ma” getting coarser and broader each time. “MAAAH,
MONNEEEYYY!”Perhaps,ifhecaughtholdofmyunwillingeye,I’dgivehimatwenty-centpieceto
quiethimuntilnextweek.
I would see the old beggar after traveling from my small town to the district capital—a hub of
commercial activity. In the wet season, the clay roads were eroded and slippery; in the dry season,
corrugated and dusty. Either way, the twelve-mile ride usually took an hour, usually with seven other
people crammed into the backseat of a possibly brakeless Toyota. After one such trip to the city, my
nervesalreadyjoggedrawandmypatiencewornthin,thepoorbeggarappearedandbeganhismantra.In
oneofthosepreciousmomentsoflongoverduehonesty,Ilookedhimsquareintheface,grittedmyteeth
andshoutedathim,“Nottoday,pa!NOTHINGTODAY!Nextweekmaybe!Maybenextweek!”
BeforeIcouldrushbyhim,inhismostpolitevoicehethankedme.Ifinallygotit.Forallthoseweeks
he had not been begging for money at all, but for recognition—recognition of his presence there, his
appeals,hismerehumanity,andthefactperhapsthathisgreatestwrongwassimplythathehadbecome
oldandthathischildren,ifhedidhavechildren,werenotcaringforhiminhisoldage.
Webegantoberespectfulofeachother.WhenIsawhimIgreetedhimkindlywiththe“Pa”thathe
deserved,givinghimmoneywhenIhaditandanapologywhenIdidn’t.He,inturn,alwaysthankedme.
Meanwhile, around the corner, the lepers enjoyed socializing together in front of the supermarket
where expatriates and a few well-off Africans bought imported food to remind them of their ties to
somewhere else: two-ounce cans of tuna from Portugal, lentils from Lebanon, butter and bottled herbs
fromEngland,processedcheesesfromSwitzerlandthatcameinbite-size,individuallywrappedwedges.
Therewerespecialtreatsthatcouldonlybeboughtfromthecoolersinthelargerstoresofthecities—ice
creamsandwichesandCadburychocolatebarsthatmeltedassoonastheylefttheair-conditioningofthe
store.
And there were shrimp chips imported from Japan. In the box, they were quarter-sized translucent
pastel wafers, but drop them into hot oil and they crackled and swelled up into the airy crispness of
cheesecurls.Weboughtthem,notoutoffondnessforcheesecurls,butbecause,intheutterstillnessofthe
evenings in our villages, watching shrimp chips cook was entertainment. We bought them because they
weredecadent.Tobuythemwastoclaimthatwewerenotpartofthepovertyoutsidethestore.
Thelepers,consequently,hadchosenagoodplacetopasstheday.Threeorfourofthemwouldsitina
rowonmatsoutsidethedoorsofthesupermarketasweshopperswithshrimpchipsinourbasketsand
chocolatebarsmeltinginourhandsdroppedcoinsintotheirfingerlesspalms.Theydidn’tpayusmuch
attention. Unlike the beggar on the post office steps they seemed happy, cheerful even, as they talked
quietlyamongstthemselves.Theyhadagoodview,fromwheretheysat,ofpeoplecomingandgoinginto
town,oftheLebanesemarkets,oftheMoslemsprayinginfrontofthemosque.
Isuspectedtheyevenknewwho’dmadeastrikeatthediamondfields,iftheydidn’temployminers
themselves.Oneofthem,itturnedout,ownedmostofthetaxisintown.Itmadesensereally—notthatthat
particularleperownedtaxis—butthatifamandidowntaxisthathecouldn’tdrive,andifhehappenedto
bealeper,whatbetterplacewastheretopassthetime?
KarenHlynsky,whoservedinSierraLeonefrom1974-75,hasbeenaprogramandcurriculum
developerforhighschoolteachersandstudentswithaspecialinterestinteachingyoungpeopleabout
environmentallysustainabledevelopment.
Time
PATRICIAOWEN
Understandingthemusicofthespheresislostinalandofclocks,regainedonlywithpatience,and
easilylostagain.
THEHEATWASDISSIPATINGASIDREWWATERFROMAWELLFORMY EVENING BATH INSAAREKUTAYEL, A VILLAGE IN
Senegal.Sherife,alittleboyabouttenyearsold,stoodnexttome,chattingawayaboutthecowshehad
beenherdingandhelpingmehaulupheavybuckets.
Suddenlyhegrewquiet,softlytouchedmyarm,andsaidwithwonder,“Look.”Hepointedupinthe
westernsky,overtheheadsofasmallknotofvillagerspeeringinthesamedirection.Betweenthethin
layers of parting clouds was the smallest curve of silvery light cradled in the vast darkness. This new
moonsignaledthatRamadan,amonthofholyfastingforMuslims,wouldbegininthemorning.
LivinginAfricaforoverayearbythattime,I’dalreadydevelopedawholenewrespectforthesun,
moon,andcyclesoftime.MorethanonceI’dawokeninthemiddleofthenighttowhatIthoughtwasa
shiningflashlight,onlytogroggilydiscoverthatitwasthefullmoon.Havingmadeitstrekoverthetopof
the big mango tree, it was now blasting into my mosquito net. And I’d long since learned to time my
arrivalsbacktothevillagebeforedarkonmoonlessnights.
Ioncegotalatestartfromafarawayvillage.Irodemybikemilesinblacknessoverabumpytrail,
withpoundingheart,reassuringmyselfthatthesinisterclumpsoftreesaroundmewerefamiliarpatterns
leadingmehome.Justtheweekbeforethat,underafullmoon,everythinghadbeenlituplikeafairyland.
Ihadnoideathatachunkofcoldrockover200,000milesawaycouldmakethatmuchdifference.
IntheAfricanlanguagethatIlearned,Pulaar,theword“lewru”means“moon.”Iwasstunnedoneday
whenanativespeakertoldmethathewasgoingtovisithisrelatives“silewrumayii,”whenthemoon
dies.IhadtogivethislongthoughtbeforeIunderstoodthathemeant“theendofthismonth.”Theword
lewruworksperfectlyforbothbecause,naturallyenough,thephasesofthemoondefinethemonth.When
themoonhaspassedthroughitswaxingandwaning,ofcourse,themonthisover.
In conversing with African friends about future plans, they referred to “lewru tubako,” tubako
meaningwhiteperson.IfIsaidatrainingeventwasgoingtobehappening“nextmonth”forexample,they
wouldclarify,“Lewrutubako?”whichmeans,“themonth(ormoon)ofthewhiteperson.”Thoughmeant
kindly,andforclarification,thequestionwouldinevitablymakemecringe.Itwaslikehavingtoadmit,
“It’strue,wearearrogantenoughtocastasidethewholenaturalorderofthings,theinnaterhythmofthe
universe,andrelyonanartificial,arbitrarysystemforkeepingtrackofthepassageoftime.”
Solartimepresentedasimilardisparity.Therewerenoclocks,andhavingawatchwasmostlyjusta
status symbol. For written communication about time, pictures worked best. Often, I’d sit with people
who just returned from the clinic with their paper bags of medicine, and I’d make little drawings,
indicatingwhentheyshouldtakeeachpill.Ifthedirectionssaidthreetimesaday,I’ddrawapictureof
thesunrising,thesuncenteredhighinthesky,andthesunsetting.
Verbalcommunicationabouttimerequiredadifferentvocabulary.Amongoldpeople,alltimeshinged
onthefivedailyprayertimes.Sincewewereclosetotheequator(latitude14degreesnorth),thesunwas
inaboutthesameplacethroughoutthedayallyeararound.Thismeantthatthecorrespondencebetween
thepositionofthesunandthetimeofdaywasalwaysaboutthesame.Evenifpeopleinmyvillagedidn’t
personally practice the Muslim tradition of daily prayer, this rhythm of the day was clearly ingrained.
OnceIsaidtoAawdy,anolderman,thatI’dbebyhishut“bimmbilaw”(earlymorning)togowithhimto
lookathisfields.Thisresultedinadiscussion,astowhetherthatmeantsubaka(6:30A.M .)exactly,orjust
sometimebeforemid-morning.
Armwavingalsoworkedwelltoconveytimeofday.Myvillagerstaughtmethat,insteadofstruggling
forthewordsorconceptofaparticulartime,Icouldsay“I’llseeyoutomorrowwhenthesunishere”
andthrowmyarmup.
MyneighborMariamalovedlearninganythingnew,soweoftenhaddiscussionsabouttime.During
slowafternoonsshe’dsay,“Let’sdothecalendar.”I’dretrievethelittleboldlycoloredcalendarthatan
AmericanfriendhadgivenmeforaChristmaspresent.Aswesatshouldertoshoulderonawovenmat,
shewouldlookateachpage,clarifythenameofthe“lewrutabako”andcounteachdateinthatmonth,her
fingerrunningoverthenumbersineachrow.
MariamawasfascinatedabouthowWesternerstelltimeandlikedtocomparethetimeonherwatch
with mine. I knew we had made progress in cultural exchange one day when we were discussing a
meetingIhadthenextdayinanothervillage.“I’llbeleavingwhenthesunisabouthere,”Isaid,pointing
overthecornfieldsandtowardtheriver.“Oh,”shesaid,barelylookingatmyearnestlypositionedarm,
“aboutteninthemorning?”
WhenIleftAfrica,IspentafewweeksinFrance,adipintoluxury.OnedayIwassittinginsoftchair
in a big house on Cezanne Avenue in Aix-en-Provence, reading a book and drinking tea. A wave of
anxiety pulsed through me. I put my book down and wracked my brain; I had no deadlines, no
appointments,nothingforgotten.AndthenIrealized.Ididn’tknowwherethesunwas.Or,whatphaseof
themoonwewerein,orwhichconstellationsmarchedacrossthesky.Igotupandlookedoutthewindow
togetmybearingsandrealizedthatthiswasnodoubtthefirstofmanyrecalibrationsmybodyandspirit
wouldbemakingasIreturnedtotheWesternworld.
PatriciaOwendutifullywenttoworkeverydayasanexecutiveforanonprofitorganizationfor
twenty-fiveyearsandthengaveitalluptogotoSenegaltobeasustainableagriculturalextension
agentwiththePeaceCorpsfrom2003-05.Shenowlivesasanartistandpeaceactivist.
LearningtoPlaytheGameofLife
LAWRENCEGROBEL
Manylessonsarelearnedinforeignlands—includingtheoneDorothyGalelearnsinTheWizardof
Oz:Weneedn’taskquestionsofstrangers,fortheanswersliewithin.
WHEN THEPEACECORPS SENT ME A LETTER OF ACCEPTANCE AND TOLD ME MY COUNTRY ASSIGNMENT WASGHANA,I
wasdisappointed.IhadindicatedIwantedtoserveinAfrica,notSouthAmerica.
ThenIrealizedthatGhanawasnotGuyana;disappointmentturnedtojoy.
I knew nothing about Ghana other than the fact that it was sandwiched between Togo and the Ivory
CoastinWestAfricaandnotbetweenSurinameandVenezuela.Butitwas1968:theyeartheVietnamWar
wasinfullrage,theyearMartinLutherKing,Jr.andBobbyKennedywereassassinated,theyearMayor
Richard Daley let loose the Chicago police on anti-war protestors outside the Democratic National
Convention.
ItwasagoodyeartojointhePeaceCorps.
When I got off the plane, along with the thirty other Volunteers that summer—the first group to be
trained in country—I found out just how different Ghana was. I saw men walking around in wool suits
when it must have been 100 degrees. Women balancing huge, carefully stacked trays of produce—
papayas,oranges,plantains—ontheirheadswhiletheycarriedbabiesontheirbacks.Alltheofficialsin
theirvarieduniformswereblack.Whitefacesstuckoutinacrowd,childrenstaredandcalledusobruni.
Mosquitoesdescendeduponusasifwewerepuresugar.Localtradersandprostitutessawusasfresh
meat.
We had come from the land of plenty, and it was expected of us that we’d share what we had with
those who didn’t because they would do the same if positions were reversed. They even had an
appropriate saying, one often seen on the local tro-tro’s: “All Die Be One Die.” They had sayings for
almost anything, painted on walls, on mammy wagons, on the sides of lorries, at eating and drinking
establishments known as chop bars: “Skin Pain,” “Time is Money,” “Book No Lie,” “And So What,”
“Poor No More,” “Why Worry Drinking Bar,” “Loose Your Belt Chop Bar,” “Don’t Mind Your Wife
ChopBar,”“LifeIsaGameStore.”
Wehadarrivedinathird-worldcountryandwereabouttoentertheirgamestorewiththeirrules.We
wereshuffledofftoatrainingcollegeinWinnebatolearnthem.
It was once the Kwame Nkrumah Ideological Institute, where Chinese and Russian envoys came to
instill their ideologies on those who ran the country, until Nkrumah was toppled and the communists
kicked out. Now it was America’s turn, and we were her ambassadors: a group of carefully selected
collegegraduatesabouttobeplacedinsecondaryschoolsandfieldpositionsthroughoutthecountry,to
helpundowhatevermuckwasdonebefore,andtoshowbyexamplewhydemocracyhaditovergroupthink.Atleastthat’swhatWashingtonpresumed.
Infact,wewereabunchofdraft-dodging,dope-smoking,well-intentionedidealistswhopreferredthe
BeatlesandBobDylantoTimothyLearyandEldridgeCleaver.Wewerecomingwithopenmindsand
hearts,lookingforadventureandnewexperiences.Ifwecouldpassonknowledge,thatwouldbegreat;
butmanyofuswereunsurewhatknowledgewehadtopasson,andwerefarmoreawarethat,inthegiveand-take,we’dbetakingmorethangiving.Afterall,wewerethestrangersinthisstrangelandandwe
hadalottolearn.
Wedidn’tgetmuchchancetoexploreWinnebainitiallybecausethetrainingwasvigorous.Therewas
language(Twi)inthemornings,groupinteractionsintheafternoons,andsleepinsmalldormitoryrooms
atnight.ApsychologistobservedourbehaviorandveteranVolunteerstolduswhatwecouldexpect.A
nursepattedourbiteswithcalaminelotionandwarnedustotakeouranti-malarialpills,boilourwater,
andstayawayfromrabiddogs.Ifweevergotbittenwe’dhavetoundergoaseriesofpainfulinjectionsin
ourstomachsunlesswebroughttheanimaltobetested.Ifwewereinsomedistantvillage,we’dhaveto
killthedog,cutoffitshead,andputitoniceuntilwewereabletogettoAccra.
TheannualDeerHuntingFestivalbroughttheentiretownintothestreets.ItrivaledanythingI’veseen
inPamplonaduringtherunningofthebulls,thePaliodiSiena,orMardiGrasinNewOrleans.Wefound
ourselvesdancinginthestreetswithfatGhanaianwomenwholaughedatusandputwhitepowderonour
faces.
BeerwasplentifulandcameinbottlesmuchlargerthantheCoorsandBudswewereusedto.Itwas
strongandcheapand,afterafewrounds,youcouldgetveryfriendlywiththosemoreinterestedinwhat
youhadinyourwalletthaninhandshakesorpatsontheback.IremembersittingwithanotherVolunteer
andatraderwhowastryingtosellhimaRolexwatchforfortycedis,whichwastheequivalentofforty
dollars.TheVolunteerwasn’tinterested,butIwasandgothimdowntofifteenandtwobeers.Whenthe
thing stopped working an hour later, I opened it up and saw an aluminum band holding cheap parts in
place.WewereinthePeaceCorps,butwewereonourown.Thiswasthepriceofadmission.
“HaveyoubeenwarnednottocomeintotownonWednesdaysafterdark?”anEnglishdoctoraskedat
alocalbar.
“Yeah,somethingaboutagiantevilspiritwhoroamsthestreets.”
“It’strue,youknow,”thedoctorsaid.“I’veseenit.”
This spirit, in the form of a seven-foot man, left his beach cove to visit his wife on Wednesdays.
Everyone knew who the wife was, but no one claimed to have seen the spirit-husband. If he saw you
looking at him, you would be frozen in position for the rest of the night. It sounded like a tale to keep
people off the streets one night a week. But this doctor said he had been attending a patient on the
forbiddennightand,whenhewenttohiscaraftermidnighttoreturntoAccra,helockedeyeswiththe
spirit.Hiscarwentdeadandthedoctorsatgluedtohisseat,handsonthewheel,untilthemorning.“Then
thedamncarstartedandIwasonmyway.”Hehadourattention;thoughevenwiththebeer,wehadn’t
beeninGhanalongenoughtotakehimseriously.
Itwasimpossibletogetusedtothebugs,butyoudidlearntoignorethem.Itwashardertoignorethe
childrenwhentheypeepedthroughtheholesinthetinbathhouse,stiflinggigglesasItriedtobathewith
mylargebucketofcoldandsmallcanofboiledwater.Ittookafewattemptstogetthehangofit,wetting
mybodydown,soapingup,thenmixingthewatersandpouringitovermetogetclean.Washingmyhair
wastherealchallenge,thekerosenelampprovidingtheonlylight.
Onspecialoccasions,Ididmybesttobeclean.Aninvitationtodinneratthehomeofthetown’sonly
doctorwassuchanevent.Dr.Ampofowasauniversitytrainedmedicaldoctor,aswellasarenowned
sculptor whose works were exhibited in galleries around the world. He had studied in the U.S. and
EnglandandwasheadoftheTettah-QuarshieHospital.HeparticipatedinaprogramwiththeSmithsonian
Institute where he would send them interesting local flora rich in medicinal value to be studied. The
doctortoldusthatheoftenusedtheservicesofthesurroundingfetishpriestessestohelphimcurepatients
thatdidn’trespondtoWesternmedicine.Henevertoldhispatients,hesaid,becauseoncetheyjourneyed
tothehospital,theywereputtingbehindtheirbeliefsinjujuandancientpractices.
“You should go to Larteh,” he suggested over wine. “That’s the home of Nana Oparibia, the fetish
priestesswhomKwameNkrumahusedtoconsultbeforehemadeanydecisions.She’saverypowerful
woman,andshetrainsmanyothersintheartofhealingandprediction.”AsLartehwasonlyafewtowns
northofMampong,andsinceIhadthedraftstillverymuchonmymind,Ithoughtitmightmakeforan
enlighteningexcursionintowhattrulywastheAfricaofmyimagination.
ThehillsleadingtoLartehweresteep,andmarkersalongthewayhadbecomepartofthelegendofthe
town.Alargeredanthillshapedlikeapregnantwomanwasreallynotananthillatall,amansittingnext
tomeonthelorrytoldme.Itwastheremainsofastubbornpregnantwomanwhowastoldbyafetish
priestessnottowalkintoLartehwithsandalsonherfeet.Shedidn’tlisten.Asoneofthechiefreasons
women came to the shrine at Larteh had to do with conception, this story made perfect sense: the
priestess’s feet were never to touch the ground, thus, out of respect, one must approach the fetish
compoundbarefooted.
The place was not a tourist attraction, but one of business. Women who went into “possession”
throughoutGhanaandfoundthemselvesspeakingintongueswereoftensenttoLartehtobecometrainedin
thefetisharts.Onthewhitewallsleadingtothecompoundwerelargewaspnests,whichweresymbolsof
good luck. The wasps, which lived in pairs, were lean, long, black, and scary. In one corner I saw a
brokentoydollplacedagainstalargeblackcauldron,wherebarrenwomenmadetheirofferings.Offto
thesidewerethebonesandskullsofanimalsthathadbeensacrificed.Insidethecave-likeroomswere
variouscarvedstoolspaintedwhite,symbolizingthedeifiedspiritsofancestors.Intheopensquareofthe
compoundwereadozenwomenallwearingwhitecloths,theirbodiescoveredinwhiteclay,theirhair
plaitedandcoatedwitharedpowder.OppositethemwasNanaOparibia,theheadhoncho,sittingonan
elaborately carved stool, her sandaled feet resting on a white goat skin. Her advisors sat on simpler
stoolsoneachsideofher.Therewasnomistakingthewoman’simposingpresence,andwhenshesaw
me,IknewIhadtolowermyselfbeforeher.
“Get on your knees,” one of the trainees who could speak English whispered to me. “Make your
offering.”
IdidassheinstructedandcrawledbeforethehighpriestesswiththebottleofginIhadbeentoldto
bring.Shetookitfromme,twistedoffthecap,andpouredthreedropsonthegroundbeforepouringsome
intoaclaycupandhandingittome.Iassumedthiswasherwayofinsuringtheginwasn’tpoisoned,andI
swalloweditinonegulp.TheNanasaidsomethingandheradvisorslaughed.Shepouredmoregininto
thecupandhandedittomeagain.Idrankit,therewasmorelaughter,andshediditathirdtime.Thegin
wasstrong,andIdidn’tlikeit.IfsheinsistedIdrinkthedamnbottleIwasgoingtogetsick,soIwaved
myhandstryingtosayitwasenough,butshepushedthecupatmeandIdrank.LaterIfoundoutthatIwas
supposed to drink the first offering in three sips, but as I had done it in one she was only following
traditionbyhavingmedownthreelargegulps.
MyheadswimmingIstartedtoaskherifshecouldansweraquestion,butNanaOparibiadidn’tspeak
Englishandthewomannexttoher,whodid,saidImuststandandgreetthetwelvewomenintraining.I
wentaroundshakinghandswitheachofthem.ThefourthwomanItouchedtookmyhandinbothofhers,
lockedeyeswithmine,andstartedtoshake.Itriedtowithdrawmyhandbutsheheldittightandwords
thatsoundedlike“AntayAntayAntay”cameoutofhermouth.Sheletmegowhenherbodyseemedto
lose control, and she began jumping around like a soul possessed, which she was. The other chalked
womenbeganclappingtheirhandsandsingingasshehoppedaround,herarmswavingasifshewasa
birdinflight.Thenasecondwomangotthespiritandjoinedher,theirheadsbobbingupanddownlike
lizards, their cloths unraveling as they danced. Their exposed breasts showed their ages: one was long
and wrinkled; the other small and firm. They whirled and shouted for fifteen minutes as the others
encouragedthem.Whenthespiritslefttheycollapsedtotheground,werecoveredwiththeircloths,and
leftaloneuntiltheyrecovered.
Ididn’tknowwhatIhaddonetosetthemoff,butitindicatedtoNanaOparibiathatIwastroubledand
throughheradvisorsheaskedmewhyIhadcome.Itriedtoexplainhowmycountrywasfightingabad
warinaforeignplaceandthattheyweretakingyoungmenlikemeagainsttheirwillandforcingthemto
fight.Ididn’twanttohaveanythingtodowiththiswar,Isaid,butIwasn’tsureifIcouldescapeit.That
was why I was in Ghana, and why I was coming to see her. Could she see into my future? Or, if she
couldn’t,couldshespraymewithsomemagicpotiontoprotectme?
Itwasamouthfulforthewomantotranslateandthepriestessansweredwithherownmouthful,which
wastranslatedbacktomethisway:“Youreyesarelight,yourskinispale,youdon’tbelievethewaywe
do,sohowcanyoucometomeforhelp?Ifyoudon’twanttofight,don’t.Andthanksforthegin.”
IhadonlybeenplayingintheLifeisaGameStoreforafewmonths,butIwasgettingthehangofit.In
Ghana, I would learn during the three years I served, part of the game was learning to live your life
understanding boundaries and knowing which lines could be crossed and which must be avoided at all
costs.AllDieBeOneDie,it’strue.Buttherewasplentyoftimetolearnthatone.
LawrenceGrobeltaughtattheGhanaInstituteofJournalismfrom1968-71.Hecreatedanddirected
theMastersinProfessionalWritingProgramforAntiochCollegeWestin1977andcurrentlyteaches
intheEnglishdepartmentatUCLA.HeisacontributingeditorforPlayboyandhaswrittentenbooks.
Herecentlycompletedanovelandamemoir(YouShowMeYours).Thisessayisanexcerptfromthat
memoir.Hiswebsiteiswww.lawrencegrobel.com.
AFirstRealJob
JOYMARBURGER
Memoriesofatimebeforethecivilwar,beforetheconflictsthatnearlydestroyedacountrythatis
nowtryingtorebuild.
I DECIDED TO JOIN THE PEACE CORPS IN 1969, DURING MY MASTER’S PROGRAM AT BOWLING GREEN STATE
University. My decision was based on several factors: disillusion with the Vietnam policy, a need to
exploretheworld,anddissatisfactionwithmyprogram.AquestioninthePeaceCorpsapplicationasked
inwhichcountryIwantedtowork—myresponsewasIndiaorsomewhereinAfrica.Ihadnocluethat
Africawassodiverseingeography,cultures,andnations.
IendedupinSierraLeone,or“Salone”inCreole,whereIwouldbeasecondaryschoolteacher.The
namedatesbackto1462,whenaPortugueseexplorersaileddownthecoastofWestAfrica.Thereseems
somedisputewhetheritwastheshapeorclimaticconditionsthatinfluencedPedrodaCintratocomeup
with “Sierra Lyoa,” meaning Lion Mountains, since the coastal regions looked like “lion’s teeth.”
Sixteenth-centuryEnglishsailorscalleditSierraLeoawhichevolvedintoSierraLeone.TheBritish,who
took over the country from the Portuguese, officially adopted the name in 1787. British philanthropists
founded the “Province of Freedom,” which later became Freetown, a British crown colony and the
principalbaseforthesuppressionoftheslavetrade.ThelocalnameforFreetownbeforetheEuropeans
camewasRomarong,meaningtheplaceofthewailers.Thisnamecamefromthesoundsoftheconstant
weepingandscreamingofvictimsofstormsandcross-currentdisastersatthemouthoftheSierraLeone
River.
AmilitarycoupwasoccurringwhenwelandedatLungiAirportinFreetown.Therewereaboutfifty
ofus,andwewereherdedintothereceivingroombyAK-47-totingsoldiers.Wewereeventuallycleared
to begin our six-week training; living with families to undergo “cultural adjustment” and learning the
Creole language. The training experience was memorable: the very hot food with staple ingredients of
rice,cassava,andpalmoil;thecustomofeatingthefoodwithyourhands;thedifferentattitudeaboutwhat
is“personalproperty”;andthetotalsubmersionininquiry-basedteachingmethods.
Myassignmentwastoteachbiologyandgeneralscienceatagirl’ssecondaryschoolinMoyamba,the
provincial capital of the Southern Province. The school was operated by a Catholic order of nuns, the
SistersofSt.Joseph.Ilivedinamodestcement-blockhouseequippedwithelectricityandrunningwater.
I had three housemates, also teachers at the school; two were also PCVs and another was a Canadian
Volunteer. Since the Canadian and one of the PCVs had been there for a year already, they had hired a
“steward”namedBrimawhotookcareofallthehouseholdtasks.Brimahadagreatsenseofhumor,as
didtheotherthreeVolunteers.
After dinner in the evening, we would tell stories, including Brima. Local neighbors would drop in
unannounced,andthestorieswouldcontinue.Wehadalocal“band”intheneighborhood,whichwould
playtraditionalSalonesongsatleastonceamonthwithhandmadeinstruments.
Teaching science to Sierra Leonean girls ranging from twelve to twenty-one years was a challenge.
TheeducationalsystemwasbasedontheBritish.Insteadofgradelevels7-12,therewereforms1-5.The
wholepointofstudentsgoingontohighschoolafterelementaryschoolwastopasstheOrdinaryLevel
examstogetintoacollegeortechnicalschool.Thesegirlswereaselect,smallminorityofthegeneral
femalepopulation.Theywereattendingschoolthroughgovernmentscholarshipsorfamilysavings.Some
camefromwealthyfamiliesinFreetown.ManycamefromtheruralareasaroundMoyamba;theirfamily
incomeamountedtoabout$360ayear.Theschoolfeeswerearound$30ayear,sothiswasasubstantial
sacrifice.Manydidnotfinishhighschool,eitherbecauseoffamilyresponsibilities,orbecausetheywere
marriedoff.
InMoyamba,Ibecameknownasthe“rescuerofanimalsincaptivity.”Localpeoplewhohadcaptured
wildanimalstomakepetsofthem(oreatthem)wouldbringthemtome.Iwouldpaythemaleoneortwo
(oneortwodollars),andafterobservingtheanimalsforawhile,Iwouldreleasethembacktotheforest,
wherenoonewouldseemedoingthis.Ihad,atonetimeoranother,abushbaby,amongoose,apython,
andanAfricanfalcon.
ThestudentsandIalsohadencounterswithdangerousanimalscomingontotheschoolgrounds:one
dayatsetsefly(thatcausessleepingsickness)cameintotheclassroomthroughanopenwindow,andall
thestudentsranfromtheroom.Onestudentkilledthefly,andIinsistedoninspectingitsoIcouldidentify
atsetsefly.Wealsohadagreenmambacomeintoourlibrary.Thatsnakewasquicklyremovedbythe
groundskeeper.
MymostmemorableexperiencewithpoisonoussnakesoccurredwhenIwaspreparinglessonplansin
our dining room. All the other Volunteers were in town. Brima had finished cleaning up. I happened to
look up from the paperwork just as a snake slithered under the front door, and then went under my
bedroomdoor.Brimakilledthesix-footspittingcobrawithabroom!
I try to keep abreast of what has happened to Sierra Leone since I left in 1972. Civil war conflicts
ravagedthecountryfromthelate1980suntil2002.MuchhaschangedtheresinceIwasaVolunteer;there
are now websites and other electronic information about how the country is rebuilding itself. I often
wonderwhathappenedtomystudents,andwhethertheyandtheirfamiliessurvivedtheconflicts.
JoyMarburger,whoservedinSierraLeonefrom1969–72,istheresearchcoordinatorfortheGreat
LakesResearchandEducationCenter,NationalParkService,IndianaDunesNationalLakeshore,
Indiana.ShereceivedaM.S.degreeinbiologyfromBowlingGreenStateUniversity,Ohio,anda
Ph.D.attheUniversityofMarylandinAgronomy.Sheiscurrentlyamemberofafriendsgroup
workingtoreturnthePeaceCorpstoSierraLeone.
It’sCondomDay!
SERAARCARO
Thecomedyofcrossingculturescropsupwhenleastweexpectit.
YOU JOINEDPEACECORPS TO CHANGE THE WORLD IN SOME SMALL WAY.THIS IDEA, CONCEIVED BY THE IDEALIST IN
America,cametofruitioninNamibia,intheformofteachingEnglish.Youwouldchangetheworld,orthe
livesofmanypeopleanyway,becauselearnerswhowerehighlyproficientinEnglishwouldhaveabetter
chanceofqualifyingfortheuniversity,wouldenablethemtoobtainbetterjobs,andwouldimprovetheir
standardofliving.
Itseemedtomakesenseatthetime.
Ayearandahalflater,yournaïvetéisgone;youhaverealizedthattheworldchanges,regardless.All
youcandoisnudgeafewpeopleintherightdirection,presumingyouknowwhichwaythatis.Giventhe
highrateofHIVinfection(20-30percentofthepopulationhasthevirus),youhavecometotermswiththe
sobering realization that all the English in the world won’t help if your learners die prematurely from
AIDS.
Youwanttonudgethemtowardlife.
Thisiswhyyoufindyourself,oneday,standinginfrontofaclassofthirty-sixtwelfthgraderswhoare
gigglingnervouslybecauseyou,theirbelovedEnglishteacherandnewly-minted“LifeSkillsteacher,”has
justannounced,rathergleefully,that“It’scondomday!”Youtriumphantlyproducetwowoodenpenises
andaboxfulofcondoms.“Now,Iknowthat,ofcourse,noneofyouarehavingsexnow”—abriefspasm
of confusion: they look guilty. Does she really think we’re not having sex?—“but you probably will
sometimeinthefuture.Now,howmanyofyouplantohavefourteenchildren?”Thegirlsallshaketheir
headsadamantly,cluckingattheveryidea;severalboysraisetheirhands—obviouslyimaginingallthe
fun they could have producing fourteen offspring. You continue, “How many of you plan on dying from
AIDS?” They are duly sobered; no one raises a hand. “O.K. then. That’s why you must use a condom
everytimeyouhavesex.”
Youstartwithagame.Thelearnersformfourgroupsandeachisgivenninesheetsofpaper,eachwith
oneofthestepstousingacondomcorrectly.Theirtaskistoputtheminorder.Thefirstgrouptofinish
willwinsweets.
You’veneverseenlearnerssoengaged,bentoverthepapers,“Thisoneissecondtolast…”“No,you
must check the expiration date first…” “Which one comes next?” A group says they’re finished. You
checktheorder.Youfinditabitdisconcertingtoseethatthey’veput“tiethecondom”before“havesex
andejaculate.”Afterafewmorefalsevictories,onegroupfinallymanagestoputthestepsinthecorrect
order.Knowingthatthekidswilllistenmoretoeachotherthantoyou,youhaveoneofthemorearticulate
learnersexplainthesteps.
Itturnsoutthatthecondomshouldbetiedafterhavingsexandremovingthecondom.Gofigure.
Next, you ask for a volunteer to demonstrate how to put on and remove a condom, using one of the
woodenpenises.Sakeusjumpsup.Hemayhavefailedfouroutofhissixsubjectslastterm,butthisishis
area of expertise; he will teach and the others will learn. Without any self-consciousness, he selects a
green-coloredcondomandproceedstoaccuratelydemonstratehowtheprophylacticshouldbeused.The
classisattentive,onlychidinghimwhenhecomestothe“havesex”part.
“How?Tellushow!”Theyfeignignorance.
Youfeigninterestinsomethingoutsidethewindowsotheywon’tseeyoulaughingandyouwon’tsee
whatevergesturesSakeusmightbemakingwiththewoodenpenis.
After Sakeus’ condom demonstration, it’s time for a femidom (female condom) demonstration. You
holdupanempty,two-literplasticFantabottleandannounce,justforthefunofit,“Thisismyvagina.”
(English class and Fanta will never be quite the same for anyone again.) Luckily for you, Kristina
volunteerstodemonstratehowtousethefemidomontheFantacontainer.
Theclassoohsandahsoverthefemidom’slargersizeanditstworings,andisespeciallyenthralled
bythefthoinksoundwhenthefemidomisremovedfromthebottle.
You encourage them to ask questions, answering them with only minor tinges of embarrassment.
Finally,thelearnersasktheultimatequestion,“Canwehavecondoms?”Ofcourse.Althoughyoudon’t
wanttoadmittoyourselfthattheyarereallyhavingsex,thefaçadeisshatteredwhenthelearnersmaulthe
box of free condoms and ask if you have any Cool Ryder or Sense brand condoms, because they “like
thoseonesbetter.”
Later, Ndapewa is upset with you. “Miss! What are you doing with those condoms? You are
encouragingpeopletohavesex!Theyshouldabstainuntiltheyaremarried!”
“Yes,Iknow,”yousay,pausingtothinkofwheretobegin.Thisisalwaysthedebate.“Buttheyare
havingsexanyway.Iamjustencouragingthemtodoitsafely.”Itisnousecitingresearchthatthereisno
correlation between condom distribution and increased sexual activity, but that there is a correlation
betweencondomuseanddecreasedSTDs.Instead,youdemonstraterealityonanearbylearner.“Gabriel,
don’thavesex.Waituntilyou’remarried.”
“Yes,miss,”hesays,whilereachingformorecondoms.
“See?Icanencourageabstinence,buthewilldowhathewants.He’sgoingtohavesex,soit’sbetter
thatheprotectshimself.”Ndapewasighsinresignation.Youfeelthesameway.Yougettodothiswith
eightmoreclasses.
Mostoftheclassesproceedaboutthesameasthefirst,exceptonetimetheEnglishteachernextdoor,
Mr. Nuushona, enters the class to make an announcement. He is oblivious to the situation and doesn’t
seemtonoticeanythingunusual,suchasyourdeskbeingcoveredincondoms.Alearner,insometwistof
cruelty, invites him to “stay and hear the lesson, because it’s very interesting.” Mr. Nuushona is a
compliantguy,sohesays,“Yeah,sure.”
You find yourself suddenly embarrassed. You, who had been brazenly swinging wooden penises
aroundwhilediscussingtheprosandconsoffemidomsandcondoms,havebeenbroughttoacomplete
standstill. Then, slowly, you begin to laugh, because it’s the only way to unfreeze, and the class also
beginstolaugh,buteverybodyistryingtohideit.Finally,Mr.Nuushonagetshisbearingsandrealizes
thatsomethingisamiss.Heglancesatyourcondom-covereddesk,atthefemidompacketinyourhand,at
theFanta-vagina,andsuddenlyitallclicks.Hedoesnotwanttobehere!Thisisnotthesafeconfinesof
anEnglishclass!IthasmorphedintoaperilousLifeSkillsclass.Hewastricked!Hedartsoutthedoor
beforeyoucangiveanyexplanation.
Butyoumuststay,andsomehowyoucontinue.
SeraArcaroservedinNamibiafrom2002–04andcurrentlyteachesEnglishtohighschoolstudentsin
Raleigh,NorthCarolina.ShestillkeepsintouchwithherNamibianstudentsthroughFacebook;many
havesuccessfullycompletedcollegeandsomehavegoneontostudyinplacessuchasRussia,Sweden,
andGermany.
TheCivilizedWay
BRYANTWIENEKE
Newideas,eveninteaching,neverworkquiteasexpected.
ONE OF THE BIGGEST PROBLEMSI FACED IN TEACHING A PRACTICAL SKILLS COURSE ATKOLOAGRICULTURALSCHOOL
inNigerwasfindingopportunitiesforthestudentstoperformactivitiesthemselvesratherthanwatching
theirinstructor.Therewasnoproblemwiththeplowing;theschoolownedplentyoffarmlandtosacrifice
to student inexperience. Nor was there any problem with teaching them how to de-parasite the animals
because the school owned twenty oxen and one bull, and some degree of inexactitude in that process
wouldprobablynotkillanyofthem.
Itwasdifferentwiththecastrations.Itwasrarethatalocalvillagerbroughtinabullattherighttime
for me to demonstrate the process step-by-step with the students gathered around to listen and learn. It
wasevenrarerthatwewouldhavemorethanonebullsoIcouldcastrateoneandhavethestudentsdothe
second.
ThisdifficultyiswhatcausedmetoacceptanofferfromBoureima,theschoolherder.Hehadgrown
accustomed to me, and I had boundless respect for his ability with the herd. When he told me that the
peopleinhisvillagehadbullstheyneededcastratedandhewantedmetodoit,Ijumpedatthechance.It
wouldgivemystudentsanopportunitytohavefirsthandexperienceinusingthepinceburdizzo,thehuge
pinchersthatPeaceCorpshadprovidedtoachievethedesiredresultwithoutpiercingtheskin,thereby
greatlyreducingtheriskofinfection.IwasalsopleasedbyBoureima’sofferbecausethismayhavebeen
thefirsttimethattheFulaniherdersinhisvillagewouldallowtheirbullstobecastratedusinganything
butthetraditionalmethod,whichconsistedofpoundingthescrotalsactosmithereenswithsticks.
Theideaoftakingmy7 A.M .classtoBoureima’svillageseemedagoodone.Bythetimethetwelve
students arrived at the corral that Thursday morning, Boureima had already let the school herd out to
pasture,andIhadpreparedthenecessaryequipment.Weleftimmediately:theclasswasscheduledtolast
onlytwohours,andthestudentshadanotherrightafter.SinceBoureimahadtoldmehisvillagewasonly
a short distance down the road, I figured that it would take fifteen or twenty minutes to get there. We
wouldthenhavemorethananhourtoperformtheproceduresbeforeheadingback.Twohoursseemed
plentyoftime.
Boureima led us. Although he was an older man, slightly stooped with leathery skin and wizened
features,hewalkedfasterthananyotherhumanbeingIhaveknown.Muchfaster.Inhisloose-fittingrobe
andsandals,hemoveddownthedirtroadasifonskates.WhileIhadknownBoureimaandworkedwith
himonadailybasisforsixmonths,Ihadneverseenhimontheopenroad.
ThestudentsandIstruggledtokeepup.IremindedmyselfthatBoureimawalkedtoworkeveryday
andhadtoldmethathelivednearby,soitcouldn’tbethatmuchfurther.Buthejustkeptwalking.Several
studentsbegantofallbehindand,whileIyelledatthemtokeepup,Iunderstoodwhytheywerefalling
behind.Thismanwasamachine!
Wewalkedforforty-fiveminuteswithoutslowingandweremilesawayfromKoloAgSchool.Itwas
7:50 A.M .whenBoureimaaskedthestudentsandmetowaitunderatreewhilehewentoverandspoke
withthevillageelders.
Isighed.Therewasnothingtodobutwaitunderthetree.Boureimawalkedthehundredyardstohis
village,whichwasagroupingoftenortwelvelow-lyingnomadictentswithcattlemillingabout.Cattle
areanessentialelementoflifefortheFulani,andmanagingthemeffectivelyisoneoftheirgreatskills.
AswiththeTuareg,theFulanihadbeenaccustomedforyearstolivinginthedesert,neverstoppingfor
anylengthoftime,avoidingcitiesandtowns.Buttimeshadchangedwiththedrought,andtheyhadsettled
here,twenty-fivemilesfromNiamey,formonths,perhapsyears,waitingfortherainstoresumeandtheir
nomadiclifetobecomepossibleagain.
Itriedtoappreciatethisuniqueglimpseintoamysteriousandfascinatingculture.Fromunderthetree,
we could see children playing with the oxen, skinny four-year-old kids jumping up onto 800-pound
animals.Theparentsstoodby,laughingenjoyingthegame,evidentlyimpervioustoanydanger.WhenI
wasabletoovercomemyfearforthechildren’ssafety,Icouldnothelplaughingaswell.
Atthesametime,Icouldnothelpfeelingimpatient.Itwasalready8:15 A.M .,andBoureimahadstill
notfinishedtalkingtothevillageelders.
Finally,hewalkedbacktowherewewerewaitingandinvitedustojoinhim.HeexplainedinrapidpacedZarma,thatoneofthestudentsinterpreted,thatitwasnecessaryforustotalkwiththeeldersand
allow them to get to know us before we discussed business. This was customary. Through the student
interpreter, I reminded Boureima that we did not have much time. He nodded, but I knew that getting
Boureimatofollowaschedulewasaboutaslikelyasgettingthosebullstocastratethemselves.
IttooktenminutesofconversationwiththeeldersinbrokenZarmabeforeBoureimabroughtupthe
idea,asifhehadjustthoughtofit,ofourusingtheWestern-styleequipmentwehadbroughttocastrate
bulls from their herd. Everyone nodded and agreed that this was a good idea. The men dispersed and
begantoshoothechildrenaway.Boureimahelpedhisfellowvillagers;Ihadneverseenabulltakento
thegroundsoeffortlesslyandquickly.Whenhewasdown,nomatterhowmuchtheFulaniprotestedthatI
wasnottoparticipate,Iinsisteduponbeingtheonewhotiedthebull’slegstogether.Afterall,Iwouldbe
theonekneelingbehindhim,andIwantedtobesurethattheropewassecureandtight.
Icastratedthefirstbullmyself,explainingeachsteptothestudentsasIperformedit.Theypaidvery
closeattentionandhelpedbyholdingtheropestaut.Whenwehadfinishedandthebullwasreleased,the
studentsseemedquiteimpressed.SodidtheFulani,whoseemedsuddenlytorealizethataprocedure—
which had always taken them an hour, caused great pain to the bull, and created the risk of serious
infection—had just been done in ten minutes with very little pain to the bull and virtually no risk of
infection.Theyapplaudedandbeganlookingforanotheranimaltocastrate.
Theybroughtforwardasecondbull.WhileIwatchedandassisted,Iletthestudentsdoeverythingthis
time,includingtheclosingofthepinceburdizzo.Theydidaverygoodjob.
The Fulani were so excited by the expediency of this procedure that they began to round up every
youngbullintheherd.Soon,theyhadalineoftwentybullswaitingtheirturn.Afewofthemweretoo
young,butforthemostpart,itwouldhavebeenbothimpoliteandinhumanenottohavedonethem.Ifwe
hadnotcastratedthosebullswiththepinceburdizzothatday,theyalmostcertainlywouldhavefacedthe
“stickmethod.”Nineo’clock,thenteno’clockpassedwhilewewerecastratingonebullafteranother;I
refusedtoleavebeforewewerefinished.
By the time we had castrated all the bulls of age, every member of the class had handled the pince
burdizzo for at least one bull, and most of them had done two. It was an extraordinary day. When we
finished,thevillageeldersbroughtoutagourdofmilkandofferedittousasatokenofappreciation.It
was,ofcourse,unpasteurizedmilkinalandwheretuberculosiswasfartoocommon,butitwouldhave
beenaninsultnottoaccept.Theyofferedthegourdtomefirstastheleaderofourgroup.Itookitand
drank,thenpasseditontomystudents.
Wegotbackat12:30.Thestudentshadmissedtheir9:00,10:00,and11:00classesandpartoflunch.
Whenwearrived,IwasinformedthattheDirectorwantedtoseeBoureimaandme.
MonsieurleDirecteurwasnotanagronomist.Heknewlittleabouttheagriculturaltechniquesbeing
taughtatKolooraboutthefieldworkIwasteaching.Hewalkedaroundtheschooldressedinaleisure
suit,expensiveleathersandals,andamulti-coloredascot.Healsocarriedacane.WePCVscalledhim
“F.ScottDirector.”
ItwasobviousthathewasfuriousasBoureimaandIenteredhisoffice.Hisfacewascontorted,and
hecouldnotkeephisseat.Ihadseenhimangrybefore;heseemedtoconsideritoneofhisdutiestoyell
attheschool’sAfricanemployeesregularly,butIdonotthinkIhadseenhimthisangry.
Heknewwherewehadbeen,butheaimedhisabuseatBoureima,notme.
“Howcouldyoukeepthestudentsoutthislong?”hescreamedinFrench.“Howcouldyoutakethem
sofaraway?Youmadethemmisstheirotherclasses.Whydidn’tyoutelluswhatyouwereplanningto
do?”
Boureimasatstillwithhisheadbowedandsaidnothing.Therewasnothingforhimtosay.Ithadbeen
mydecision.
“Monsieur,”Iinterrupted.“I’mtheonewhotookthestudentstoBoureima’svillage.It’smyclass,not
his.Itisn’tBoureima’sfaultwewerelate.”
Herefusedtolisten.“Youarenew,heisnot,”hesaid,lookingatBoureima.“Heshouldhaveknown
better.”
He continued to yell at the herder, then told us both to get back to work. When we were outside, I
apologizedtoBoureimaforgettinghimintrouble,butheonlysmiled.Hedidnottakeitpersonallyand
seemedlessdisturbedthanIwasattheDirector’soutburst.
“Iwillseeyoutomorrow,”hesaidwithaglintinhiseye.“Maybewewillstayatthecorral.”
BryantWieneke,avolunteerinNigerfrom1974-76,hasproducedaseriesofpeace-orientedsuspense
novelsavailablethroughwww.peacerosepublishing.com,thewebsiteforhisownpublishingcompany.
HeworksatUCSantaBarbaraandlivesinGoleta,California.
WhoControlstheDoo-Doo?
JAYDAVIDSON
Confidenceaboutone’sbodycanbeseverelytriedwheresanitationisnotquiteallthatmightbe
expected!
DURING OUR PRE-SERVICE TRAINING (PST), AFTER SEVERAL WEEKS OF STAYING WITH OUR HOST FAMILIES, WE
gatheredforafewdaysatthetown’sbroken-downexcuseforalycée,whereourdaytimeswerefilled
with the routine of medical, cross-cultural, and technical sessions. The highlight was when everyone
assembledforaTownMeeting,alsoknownasthe“no-talentshow.”
BytheendofPST,theofferingsattheTownMeetingsweregettingincreasinglyvulgar,withmoreand
moreskits,songs,andpoemsdevotedtodiarrheaandotherillnesses.Myfavoriteentryinthatvein—and
theonlyoneIcanremember,nowthatIamwritingthisalmostfiveyearsafterthefact—wastheonein
which a fellow trainee shouted out the question, “Who controls the doo-doo?” He taught us to reply in
unison,“Youdo!Youdo!”
Ifonlyitwerethateasytoexercisemindover(fecal)matter!
Oneofourlanguagefacilitatorsgotmarriedtwelvedaysbeforeourswearing-in,anexcellentwayfor
ustowitnessanon-Americanweddingreception:weneversawthebrideoraceremonyofanytype.All
wedidwassitaroundinastifling,enclosedcourtyard.Then,justintimetostaveoffourhunger,wewere
servedsomeofthegoatandricethatconstitutedthecelebratoryrepast.
I was careful to go for the rice and vegetables, avoiding the bits of goat. One fellow trainee had
pointedly observed the eating habits of the town’s free-range goats, exclaiming, “No wonder we’re all
gettingsick!We’reeatingthegoats,andthegoatsareeatinggarbage!”
In any event, on the night of the wedding reception, just after going to bed, I experienced gastric
distress. I had been invited to sleep on the roof of the home of Stacy, a first-year PCV who lived just
across the street from my host family. Sleeping on the roof meant taking advantage of any available
breeze, making it just a little more bearable in the hot-as-Hades town of Kaédi, where nighttime
temperatureswerealwayshigherthan90degreesFahrenheit.
IhadaskedourtrainingdirectorifIcouldsleepthere,citingthefactthatmyhostfamilynotonlydidn’t
haveanaccessibleroof,buthadatelevisionblaringintheircourtyarduntiltheweehoursofthemorning.
Halftheneighborhoodassembledtowatchit—andme,thetoubabwiththestrangehabits.
Atabout4:30inthemorningIawokewithmyurgentneedandheadeddownstairstothebathroom.I
triedtopsychmyselfintobelievingthatIwasincharge,mumblingtomyself,Whocontrolsthedoo-doo?
Youdo!Youdo!
Well,Iwastryingtocontrolit!
Igotdownstairs,reachedthefrontdoorofthehouseandgaveitayank,onlytofindthatithadbeen
padlocked.Itwastoodarkformetobeabletoreadthecombination,therebyreleasingthedoor,allowing
me to enter the house. I was not able to control the doo-doo. The liquid poured forth, into my running
shorts,downthebackofmylegs,andalloverthestepinfrontofthedoor.
Ihadvisitedthehouseafewtimesbefore,andIknewthatStacygotherwaterfordoinglaundryfrom
anoutsidespigot.ButIdidnotknowwherethatfreakingspigotwas.Atvariouspointsduringthenextfew
hours,whenIwasfeelingwellenoughtotrytofindit,IgropedaroundinthedarktoseeifIcouldfindthe
watersupply,butIneverdidfindit.AllIcoulddowaswaitthereintheyard,squattingagainstatree,
untilsomebodysleepingontheroofawoke,descendedintothefrontyard,andcouldtellmethelocation
ofthewatersothatIcouldcleanup.
Bysunrise,thelittlecrittersthatwerecausingthehavocinmybodywerefullyincontrol.Iwasweak,
queasy,anddepressed.Oneofthefirst-yearVolunteersaskedifheshouldarrangeforaPeaceCorpscar
tocomeandtakemetotheinfirmaryonthecampuswhereweweretraining.
Wow! They can do that? was my answer. Yes, they could, and yes, they did! The nurse gave me
medication,Ihadtodrinkaliterofwaterwithdisgustingoralrehydrationsalts,andIstayedalldayand
that night in the infirmary. I napped much of the day and slept nine and a half hours that night—all in
gloriousair-conditionedcomfort!
There was a tremendous storm that night, necessitating that everyone move from their usual outdoor
sleeping places to the hot indoors. The following day, just about everyone was talking about the awful
night that they had. But I had finally had a good night sleep, which totally transformed my attitude.
WhereasthedaybeforeIwasfeelingthatIwouldnotbeabletosurviveuntilswearingin,nowIwas
thinking,Onlytenmoredays?Isthatall?Bring’emon!
JayDavidsonwasateacherforthirty-fouryearsinSanFrancisco.Whenheretiredin2003,hejoined
thePeaceCorpsandservedasaCurriculumDevelopmentSpecialistintheIslamicRepublicof
Mauritania,WestAfrica,from2003-05.Hecanbereachedviahiswebsite,www.jaydavidson.com.
TheRideHome
BINADUGAN
AlmostanyonewhohastraveledthewayAfricansdowillrecognizeatleastapartofthisexperience.
THE INSIDE OF THE GREEN-AND-WHITE B&C BUS FEELS HOT AND HUMID, AND HAS SINCE WE LEFT MAGUNJE AND
began traveling on the dusty, red clay and gravel road. I angrily wonder if the sun, recognizing our
displeasure with the roads, has given us a more unbearable problem on which to refocus our
exasperation.Thesuffocatingconditionsintensifywiththegrowingnumberofpeopleandbagscrammed
intoeverycreviceofthebus;eventheaislesfill,makingpassagedifficult.Humansardines,weslowly
soakinourownbrineofperspiration.
Sittingontherightside—thesunnyside,thethree-seaterside—Ifeelsweatformingintolargebeads
onmyface,neckandchest,androllinglazily,followingthecontoursofmyskin.OccasionallyImistake
themovementforthatofaflyandbrushitaway.
Whentheroadoffersfewpotholes(arareoccurrence),thebusincreasesspeed,creatingabreezeand
briefrespitefromtheheat.Anaddedbonusisthefleetingdisappearanceofthesmell—asharplypungent
mix of sweat brought on by heat and hard work, Chibuku, tobacco, wood-smoke, greasy hair-cream,
roastedmealie-cobs,babies,andrecentlywashedclothesneverpurgedoftheseodors.
“Hasina matickets,” barks the conductor, searching for passengers who, somehow, have boarded
unnoticed and haven’t yet bought tickets. How he thinks this could happen mystifies me, as no one
(including me) travels without at least two large bags, one full of clothes and another of food. Some
adventurous people add children, a radio, and household goods like buckets, washing basins, pots and
pans. Women especially carry a large burden, with a baby tightly wrapped onto her back, a toddler or
youngchildpassedoverbagsobstructingtheaisle,andabagofungroundmealiesinaplasticwovenbag
tiedclosedwithtwinebalancedexpertlyonherhead.Alightingfromthebus,additionalluggagemaybe
loweredtoherfromthetopcarriage,carefullybutquickly,byamuscledloader.Withincredibleagility,
he climbs on top with the bus still moving, using the railing, the door hinges, and the door itself as
leverage.
“Zvipane, Zvipane. Uyai, uyai,” the conductor calls, announcing the next stop and encouraging all
peopledepartingheretoinformhimofanygoodstheyneedremovedfromthetopcarriage,sotheloader
canretrievethemquickly.
Agrowthpoint,Zvipanehasbeenidentifiedbythegovernmentascentrallylocatedanddeservingof
development,andthisstatusmeansthetownhasarestaurant.Theexistenceofarestaurantmeansthatwe
willstopherefortwentyminutesforthecrewtoeatlunch—alargeplateofsadza(thepolenta-likestaple
food)withafewpiecesofgrizzledgoatmeatandanoilyspoonfulofgreenvegetables—sonopassengers
heedtheconductor’ssuggestiontodepartquickly.Whilethecrewrelaxesintherestaurant,thepassengers
eat at the bottle store—dry loaves of bread, crisps (potato chips), cold minerals (soft drinks)—or buy
outside from the female vendors—guavas, mangoes, wet-but-not-frozen freezits (popsicles), and sweet
reeds (a thin cousin of sugar cane). Scrawny dogs with pronounced ribs slink through the groups of
people,headsandtailshelddown,waryofthekicksofcruelmen.
Some,exhaustedbytherideandtheswelteringheat,returntothebus,hopingtoenjoyanemptyseat
forafewminutes.TeethornailsinthecornersofwindowsconvenientlyopenCokes,theslowbendingof
thealuminumcapproducingahissingthatsignalstheupcomingquenchingofparchedthroats.
Thedriverannouncesourdeparturebynoisilyturningovertheengineandgivingafewshortblastsof
the horn while the loader urgently yells “Handei” and bangs his fist on the hot metal door. Soon after
departure, the conductor announces the first stop: “Chiroti Pa Chikoro,” (the stop at Chiroti Secondary
School).Nooneresponds,sowecontinue.
Beginning our descent to the Sanyati River, a collective anticipation builds and all conversation
ceases.Thesteeproadcontainsdeepgulliescreatedbyquick-flowingrainwatermakingthedescentslow
and treacherous. The absence of homesteads and fields—and the abundance of the lush, green “bush”
taking over the road—underscores our anxiety: Why does no one live here? What dangers lurk? What
wildanimalsroam?
Whenwefinallyreachthebridge,allheadsfaceout,peeringthroughthegrimywindowsattheriver.
Everyonewantstoinspectthewaterlevel;neighborsspeakfreelyabouttheeffecttherainandriverhave
on their own homesteads. The river, now full and rushing quickly west toward Lake Kariba (sixty
kilometers away), resembles iced coffee—the result of heavy rainfall stealing the rich topsoil of
unfortunatefarmersupstream.
The river signals my arrival at home. After nearly eight hours on this “chicken bus” (aptly named
becauseofthecrowdingandoccasionalpresenceofchickens),onlythirtykilometersoftheworstroads
remain, so bumpy that not holding your tongue behind clenched teeth will likely result in biting it off.
Black-and-blue striped tsetse fly traps come into view and Peter Store, where the tsetse fly-control
barricadeissituated,loomsahead.
Betrayingtheimportanceofhisjob,theAnimalControlOfficerapproachesthebus—large,blacknet
ready to capture unwanted flies—with his blue overalls uniform tied by the arms around his waist
revealingahair-speckledchestandabellystretchedtothelimitbybeer.Beforecheckingfortsetseflies,
he buys two loaves of freshly baked bread from the driver (our only daily source of bread and the
ZimbabweSun).Afterslowlyinspectingtheexteriorofthebus,hehalf-heartedlyliftsthebarricadeand,
withasalute,sendsthebusonitsway.
Traveling up the hill with the horn blasting continuously, we pass schoolchildren trudging home.
Munoda’s store and the DDF (District Development Fund) radio antennae appear. “Musampakaruma,
Musampa,”callstheloaderasheagainclimbstotheroof.I’mhome.
BinaDugan,EnglishTeacher/LibraryDeveloper,Zimbabwe1995-97,continuestoteachEnglishand
improvethecommunicationskillsofnon-nativespeakersinherroleasafreelanceESL
tutor/coach/editor,andasanAdjunctProfessorintheAmericanLanguageProgram(Speech)
DepartmentatBergenCommunityCollegeinNewJersey.Shenolongertakesthebus,saveforthe
occasionalfifteen-minute(air-conditioned)tripintoManhattan.
TheLittleThings
STEPHANIEGOTTLIEB
Bringingoneselfintoaforeignplacesometimesbringstheforeignplacecloser.
THE SUN PEEKS THROUGH MY STRAW HANGAR. THE THWACK OF AN AXE FROM ACROSS MY COURTYARD AND THE
neighingofdonkeyssignalanotherdayhasbegun.InBurkinaFaso,thelastthingIneedisanalarmclock.
Asifsettoatimer—eventhoughusuallyNOTHINGrunsontime—myvillagecomestolifeasthesun
peeksoverthehorizon.Thepeople—andanimals—starttheirdaywhetherIamreadyforthemtoornot.
Thereisnosnoozebutton.
Ijumpoutofbed,thankfulforthemorningcoolnessflowingoverme,knowingthat,inthreehours,the
sun will beat down and I will have to take refuge from its rays. The mornings have always been my
favorite,notonlyforthegraciousbreezeandcoolair,butforthesoundsandsightsofmyvillagecoming
tolife.
Mymorningsareallthesame.Ilaceupmyshoes,takeagulpofwater,andsetoff.Ipassseveralof
my neighbors, all of whom have been up for hours already, preparing breakfast and lunch, washing the
children,cleaningthehouse,andpreparingtosetofftothefields—itistherainyseason,andeveryone
has a field to tend to. As I run, I wave hello and pass my morning greetings to my neighbors—“Aw ni
Sogoma,”IshoutasIjogby—“Goodmorning”inmyvillage’slocallanguageofJoula.Werushthrough
thegreetingritual.
Atthispointtheoddlookshavesubsided,andmostpeoplejustknowmeasthecrazyAmericangirl
that“faireslesport.”Runningisneverdoneunlessoneistryingtogetawayfromsomething,orinplaying
soccer...andmostcertainlynotdonethatoftenbyagirl.
Icontinueonmypaththroughthemangogrovesteemingwithripefruit.Theirscentfillstheair,andI
havetoresistrippingoneoffatreeandeatingitrightthere.
Idon’tknowifIwilleverbeabletobuyfruitsfromasupermarketagain.
I wave to the villagers and children who are already in the grove, picking mangos for sale in the
market. I pass as the children make their way to school in the morning, carrying their little rice-sack
backpacks as they bound along. I dodge the various cattle, goats, and pigs along my route. Passing the
river, I can see the dark outlines of the hippos as they float lazily amongst the marsh grasses, and I
continueonintothericefields.Theviewisspectacular,andafarcryfromninemonthsagowhenIwas
staring at the New York skyline from my office window. Oh, how much my life has changed in such a
shorttime.
Asamazingasallofthisis,itistheendofmyrunthatIlookforwardtothemost.AsIcrestthehillout
ofthemangogrove,thefamiliarcrypiercestheair.ThereisBrahim,mytwo-year-oldneighbor.
“Madame! Madame!” he cries as he sees me come over the hill. He darts toward me from his
courtyard,hislittlelegscarryinghimasfastashecango.Hiseyesarelitup,andthereisasmileonhis
facethatcouldlighttheworld.Normallyweshakehands,highfive,andIpathimonthehead...buttoday
isdifferent.AsherunsupIputmyhandsoutanduphejumpsgivingmethebiggestbearhugthathecan
muster.Hehasbeensoshyuptothispoint,andhisaffectionsurprisesme.Mostchildren—havingnever
seenawhiteperson—howlatthesightofa“fantasme”(ghost),butnotBrahim.
“Bonjour,”hesays,theonlywordofFrenchheknows.HepropsonmyhipandIjoghimbacktohis
mother.Hepopsdowntotheground,givesmeahugandthenrunsbacktohishouse.
I wave goodbye and finish up my run, just a little more energized than the moment before.
Happy...content...hishugisoneofthehighlightsofmyday...andsomethingtolookforwardtoeverytimeI
crestthathilltomakemywayhome.
StephanieGottlieb,whospenttwoyearsinBurkinaFaso(2006-08),currentlyworksasthe
CommunicationsDirectorforanon-profitthatservestheAfricanImmigrantcommunity,African
ServicesCommittee.
ThereWillBeMud
BRUCEKAHN
GettingfromoneplacetoanotherhasalwaysprovenoneofthecentersofthePeaceCorpsexperience.
LOOKINGBACKFORTYYEARS,IFINDTHEMOSTVIVIDMEMORIESOFOURPEACECORPSSERVICEINMALAWITOBETHE
timesPamandIspenttraveling.HitchingridesfromourtowninthemiddleofthecountrytoBlantyre,
nearlysixtykilometersaway;takingthedaybustovisitotherVolunteers;andsittinginthecrowdednight
compostbusthatcarriedtheovernightmail(“cumpost”),wedgedinamongstthechickensandavariety
of small and pungent livestock. And yes, the few times that we hitchhiked—me with a broken arm and
Pamsevenoreightmonths’pregnant—tovisitthePeaceCorpsdoctor.
The ride from Ntcheu to Blanytre was dicey, kilometer after kilometer of bumpy dirt road (or wet
road,dependingontheseason).MixinoneVolunteerwithabrokenarmandanotherwithinameremonth
ortwoofgivingbirth—yougettheidea.SuchwerethejoysandtravailsofgettingaroundinMalawi.
Beingyoungandoptimistickeptusgoing.Eagertofindrespitefromourfirsttermofsecondaryschool
teaching, we decided to venture out to two neighboring countries for a little rest and recreation. We’d
meetupwithanotheryoungmarriedcoupleinBlantyreandsetoutonourfirsttrainride.Ourplanswere
ambitious.WeweregoingtoridethetrainintoMozambique(stillaPortuguesecolony),spendafewdays
at the seaside resort of Estoril, aka Rhodesia-by-the-Sea. From there we’d hitchhike to Salisbury,
Rhodesia (soon to be off-limits to Americans), and take the train back to Blantyre—all before school
resumedinJanuary.
Forty years ago, Blantyre was a bustling, cosmopolitan city serving as the de facto capital of the
country. Nearby Zomba was the official capital then, but Blantyre was the hub of Malawi’s trade and
finance.Ithadanumberofgoodrestaurants,twoBritish-stylebookshops,asupermarket,severalbetter
than average hotels, a lively old market with delectable street foods, and a drive-in theater. It even
boasted a bohemian café with a rumbling, snorting cappuccino machine. I still remember the heady
combinationofcoffeeandspicysamosas—auniqueblendofEuropeandAsiainAfrica
Westockeduponfoodtogetusthroughourtwenty-six-hourtrip.Bread,cheese,nuts,colddrinks,and
whatever fruit we could safely eat without having to wash them thoroughly, bananas always the safest
choice. From Blantyre we made our way by bus to the nearby town of Limbe, which would be our
starting-offpoint.Limbe,insharpcontrasttobustlingBlantyre,wasasleepylittleplace.
Besidesasmatteringofgovernmentofficesandschools,LimbewashometoMalawiRailways.The
railwaysystem,arelicoftheBritishcolonialera,wassturdy,somewhatslow,butusuallyreliable.
That day, it proved to be anything but reliable. While waiting, we heard disappointing news: trains
werehavingtroublecrossingtheMalawi/Mozambiqueborder.Nowthattherainyseasonhadbegun,the
dirtwasturningtomud.Thelow-lyingsoutherndistrictborethebiggestbruntoftherains.“Whenwillthe
traintoPortuguesearrive?”IaskedaconductorinmybestChichewa.“Soon,bambo,”hesaid.“Soon.”
Soon turned out to be six hours later. Meanwhile, we waited among our fellow passengers. The
Malawians took the long wait in stride. The men squatted near the platform, smoking and chattering to
pass the time. The women and children gathered in small groups, laughing and enjoying each other’s
company,thechildrenoftenglancingourway,notsurewhattomakeofus.Intime,thetrainchuggedinto
view.
Settlingintosecond-classseats,wewereeagertosetoffonourjourney.
The train ride to the border was unremarkable. The train stopped occasionally. As it did so, local
vendorslinedtheplatforms,sellingtheirwares;childrenstoodwavingorholdingtheirhandsoutinhopes
of getting a few pennies from the azungu, these strange white people staring back at them; and women
crowdedaround,manytobidfarewelltohusbandsorbrothersboundfortheminesinSouthAfrica.
IntheheatofDecember,thefarthersouthwetraveled,themoreexoticthevegetationbecame.Malawi
hasnojunglestospeakof:thewildlifeismostlylimitedtothenorthernpartofthecountry.Yetthelow
altitudeandtheverdant,tropicalsettingmadeitseemasifwehadlandedinanEdgarRiceBurroughs
novel.Atthetime,everythingweweredoingseemedlikeanadventure,butwewerecontenttoread,play
cards,andnapwhilethericketytrainrolledtowardtheborder.
Asweapproachedtheborder,thingsliterallycametoahalt.Bythistimethetrainhadmovedfromthe
lushcountrysidetosomethingresemblingamuddy,overgrownswamp.Anyminute,wethought,thetrain
wouldstartmovingagainandwe’dbeonourway.Astimepassedandtheheatbecamemoreoppressive,
wesawourfellowpassengersgettingoffthetrain,smokingtheircigarettes,andtalkingtooneanother.
Somethingwasgoingon,butwedidn’tknowwhatitwas.
In time, the conductor appeared. “Moni, bambo,” he greeted each of the men politely. And “Moni,
mai,”hegreetedthewomen.Abridgejustacrosstheborder,hetoldusinBritish-inflectedEnglishwith
bitsofChichewamixedin,hadwashedout.Thetraincouldn’tgoanyfurtherthatnight.Wecouldsleepon
thetrain,andthenextmorninganothertrainwouldcomeuptomeetusontheotherside.Wewouldneed
toleavethetraininthemorning,takingourkatunduwithus,walkingacrossthebridge,andgettingonthe
othertrain.Noproblem.
We asked the conductor about getting sheets and mosquito nets. And, oh yes, about food, as well.
Sorry,hesaid,nosheets,nomosquitonets,andnofood.Thefourofuslookedateachotherandsettledin
for a long night of stifling heat, high humidity, no food, flies, and what seemed like every mosquito in
SouthernAfrica.
Throughoutthenight,wecouldhearbabiescrying,menwalkingthroughthetraintryingtogetsome
relieffromtheheat,womentalkingjustloudenoughtohear,buttoofastforustounderstand.Didanyof
usgettosleep?Probablynot.Werewesore,unhappy,hungry,andmosquito-bitten?Nodoubt.Atthetime
itseemedthatwewouldneversurvive,butwedid,andhavelaughedaboutitmanytimessince.
AsIthinkbackonit,thiswasjustonenightofdiscomfortforus.FormanyinSouthernMalawi,the
presenceoffliesandmosquitoeswasadailyfactoflife.Fliescarrieddiseasesthatcausedblindness,and
mosquitoes, of course, malaria. (This was many years before HIV and AIDS decimated this country of
extraordinarybeautyanditsequallybeautifulpeople.)
Thenextmorning,wecarriedourbagsacrossthebridgeandsloggedthroughthemud,stoppingonlyto
swatfliesandsquishmosquitoes,foragoodthirtyminutestoreachthetrainthatwaswaitingforus.We
wereanxioustomoveon.Thetraindidjustthatafterawhileandthenstoppedagainatthefirsttownin
Mozambique.Itsnameescapesmenow,butweweretherelongenoughtowashupasbestwecould,eat
atacharminglittlePortugueserestaurant,walkaroundthetown,andpreparefortherestofourtrip.
Whenwefinallyarrivedatourdestination,wehadspentfifty-twohoursonthetrain.Iwasneverso
happytoseeacleanbedandabathroomwithashower.Themosquitobitesfinallydisappeared,andwe
spent a few days relaxing in the sun. We felt alive and happy, and we were determined to enjoy the
somewhatdecadentlifestyleoftheRhodesianelite,evenifonlyforashorttime.ThesefouryoungPeace
CorpsVolunteershadmadeitthroughthefirstlegofthistrip.
Therestofthatvacationwasnotquitesoeventful.WehitchhikedtoSalisbury,thefourofusintwo
carsthatweretravelingtogether.TheRhodesianswhopickedusuptookustotheirhome,gaveusdinner,
andtookustoahotel.WithonlyweekstogobeforetheU.S.closeditsconsulateinSalisbury,wehad
littletimeforsightseeing.WewerefortunateenoughtovisitoneofthemostbeautifulsightsinAfrica,the
awesomeVictoriaFalls,aswelltheruinsofZimbabwe.
Except for those spectacular sights, Rhodesia proved to be an oppressive place. After living in an
independent black African country, albeit one with a one-party dictatorship, the vileness of apartheid
seemedalltooreal.
WeoptedtoflybacktoBlantyreonAirRhodesia,waryofanothertrainride.Whenwereturnedto
Malawi,PamandItoNtcheu,andourfriendstoMulanje,itwaslikegoingbackhome.
Ourstudentsandfellowteacherswantedtoknowallaboutourtrip.Peopleintowngreeteduswith
smiles,andtheshopkeeperatthetownstorewelcomedourreturnwhenwerodeourbikestheretobuy
colddrinks.
And what of hitching rides to Blantyre, one of us with a broken arm and the other seven or eight
months’pregnant?Mybrokenarmisanotherstoryforanothertime,butsufficeittosaythatourdaughter
Barbarawasbornaboutninemonthsafterourtraintrip.
AfterhisstintasaPCVinMalawifrom1969-71,BruceKahnwentontoteachESLinMalawi,
AmericanSamoa,Iran,andatGeorgiaTech.HehasbeenatechnicaleditoratIBMinAtlantasince
1984.Whennoteditingtechnicaldocuments,Kahnisanavidcrosswordpuzzler.Hehasattendedthe
AmericanCrosswordPuzzleTournamentsince1997andhasplayedtheon-airpuzzlewithWillShortz
andLianneHansenonNPR’sMorningEditionSunday.
TheHammaminRabat
SHAUNASTEADMAN
GettingdowntobasicsinMorocco.
RABAT WAS ONLY A FEW DAYS OLD TO ME. I WAS WORKING UP THE COURAGE TO LEAVE THE SECURITY OF THE
training-site hotel and venture out alone into the streets of djellaba-clad men and veiled women in
Morocco’s capital. I needed to call my children and grandchildren to let them know that I had arrived
safelyinthecountrythatwastobemyhomebaseforthenexttwenty-sevenmonths.
Therewasnophoneatthehouseofmyhostfamily.Therewere,however,strangebeds,loudprayer
callsfivetimesaday,severalpastel-coloredchickens,andlotsoffoodsthatIhadnevereatenbefore.
The chicks were le Eid gifts. The food, it seemed, was for startling my palate. I was roommates with
Jackie,afellowPCVerfromPuertoRicowhospokeFrenchwell.Shewasmylanguagesavior.
Aroundthecorner,KumiwasinthesamefixasI,anolderVolunteerwithminimallanguageskills.Our
host families were related somehow, so we often spent time together. The second week in country, our
“hosties” decided we needed to visit the hammam, since there was no way to adequately bathe in the
houses.
Itwasan80-degreedayinlateSeptember,inAfrica.WeleftourhouseswrappedinAmericanstreet
clothes, Moroccan djellaba, veils, heavy coats, scarves, and we carried towels on our arms. We were
toldthatwewouldcatchcoldafterthebathifnotwellprepared.Wecarriedbaby-scaledplasticstools,
plasticbuckets,soaps,shampoosmadeoutofsomekindoftreesap,scrubbersandextraunderwear.And
trepidation.
AtraditionalArabichammamisacommunalbuildingwithadressinghallandthreerooms.Thereare
nodressingstalls.Theroomsgetprogressivelyhotterasyouslipandslidefurtherintotheabyss.Around
theperimeterofeachroomthereisanironpipewithspigotsthatdispensecoldwatereverytwofeet.The
pipeisabouttwenty-fourinchesfromthefloor,soyouhavetosit.Thehotwaterispouredfromanother
spigotintothebucketthatyoubringwithyou.
Youeliminateanyunnecessaryitemsinthedressingroom,arrivingatthefirstroomnaked.Genders
aregivenopposingdaysforbathing,exceptforboysundertheageofsevenorso,whocomewiththeir
mothers.
Itdidn’ttakeKumiandmelongtounderstandthatthiswasgoingtobeanadventure.KumiisKorean:
olive skin, brown eyes, and black hair. I am Scandinavian: ice white skin, blue eyes, and red hair
everywhere. I definitely felt the brown eyes of every Arabic African upon me. There are not many
ScandinaviansinMorocco.
Turns out that there weren’t enough stools or buckets to go around for our group of four adults and
several children. Kumi and I would have to sit directly on the cement floor. I envisioned all sorts of
exoticinfectionsinthemaking.
Iendedupinthedunceseat,manningthefillingofthebucketpositionneartheone“hot”spigot.The
roomwaspackedandthebucketswerecomingatmelikeLucyonthechocolateconveyorbelt.Oooooh
good.
Irememberedgymclassshowersduringjuniorhighwithlittlefondness.This,too,wasturningoutto
bethemotherofembarrassment.Ourhostfamiliesandtheirrelativesweregettingquiteakickoutofthis
situation.KumiwasjusttryingtogetherselfwashedupsowecouldgetOUTofthere.ANDthebuckets
keptcoming.
I have sailed a bit and I understand water dynamics a little, so I invented a game. I could use the
hydroplaneofthesoakedfloorto“sail”thefilled,rounded-bottombucketstotheprospectivebather,thus
eliminatingthelineofinquiringeyesstandingoverme.Ibeganasortoficecurlingtechniquethatquickly
caughton.
KumiandIsoonfoundthatournewfriendshadforgottenthatwewerestrangersandwereenjoyingthe
game.Infact,ourrankshadswollen,drawingfromthepopulationintheotherrooms.Soon,thelaughter
wasdispellinganymythsabout“them”and“us.”
Iwasabletogetwashedupand“spa-ed”backtogether.Intheprocess,Ilearnedsomeculture,broke
sometaboos,andlightenedupatensesituation.Ourbodiesweresteamingwhenweleftthehammam,and
ourheartswerefull.Still,Inevervisitedthehammamsmuchafterthat.Ilearnedhowtotakespongebaths
at home until I got an apartment at my site in Essaouira. My first month there, I made a shower out of
plastictubingandaplastictableclothmaterialthatroseinsplendorovertheoutletofmyTurkishtoilet.
ShaunaSteadmanservedasaPeaceCorpsVolunteerinMoroccofrom2003-05.
StraightRazorsinHeaven
PAULNEGLEY,JR.
Newexperiencescanalsobesmallexperiences—butthatmakesthemnolesssatisfying.
LOUISARMSTRONG SAYS IN A SONG THAT, WHEN HE DIES, HE WANTS TO BE BURIED IN STRAIGHT LACE SHOES AND A
Stetson hat, with a twenty-dollar gold piece in his watch chain. He did not ask to be shaved. What the
Great Satchmo knew, and I just learned, is that there are straight razors in heaven. So put on your best
clothes,getallpretty,andgetshavedbytheblessed.
I got a haircut yesterday, in what would be an old-fashioned barber shop back in the United States.
Here,itistheonlywaytogetone’shaircut.Theplacehasthefeelofanall-guyssportsbarwithlong
blackleathersofasandcigarettes.
Abigjollyfellowwithcrookedeyesgreetedme.Hewaspoliteandgavemeanexcellenthaircut.He
evencomplimentedmeonmyhair,sayingthatnooneinMoroccocouldknowhowtocutitexcepthim.I
believehim,too.ThiswasthefirstgoodhaircutI’vegotteninMorocco!Hesaid,“Notrimmers,scissors
only,isthewaytomakeitlooknice.”
Ifeltalittlepamperedandadmired.Asheperfectedasideslanttogivemeafreshlook,heasked,
“Wouldyoulikeashave?”HenoticedthatIhadafour-daybeardandwasweatheredfromthesix-hour
bustriptoAgadir.
Iamopentonewexperiences,butamanwhocanonlyseeoutofpartofoneeye,wholooksatme
sidewaystoseemestraight?
Havingfourinchesofthesharpestknifeknowntomanheldnexttomyneckbyhimcausedonlyabrief
hesitation.
HelatheredmeupwithabrushandthethickestshavingcreamIhaveeverfelt.Ifeltlikeacarsoaped
up and pushed through an automatic wash. That brush tickled and hurt, then teased me and lied to me.
Whenhewasdonewiththelather,Ididn’tthinkitcouldgetanybetter;IhadrelivedeveryrelationshipI
hadhadinthelasttenyears.
Thenhepulledtherazorout.Anoldgrandfatherofabeauty,ithadanivory-coloredhandle.Ithought
“PleaseGod,begentle.”Iwasnervous;itwasmyfirsttime.
ThoughIliketoflirtwithdanger,thiswasnophilanderer.Iwasmarryingthisguy,trustinghimwith
mylifewiththatbladetomyface.
Withthefirsttouch,Iflincheddeepinmyheart,butmyfacewasasstillasbutter.Thesecondslice,
andIenteredintoagardenofnofear.“Icancontrolmyfear,useit,manipulateit,makeitdisappear.”The
thirdtookmeoutofmytrance;IknewthatIcouldnotmastermyfearashecouldnotmastermycleftchin.
Ithadtakenmenearlyfiveyearstolearnintricateartof“clefting.”
Henaileditwithperfectform.
He turned down for the neck. A slip of the wrist and life’s end comes. The headline in the Post:
“Moroccan Barber Terrorist Murders American Peace Worker.” Then, like the initial warm relief of
urinatinginyourpants,Iachievedtotalnirvana.Iwasenlightened.
Hefinishedandtheguiltsetin.Ireallydidfeelliketheboywhopeedhispants.“WhatdoIdonow?”
I begged in my thoughts. “Do I promise to come back?” The barber smiled. “Like new,” he said to the
dauntingimageinthemirror.Iwasnew.
MyGod,Iwasbeautiful,shaved.Ileanedintothemirror,amazed,breathless.Iremindedmyselfofthe
monkeywhoseeshisimageanddoesn’trecognizeit.OnlyIwasattackingthemirrorinnarcissism,not
fear,staringinutterdisbeliefthatIcouldbesoattractive.
After a few minutes, maybe hours, the blessed barber took notice and asked, “Would you like some
cologne?” My mind raced: “Yes, of course, I want cologne. Spray me down because I am going out
tonight,prettyface.”
Hespraysitonhishandsand,bam,afieryslapontheface.Myeyeswatering,theimageinthemirror
blursthenmeltsawayandacryinglittleboyremains.WhenIsoberupfromtheaftershave,thebarberis
holdingmyhand.Hegentlyliftsmefromthechairandsetsmeonthesofa.Iamababyinhismother’s
arms.Iamconfused,bewildered,butalltrusting.
“Stayforsometea,”mymothersays,andIsnoozeanddroolinmynewbornwarmth.
A baby doesn’t anticipate that every experience will be new and amazing, it just is. A twenty-fiveyear-oldgettingahaircutdoesn’texpecttobereborn.
Ifyouhaveneverbeenshavedwithastraightrazor,Iamajealousriotofenvyforthatfirstexperience
tocome.So,whenIdieburymeinstraightlaceshoes,aStetson,atwenty-dollargoldpieceformywatch
chain,butdon’tyoushaveme.Thatlastshavewillcomefromanoldgrandfatherstraightrazorinheaven.
PaulNegleyJr.,aPCVinMoroccofrom2004-2006,pursuedtwomaster’sdegreesinInternational
AffairsandNaturalResourcesSustainableDevelopmentatAmericanUniversityandUNUniversityfor
Peace(CostaRica).Presently,heworksinPechValley,Afghanistan,withUSAID.
BigButtsAreBeautiful!
JANETGRACERIEHL
Ourstyles,andthewayweviewourselves,canchangedramaticallywhenwelearntoseewiththeeyes
ofanotherculture.
NALEDIWAS MY NAME IN BOTSWANA. WHEN I ARRIVED, I HAD ASKED MY LANGUAGE TEACHERS FOR A SETSWANA
name.Theysaid,allright,butit’snotsomethingcasualtogiveaname.It’snotsomethingwecandoon
thespotorevenovernight.Theytoldme,“We’llkeepoureyesonyou,andthinkaboutitforawhile,and
thenletyouknowwhatyournameis.”
EveryweekI’daskhowmynamewascoming.They’dsay,“Waitalittlelonger.”
Oneweektheycameinandsaid,“We’vegotyourname.It’sNaledi.”
Iasked,“Whatdoesthatmean?”
“Itmeans‘Star,’”theysaid,“andthat’showwefeelaboutyou.”Whichwasagoodthing.ButNaledi
isnotanexoticnameinBotswana.It’snotanymoreunusualthanSusanorMarywouldbeintheUnited
States.ThegoodthingaboutmynamebeingNalediwasthattherearesomanybeautifulsongsheralding
andcelebratingthestars,naledi.AsIwalkedaroundthevillage,childrensangthesesongstome.Being
serenadedwakesabodyup.InAfrica,youdon’thavetobestandingonabalcony,either.
Now, I’m going to teach you one of these songs. It’s a call and response song—the most common
patterninAfrica.Itmeans,“Star,star…starofthemorning.Wake-up!”
Naledi.
Naledi.[Echo]
Naledi.
Naledi.[Echo]
Nalediyamosong.
Tsogong.
NotonlydidIgetanewnameinBotswana,butIchangedthewayIfeltaboutmybody.Yousee,I
comefromalonglineofwomenwithbigbuttocks.Youallknowwhatitmeanstohavebigbuttocksinthe
UnitedStates,wherewegrowupthinkingyouhavetohaveabigbosomtobebeautiful.Makesitkindof
hardonusgalsthatarebiggerSouthoftheborderthanNorth.
But,fortunately,inmyearlytwenties,Istruckthebody-imagesweepstakesandgotmymeasurements
importedtoAfrica—firsttoBotswanaandlatertoGhana.Inthesecountries,awoman’slargebuttocks
arelavishlyandopenlyadmired.
I’ll never forget the day in Botswana when this first happened to me. I walked through the village
minister’scompound,andhelaunchedintoalitanyofpraiseaboutmybigbuttocksinSetswanathatset
myearsonfire:Minister:Nalediway!
Myself:Kenna,Rra.[That’sme,Sir.]
Minister:Nalediway!Marahowaharhowaatonamahomasway.[Yourbuttocksareamazinglybig.]
Myself:Marahowame,Rra?Ow!
[Mybuttocks?Oh,goodness,gracious.]
Minister: Eeee, Mma. Maraho waharho wamouncle taaaaata! [Yes, Ma’m. Your buttocks are
incrediblybeautiful.]
Myself:Keitumetsi,Rra.[Thankyou,sir.]
“It’s true, Naledi,” said his more understated wife as she awarded some love pats to my rear end.
“Yourbuttocksaretraditionallybuilt—justlikeaMotswanawoman!OMotswanatota!”
IcastalookaroundbehindmewithanincreasedappreciationofwhatI’dbeencartingaroundback
thereallmylife.ThefeelinggrewthatIhadsomethinggoodgoingonbehindme.Itwasthesecretsideof
methatIcouldn’tfullyappreciatebecauseIcouldonlyseemybuttocksinstillnessreflectedinamirror,
notinmotion,asthosearoundmedid.
This feeling of secret wealth was reinforced when I bicycled fifteen miles over deep sand tracks
betweenthevillagetothecapitalcity.I’mnottalkingblacktop,here.I’mnottalkinggravel.I’mnoteven
talkingdirt.I’mtalkingsand.Mybikewasaballoon-tiredbikewithnogearshiftsonit.Hasanyoneever
riddenabikelikethatrecently?I’mtalkingaboutthebikeswiththefat,fattires.Istooduptopump,of
course,inordertocutthroughthetrack.Witheverydownwardstroke,thetiressunkdownintothesand
somethinglikefourinches.
Villagersworkingoutontheirlandsstoppedtoleanontheirhoestoviewmybuttockmusclesstraining
againstthefabricofmylong,traditionalskirt.Then,allalongmybicycleroute,asifbyprearrangement,
wholefarmingfamilieswavedandgreetedmewiththesamechantofappreciationtheministerandhis
wifehadshoweredonmypreviouslyunnoticedbuttocks:Nalediway!
Marahowaharhowaatonamahomasway.
Marahowaharhowamouncletaaaaata!
ThatishowIcametoknowthatbigbuttsarebeautiful,andthatmineisjustasbeautifulasanyothers.
Someofyouhavebigbuttslikemeandsomeofyou,well,we’dhavetosendoutasearchpartytofind
your butt, it’s so small. But, no matter what size your butt is, we can be happy we have this precious
treasure. We can all feel like stars, right here in this heaven on earth. Ladies, Bo-Ma, show your gents
whatyou’vegot.Strutyourstuffjustabit.Remember,yourbuttisbeautiful,especiallyifit’sabigone.
JanetGraceRiehlservedinBotswanafrom1972-73whereshetaughtEnglishasasecondlanguage.
Sheisanaward-winningauthor,speaker,andcreativitycoach.Herdown-homefamilylovestory
beyonddeathisSightlines:APoet’sDiary.Herpoems,stories,andessaysarepublishedinnational
literarymagazinesandinthreeanthologies.JanetcurrentlystrutsherstuffinSt.Louis,Missouri,
wheresheshakesitupwithclass.
MonsieurRobertLovesRats
BOBWALKER
Littleslipscanhaveoddconsequences!
IT PROMISED TO BE A LONG MOTORCYCLE RIDE TO THE VILLAGE WHERE I WOULD BE WORKING THAT DAY. IT WAS
barelydawnwhenIfinishedmybreakfast,buttherhythmic,earthenthumpofawomanpoundingcassava
flour,punctuatedbyanoccasionalroostercallfromthevillageonthehillaboveourhouse,signaledthat
others were also beginning their morning. I broke the still of the dawn, kicking over my motorcycle’s
engineandacceleratingpastourbamboogateintothefog.
Before coming to Zaire, I never knew how cold it got in the mornings of dry season. The chill air
rushingpastasInegotiatedtherutted,red-clayroadsmademyhandsstiffanduncomfortable.Mywife
andIoccupiedadoublepost,eachworkingwithourownfishfarmers,butwehadworkedoutastrategy
where, every few months, we switched to see how our partner’s work was progressing. It was a
beneficial way to critique and lend perspective to each other. Today, I would be visiting some of my
wife’sfarmersatthefarendofourpost,soIhadmadeanearlystartonwhatpromisedtobeatiringday.
Relievedtoarriveafteraphysical,forty-minuteride,Iturnedoffthemainroadandwasgreetedbya
cacophonyofchildren.Havingheardmymotorcyclefromalongwayoff,theyhadassembledintypical
largenumbers.Theyscrambledtokeepup,runningperilouslyclosealongside,laughingwithexcitement
as I attempted to maintain control in the deep, soft sand of the village’s central thoroughfare. Finally
stoppingatoneofourfarmer’shouses,Isteppedoffwithawallofsmilingkids’facestightlycrowded
around me. Adults pressed through the throng to greet me while a wizened village elder swatted at
childrenwithashortstick,attemptingtoclearspaceformetomove.
“Niama!”thethinoldmanscolded,referringtothechildrenasinsects.Hecluckedthroughhisteethin
disgust,ineffectuallyswinginghisstickasthekidslaughedandplayfullydodged.Whentheotheradults
joinedtheefforttodispersethem,theygraduallymovedawaytoarespectfuldistance.Acircleoflocal
neighbors,thevillageelder,andfishfarmersreplacedthechildren;allhadout-stretchedhandsreadyto
shake. Many gripped their right forearm with their left hand in emphasis of earnestness and respect
intendedbytheirgreeting.
Shakinghands,Itookcarenottomissone,andtopayattentiontotheelder,acknowledgingtherespect
owed him. Subsequently, a chair was produced and a glass of water, and I was encouraged to sit and
drink.Afteranappropriatepause,Isaid,“Wehavemuchworktodoattheponds,andifthefarmerswill
assemble,weshouldgoimmediatelyintotheforesttovisittheirwork.”Iknewthattherewouldbeplenty
oftimeinthevillagespenteating,drinkingandsocializing;Ididn’twishtolosethecoolmorninghours.
Hikingdownfromthevillageintotheforestedvalley,wearrivedpond-side.Ibegantoreviewthelist
of daily tasks so important to successfully raising an abundance of large fish in the six months from
stockingtoharvest.Feedingthefish,cuttingthegrass,addingcompost,keepingtheoverflowpipesclear
—afarmer’sdiligencetoroutinecompletionoftheseandothertaskswasthekeytoarewardingharvest.
There is no better teacher than good example, so I worked along side the farmers. Grabbing a narrow
bamboo pole lying near the bank, I inserted it into one of the overflow pipes at the top of the dike.
Overflow pipes allowed rainfall accumulation to harmlessly exit the pond, maintaining an appropriate
level.Ablockedpipewouldallowfloodwatertopassoverthetopofthedike,erodingitandpotentially
blowingoutthepond.
Immediatelytherewasacryof“MPUKU!”asfarmersscrambled,machetesinhand,eagertodispatch
thefamilyofratsthatemergedfromthepipe.Ayoungnephewwasorderedintotheforesttocollectlarge
leaves,andthefreshlykilledrodentswereboundinneat,greenlittlepackagesforeasytransportbackto
thevillage.
ThatwaswhenImadethefauxpasIwouldregretfortherestofmyservice.
Thinkingofmycatandhowmuchshewouldappreciateanicerat-meal,IthoughttoaskifIcouldtake
somehome.“CouldIhavethosetotakehomeformy…”Istartedtoask.
Well, the truth was that I wasn’t thinking, because otherwise I would have realized that this prized
catch was valued protein destined make a welcomed meal for the farmer’s family. And here I was,
stupidly asking to take some home to my cat! Thankfully, I realize my mistake mid-sentence. But how
wouldIexplainthatIhadchangedmymind?
It turned out that I wouldn’t have a chance to explain. The farmers seized onto the idea that I must
absolutelyloverats.“Oh,MonsieurRobertlovesrats!Wearegoingtobringtheseuptothevillageand
eatthemtogetherbecauseyoulovethemsomuch!”
Therewasnoescapingwhathadnowbecomeasocialobligation,soImadethebestshowIcouldof
graciouslyenjoyingmyrat-meal.
As I was saying goodbye to return to my house that afternoon, a tight, leaf-green rat-package was
pressedintomyhandto“takehometomywifetoenjoy.”EverytimeinthemonthstocomethatIvisited
thisvillage,IknewinadvancethatIwouldbeservedaproperrat-meal.Afterall,everyoneknewhow
much,“MonsieurRobertlovesrats.”
BobWalkerandhiswifeTinaservedasPeaceCorpsfisheriesagentsinZairefrom1987–89.Living
andworkinginaremotevillage,theyspentthefirsttwoamazingyearsoftheirmarriagewithout
telephone,electricityorrunningwater,butlackingnothingofimportance.Todaytheyareraisingtwo
kidsintheWashington,D.C.area.
Imani
DANIELFRANKLIN
Thefriendswemakeandlosecomfortusandteachus—andallowustolearneventhesaddestlessons.
MY EARLY DAYS INBASMA WERE NOT EASY.BASMA, A TRADITIONAL VILLAGE OF SUBSISTENCE FARMERS LOCATED IN
northernBurkinaFaso,isnotlocatedonanymaps.Directionsinvariablyincludeinstructionsto“turnoff
thedirtroad.”LifeinBasmaisbarelychangedfromcenturiesago;peoplelivetheirwholeliveswithout
everseeingatrafficlightorhavingacolddrinkonahotday.
UponmyarrivalinSeptemberof2001,IwasproudoftheprogressI’dmadeinFrenchduringtraining,
only to find that, outside of a handful of people who’d attended elementary school in a neighboring
village,nobodycouldevensaybonjour.
Villagers comforted me after the events of September 11th (news of which reached Basma on
September14th)byassuringmethatitcouldnothavehappened:110-storybuildingssimplydonotexist.
I had expected the first weeks to be difficult. But when weeks turned to months and things didn’t
improve, I began to lose faith—in my program, in my village, and most of all, in myself. Though my
Mooré (the local language) was improving, progress was slow. I sensed that my village was nearly as
frustratedwithmeasIwas.Iwasaddingnothingtothevillage,anddidn’tfeelthatIwasgettinganything
fromitotherthannonstopdiarrhea.
WhyhadIvolunteeredforthis?
JustasIwasonthevergeofgivingup,IfoundImani.
WhenIfoundher,justweeksafterherbirth,Imanihadbeenseparatedfromhermother.Ialmostdidn’t
see her: a tiny, abandoned puppy shivering next to a baobab tree despite the powerful mid-day sun. I
couldsenseherfear,confusion,anduttersenseofaloneness.Iunderstooditexactly.
Ihadlongagogivenuppretensionsofsavingtheworld,butatleastIcouldsaveonehelplessanimal.I
hadmymission.
ImaniistheSwahiliwordforfaith.IchoseitnotonlybecauseIthoughtitwasabeautifulname,but
alsobecauseitwasonethevillagerscouldpronounce.Ihadalreadylivedintheisolationofmyvillage
foroverthreemonths,butitwasImani’spresenceinmyhutthatfinallycreatedthehomeforwhichI’d
longed.BeforeImani,longdaysspentstrugglingtocommunicateandtryingtofindmyplaceinthevillage
werefollowedbyendlessnightsoflonelinessandtedium.Ireadseveralnovelsaweekinanattemptto
escapemyreality,andpassedhoursstaringatpicturesoffamilyandfriends,melancholyinmyheart.All
ofthatchangedwithImani.
ImanihelpedmeinmorewaysthanIcouldhaveimaginedpossible:shekeptmecompany;shehelped
melearnMooréwordssuchasnemdo(meat)andndeemda(toplay);sheshowedmepartsofmyvillage
that I hadn’t even known existed until our walks took us there. Most importantly, nurturing her
transformationfromahungry,abandonedpuppytoafull-grown,healthydoginspiredmyowneffortsto
survive and flourish in the village. As I focused on helping her gain strength, I forgot much of my own
despondencyandconcentratedinsteadonwhatIneededtodoforher.Thefrustrationoflivingonboiled
flourandleafsaucewasrenderedirrelevantwhenfacedwiththetaskofmakingdogbiscuitsfromthose
sameingredients.ForthefirsttimesincemyarrivalinBasma,Ihadfaithinmyself.Ihadimani.
Myworkinthevillageimproveddramaticallyasmyrediscoveredoptimismprovidedafreshoutlook
on my experiences. Different languages don’t preclude communication; they only make it more
challenging.Criticismforpoorlanguageskillsisevidencethatsomeonewantstotalk,andmaybethey’re
evenofferingtobeatutor.Ibecamelesshunguponmyfrustrationsandfailures,andmorecognizantof
my successes. I began to develop friendships with co-workers at the health clinic as well as with the
villagersaroundme.AlittleimanichangedmylifeinBasma.
Ayearintomyservice,theexperiencehadcompletelyturnedaround.Iwasintegratedintomyvillage.
I had friends, and even an adoptive family. Though fluency in Mooré still eluded me, I had achieved a
strong proficiency. There were still plenty of difficulties and challenges, but even on my worst days,
knowingthatImaniwasathomewaitingformealwaysbroughtasmiletomyface.
OneweekendinNovember2002,Iwenttothecapitaltoe-mailmyparents.Icamehomeseveraldays
later,andsensedimmediatelythatsomethingwasamiss.Imaniwasgone.Isearchedallaroundmyhut,
andallaroundthevillage,butshewasnowheretobefound.Iwascrushed,butconsoledmyselfwiththe
knowledgethatdogsoftenrunaway.PerhapsshefeltthatIhadabandonedher.Perhapsshehadrunoff
somewhere and gotten lost. I could not shake the fear, however, that I had done something to make her
leave. I asked around, and sensed a strangeness in people’s responses, but assumed it was because
nobodyquiteknewhowtodealwithsuchadistraughtAmerican.
Then my adoptive brother told me. I thought at first that maybe I hadn’t understood what he’d said:
“Bambdarimefobaaga,”herepeated,“Theyateyourdog.”
Mystomachheaved;Iwasovercomewithvertigo.Iwascrushed,unabletorespond.IfeltthatIhad
bridgedsomanyculturaldivides,butthiswasoneIdidnotwanttocross.HadImanirunaway,Ilikely
wouldhavedeludedmyselfintobelievingthatshewasaliveandwell,justwaitingfortherighttimeto
comebackaftersomecarousinginneighboringvillages.Hadshedied,Icouldatleastviewitaspartof
the life cycle. But knowing that she had been killed by my villagers for a night’s supper was harder to
dealwith.IlostallfaithinthosearoundmewhenIlostImani.
I’mnotsureifthereisa“normal”mourningperiodforaneatendog.IttookmeseveralweeksbeforeI
could look at anyone without wondering if they had partaken. I found myself reverting back to my preImaniroutine:Ispentmostofmytimeinmyhut,passedhourseachdayreading,andcutmyselfofffrom
humancontact.
Afteratimeofthisself-imposedseclusion,however,Iforcedmyselftocometotermswithmyloss.
Imanihadmeantsomuch—shehadopenedupthevillagetome,andshehadhelpedrestoremyfaithin
myself.Butshewasgone,andnoamountofself-pityorgriefwouldbringherback.Moreimportantly,I
still had a job to do, and I was not about to quit. Serving out my time in misery would be to no one’s
benefit—leastofallmyown.
So,IgotmyselfbacktotheplaceI’dbeenwhenImaniwasinmylife.Iattackedmyworkwithvigor,
andachievedsomeofthegreatestsuccessesofmyPeaceCorpsservice.ThoughIthoughtoftenofImani,
allthatshehadshownmedidnotleavewithher.Myfriendsandfamilyinthevillagewerestillthesame
wonderfulpeopletheyhadalwaysbeen,regardlessofwhetherornotImaniwasbymyside.
Much as I learned during my years in Burkina, there are some cultural differences that I will never
appreciate. However, I did come to a realization that is still with me to this day: Imani showed me
strengththatIdidnotknowIhad.Losingherdidnottakethatstrengthawayfromme.Tothisday,imaniis
within.Ihavefaithinmyself.
DanielJ.FranklinservedinBurkinaFasofrom2001–04.HeiscurrentlyanattorneyinNewYorkCity.
PartFour
CloseEncounters
Hail,Sinner!IGotoChurch
FLOYDSANDFORD
Sometimes,itseemsasthoughgivingjustisn’tenough.
ON NOVEMBER 8, 1964, I ATTENDED CHURCH FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE ARRIVING IN IBADAN. I WAS INVITED BY
relativesofoneofmybiologystudentstobeoneofseveralspecialparticipantsinaSundayserviceat
TheBlessedChurchofChrist(IjoIbukunTiKristi)intheOke-Adoareaofthecity.Thedaywaslovely,
andpassersbyreturnedthefewYorubaphrasesofgreetingIknewwiththeirowngreetingsandsmilesasI
sauntered along Liberty Stadium Road in full Nigerian dress from Adeyoola Chambers to the church, a
forty-five-minute walk. It was the church’s big event of the year, a festive harvest celebration. Seven
specialguestsfromIbadanhadbeeninvitedtoparticipate—Mr.Amusan,ageneraltrader;Mr.Adekoya,
anaccountant;Mr.Shogbesan,aninsurancebroker;Mr.Ayoola,asolicitor;ChiefOgunlesi,theDirector
of Broadway Printers; Mr. Olomo, a politician from the Ibadan Ministry of Finance; and me, tutor at
IBHS.
The program for the occasion was detailed in a small, nineteen-page booklet with a pink cover. It
consistedofsongsandspokenpassages.Atthebeginningof’theservice,totheaccompanimentofjoyous
singingandhand-clapping,asbefitsaharvestcelebration,allsevenofusmarchedinsinglefile—Iatthe
endoftheprocession—andtookourdesignatedseatsonaraiseddaisfacingthecongregation.Thechurch
waspacked,abouttwohundredpeople.IwastheonlyCaucasianintheroomandhadwornabrandnew
traditionalNigerianoutfitmadeespeciallyfortheoccasion.
One of my students, Musa, had introduced me to an honest, hard-working tailor in the city. He had
made me a beautiful traditional Yoruba man’s outfit. It consisted of a flowing outer garment, a sapara
(agbada), worn over a matching shirt (orbuba) and trousers (sokoto). All were made of cloth with
alternating narrow blue and white stripes. The sokoto, tightened with a drawstring, closely resembled
pajamabottoms.Onmyhead,Iworeanattractivetan-and-beige-patternedfeltfila.
The service was long, lasting about two hours. As the morning festivities wore on, the church
approachedsauna-likeconditions.Midwayintheservice,eachspecialguestwasrecognizedinturn.All
sevenofuswerelistedintheprogram,eachwithafullpagedevotedtous,includingaspecialsonginour
honor. The six Nigerian honorees had songs in Yoruba. I was listed last, and my song was in English:
“Theharvestispassing,thesummerwillend.”Mysongbeganwiththephrase“HarksinnerwhileGod
from on high doth entreat thee,” a curious coincidence, as I was certain none of the program planners
knewIwasanagnosticandinfrequentchurchgoer.
GrowingupinSmithtown,onLongIsland,NewYork,mymainreasonforfaithfullyattendingtheFirst
Presbyterian Church on Main Street each Sunday was because I enjoyed singing in the choir under the
direction of choirmaster Don Gardner. Mr. Gardner wrote several pieces of religious music including
“Man Does Not Live By Bread Alone,” which the choir often sang at Sunday services, but was best
knownforthesong“AllIWantForChristmasIsMyTwoFrontTeeth,”adittyhedashedoffoneevening,
whileenjoyingthecompanyofhisincisor-lessgranddaughter.
Ihadabsolutelynoideawhattoexpectduringthechurchservice.Ihadcomeonlybecauseitseemed
unfriendlytoturndowntheoriginalinvitation.AllIhadbeentoldwasthatitwasaharvestcelebration,
thatthecongregationwouldbehonoredbymyattendance,andthatIwasexpectedtobringadonation.No
one had bothered to mention that it was a highly publicized special church occasion, or that the other
honoreesincludedimportantlocalofficials,successfulbusinessmen,andwell-offpoliticians.
I had a ten-pound note in my trouser pocket, at that time equivalent to about $24. I had given some
thoughttomydonation.IwantedtobegenerousandletthecongregationknowhowmuchIappreciatedthe
honor of being asked to participate. But I didn’t want to embarrass the other participants and project
myself as a fat cat, filthy rich American; $24 amounted to nearly a week’s worth of my modest Peace
Corpssubsistenceallowance.
AsIsatonstagewiththeotherhonorees,IbegantowishIhadbroughtafewone-andfive-poundnotes
intheeventthatIdecidedtoreducetheamountofmydonationduringtheservice.Lookingoutoverthe
congregation,Ibegantohaveconcernsandreservations.Wouldtheyinterpretmyten-pounddonationas
excessive, perhaps even offensive? Was I about to project a blatant and unnecessary show of wealthy
Americanarrogance?Toolatenow,I’mhere,andallIhavewithmeisthesingleten-poundnote.
After nearly an hour spent reciting religious passages and singing eight anthems, many of them with
multiple stanzas and long solo parts, the special part of the ceremony began. The choir and full church
congregation stood up and began to sing “Omo Arowosola ti nro bi ojo….” Mr. Amusan, the general
trader,proudlyarosefromhisseat,andbegandancing.Aha,sodancingispartoftheritual.Well,Ican
handlethat,Ithought.
Hedancedslowlyandgracefully,keepingrhythmwiththemusic’sbeat,toaboxlocatedofftotheside
of the stage. I hadn’t been aware of the box until then. Arriving at the box he reached into his pocket,
depositedsomethinginside,thenshuffledbacktohisseat,keepingbeatwiththemusicalltheway.Ashe
wasreturningtohisseat,anelegantlydressedNigerianwomanstandingbythecollectionbox,whohad
been singing some of the solo vocal parts throughout the service, reached into the box and held up the
offering for all the congregation to see. “Twenty pounds,” she announced. The congregation responded
with cheers and shouts of approval. Mr. Amusan smiled, faced the audience, graciously received their
praise,thentookhisseat.Goodgrief,Ithought.
Then it was the turn of Mr. Adekoya, the accountant. A soloist began singing the first verse of his
specially selected song “F’Olunun wa o Olorun Ibukun iba Re to to, K’a to korin o ajuba Emi
Mimo….”Severalportlyolderwomenfromthecongregationlefttheirseatsandmovedintothecenter
aisle of the church, singing and shaking, as Mr. Adekoya danced across the floor to the money box. In
slow, subdued fashion he glided gracefully across the stage. Nearing the box he picked up the tempo,
showing off some special dancing skills. Then, finishing with a flourish involving several twirls of his
body,hestuckhishandinthebox.“Twentypounds,”theboxkeeperannounced,holdingupandwaving
aboutacrisptwenty-poundnoteforalltosee.Morecheersfromthecongregation.
The insurance broker and the solicitor were even more generous. Sitting on stage watching their
performances, facing the multitude, I was feeling sick to my stomach and increasingly uncomfortable.
Riversofperspirationpouredfrommyarmpits.Myhandswereclammy.Isensedtheblooddrainingfrom
myface,myclothesbecomingdampandclinging.
Then Chief Ogunlesi took to the floor in his elegant traditional dress. Exhibiting fancy footwork, he
danced across the stage and really upped the ante. “Fifty pounds,” the woman announced to the
congregation, which responded enthusiastically with joyous shouting and clapping. I sat motionless and
stone-faced.Theseatofmysokotowassoppingwet.WhenIshiftedslightlyIcouldfeelthebackofmy
saparaplasteredwithperspirationtothebackofmychair.WhathadIgottenmyselfinto?Couldthisbe
reallyhappening?Orwasitallabaddream,relatedsomehowtolastevening’smealofhighlyseasoned
curry?
ThenitwasMr.Olomo’sturn.Lookingathiselegantapparel,abeautifulwhitesaparawithelaborate
embroideryandgoldbraid,Ihadagutfeelingthathewasgoingtosurpasseveryone,dulyimpressingall
assembled with his generosity. I was not disappointed. Rising almost triumphantly from his seat, he
immediatelypulledfromhispocketacrispnewonehundred-poundnote,whichheheldupandwaved
abovehisheadashebegantodanceacrossthestage.Theconsummatepolitician,heobviouslyintended
tomakethemostofhisopportunitytoplaytoafullhouse.
Hisdancewaslengthyandover-the-top.Therewereelaborateembellishments:bodytwirls,armand
legextensions,andkneebendswithcrouchingthatbroughthisbodyclosetothefloor.Ashedanced,he
keptwavingthehandholdingthenote.Pleasedwiththesizeofhisdonation,heputonaterrificshow.The
congregationwentwild.
At the end of his performance I felt about as big as a microbe, or one of the suspended dust motes
visibleinthebeamsoflightstreamingintothechurchthroughthestainedglasswindows.Hadthefloor
opened up and swallowed me from view, I would have been thankful. Good Lord, had someone
deliberatelyarrangedtheprogramhonoreesintheorderofpresumedwealthandanticipatedsizeofgift
giving?Nearlyeveryparticipantprecedingmehadmadeacontributionanorderofmagnitudegreaterthan
theoneprevious.DidthesefolksthinkIwasaRockefeller?Didn’ttheyknowIwasahelplesslymiddleclassAmerican,subsistingonaPeaceCorpslivingallowanceoflessthan$5/day?
I yearned to be delivered from my impending embarrassment. Let this agony be over quickly. Why
hadn’t someone told me about the nature of the harvest celebration, the gift-giving obligation of the
honorees, the magnitude of gifts commonly given? Why had they placed me last on the list of potential
donors?Iwasabouttobehumiliatedinfrontoftwohundredpeople.Thewomen’schorusbegantosing
“HarksinnerwhileGodfromonhighdothentreatthee....”
Everyonewasontheirfeet,smiling,swaying,andhandclapping.Mr.Olomuandtheothersallturned
theirheadsinmydirection.Itallseemedlikeabaddream.Islowlyroseupfrommychair,alleyeson
me,andstartedtomovewiththemusic,theseatofmysokotoandmyorbubadarkenedbyperspiration.
“Andwarningwithaccentsofmercydothblend.…”
Myclotheswereplasteredtomybody.HadIjuststeppedfromasauna,Icouldn’timaginelookingany
more bedraggled. The rim of my fila was wet. Sweat coursed down my face, as I sensed myself
anemicallyandinelegantlyshufflingtowardtheinsidiousboxandthefatedannouncement.Ididn’twant
mydancetobeanti-climaticfollowingthepolitician’senergeticperformance,butIhadnoenthusiasm,no
joie de vivre, as I sensed myself creeping along like an amoeba with an iron deficiency. I felt like an
ArthurMurrayreject,thatmylifeforcehadleftme.
“GiveeartoHisvoicelestinjudgmenthemeetthee.…”
Iimaginedwhateveryonewasthinking,sittingontheedgesoftheirseats.“What’shegoingtodoto
top Mr. Olomo?” I could imagine all the pent up energy ready to be vented in cheers and shouts at the
announcement.“TwohundredpoundsfromtheAmericantutor!”Mysongseemedtogoonforever.The
previousparticipantshadmeasuredtheirdancingsothattheirarrivalattheboxandthereturntriptotheir
seats coincided with the length of their song. Had they practiced beforehand? The trip to and from the
collectionboxcouldn’tbemorethanthirtyfeet,butIfeltlikeIwasmovinginslowmotion.Oh,God,let
therebesomesuddeneventtodistractthecongregation.Asuddenstorm,perhaps.Amassivethunderbolt.
Lettherebeamiracle.Atotalsolareclipsethatblackensthechurch.Letthisghastlydaybeover.
“Theharvestispassing,thesummerwillend.”
I turned and looked out at the congregation. The atmosphere inside the church was fever pitch,
everyone standing, hands clapping and bodies swaying, all primed for the climax of festivities, the
reservoir release of all the accumulated pent up energy, the shouts of joy and jubilation. I reached the
accursedboxatapointaboutmidwayinthesong,depositedthesoggycrumpledten-poundnotethatIhad
clutchedinmyclammyhandforwhathadseemedlikeaneternity,andbeganthelongdancebacktomy
seat. Agony, misery. I wanted to run back to the seat, to have my moment of ignominy end quickly. But
what then? I would be sitting in my chair facing the congregation while the choir was still on the third
verse,withthefinalverseyettocome.BetterIkeepmoving,evenifitseemedlikeIwasmaneuvering
throughthickmolasses.
Soon after I dropped the sweat-dampened wadded note in the collection box, and was nearing the
security of my seat, I heard the woman announce “Ten pounds.” The silence in the church was
oppressive…soon followed by what agonizingly sounded like a few audible gasps...then feeble polite
applause.Mercifully,theserviceconcludedsoonafter.
Istayedbrieflyatthereceptionfollowing,watchingmembersofthecongregationbesiegeMr.Olomo,
gushing over the magnitude of his Christian charity. He looked really pleased with himself. After the
obligatory polite niceties, I slowly moved toward the door, nodding to people as I passed, and beat a
hastyretreat.ThatwasmyfirstandlastappearanceattheBlessedChurchofChrist.Theysaythatreligion
comforts.Notsoformethatday.
FloydSandfordistheauthorofAfricanOdyssey:theadventurousjourneysofaPeaceCorpsVolunteerin
Africa,fromwhichthisisanexcerpt.HewasaPeaceCorpsVolunteerinNigeriafrom1964–66.
AVisitFromH.I.M.
CAROLBEDDO
Ourrelationstopowercanbecomequitereal,especiallywhenthereisloveinvolved.
LEANING IN THE SHADE OF THE METAL WAREHOUSE BUILDING,I’M ONE OF ABOUT NINETY VILLAGERS WHO HAVE COME
tothedirtairstriptowelcomeEmperorHaileSelassietoBaharDar.Westandstillandsilentatthesight
ofthedistantplane,anexoticsilverinsectaloftinAfrica’senormousbluebowlofasky.
Astheplanetouchesdown,womendemonstrateenthusiasmwiththeirloudfalsettotrill.Mencalland
humph in deep voices and some clap their hands or rhythmically stamp their doulas, sturdy wooden
walkingsticks,ontheground,creatingadeepsyncopatedlayeroforganizedsoundbeneaththewomen’s
continuous,hightrill.
NotonlyamItheonlynon-Ethiopianinthiscrowd,Iamthetallest,thepalest,theonlyblonde;andI’m
theonlypersonwho’snotapeasant.
Notoneofmyfellowteachersishere.Thebankpresidentandvice-presidentarenothere.Perhapsthe
airportdirectorisinsidethiswarehousethatservesastheairportbuilding,butheisnottobeseen.
Showinguptogreettheemperorislefttothecommonpeople.
Twomeninkhakirolloutanarrowredcarpetinthegeneraldirectionofwheretheplanewillcometo
rest.Thecrowdisdressedintheirusualtraditionalbest—white,homespuncottondressesforthewomen,
theirheadsandshoulderscoveredwithwhiteshawls.Themenwearlongtunicsoverjodhpurs,bothof
whitecottontwill,whitegauzyshawlsdrapedovertheirshoulders.I’mwearinganordinarybrowncotton
dress my mother made and, while everyone else is barefoot, I’m wearing locally made leather sandals
withupturnedtoesthatprotectmyfeetfromourstonypaths.
So now I will finally see H.I.M. in person, in my village. I am here in Ethiopia only because he
requestedPeaceCorpsVolunteers.Hewantedfastgrowthofeducationintheprovincesand,toachieve
that,hewantedyoung,healthyAmericanswhowouldbewillingtoliveindistantvillagesuntilEthiopian
graduatesfromtheteachertrainingcollegecouldreplaceus.
TheEmperorandIhaveaconnection,areasonhecouldactuallyknowofme.Butwillheknowmeif
heseesme?
GuytoldmethatHaileSelassieknewwhoIwasthenightwerealizedourrelationshipwaschanging.
Ourfeelingsforeachotherwereintense,eventhoughlikingeachotherwasallIeverintended.Guylives
andworksinAddisAbaba,aprofessionalperson,andI’minthenorthernhighlands.Ididnotexpecta
satisfyingrelationship.
“There’s something that I need to tell you,” Guy said that night in Addis as we were saying a long
farewellinthelobbybarattheItegueMennonHotel.IwasduetoflybacktoBaharDarearlythenext
morning.“Itshouldn’tmakeadifferenceforus,butitisbetterthatItellyou.”
“Hmm,thatsoundsinteresting,butdifficult,”Isaid.
“Itisboth.”
“O.K.Goahead.Tellme.”
“Well,youknowhowinourcountryallmarriagesarearranged?”
“Yeah.Sortof.”
“Iknowthiswillsoundoddtoyou,butImusttellyou.IhopeyouwillacceptwhatIsay.Itdoesnot
changeanythingaboutus.It’sjustonemorethingIneedtoworkoutinmylife.”
“O.K.”
“Ihavebeen,howshouldIsay?Promised?Iamsupposedtomarrysomeone.”Guy’ssoulfulbrown
eyes, so typical of the handsome Amhara people, white half-moons below the chocolate brown irises,
alwaysmademefeelwarminside.Icontinuedlookingstraightintothosemournfuleyes,calmlylistening,
waiting.“ThisisoneofthethingstheEmperorspeakstomeabout.”
IknewhespokewiththeEmperor;I’dbeeninhisAddisAbabaofficewhenhereceivedcalls.Ihad
assumed they spoke about Guy’s marketing activities at the tourist organization, and they probably did,
too,sinceitwastheEmperorwhohadplacedhimthere.ButtheyspokeinAmharic,andquickly.There
wasnowayIcouldunderstandaword.
Engaged?Iwasstunned.AndHisImperialMajestywasinvolved?
“Whoisityou’resupposedtomarry?”Aneasy,blandquestion.
“TheEmperorandmyfamilybetrothedoneofhisgirls,Hirut,tomewhenwewerechildren.”
“Doyouloveher?”
Guylaughedlongandloud,buthiseyesdidnotlookcheerful.“Loveisnotthepoint,mydarlingCarol.
We’rebetrothedbyourfamilies.That’sall.Wewerebetrothedforreasonsnothavingtodowithlove.”
“Andnow?”
He laughed again. I was not finding anything funny. I gave him a straight, serious look that he
understood to mean he ought to get on with answering my question. “Hirut is living in the north, in
Lallibela,andsheisinlovewithanAmerican.”Guylookedatmeinapeculiarway,asifIshouldseethe
irony.AndwhileImight,Icouldn’tstoptoenjoyit.“Shelivesinamoreprimitiveplacethanyou.No
running water. No electricity. No industry. I feel sorry for her there. The American is an architect
restoringstonechurches.Wonderful,don’tyouthink?”
“Iguess.”
“Wonderful: Hirut and I are promised to each other and we both are in love with Americans.” Guy
slappedhisknees.Icouldn’tlaugh;thiswasthefirsttimehe’dsaidthathelovedme.“MydearCarol,this
doesnotaffectus.Idon’twantitto.ButIwantedyoutoknow—nottohearfromsomeoneelse.”
“Anarrangedmarriage,”Isaid.
“Yes.”
“Butwithoutaweddingdate.”
“That’sright.Withourfamilies’acceptance,we’vebeenputtingitoffformanyyears.Thatwaseasy
whenIwasabroadstudying,butnow—wedon’tknowhowmuchlongerwecandothis.”
“Isthisthefamilyproblemyourfatherasksyoutofix?”
“Onlyalittlepartoftheproblem,”hesaid.“But,yes,itisoneofthethingshespeakstomeabout.”
“Can’t the Emperor just make you do what he wants?” I couldn’t believe I was having this
conversation.“Imean,he’stheking,right?Don’tkingsjustgettohavethingsthewaytheywant?”
“TheEmperorisnotlikethat.He’sverykind.Andpatient.Also,he’sverycuriousaboutyou.”
“About me?” I said, surprise quickly turning to a small panic. Couldn’t Peace Corps find out about
this?Wouldn’ttheysendmehome,pronto?“Oh,shit!”Weweretoldintrainingthatweweretobevery
discreet.AsfreshVolunteers,wetranslatedthistomeanwecoulddoanythingwewanted,aslongPeace
Corpsstaffdidnothearaboutit.AndnowtheEmperorhimselfknowsaboutme.Moreimportantly,he
knowsaboutGuyandme.
TodayH.I.M.iscoming.QueenElizabethandPrincePhilliparesoontomakeastatevisit,andH.I.M.
willbringthemheretoBaharDartoshowoffhisruraloutpostatthesourceoftheBlueNile.Hehasan
experimentalfarmonthathillside.H.I.M.isproudofhisagriculturalsuccesses.
So now I’m standing at the airstrip, to show my respect just as everyone else here intends. In some
crazywayitseemstomethatifH.I.M.reallyknowswhoIam,ifhedoesknowI’mstationedinBahar
Dar,hewouldbeinsultedifIdidn’tappear?SowhyamIgettingnervousandhavingsecondthoughts?
BecauseI’manobstructiontotheEmperor’splans?ButIdidn’tintendtobecomeanobstruction.Idon’t
wanttofeelasvulnerableasIdoatthismoment.ButIwon’tavoidthis.
TheEmperor’splanetouchesdown,andthemightyroarofthepropellersdrownsoutthewomenand
menwho’vekeptuptheirfalsettotrillingandrhythmicthumping.Twomeninkhakiuniformsrolloutthe
stainless steel stairway. A third man runs to deliver another strip of red carpeting, and they begin
unrollingitfromthetopofthestaircase,creatingacontinuousredwalkwaydownthestairstothecarpet
ontheground,whichleadsintothemetalwarehousebuilding,adecidedlyinelegantentrytoBaharDar.
Theplanedooropens;ahushdescends.Wewait,breathless.Everyoneelsemusthavealreadyknown
whattoexpect,becausetheybeginlaughingevenbeforeIseethelittledog,atiny,brown,fluffylapdogat
the top of the red-carpeted stairs, the smallest dog I’ve seen since I arrived in Africa. He stands at
attention,perchedonskinnylegsonthestairs’toplanding.Asifreceivingan“atease”order,hedescends
thestairs,hoppingonallfoursontoeachstaironeatatime.Hereachesthebottomofthestairs,turnsback
tolookupattheopendoor,thensitsandobedientlywaits.
Allatoncethewomenbegintrillingagain,keepingatituntilH.I.M.appears.Hestandsatattentionin
hismilitaryuniform,hisbilledcap,andacapewithatall,embroideredcollarencirclinghisneck.Once
againwefallintosilenceaswegazeupatH.I.M.,andH.I.M.gazesoutatus.
As the Emperor takes his first step, everyone around me bends at the waist into a deep bow, and I
know they can no longer see H.I.M. Suddenly I have an odd thought: I’m American and we don’t bow
downtomonarchs.Ordowe?
Stilluncertain,IremainuprightwhileH.I.M.descends.Assoonashisfoottouchesground,everyone
aroundmeisnolongermerelybowing,theyaredroppingtothegroundonallfours,handsoutstretchedin
frontoftheirheads.H.I.M.andIaretheonlytwostanding,andI’mahalf-foottaller.NeverhaveIfeltso
conspicuous.
H.I.M.picksuphisdogandtuckshimunderhisleftelbow.Thedog’stinyfacepeersoutfromtheedge
ofthecape.H.I.M.beginsaslow,straight-shouldered,regalwalkontheredcarpet,headheldhigh,just
as in every photo and newsreel. But seeing him in person, I’m struck by how small he is, a perfectly
formed,slim,handsomelittleman.Heandhisdogareinperfectproportion.Doesheknowthat?Wasthat
hisplan?
H.I.M.walks,chinup,eyesstraightahead,cradlinghisdog,awalkingstickintherighthand.Henever
lookstoeitherside.I’mhopingthere’sachanceImightbelessnoticeablehereintheshade,againstthe
wallatthebackoftheprostratedcrowd.
Suddenlyheturnshisheadsideways,inmydirection.Oh,myLord,thosemelancholybrowneyesof
theAmharapeoplelookintomine.Withoutthinking,Ilowermyheadandbreakourgaze.Ididn’tknow
untiljustnow,butclearlyI’veabsorbedsomeculturaletiquette;Ishouldnotmakedirecteyecontactwith
someonefromahigherstation.Itjustcamenaturallytobowmyheadthisway,andI’mglad.Itfeelsright.
Iraisemyhead,andhe’sstilllookingmeover.Heseemstoinviteeyecontact,andI’mastonishedbya
brief,discreetlookofacknowledgment,aswellasahintofaroyalnod.IknowIwillrememberthose
eyes forever, eyes filled with intelligence, sorrowful patience, and compassion. A deep, bountiful
compassioninwhichI’mcertainIamincluded.
CarolBeddo,aPCVinEthiopiafrom1964-65,returnedtoherPeaceCorpsstationin2003.Visiting
BaharDarnearlyfortyyearslaterfloodedherwithmemories,andshebegantowonder:Whowasthat
youngwoman?Caroliscomingtounderstandhowtheexperienceprovidedthefoundationfortherest
ofherlifeasacommunityactivistandasaconsultantinpublicpolicy,politicalcampaignsand
elections.Lifewithherhusbandofforty-plusyearsisrichwithfamily,andshe’sgratefulthatherthree
grandchildrendesirealotofhertime.
MoonRocket
ROBERTE.GRIBBIN
Whatisthemeaningbehindthelandingonthemoon?
I SEE IT IN MY MIND’S EYE—FROM MY HOUSE IN SONGHOR—WIND-BLOWN TUFTS OF LIGHT-GREEN SUGAR CANE
surginglikeagreatseaonKenya’sKanuPlains,washinggentlyagainstthethousand-footheightsofthe
NandiEscarpment.Thirtymilesdistant,LakeVictoriaNyanzaisglimmeringinthelateafternoonsun.The
image is clear, but complicated by other images, faces, smells, sounds—by the sheer exuberance of
memoriesthatsoindeliblymarkedthistimeinmylife.
AsaPeaceCorpsVolunteerinCentralNyanza,Iwaschargedwithsupervisingtheconstructionofa
rural water system designed to pipe potable water to 1,200 farms on three government-sponsored
SettlementSugarSchemes.IworkedwithagroupofeightmenwhomItrainedintheskilledworkofthe
project.Whenresting,wekibitzedandtalked.Theyhadmanyquestions.
Maurice always began. With a twinkle in his eye, he probed the differences he reckoned inherent
betweenwhitesandblacks.HequestionedmeincessantlyaboutwhyIhadcometoKenya.I’mnotsurehe
everreallyunderstoodmyresponse.PresumingthatIknewtheanswer,maybeIcouldn’tarticulateitwell.
AltruismwasbeyondMaurice’scomprehension;athirstforadventureseemedtobeasatisfactorymotive.
Anotherexchangewentlikethis:
“Robert,”Mauriceasked,“IsittruethatMzungus(Europeans)eatfrogs?”
I pondered. “Yes. Some Mzungus eat frogs, but only the legs. When fried up they taste a bit like
chicken.”
Mauricelookedskeptical.“Really,”hefrowned.“Frogs.”Heconcluded,“Mzungusareveryweird.”
Iresponded,“Youknow,Europeansthinkthateatingtermitesisstrange.”
Mauriceabsorbedthisinformation,thenshotbackasurprisedquery.“Why?”heasked.“Termitesare
good.”
A telling exchange occurred in July 1969. Americans had just landed on the moon. The guys were
interestedinthisnews—moresothanIhadexpected.
“So,Robert,isittruethatAmericanshavelandedonthemoon?”
“Yes,”Irespondedpointingtothewispofamoonstillvisibleinthemorningsky.“Theyareupthere
now.”
Thisengendereddiscussionofrocketshipsandairplanes,whichdemonstratedtheseruralmen’slack
ofappreciationforthescienceandthetechnologicalaccomplishmentofthemoontrip.Francis,whowas
more cynical than his colleagues, observed, “If Americans can build airplanes, then certainly they can
build a rocket.” He was puzzled, however, that it had taken so long to get to the moon. “After all,” he
notedpointingagaintothemoon,“youcanseeitrightthere!”Thisagainraisedthequestionastowhether
thelandinghadreallyhappened.
Ligolo,older,tallerandstrongerwithhisfrontteethknockedoutinthetraditionalLuostyle,andwho
rarelyparticipatedintheseexchanges,clearedhisthroat.Themencranedanxiouslyinhisdirectionwhen
heasked,“SoRobert,”hepaused,“WhatcolorisGod?”
I was stunned. I had no context for the question. Yet it obviously lay at the heart of their concern.
James,themostworldlyofthecrew,whosportedsunglassesandwhohadshedhisfamilynameOyierin
favorofBondi,inhonorofAgent007,cametomyaid.
“Robert,” he explained, “we Luo people believe that God takes several forms and that he lives, at
times,onthemoon.TheissuegoestothenatureofGod:ifheisgood,heisblacklikeAfricans.However,
ifheisevil,heisred.Ligolo’squestionisfair.IfAmericanshavegonetothemoon,theymusthaveseen
God.So,whatcolorishe?”
Itwasagoodquestion.Fromfurtherdiscussion,IlearnedmoreaboutLuobeliefs,buthadnoanswer.
Weagreedtolooktogether.IbroughtbackinternationaleditionsofTimeandNewsweekfromKisumuthe
nextweek,andwescrutinizedthestoriesandpicturesforhelp,but—ofcourse—foundnone.
Irealizedafterwardsthatthishadbeenoneofthosemomentswheneachofmyfriendstookonemore
stepintothemodernworldandawayfromtribaltraditions.Thetrappingsofoldbeliefsdiminishedinthe
newreality.
BeforetoolongtheissueofGodonthemoonfadedaway.SoonLuoownedandoperatedtrucksand
buses, and, perhaps subconsciously reflecting this religious heritage, started bearing names like Moon
RocketandApollo12.
In the years since, I have reflected often and with sadness on how man’s crowning technological
achievementofthetwentiethcenturyunintentionallyunderminedbeliefsthathadsustainedLuopeoplefor
generations.
RobertE.GribbenwasaPCVinKenyafrom1968-70,buildingruralwatersystemsatMuhuroniand
Hoey’sBridge.Subsequently,hejoinedtheForeignServiceandwentbacktoAfricaoffandonfor
anotherfortyyears.Hevisitedhisprojectsseveraltimesovertheyearsandfoundthemupand
runningandwellstaffedbythemenhehadtrained.
BuryMyShortsatChamborroGorge
THORHANSON
Sometimesourencountersarealittlecloserthanwemightfindcomfortable,thoughalittleless
immediatelydangerous!
“Justlistentothisstomachofmine….Thewayitsounds,you’dthinkIhadahyenainsideme.”
—HumphreyBogart,TheAfricanQueen
WHENPEACECORPSVOLUNTEERS MEET, THEIR CONVERSATIONS FOLLOW A PATTERN AS PREDICTABLE AS THE PHASES
ofthemoon.
During my time in Uganda, we would gather in the capital city every few months for some kind of
workshop,training,orjusttovisitandtakeabreakfromvillagelife.Aftertheusualgreetingsandafew
storiesfromthebush,talkinvariablyturnedtothetwotopicsoneveryone’smind—food,anditseventual
results. Or, more crudely: what’s going in and how it’s coming out? We all dreamt aloud about
supermarkets,pizzadeliveryandfoodcourts,whileatthesametimelamentingthesorryconditionofour
bowels.Withroundworms,giardia,amoebas,andotherintestinalchallengesascommonintheUgandan
dietasbananasorbeans,digestivediscussionscouldprovequitelengthy.
In my work, I spent most days in the forests of Bwindi Impenetrable National Park, where I was
habituating mountain gorillas for the park’s fledgling ecotourism project. Sharing lunch (and parasites)
from a common bowl with the trackers made me a frequent visitor to the Peace Corps nurse; I had
braggingrightstomorede-wormingsthananyotherPCVinthecountry.
Ihadlearnedthesimple,vitalruleofgastricsurvivalinAfrica:nevertrustafart.Unlikepassinggas
inthetemperatezone,wherefoulsmellisyourprimaryrisk,tropicalflatulencecarrieswithitahostof
embarrassingpossibilities.Theschoolyardadage“silent,butdeadly”becomesmoremenacing:“silent,
but…sorry.”
Manypartsoftheworldsufferfromtheunfortunatecombinationofabundantdiarrheaandadistinct
lack of toilets. In Uganda, every one of us lost a latrine race at one time or another, and sharing these
storiesbecameasortofcontact-groupritualatanyPeaceCorpsevent.OneVolunteerfoundhimselfwith
hispantsaroundhisankles,searchingforshrubberyonabusyKampalastreetcorner.Thegateguardfrom
anearbyembassyfinallytookpityonhim,offeringsoap,bathwater,andacleanpairofpants.
Another friend learned to survive long taxi rides by lining his shorts with newspaper, a technique I
couldhaveusedonacertaindayinQueenElizabethNationalPark.
Queen Elizabeth, or “QE,” encompasses nearly two thousand square kilometers of savanna and
lowlandforestontheflooroftheGreatRiftValley.ItbordersVirungaNationalParkinCongo(Zaire),
makingoneofthelargestcontiguousprotectedareasinallofAfrica.Aspartofthetrainingforourpark
ranger-guides at Bwindi, I had arranged an exchange program with QE’s Chamborro Gorge, a narrow,
forested chasm that snakes through the grasslands from the edge of the rift escarpment to the shores of
Kazinga Channel. A fellow Volunteer, Cathy, had spent the past two years habituating Chamborro’s
residentchimpanzeepopulationfortourism.TheBwindirangersandIwouldspendseveraldaysthere,
seeingCathy’sproject,learningaboutsavannaecologyandchimpanzees,andtouringthelocalcommunity
toseehowothervillagesdealtwithlifeontheedgeofanationalpark.
“Themillethereissour,”concludedBwindiguideEnosKomundashortlyafterourarrival.Heandthe
othersseemedtoenjoythetrip,butmissedBwindiimmediatelyandsentradiomessagesbacktothepark
everyday.Althoughwehadtraveledlessthansixtymiles,itwasamajoroutingandthefarthestanyof
themhadeverbeenfromhome.
Iroseearlyonemorningtoaccompanyagroupoftouristsintothegorge.Cathyhadaskedmetohelp
evaluate her newest guide, Milton, and I looked forward to spending an hour with chimpanzees,
comparingtheexperiencetogorillaviewing.
Heavy sunlight shone red through the dry season haze as we prepared to set off. The morning
temperaturealreadyapproachedBwindi’sonahotday,butcoolbreezesroseupfromthegorge,bringing
thepromiseofforestandshade.Cathy’s“FigTree”Campsatonawidegrassyplateau,overlookingthe
park’sdryplainsandthegorgeitself,asteep-sidedchasmcarvedbytherushingChamborroRiver.The
savannastretchedawayacrossthelevelflooroftheRiftValley,stoppedinthewestbythesheerfaceof
theRwenzoriMountains,book-endedbytheshimmeringwatersofLakesEdwardandGeorge.Throughit
all, the gorge cut an incongruous ribbon of green, a winding, rainforest microcosm trapped in a sea of
dustyplainsandaridacacia.
Wedrovealongaruttedgametrackthatfollowedtherimofthegorge,passinggroupsofshaggygrey
waterbuck and a small herd of Uganda kob, the graceful, long-horned antelope pictured on Uganda’s
nationalseal.Theystoppedgrazingtowatchus,tailsflicking,copperycoatsapalereflectionoftheironrichsoil.Afteraslowmile,wefoundthetrackerswaitingintheshadeofathorntree.Theyhadleftcamp
atdawntohikealongtheedgeoftheforest,listeningfortheunmistakablewhoopsandascendingshrieks
ofChamborro’sthirtyresidentchimps.
Unlike gorillas, who leave a clear trail through the undergrowth, chimpanzees can travel long
distances without ever touching the ground. They spend more than half their time in trees, and are best
locatedbyfollowingtheirvocalizations.Whileatroopmaycontaindozensofindividualapes,theylive
inconstantlyshiftingsocialstructuresofsub-groupsandfamilies.Callingoutinthemorninghoursallows
scatteredindividualsandfeedingpartiestomaintaincontactoverawidearea,announcingdangersorthe
discoveryofaparticularlydeliciousfruittree.Thetrackersconcentratedonpinpointingthenoise,then
racedtowardthechimpsalongthegorge’sintricatenetworkofforestpathsandgametrails.
Iintroducedmyselftothetourists,apairofmiddle-agedcouplesfromtheStates,thenturnedthings
over to Milton. He reviewed the rules and regulations of tracking. His briefing sounded polished, very
similartotheoneweusedinBwindi.Afterafewquestions,webeganourdescentintothegorge.Oneof
thetouristsdroppedbacktochatwithme.
“Wecouldn’tgetgorillapermits,”heexplained,referringtotheincreasinglypopulartrackingprogram
atBwindi.“Allsoldout.Ifwe’regoingtoseeanyapesatallonthistrip,thentoday’stheday.”
I assured him that the chances were better than eighty percent. Although the chimps were highly
mobile, and less predictable than gorillas, the gorge confines their movements, and they rarely eluded
Cathy’strackers.
Thetrailslopedsharplydownward.Soonwewereateyelevelwiththeforestcanopy,awallofgreen
dominatedbythecrownsoftoweringfigsandironwood.Blackandwhitecolobusmonkeyslolledlike
strangepiedfruitinthetreetops,baskinginthemorningsun.Wepasseddirectlybeneaththem;theypeered
down unconcerned, like wizened shamans with their white-bearded faces and long-fringed coats.
Considered one of the least-evolved primates, colobus monkeys lack opposing thumbs and have
chambered,ruminant-likestomachs.Theydigestvegetationwiththeefficiencyofcattle,andliveintiny
home ranges, surrounded by a feast of rainforest leafage. Chamborro supported one of the densest
populations in Africa, with dozens of family troops scattered across the canopy. Every morning they
greetedthesunrisewiththeirgravellycalls,likeachorusofhuge,baritonetreefrogs.
Mystomachgaveadisturbinglurchasthetrackersledustowardtheriver,butdyspepsiahadbecome
awayoflifeandIdismissedit.Wewalkedalongahippotrail,wornsmoothanddeepwherethegreat
beasts climbed out of the river each night to graze. The forest felt refreshingly cool; stray beams of
sunlightfiltereddownthoughthecanopy-likeveinsofgoldinashadyunderworld.Crossingthestreamon
awidelog,Miltonstoppedandmotionedtowardthetreetopsontheoppositeshore.Adarkshapemelted
away into the green, followed by an ear-shattering cry. We ran, trying to catch up with the chimp as it
brachiatedhighaboveus.Finally,itcametorestonabroadlimb,squattingwithitsbackagainstthetrunk,
chewingabsentlyonahandfulofleaves.
We had stopped running, but my stomach was still very much in motion, rumbling ominously, with
occasionaltwingesofpain.Itriedtoattributethefeelingtoexcitement,butmythoughtscreptbacktothe
greasyroadsideteahousewhereEnosandIhadsharedaplateofeggs.Inspiteoftheshade,Ibeganto
sweat.
Twomorechimpsappearedonthebranchaboveus,asub-adultandanoldmalewiththin,wispyhair,
and age-marks spotting his broad, dark face. They joined the first and all three began grooming one
another,linedupalongthebranchlikestonecarvingsintheeavesofagreatcathedral.
Thetouristssnappedphotographs,andthemanI’dspokenwithgavemeasmileandadouble“thumbs
up.”ButIwatchedtheapeswithanincreasingsenseofurgency;mystomachcontinuedtoroil.Finally,I
driftedtothebackofthegroupandmotionedforMilton.
“Verygoodbriefingtoday,”Ibeganwithasmile,“butyoudidn’tmentionwhattodoifatouristneeds
tomakea‘longcall’whilethey’reinthegorge.Whatisyourpolicyonthatone?”
Helookedpuzzled.“Idon’tknow.It’sneverhappened.”
“Ah,”Iwhispered.“Well,inBwindi,wealwaystellpeopletheyshouldborrowapanga (machete),
digahole,andburytheirwastesoitcan’tinfecttheanimals.”
“It’sneverhappened,”herepeatedsternly.“ButIguesswewoulddothesame.”
“Good,good.Remembertosaythatnexttime.”Ipattedhimontheshoulderandlookedatmywatch
whilehereturnedtothetourists.Twentyminutestogo.Thenthelonghikeuptothevanandthedriveback
tocamp.
Ilastedforanotherquarterofanhour,pacingunobtrusivelyatthebackofthegroup,beforeanaudible
percolatingsoundandasuddencoldsweattoldmeitwasnowornever.
“Milton,” I whispered, tight-lipped. He was staring intently up at the chimps and didn’t hear me.
“Milton!” He looked back, startled, and several of the tourists turned around. I smiled, trying to look
casual.“Givemeyourpanga,”Imumbled,“Yourpanga.Now!”
Itooktheblade,noddedtothetrackers,andsprint-shuffleddownthetraillikeaJapanesedancerina
tight kimono. Ten yards, twenty…too late. My body let loose and I felt a sudden, overwhelming relief
accompaniedbywarmdampnessinallthewrongplaces.Thesmellwasindescribable.
Justoutofsightofthetourists,Idoveintotheunderbrushandrippedoffmypants,scrabblingaround
fordryleavestocleanupthemess.Iwasfrantic.Thegroupwouldbecomingthiswayanyminuteand
here was the Peace Corps Volunteer: naked from the waist down, burying his underwear in a shallow
grave.Afterbriefconsideration,Iburiedmysockstoo.
Thankfully, Milton overshot his hour with the chimps by five minutes, and the tourists were still
packingtheircameraswhenIsaunteredbacktothegroup.IhandedMiltonhispanga,thenquicklytook
myplaceattherear,asfardownwindaspossible.
Thetalkativemanlaggedbehindagain,questioningmeaboutlifeinthePeaceCorps.
“I’vethoughtaboutvolunteeringafterIretire,”hesaideagerly.“ButIhadnoideathePeaceCorpsdid
thiskindofthing.Howmarvelous!”
Inoddedandsmiled,tryingtostayoutofolfactoryrange.Finallywereachedthetopofthegorge,and
everyonepiledintothejeep,asmall,crowdedvehiclethathadbeenswelteringintheAfricansun.
Ilingeredonthetrail,pretendingtolookatabirdandhopingthey’dleavemebehind.
“Mr.Tour!”Miltoncalled.
“I’lljustwalk,Milton,”Isaidconfidently.“Seeyouatcamp.”
“No,no,”heexplained.“Therearelions.Youcan’twalkherealone.”
“O.K., then.” I shrugged and climbed into the back seat, squeezing between the trackers, and the
friendlymanwhowasconsideringthePeaceCorps.Thedoorslidshutwithaloudthunk.Therewasa
momentofhorrifiedsilenceasmypresencebecameunmistakablyknowninthestiflinginteriorofthecar.
Everyone lunged to unroll their windows and the driver took off, bouncing away over the rough track,
tryingdesperatelytomakealittlewind.
Noonespokeontheridebacktocamp,andIcouldfeelthemannexttometryingtoedgeawayonthe
narrowseat.Fromthelookonhisface,IthinkIcostthePeaceCorpsalikelyrecruit.
Dr.ThorHanson,whoservedinUgandafrom1993-95,isaconservationbiologistandauthorbasedin
thePacificNorthwest.HespenthisPeaceCorpsyearshabituatingwildmountaingorillasinUganda,
anexperiencehedescribedinhisfirstbook,TheImpenetrableForest.Sincethen,Hanson’sresearch
andconservationactivitieshavetakenhimaroundtheglobe.Hissecondbook,Feathers:theEvolution
ofaNaturalMiracle,isduefromBasicBooksin2011.
NearDeathinAfrica
NANCYBILLER
Systemsandexpectations,especiallyinthewakeofcolonialism,canaltereventhebestofintentions.
I HAVE RETREATED TO THE FAR CORNER OF A HIGH SCHOOL CLASSROOM.MY EYES ARE CLOSED;I TRY TO TRANSPORT
myselftoaplacewhereIcanseehowabsurditwasformetochoosetocometoAfricatomeetmydeath
beforetheageoftwenty-three.
Therehadbeenearlierthreats.LyingunderamosquitonetduringtrainingweeksattheLycéeFéminin
in N’djamena, Chad, after suffering from weeks of dysentery, I heard the French nurse say “oh la la”
whenshetookmypulse;IwassureIwasgoingtodie.ThedayIaccidentallybitintoachickenboneand
apieceofmyfronttoothchippedoff:IwassaddenedtothinkthatalltheorthodonticworkI’dsuffered
througheightyearsearlierwouldhardlyhavebeenworththeeffort.Myteethandotherbodypartswould
bedestroyedbitbybit,aconsequenceofhavingrequestedChadformyPeaceCorpsexperience.Atmy
postinginBongor,aFrenchdoctorfinallyfoundShigellainastoolsample,easilycuredwithantibiotics.
Imaintainedintestinalhealthbyconsumingyogurtonadailybasis,makingitfrompowderedmilkanda
bitofstarterpurchasedacrosstheLogoneRiverinupscale(Frenchbutterandyogurtavailable)Maroua,
Cameroon.TheyogurtideacamefromadviceI’dfoundinAdelleDavis’sLet’sEatRighttoKeepFit,
oneofthefewbooksI’dpackedwhenleavingNewYork.
ThefearIfeltintheTerminaleclassroomwithscreen-andglass-freewindowswasdifferent.Iwas
sufferingfromsomethingotherthanamicroorganismattackornutritionaldeficiency.
IwasanEnglishteacherforstudentsintheirlastyearofhighschool.Thesestudentshadspentmany
years without teachers who, in France, would have prepared them by that point for the baccalaureate
examthatprovidesthosewhopasswithadvantagesinseekingemploymentorauniversityeducation.
Mystudentswerebright,buttheydidnothaveenoughtrainingtopass.Ididnothaveenoughskillto
makeupfortheyearswhentheEnglishteacherhadnotshownuporhadleftinthemiddleofaterm.
Toward the end of the Terminale year, teachers administered the “bac blanc” in their respective
subject areas. The grade earned would be considered in the overall term grade. The bac blanc was
somethinglikethePSAT—apracticeexamgivingstudentsanideaofhowtheywouldfareontherealbac
(administeredinthecapital)andtohelpthemconcentrateonareasofweakness.Thoseareasweredeep
andplentifulformystudents.Nevertheless,Iadministeredtheexamandimposedrules.Iexplainedthat
anytimeastudentspoketoanotherduringtheexamIwoulddeducttenpoints.IbelievedthatIwasdoing
therightthing,creatingtestconditionsclosetowhattheywouldexperienceinN’djamenalaterintheyear.
Anumberofstudentschallengedmebyspeakingrepeatedly;thiswouldbereflectedintheirgrades.
Afterthebacblanc,schoolwasclosedfordayswhiletheteachersgradedexams.
Oneofthosedayswhenschoolwasclosed,afterIhadcompletedmygrading,Iranintosomefellow
teachersatabadmintongamehostedbytheChadian/Russianphysiciancoupleintown.Theteacherswere
fromtheSovietUnionandtheytaughtRussian.Theyearwas1978.HavinggrownupatatimewhenUS
school children were taught that the Soviets might invade at any time and when the apartment building
whereIgrewuphadprominentfalloutshelters,IwasamazedwhenIfirstarrivedatthishighschoolto
findmyselfinreal-lifecontactwithSoviets.
Bythetimewewerecorrectingthebacblanc,theamazementhaddissipated.Theteachersaskedme
howmystudentshaddoneontheexam.Itrustedthemascolleaguesandreportedthat,sadly,theresults
wereverypoor.Incontrast,apparently,Russianscoreswerestrong.
IbelievethatthoseRussianteacherstheninformedmystudentsthattheywouldreceivepoorgradesin
English,settingthestageforwhathappenedwhenwereturnedtoschoolafterthebreak.
ThedayIhandedoutgradedexams,mybright,strappingstudentswereready.Theyroseup,insisting
thatIgivethemhighergrades.Theysurroundedme,armsintheair,fistsclenched,demandingjustice.I
backedintothecornerandclosedmyeyes.
Iexpectedtobecrushed.Otherteachersandstudentspassedbyandsawwhatwashappening.Some
kindsoulcalledforthehelpofthecenseur,(theindividualinchargeofdiscipline).Itseemedlikehours
beforehearrivedand,alongwiththechefdeclasse(classleader)clearedapathformetopassbetween
angrystudents.
MyPeaceCorpsexperiencetaughtmethatIdidnothavethetalenttobeagoodteacher.Butitalso
gavememyfirstglimpsesofthebeautyandgrandeurofAfrica,thedignityofitspeople,andtheenormity
of their challenges. I now have two sons, both enrolled in an academically competitive public high
school.Theirteachersaresometimeslessexperiencedthanparentswouldlike,andareabsentalmostas
muchasthestudentswouldwishbut,thankstomyexperienceinChad,Iknowhowincrediblyfortunate
my children are. As I tell those boys I love so deeply, and anyone else who happens to ask, my Peace
Corpsexperience,despitewhatseemednear-deathexperiencesthirtyyearsago,wasjustaboutthebest
and most important of my life, second only to motherhood and all the challenges it presents in the
technology-laden,materialisticsocietyinwhichwelivetoday.
NancyBillerservedasahighschoolEnglishteacherinChad(inBongorandSarh),from1977–79.
Hercommitmentthereendedabruptlywhencivilwarbrokeouthalfwaythroughhersecondyear.All
VolunteerswereevacuatedtoYaounde,thecapitalofCameroon.AstheAdministrativeDirectorfor
GlobalHealthProgramsattheUniversityofPennsylvania’sSchoolofMedicine,shehastheprivilege
ofadvisingmanyyoungandidealisticmedicalstudentswhoareinterestedinvolunteeringinlowresourceareasoftheworld.
BoeufMadagaskara
JACQUELYNZ.BROOKS
Thefoodweeat…putbeforeusperhapsmoregraphicallythanmightbeexpected!
I LIVED ON THE SOUTHERNMOST TIP OF “THE RED ISLAND”—MADAGASCAR—WHERE I TAUGHT ENGLISH TO THE
Malagasy.FortDauphinwasadusty,run-downlittletownwithnorepairstotheroadssincetheFrench
leftinthe1950s.Inspiteoftheirpoverty,theMalagasywerehappy,lovedpartiesandentertainingthe
vazah,theirwordforstranger.
I seldom left the harbor town of Fort Dauphin. One evening, on his way to the local hotel, a PCV
namedGregwalkedontomyverandah,whichwasoverhungwithlovelywildorchidsandjasminemuch
likeanoldsouthernplantation.SmellingtheFrenchjasmine,GregsaidheunderstoodwhyIneverwent
traveling,buthewantedtoinvitemetohisvillagejustoutsideAmbovombeinwesternMadagascar.
Ihadoncebeentheretoateachers’meeting.IthadbeenmarketdayfortheMalagasycowboyswho
herdedthehugehump-backedzebu,raisingsomuchdustwehadtoduckintoalocalbar.ThewholetimeI
wasinthebarsippingaMalagasyThreeHorseBeer,Iwatchedthefrenziedcowboyswiththeirwhips
andgunsasiftransportedtoaWesternmovie.Iwasn’teagertovisitthatpartofthecountryagain.
ItoldGregthat,muchasI’dliketogotothecelebrationfortheopeningoftheschoolhe’dbuilt,Ihad
notransportation.HeknewIwastryingtogetoutofit.
“Don’tworry,cutie,”hesaid.Hisfacewasstreakedwithdirtandsweat,hisshirtcakedwithredearth
frombikingoverunspeakableroads.“Thisisnotadate.Ineedalovelyvazahinthefrontrowtomake
myschoolopeningofficial.TheprincipalfromFortDauphinlyceeandtwoofhisEnglishteachersare
goinginhistruck.Itoldhimyoumightridealong.”
The morning of the celebration, we set off as the sun rose. I wore a clean dress because Malagasy
women never wear slacks or jeans. We bounced and swerved over broken rutted roads for over three
hours.Thetwoteachersnexttomeweredressedbeautifullyinwhitedresseswithprintedlambas tied
aroundtheirwaists,buttheysmelledverybadfromlackofdeodorantandtoothpaste.Ihadgrownusedto
theiracridsmell;whatismoreIhadgrowntolovetheseteachersfortheircourageinschoolsthathadno
books,paperorevenscreensonthewindows.Theywerepaidtheequivalentoftendollarsaweekand
mostlivedinshabbyrentedrooms,goinghometotheirfamiliesonweekends.LantoandNuorinasangas
webouncedalong,songsaboutcows,cyclones,moonlight,anduntrustworthylovers.
Greg’sschoolwasabeautifultwo-roombuildingmadeofadobefromtheredclaynearby.Threebig
plane trees planted years ago by the French shaded the schoolyard. All of the villagers in their best
lambasandbrimlesshand-wovenhatsweremillingabout,settingafewcrackedwoodenchairsinarow
facingthenewschool.LantoandNuorinainsistedImustsitinthecenter,flankedononesidebythelycee
principalandthevillagechiefand,ontheother,bytheoldestmaninthevillageandtherepresentative
fromtheMinistryofEducation.Greg,too,hadaseatinthefront.
“I think you’ll like lunch,” Greg said with a twinkle. “They have a special feast planned in your
honor.”
Gregwasteasing.ThemanfromtheMinistrywouldbethehighest-rankingofficial.Ididn’tmention
thatinmypocketIcarriedthreetomatoesandtwoshallotsincasetherewasonlysteamedmaniocrootfor
lunch.
AfteroverlongspeechesbythemanfromtheMinistryandthevillagechief,twomenappearedfrom
behindtheschooldragginganunwillingzebu,calledombyinMalagasy,directlyinfrontofmychair.The
oldestmaninthevillageroseandbrokeoffafloweringbranchfromashrub.Hewaveditovertheomby’s
back, speaking softly to the animal, patting his back, then stroking him with the branch. Distracted, the
ombydidnotseeoneofthestrongyoungmenwhograbbeditbythebacklegsandflippeditoveronthe
ground. Simultaneously, the second young man straddled the omby’s neck, pulling back its head. In one
swiftmotionthemanslasheditsthroat.Theanimalconvulsedasafountainofbloodpouredout.Isatstill
asastoneinmychair,willingmyselfnottofaint.Severalmensteppedforwardtoopenuptheomby’s
side,peelbackitsskinandbegincuttingoffthesteamingmeatfromitsexposedribs.
The principal whispered that the rib meat was the most tender; one of the young men came rushing
towardmewithhishandsfullofit.Hethrustthedrippingstill-warmmeatintomyhands.Iacceptedwith
asmuchpoiseasIcouldmuster.Iroseandbowedtothecrowdwhoapplaudedandchantedsomething
aboutthe“graciousvazah,”me.IhopedtofindsomeoneorsomeplaceIcouldgetridofthemeat,but
NuorinaandLantolinkedarmswithmeandledmetothecookingfires.
The village women, crouched on their haunches in front of the open fires, smiled in greeting. They
skewered my raw, bleeding meat. Someone passed a rag to wipe my hands. I was shaking all over,
whetherfromrageatGregorshockatseeinganombykilledandgutted,Iwasn’tsure.Irememberedthe
tomatoesandshallotsinmypockets.Thewomenremovedtheskewersfromthefirewiththeirbarehands
andcalmlyslidmyvegetablesontothesticks.
ThemanfromtheMinistrywantedtotakeaphotoofGregandmeinmyblood-staineddress.Gregput
his arm around me, but I gave him a sharp jab, my privilege as “guest of honor.” Not to give Greg the
satisfactionofseeingmecry,Iwalkedovertothecookingfires.
I was given a large tin basin full with rice atop which sat my zebu-meat and veggies en brochette.
NuorinaandLantosharedmymeatwiththeirownbasinsofrice.Thezebuhadbeencookedtoperfection:
blackenedtoacrispontheoutside,theinsidenotrawbutsucculentandjuicy,delicatelyflavoredbythe
shallotsandtomatoes.Nobarbecuesauce,noseasoningsofanykindwereadded.
I asked what the old man had said when he whispered to the omby in its last minutes. Nuorina
translatedinherbestEnglish,“Theoldonesaid,‘Wearegratefulthatyoucametothecelebration;weare
sorrytohavetotakeyourlife.Youareanobleanimal.Andthanksalotforthenicelunch.’”
Dr.JacquelynZ.BrooksservedasaTeachers’SupervisorinthePeaceCorpsinMadagascarfrom
1997–99.Shehasretiredfromteachingandiswritinganovel.Shelivesoverlookingtheharborin
Gloucester,Massachusetts,wheresheclaimstobearecluseexceptwhenentertainingherverylarge
family.
TheBaobabTree
KARAGARBE
AppreciatingbeautyinatimeofsorrowisalegacyofmuchPeaceCorpsservice.
I DIDN’T PLAN ON BEING DRUNK AT THE FUNERAL.IN FACT,I HADN’T PLANNED ON BEING AT A FUNERAL AT ALL, NOR
hadIplannedonbeingdrunk.Wewereonalongrideand,asalways,Iwasnervouslyeyeingthewater
levelinmyNalgenebottle.Furthercontributingtomydehydrationbydowningafewbowlsofdolo, the
localbrew,wasthelastthingonmywishlist,butMichelwasn’tonetorefusethefreealcoholthatpeople
alwaysofferedhiswhitefriend.
Michelwasmyfriend,interpreter,drinkingbuddyandspokesperson.EveryoneinBomborokuyknew
tolookformeathishouseifIwasn’tatmyown,andshyvillagerswantingtoapproachmewithquestions
aboutAmericaorrequestsformoneywentthroughhim.Hehadrecentlyalsobecomemytravelpartner
andwatchfulbodyguardwhenwewereinforeignterritory.Ineededhishelpmorethenusualinthesmall
villagesoutsideBomborokuy,sincealmostnoonespokeFrench.AlthoughMichelhadbeenforcedtoquit
schoolinfourthgradebecausehisparentscouldn’taffordthetuition,hespokeFrenchmorefluentlythanI
did,eventhoughhehadprobablygonemonthswithoutspeakingitbeforeI’darrivedinthevillage.
Twoweeksearlier,onabicycletripthroughthebush,wehadbeeninvitedbyawomaninsomesmall,
unnamed village to stop and have a drink, and I’d promised to return to take her picture. People were
alwaysaskingmetotaketheirpicture,togivethemmoney,tomarrythemoradopttheirchildrensothat
weallcouldhaveabetterlifeinAmerica.Irefusedalmostallthoserequests,butforsomereasonIsaid
yes,andMichelheldmetomypromise.
Wetookphotoslikeeagerrelativesatafamilyreunion:thewomanwithherbabybesidethedoorof
herhut,meholdingherbaby,herbesideherhusband,Michelandherbesidethemoped,melaughingly
tryingtogrindmilletonalargeflatrockwithsomethingresemblingarollingpin.
Agroupofchildrencrowdedintothebackgroundofeachphototostareatmewithwideeyes,facesso
shocked that they registered no emotion. Michel told me he doubted they had ever seen a white person
before.
Then we ran into Celestin—who seemed to know Michel, but I couldn’t figure out how—and the
drinkingbegan.
CelestinledustoacabaretsofamiliaritcouldhavebeeninBomborokuy.Likeallvillagecabarets,it
wasafamily’scourtyardthathadbeenturnedintoatemporarybartosellthedolothefamilymatriarch
hadspentthreedaysbrewing.Woodenbenchesringedthetreelesscourtyard.Threemudbuildingsleaned
intoonewall,theirrustedmetaldoorshangingopenlimplyinthesun.Thematriarchsquattedonastool
beside a huge clay pot, large enough for me to bathe in and poured dolo into bowls cut from dried
calabashgourds.Sheglancedupaswewalkedin,meetingmyeyesforamomentbeforereturningtothe
pocketofcoinsshefoldedintothecornerofherpagne.
AlmostassoonasCelestinledustoanemptybench,asteadystreamofvillagers—emboldenedbya
few bowls of dolo—approached us to shake my hand and start conversations that went far beyond my
basicgraspofBwamu.Michelfieldedthevisitors.Hegrinned,laughed,gestured.Thevillagersnodded
atmeandathim,smiled,wavedtheirhandsandraisedthemuptowardGod,praisingtheonewhohad
broughtanAmericanintotheirmidst.I’dheardthisstorybefore;villagersinBomborokuyhadtoldmeit
was God’s doing that I was there, as though teaching middle-school English was going to alleviate the
poverty,theheat,thehighratesofinfantmortality,thethreatofmalariaandAIDS,thedwindlingsupplyof
waterasthedryseasonworeon.Itoldmystudentsthateducationcouldgivethemtheabilitytoprovide
answerstotheseproblems.SomedaysIactuallydaredtobelieveitwould.
I bought a liter of dolo for about thirty cents and the three of us shared it. Celestin seemed to
understand French, but preferred to communicate with me via Michel. He asked about American food,
about my role as an English teacher in Bomborokuy, about whether I would ever marry a Burkinabe. I
gavemystandardresponse:onlyifhedidallthecookingandcleaning.(Thatalwaysshutupthemen.)I
laughedasMichelinterpreted.Smiling,Celestinliftedthehalf-emptyliterfromthegroundtorefillour
calabashes.
As Celestin put down the empty bottle, a hunched-over old woman approached Michel, barefoot, a
fadedreddressclingingtoherthinshoulders.Sheaskedhimaquestion.
“Ameriki,” Michel said. I recognized this as the Bwamu version of the French word Amérique,
America.
They exchanged a few more sentences, and I recognized variations of “America” and “the United
States”inMichel’sresponses.Hebeganlaughing.
“Whatisit?”Iaskedwithoutlookingup,consumedbymyattempttobalancemybowlofdoloinasoft
depression of dirt. The calabash bowl became increasingly difficult to balance the longer you sat in a
cabaret.
“She doesn’t know what America is,” Michel said, slapping one hand against his faded jeans and
breakingintoalaugh.“She’sneverheardofyourcountry.”
Afterweleftthecabaret,Celestintookustothefuneral.Perhapshethoughttheunprecedentedvisitof
an American woman was a fitting tribute to the deceased, or maybe it was simply poor form to visit a
villageonthedayofafuneralwithoutpayingrespects.Celestinledusintothecourtyardwherewesat
downquietlyonalongwoodenbenchunderthehotsun.
Womenandmengrievedseparately,thewomeninthecoolshadeofbuildings,themenonbenchesand
matsinthecourtyard.ButIstayedclosetoMichelandtookaseatwiththemen,breakingthegenderroles
as no Burkinabe woman could ever do. This funeral would go on for days, a marathon grief session
involving family and friends sitting quietly at the home of the deceased. Relatives came from other
villagestosit,nap,eat,sleep,andquietlyshakehandswithotherswhocametosit,nap,eatandsleep.To
remindthebereavedthatnooneisever,everalone.
Wesatinsilence,staringatourhands,attheclearedpatchofdirtbeneathourfeet.Thesolemnityof
the moment calmed the giddy, dolo-induced laughter that had been shaking me free just minutes prior.
FinallyCelestinindicatedwithanodthatitwastimetoleave.Weagainshookfifteenorsohandsand
walkedoutofthecourtyard.Ifocusedcarefullyonputtingonefootinfrontoftheotherinadignified,unwobblymanner.
Celestinledusbacktothecourtyardwherethewomanpausedinherclotheswashingtogreetuslike
wewereoldfriends,shakingourhandstowelcomeusback,grinningandchatteringwithMichel.When
hetoldherwewereheadingbacktoBomborokuy,shegraspedmyhandsinathickhandshake,staredinto
myeyesandspokeafewlongsentencesinBwamu.Michelinterpreted.
“Shesays,youshouldfindagoodhusbandandhavemanymanybabies,Godwilling.”
Igrinned.“Bari-a,”Isaid.Thankyou.
Celestinrolledourmopedoutfromtheshadeofthehouseandledusoutofthecourtyardandtoward
thepaththatwouldleadusbacktoBomborokuy.Heshookourhandsandthankedusforvisiting.Michel
climbedontothemopedfirst,steadyingitformeasIgracelesslyslungonelegoverthevinylseatandslid
intoplacebehindhim.Hekickedthemopedintogear,andwewavedoncemoreaswestarteddownthe
path.
IkeptmyhandsonMichel’swaisttosteadymyselfashesteeredthemopedaroundrocksandpatches
ofsand.
“HowdoyouknowCelestin?”IyelledtowardMichel’sear,strugglingtomakemyvoiceheardover
themoped’sengine.Hehalfturnedbacktowardme.
“Idon’t.”Thevisiblehalfofhismouthturnedupinagrin.“Imethimtoday,justlikeyou.”
Itshouldn’thavebeenasurprise,butthefriendlinessoftheBurkinabewasalwayssneakinguponme.
I laughed into Michel’s green nylon shirt and turned back for one last glimpse of the village, its mud
housesquicklyfadingintothelandscape.Thepeoplewewereleavingweremostlikelyjudgingtheentire
Westernworldbasedonmydrunkenbehaviorinthetwo-hourperiodIhadspentintheirvillage.Iwas
soberenoughtoberelievedthatthepressurewasnowoff—itwasjustmeandMichel,himinhisgreen
soccerjerseyandfadedblackjeans,meinapagneandt-shirt,mylegspressedagainstthebacksofhis
thighs,myhandspressedcoollyonhiswaist,tryingnottobetooawareofhisbody.
Ilookedaroundthefieldsaswerode,tryingtoimaginethetallstalksofcornandmilletthatwouldfill
the space in a few months. The dry period had sucked each wisp of vegetation back to the ground,
scattered bushes and trees were the only green spots on the brown landscape. The naked soil revealed
clearlyformedrowsofmoundedearthwheremillethadoncegrown,tallandsustaining.Istaredatthe
land,myeyesmesmerizedbythequickpassageofgroundclosesttous,theslowconstantpresenceofthe
horizoninthebackground.
Werodeinsilence,thewindwhippingpiecesofmyhairoutofitsponytail.Ifingeredloosestrands
away from my mouth and eyes and leaned into Michel’s back. To my left, a single baobab tree stood
perfectlyframedinanemptyfield.ThebaobabwasoneofthemostmajesticandstunningtreesIhadever
seen,itsthicktrunkswollenwithwatertosurvivethedryseason,itswirygnarledbranchesscratching
towardthesky.AsIstaredatthebaobab,myhazymindregistereditasthemostbeautifultreeIhadever
seen.Beautiful.Andsimultaneously,thethoughtcameunbidden:Allbeautypasses.Andthis,too,shall
pass.
Iwasfilledwithawe.Itwasn’tsorrow,notevenknowingIwouldoutstripthebeautyoftheBaobab,
thatwewouldcontinuedownthispathuntilthetreewasfarfromsight,thatonedayevenBomborokuy
wouldbejustamemory,thatmylifeitselfwasasconstrainedbytimeasthismomentwas.Buttheancient
baobabseemedtoreachbeyondthat,seemedtosuggestavastcertaintyinitssteady,eternalreachforthe
sky. African and Arabic legends explained the baobab’s unusual anatomy by saying the tree had been
planted upside down, its branches like roots, twisted and splintered and seeking. I leaned forward to
Michel’sear,bringingmyentirebodyintocontactwithhis.
“Lavieestbelle,”Isaid.“C’estpasvrai?”
Heturnedhisheadtowardmewithouthesitation.“C’estvrai.It’strue.Lifeisbeautiful.”
KaraGarbeiscurrentlyworkingonherMFAincreativewritingandcompletingamemoirabouther
timeinthePeaceCorpsinBurkinaFaso(2001–04).Youcanreadmoreofherwritingonherblog:
karagarbe.blogspot.com.
TheSportsBar
LEITAKALDIDAVIS
EasingtheColdWar—justalittle—inSenegal.
THESPORTSBAR,AWATERFRONTDIVE,RECALLEDDAKAR’SLONGHISTORYASAPORTWHERERAPACIOUSEUROPEANS
andopportunisticAfricanshadmadedealsforcenturies,mostnotablyinslaves.Notsurprisingly,there
wasstillalivelyfleshtradegoingoninside.
Tablessurroundedanoutdoordancefloorwitharaised“observationdeck”ononeside.Behindthe
mobbedbar,toiletsturnedintosmellybogsandurinalswithshoulder-highpartitionsdoubledassexstalls
where a prostitute could be rented for a few francs a minute. The prostitutes were gorgeous women of
huesfromlemonteatoblackcoffee,inskin-tightjeansandstraininghaltertops,skirtsslittothewaist,
camisoles,blackmeshstockingssuspendedfromlacygarters.
The girls swayed around the dance floor luring drunken sailors—Arabs, Pakistanis, Africans,
Europeans—tobumpandgrind.Orelsetheysatgigglingonthesailors’turgidlaps.
ThegirlswereusuallyadolescentsfromSenegal,Guinea-Bissau,Ghana,andMali.ThefewLiberians
madeahitwiththeEnglish-speakingclients.TheywerefleeingCharlesTaylor’sgrisly“diamondwar”;
theymighthaveheardadoorslamwhenhewaselectedPresidentthatyear.Someofthehookersmadea
lot of money and returned to their villages with the honor money brings to people hungry enough to
overlookitssource.Otherslanguishedindrug-inducedstuporsuntiltheyweresuddenlytoooldtohook
andendeduponthehumantrashheapsthatlitteredDakar’sstreets.
TheSportsBarfeaturedafloorshowofviolence,starringasailorwhowouldslapupaprostituteor
girlsfightingwitheachotheroveratrick,orpimpsstraighteningouttheirgazelles.The“vampireladies,”
cocaine dealers from Morocco, sometimes swooped into the bar, faces powdered white, wearing
Cleopatra wigs, black dresses, and stilettos. They would circulate among the crowd, dropping packets
here and there and collecting money from the prostitutes. They did not hesitate to treat a defaulter to a
brokenbottleinthefaceoraspikedheeltothehead.Thesailors,insteadofinterfering,wouldapplaud
and laugh, while some magnanimous spectator might buy a drink for a girl pulled up off the floor.
Meantime, the music never missed a beat. A DJ kept the reggae and rap, the sambas and AfroPop
churning.
I watched from the observation deck, drinking beer with a group of PCVs. Someone pointed out a
youngwhitemanwhowasdancingwildly,flying,stringyhairsowetwithsweatitsplasheddancersnear
him.Hegyratedaroundonhugeflatfeetuntilthemusicslowed;hetwirledtoastoplikeaspinningtop.
Tomyastonishment,hefocusedhisblueeyesonme,shuffledovertothedeckandaskedmetodance.
Whywouldthisbizarremanaskme,awhite-haired,agingwoman,todance?Well,O.K.,IhadtoadmitI
waslookingprettygoodinmy“barblouse”—abrightpatchworksleevelessnumber—andpurplepants.
MyhairwasfluffedandIsupposedIhadtheallureofanolderwomanwhomighthappentoberich.I’d
neverbeenrich,butinSenegal,Iwasgettingusedtoseeingdollarsignsinsteadofstarsinmen’seyes.
ThefactwasI’dbeenlongingtodancesinceIwalkedintotheplace.Iroseandwalkedtowardthe
dancefloor.TheVolunteerswhooped,“Yougo,girl!”
“Imaybeold,”Iyelledback,“butI’mnotdeadyet.”
WeflailedaroundtothewailsofYoussouN’Dour,theman’swethairoccasionallysprayingmyface.
BabaMaalfollowedN’Dour,andwepoundedourwaythroughanothernumber.Whenwefinallywound
down, the man thanked me for the dance and led me back to the deck. Gasping for breath, my heart
thumpedsoviolentlyIthoughteveryonecouldhearit.Myarthritickneethreatenedtobuckle.Itriedto
smile,mymouthtrembling,andsatdownasmyundaunteddancepartnerscrapedachairupnexttome.
Sweat soaked his limp nylon shirt. He was about thirty years old, with narrow shoulders and a flabby
chest,aroundface,marble-blueeyesandacupid’s-bowmouth.Hepointedastubbyfingertohischest
andyelledabovethedin,“IamSergei.SailorfromOdessa.Myshipinport.”Heswepthisfingeratthe
Volunteersaroundus.“You.YouareAmerican?Wotyoudohere?Youmissionary?”
I shouted into his damp ear that we were Peace Corps Volunteers. He’d never heard of it. “We do
developmentwork.”
“A-h-h-h,”heyelled.“Botyouwasteyourtimehere.”Hisarmswepttowardthedancefloor.“Dese
people...Ilufdem...butyoucannotdevelopdem!”Heswiveledhiseyestowardmyfriends.“Ivouldlike
tomeetzeezAmerican.Butdeyafraidofme.IamRussian.”
His words, like a gauntlet flung to the ground, sent me to my feet. “Guys!” I announced, “This is
Sergei.He’saRussiansailorandhethinksyou’reafraidofhim.”
TheAmericanslookedup,wipedbeerfoamfromtheirmouths,laughedandyelled,“NOT!...Idon’t
thinkso...”andonebyoneshookSergei’shand.Hebeamedastheygatheredaroundhim,askedhimabout
his ship, about Odessa. He asked them about their lives in the States, whether they had left spouses or
childrentoworkinthisbewilderingPeaceCorps;iftheyreallybelievedinpeace;iftheywererich.We
orderedmorebeer,andwentontotalkabouttheoldColdWarandevenAfricandevelopment.
ThedancehadwornmeoutandIsoonwavedtoeveryoneandhobbledoutonshakylegstofindataxi.
A bottle smashed somewhere behind me, heads bobbed up and down in the urinals but there, in a far
corneroftheSportsBar,internationaldiplomacywasblossominglikeanorchidinthejungle.
LeitaKaldiDavisworkedfortheUnitedNationsandUNESCO,forTufts’FletcherSchoolofLawand
DiplomacyandHarvardUniversity.SheworkedwithRoma(Gypsies)forfifteenyears,becameaPeace
CorpsVolunteerinSenegal(1993-96)attheageof55,thenwenttoworkfortheAlbertSchweitzer
HospitalinHaitiforfiveyears.SheretiredinFloridain2002.ShehaswrittenamemoirofSenegal,
RollerSkatingintheDesert,andisworkingonamemoirofHaiti.
OneLastParty
PAULAZOROMSKI
Gettingtherecanoftenbequitethetask—andcanprovemoreimportantthanthe“there”there.
ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS GO TO THE PARTY. I WAS MORE DETERMINED TO ATTEND THE FULANI FÊTE THAN AN
Americanteenwastodriveintothewoodsforhisfirstbeerparty.
Hotsandandthornshadhardenedmyfeet.Thewindknottedmyhairarounditsbarretteandthesun
brownedmyskin.Ilongedforahotshower;evenforacoldone.Waterwasscarce.
MyAfricanfriendstoldmeIhadbecomeugly.Myskinwastoodark,mybodytoothin.Asteadydiet
ofmilletandmilk,longwalkssearchingforgrazingcamels,andlivingintheSahelhadtrimmedmybody
fat.
I never could understand how events were scheduled. It had something to do with the moon, tribal
chiefs, and hungry cows. I told Gado and Mariama, husband and wife, that I had enjoyed the previous
party. I reminded them of the day we had watched old men in straw hats race their camels across the
desert. I told them how captivated I was by the young men with their yellow painted faces dancing,
singing,andflirtingwithgirls.
Gadotoldmethatitwouldbeveryfarawayfromourplace.Ididnotknowwhathemeant.Ididn’t
knowifitwasfarorhesimplydidn’twanttogo.
Afteraweekofhints,Mariamatoldmethatshewantedtoattendthefestival.Gadowouldnotrefuse
hiswife.Thenextnight,then,hetoldmetopreparemythings.Weneededtoleaveearlyinthemorning.
Mariama and I were ready before the sun rose. I tightly rolled my sleeping bag and mat, setting the
bedding on my camera bag. I wiped my face with cold water and put on my favorite black shirt, one
embroidered with bright, multi-colored polka dots around the neck and sleeves. I tied a piece of black
fabricaroundmywaist,Africanskirtstyle.
Thetemperaturewasquicklyrising,andGadowasmovingslowly.Wecouldn’tmakethetripwithout
hisnavigation.Finally,asthesunbegantocookourpartofthedesert,hewasready.Itwas10:00.The
hottestpartofthedayhadbegun.
Hassaneaskedifhecouldridewithme.Thismademehappybecausehewasagoodcameldriver.I
hadneverlearnedhowtopreventmycamel,MaiChinAbinci(OneWhoEats),fromtastingeveryleaf
andbladeofgrasswithinhisreach.
Werodeforalongtime.Thesunwasbeatingdownonus.Myentirebodywascoveredwithblack
fabric:onlymyeyesweren’tcovered.Icouldn’tbeartohaveevenmyeyesexposed.Thesunandwind
hurt,suckingmoistureoutofme.Icouldn’tholdmybodyupright.IleanedagainstHassaneandthecamel.
Ispottedabushwithatinyshadow.IcravedshadeandbeggedHassanetodropmeoffbythebush.Itold
himthathecouldpickmeuptomorrow.
Hassane assured me that we were almost halfway there. We were almost at the market where we
wouldeat,drinktea,andrest.Hassanewasn’tlying.Soon,wewereinasmallmarkettownfilledwith
traders.
Gadotoldusthatwecouldgetdownandhavesometea.Icouldnotrespond.Mycamelthuddedits
bellydowninthesand.Icouldn’tunclenchmythighs.Hassaneclimbedoffthecamelandpulledmyleft
armandleg.Mylegswerestuckinagriponmycamel’ssides.Ipushedonthehumpwithmyhand,and
rolled off my camel’s back onto the hot sand. I couldn’t get up. I curled up under my black fabric.
Mariamavomitedfromtheheat.Gadobrewedahealingteaandmadeusdrink.Werestedintheshadeand
atemeat.Whenthesunwentdown,Gadowalkedusbotharoundthemarket.Then,heconvincedustoget
backonourcamelsandridetotheparty.
Werodeinsilence.
Once we had arrived, Gado set up our camp and brewed tea. He added sugar and herbs to give us
strength. After tea, Mariama met relatives, Hassane and Gado joined the camel racers, and I walked
aroundbymyself.
Iwastootiredtotakeaphotograph,butIwashappytoseetheboysdance.
PaulaZoromskiservedinthePeaceCorpsteachingmathintheCentralAfricanRepublicandNiger.
ShegotthetravelbugatayoungageandwenttosummerschoolinMexico,traveledtheSahara
desertoncamelbackwithnomads,hikedthehillsofHonduras,anddancedinthestreetswithpinkhair
atCarnivalinTrinidad.Paula,aworldtraveler,photographer,andwriter,passedawayin2009atthe
ageof41frombreastcancer.
ThePeaceCorpsinaWarZone
TOMGALLAGHER
Fromthebeginning,PeaceCorpsVolunteersdealtwithmuchmorethanpeace.
MY FIRST HINT OF ERITREAN REVOLUTION CAME WHILE I WAS STILL IN PEACE CORPS TRAINING AT GEORGETOWN
UniversityinWashington.Asmallnewspaperarticleappearedonabulletinboardtellingofabombthat
had gone off somewhere in Eritrea. A couple of months later, in Agordot, the Education Officer for
western Eritrea, Sheik Hamid Mohammed el-Hadi, took us on a tour of the town. In front of the
government office, he pointed to a small circle of stones that marked the spot where the bomb had
exploded.
Hamid was the most dignified man I have ever met. His six-foot-tall frame, always covered in a
perfectlyironedjalabia,seemedmoretoflowthantowalk.Whilemostofthetownspeopleworetheir
turbansinthelooselywrappedSudanesestyle,HamidworehisintheneaterMiddleEastern/Indianstyle.
The turban/wimple framed a serene, honest, handsome face. If his skin were 1 percent lighter he could
havepassedforaHindumystic.Althoughhewasstillnotforty,hehadalreadyearnedthetitle“Sheik,”
whichmeansanoldman,or,asinHamid’scase,awiseman.
Hiseducationwasspotty,consistingofgrammarschoolandayearortwoatateachertrainingcollege.
He had taught himself by reading and spending as much time as he could in the company of the wiser
teachers at the mosque. A few years before we met, the American Consulate General in Asmara had
awardedhimanexchange-visitorgranttospendthirtydaysonaneducationaltouroftheU.S.Heloved
every minute of it and was tickled to death when he heard that the Peace Corps would be sending
AmericanstoAgordot.
AsHamidcametotrustus,hebecameoursourceoffascinatinginformationaboutthewarthatwas
takingformallaroundus.Astaunchmanofpeace,hewasalsosensitivetothelegitimategrievancesof
the Muslim population. He would not actively join the revolution, but he enjoyed every story of their
guerrillastrikesinthehinterland.
Eritreans, Hamid said, had never been happy with the Allies’ decision to give Eritrea to Haile
Selassie’s Ethiopia. Disposing of the Axis’ only colonies in Africa—Libya, Italian Somaliland and
Eritrea—was not a priority issue for the West in the late 1940s. Haile Selassie, who had considerable
internationalpopularity,wantedaccesstotheseaforlandlockedEthiopia.Whynotlethimhaveit?
As Hamid explained it to me, the Eritreans of the 1950s saw themselves as more worldly than the
Ethiopians.Theirlocationontheseahadgiventhemaccesstotheoutsideworldforcenturies,whilethe
Ethiopians, isolated as they were in their mountain kingdoms, had less contact with new ideas and
inventions. The Eritrean experience with sixty years of Italian colonialism had left them with skills in
mechanics, business and other aspects of modern economy that were unknown in Ethiopia. Eritrean
Muslims were uncomfortable with a government that had a state religion that wasn’t theirs. Tigrinya
speakers in both Tigre Province of Ethiopia and in Eritrea regarded Haile Selassie and his Amhara
kinsmenasupstartusurpersofathronethatrightfullybelongedinTigre.Nonetheless,EritreanChristians
saw an affinity with the Amhara, with whom they shared a religion and a language group, if not the
particulardialect.ManyEritreansmadeagenuineefforttomakethenewarrangementwork.
OnedayasIwasteachingaseventh-gradehistoryclass,weheardamuffledblastoffinthedistance.I
didn’tpayitanyheeduntillaterinthedaywhenpeopletoldmethatabombhadgoneoffattheSenior
District Officer’s office. The bombers left a calling card in the form of an announcement over Radio
KhartoumthatthisbombhadbeensetoffbyagroupcalledtheEritreanLiberationFront.Itwasthefirst
timethatHamidIdrisandhisfriendshadgiventheirmovementaname.
OnlyonceinmyfirstyearinAgordotdidthewarcomeabittooclose.Ihadjustturnedthelightout
whenanexplosionwentoffjustoutsidemybedroomwindow,justafewfeetfrommyhead,butwitha
wallinbetweenmeandtheevent.Iheardamanscreaminginpainandothersrunningtohisassistance.
Therewasnodooronthatsideofourhouse,andbythetimePaulandIgotsomeclothesonandgotoutto
thestreet,thewholethingwasoverandhewasbeingcarriedofftotheveterinarian.
Ourhousewasjustacrossthestreetfromthepolicestation.Rebelshadsetacrudelandmineinfront
ofthestationinthedarkhopingtohitoneoftheofficers.Theysucceeded,butthistimethevictimwasa
Muslimofficerwhowasknownforhisfairtreatmentofpeople.
AsIlookbackovermylifefromtheperspectiveofsixty,IrealizethatthatmomentwastheclosestI
haveevercometoactualcombatdespitehavingbeenintensely,butperipherally,involvedinnineorten
armedconflicts.Itseems,myreactionshouldhavebeenmoreprofound.Itwasn’t.Ijustwenttosleep,and
don’trememberthinkingortalkingaboutitmuchatall.
Ispentthesummerof1963inAsmara.Bythen,theEritreanLiberationFronthadstagedseveralhitand-runoperationsontargetsinthehighlandsnearthecapitalcity,makingthepointthattheywerenotjust
a small movement in the western lowlands. They had also begun to demonstrate some of the military
panacheforwhichtheywouldlaterbecomenoted.
I was sensitive to the non-political nature of the Peace Corps and did not want to embarrass the
institutionbytakingsides.AtthesametimeIwantedthepeopleIlivedandworkedwithtounderstand
thatIunderstoodtheirpredicament.Itwasanarrowtightropetowalk.Nonetheless,thefactthatwedid
notpreachdidnotmeanthatwedidnotpresentapointofviewreflectingourAmericanbiasinfavorof
democracy.
AsEritreaandEthiopiaslippedeverclosertototalwar,thegovernment’seffortstostifleopposition
grew.Oneday,IwasteachingasixthgradeclassinEnglish.Asusual,theonlybackgroundnoisewasthe
soundofgoatsandcamelsbeingparadeddownthestreetalongsidetheschool,andthemurmuringfrom
the market. Suddenly there was a deafening and increasing roar that seemed to come from nowhere.
Earthquake,Ithought,althoughIhadyettoexperienceanearthquake.Astheroarturnedintoashriek,the
schoolwentberserk.Kidswerejumpingoutofwindowstorun…where?Animalspanickedandsodid
everyoneinthemarket.Theyallranaboutsenselessly,exceptformyclass,whichfollowedtheteacher
whohitthefloor.ThenoisecamefromthreeF-85fighter-bombersthatflewdirectlyovertheschoolata
heightofaboutninetyfeet.Theyweresupposedtofrightenusfromrebelling.
When it was over, my students and I arose from our ignominious positions, the kids all laughing. I
knewthatIwasthesubjectofthehumor,butIwasn’tsurewhy.Iaskedwhatwassofunny,but,atfirst,got
noreplyexceptformoregiggles.FinallyMohammedAliElmi,aSomaliboywhowasthebrightestinthe
class, closed his eyes, stood rigidly at attention as if expecting the worst, and said: “But sir, we have
neverseenawhitemanbecomewhiterbefore.”TheEthiopianAirForcehadhaditsdesiredeffectonme.
TheF-85s,bytheway,weredonatedbythepeopleandgovernmentoftheUnitedStatesofAmerica.
AsAmericans,wewereinadifficultspotinEritrea.ItwasanAmericanSecretaryofState,afterall,who
hadmadethedecisiontogiveEritreatoEthiopia.PartofthatdealwasapromisefromHaileSelassiethat
hewouldallowtheU.S.tomaintainathen-importantcommunicationsbaseatAsmara.Inreturn,theU.S.
toutedHisImperialMajestyasaseriousdefenseagainstcommunism.TokeepRussiaatbay,wegavehim
everymannerofmilitaryhardwarethatheaskedfor—andhewasgreedy.
Unfortunately,ratherthandiscouragecommunism,oursupportforthefeudallordencouragedallthose
who hated him to look at communism as an alternative to the U.S.-backed regime. The Eritrean
revolutionaries, along with those from Tigre, the Somali tribes, Amhara dissidents and others who
opposedtheEmperor,becamecommunistsandMaoistsinthe1960s,1970sand1980s,mainlybecause
theysawtheU.S.astheenemy.Wewereconstantlybombardedwithquestionsfromstudentsastohowa
democracycouldgotosuchlengthstosupportaking.
The hardest one to answer was the student who asked me why the Ethiopian soldier wearing the
donatedAmericanuniformandcarryingadonatedAmericanM-1riflehadkilledhisgrandfatherthenight
before.WhatcouldIsay?
Throughtheyearsofstruggle,IheardvariousrumorsaboutthetownofAgordotitself,mostofwhich
werecatastrophic:in1975,IheardthatEthiopianbombingofEritreahadbeensoseverethattherewere
“nottwostonesconnectedtooneanotherwestofKeren.”Fortunately,thatwasn’ttrue.PaulKoprowski
andItookasentimentaljourneybacktoAgordotin1997whenEritreawasenjoyingapost-independence
boom. Almost every structure we remembered was still there, although the town is much larger now.
Whereoncetherewereonly12studentsintheeighthgradethereisnowasecondaryschoolwith1,100
pupils.Apavedroad,linedwithRussian-builttanksdestroyedduringthewar,passesthroughandbeyond
AgordotasfarasBarentu.
TomGallagherwasthesecondReturnedPeaceCorpsVolunteer(Ethiopia,1962-64)toentertheU.S.
ForeignService.Tenyearslater,heresignedindisgustovertheVietnamWarandtheNixonforeign
policy.Hebecameasocialworker,andfortenyearsdirectedthelargestpublicoutpatientmental
healthclinicintheU.S.inSanFrancisco.Onavolunteerbasis,healsoservedasDirectorofthe
CounselingProgramattheGayCommunityServicesCenterofLosAngeles,whichwasthelargestgayorientedmentalhealthprogramanywhere.In1994hereturnedtotheForeignServicewhere,among
otherassignments,heservedastheStateDepartment’sCountryDirectorforEritrea,Sudanandthe
DemocraticRepublicoftheCongo.
HoldingtheCandle
SUZANNEMEAGHEROWEN
Thingswehideare,elsewhere,openandcelebrated.
MYROOMMATEJUDYANDICOULDN’TSEEMTOKEEPOURTUNISAPARTMENTCLEANORDEALWITHHANGINGLAUNDRY
outonrooftoplines.However,wehadgenerousenoughPeaceCorpsallowancestoaffordtheluxuryof
hiringawomantocometoouraidonemorningaweek.Wefoundherintheclassifiedadsandtriedtobe
assophisticatedaspossibleinterviewingher,anewroleforbothofus.
Aichawonourheartswithherbroadsmile,goldteeth,discretetattoos,andflowingsafsari,whichshe
folded and left on a chair while working. After two workdays, she asked if she could come more
frequentlywithoutchargingmore.Wesaidwe’ddefinitelypayhermore,butsheprotestedandsaidshe
wasmuchhappierbeingwithus(andtheothermaidsshemethanginglaundryandsun-dryingpeppersand
tomatoesonthebakinghot,blindinglybrightrooftop)thanathome.
Shehadgraduallyfilledusinonherlife:twolittlekidsandatyrannical,underemployedhusband.
After teaching our TEFL classes at Institut Bourguiba, Judy and I walked back to our apartment,
pickingupenoughprovisionsatvariousshopsalongthewaytomakelunchforAichaandourselves.She
wasverytolerantofourcookinggaffesandalwaysappreciatedeverybite.Wefeltgoodaboutgivingher
a balanced meal. Simple as it was, it was probably her main sustenance on workdays. Aicha taught us
domesticArabic,andshelearnedmoreFrenchandsomeEnglishfromouranimatedexchanges.
Afterayearandahalf,Aichagavebirthtoathirdchild,ason.Shehadn’tcountedonhavingmore
childrenwhomshecouldn’taffordanddidn’tseemtounderstandhowithadhappened.Wegavehersome
linguisticallychallengedexplanations.Allthreeofuslaughedloudandlong.Whileshewasstillnursing,
weescortedhertothebirthcontrolclinic,whichwas,Ithink,aPeaceCorpsprojectsetupbythegroup
whichprecededus.
Oneday,asshewasleavingtheapartment,sheturnedmoreseriousthanIhadseenherpreviouslyand
askedmetoassistatthecircumcisionofherinfantson.Flatteredbyherrequest,Ienthusiasticallyagreed
todoso.Judydidnotseemtheleastbitenvious!
ThenexttimeAichacame,Iaskedherwhatmyrolewouldbe;shefoundacandleandhandedittome.
Whentheappointeddayarrived,Iwoundmywaythroughthesoukstothehumblehouseshehadledmeto
onapracticerun.Aftershemadeherrequest,I’daskedafewmalefriendsiftheyrememberedtheirown
circumcisions.Withoutexception,eachshuddered,unabletoimaginewhyI’dwanttowitnessone.
Aichawascountingonme,sothereIwas,hopingthatmyhandwouldbesteadyenough,andthatmy
squeamishnesswouldn’tmakemefaint!
Halfablockfromherhouseonanarrowcobblestonestreet,Iheardlotsofpeopleinafestivemood
speakingrapid-fireArabicatheropen,traditionalbluedoor.Sheemergedtogreetmeandkissedmeon
bothcheeks,lookingbeautifulwithlotsofkohl,freshlyhennaedhair,lipstick,bracelets,andacolorful
silksafsari.Sheledmeintoasmall,lowroom,litonlybyonehighwindowandpackedwithherfamily
andfriends.Allthefurnitureexceptonetablehadbeenremoved.Aichaintroducedmetoherhusbandand
hermother.Sheaskedmetostandbesidethetable,handedmeacandle,litit,thendisappearedtofetch
herinfantson,Radjeb.
Her husband and the “circumcisionist” appeared from the shadows next to me, then Aicha and little
Radjeb,whomshelaidonacushiononthetable.Astheknifewaslifted,suddenly,threetrumpetsblared
loudlyatthebackoftheroom,causingmetojumpinshock.Nodoubtsomecandlewaxdrippedtothe
floorasIreactedtothedeafening,freneticnotes,butIwasrivetedbythetaskofcastingtheonlylighton
thedelicateoperation.
Thebladeflashed;Radjebshriekedinshock.Thetinyforeskinfellfromhim.Hecontinuedwailingin
hismother’scomfortingarmsasthetrumpetscontinued,conversationsstarted,andthewomenululated.
Overmythirdcupofpotentsweetmintteaduringthegatheringafterwards,Ilearnedthattherelative
darknesswasmeanttocalmthebabyboy,andthetrumpetstodistracthim.Iwasproudtohavebrought
lighttothismeaningfulmoment.
SuzanneMeagherOwenwasaPeaceCorpsVolunteerinTunisiafrom1964-66.
AMorning
ENIDS.ABRAHAMI
Thisstarktaleoffemalecircumcisioncries.Justcries.
7:30AS THE SUN RISES, A GROUP OF MOTHERS, GRANDMOTHERS AND GIRLS BETWEEN THE AGES OF ONE AND FIVE
congregateinthecompoundnexttomine.Eachchildhasbeenmeticulouslywashedandrituallydrapedin
clothofexquisitecolorsandintricatepatterns.
8:00Theskyiscrystalblue.Onebyonethewomenwalkinsinglefileenbroussetotheneighboring
villageofTaibatou.Thereareninegirlsallinall.Oneismyniece,Bintou,fiveyearsoldandtheoldest
ofthegroup.Theothersrangeinagefromonetofouryears.Wrappedindifferentcoloredpagnas, each
girliscarriedbyhermother,Bintoubyhergrandmother,myvillage“mother.”Istaytowardthebackof
theline.
8:30 We reach a small compound made up of four huts. Three children squat around a fire eating
breakfast.Anothertwochaseeachotheraround.Theyarelaughing.Weareusheredintooneofthemiddle
huts—darkandmusty.Thebackdoorisslightlyajar—astrongstreamoflightblaresthrough.Thevoices
ofwomencanbeheardcomingfromthebackyard.Andthenitbegins.Withamostpiercingscream.So
fullofpainandanguish.Allinthevoiceofatwo-year-oldchild.Hiddenbehindthedoor.Onecanonly
imaginewhatishappening.Mystomachturns.
8:42Agirliscarriedoutfromthebackthroughthehuttothefront.Sheiswrappedinagraysheet.It
dripswithblood.Adropfallsonmyshoe.Herfaceinshock.Andshetrembles.
8:43Anotheroneiscarriedtotheback.
8:45Thehorridscreamsbeginagain.
8:48 She is carried out. Naked and profusely bleeding. Her young vagina resembles a piece of red
meat.
8:49Anotheroneiscarriedtotheback.
8:52Andthescreamsbeginagain.
8:57Andsheiscarriedout.Nakedandprofuselybleeding.Heryoungvaginaresemblesapieceofred
meat.Rawandmutilated.Shemoans.
9:10Idecidetogoandseewhattakesplaceoutback.Withmyowneyes.Towitnessandrecord.Iam
asreadyasIeverwillbe.
9:12Maybenot.
9:12Istepoutback.Asmallrectangularyard,fencedandbare.Therearesevenwomenmillingabout.
Ican’tlookatfaces.SoIlookontheground.Bloodissplattered.Arustydullknifeliesnearasmallcan
of water. A strange putrid smell surveys the air and enters my nostrils. I need to sit down. Beyond the
confines of this space, Africa greets me. Neighboring huts. Trees of all sorts. Dry lush brush. A crisp
horizon line. So very beautiful. And so in opposition to everything happening within the borders of the
crintonfence.
9:13 A girl is dragged to where we stand. It is Bintou. She locks eyes with me, for only a second.
Tearsrolldownhercheeks.Shemakesnosound.Alreadyshelooksinshock.Icanturnaroundatany
moment. Grab Bintou and leave. Put it all behind me. But I don’t. I won’t. I need to be a witness. The
questionisforwhomandwhy?
9:14ThemomenthascomeforBintoutobecut.Sevenwomenmovequicklyandwithouthesitation.
Bintou, legs forced open, arms outstretched, lies on her back in between the legs of another. Face up.
Opentotheskyabove.Sheisstrapped.Helddown.Shecan’tmoveaninch.Onejustneedstolookather
face.Ittellsall.Theentirestory.
Thewomaninchargetakestheknife.ForcesBintou’slegswider.Getsaholdonaclitorisprobably
toosmalltoreallygrasp.ThethoughtofgrabbingBintouandescapingfloodsthroughmymind.ButIam
frozen.Andthenitbegins.Knifeinrighthand,shebegins.Likecuttingasteak.Backandforth.Backand
forth. Not a clean sweep. Not quick and momentary. My head spins and nausea takes hold of me. I am
determinedtostay,however.
9:15Backandforth.Backandforth.Justapieceofredrawmeat.Isitonastone.
9:17Bintouisplacedalmostinfrontofme.Stillnaked.Trembling.Bleeding.Itrytocomfortherwith
myeyes.Andtrytoeraseanysignofdisgustandhorrorfrommyvisage.
9:24Moreredmeatsliced.Moreshrillscreams.More.MoreMore.Willitneverend?
9:26Myeyes,forrefuge,wanderouttotheAfricalayingbeyond,stretchingacross.Itisunchanged.
Justasitwasbefore.Exceptthebodysurveyingthelandscapehasforeverchanged.Nevertobethesame.
Silenceinvadesme.
9:30 There are now two sitting directly in front of me. Bintou and Khudaijaa. The oldest two. The
traumatizedtwo.Hopefullythelasttwo.
9:33Nope.It’snotoveryet.
9:35 I can’t anymore. I stand up and make my way out to the front courtyard. Five trembling girls,
shell-shockedandwide-eyed,sitinacirclearoundanopenfire.Ilookfromonetoanother.Adisturbing
thoughtentersmymind.Ifoneortwoofthesegirlsshoulddiewouldthedoorforchallengebeopened?
Fromthisgroupofnine,whowouldtheybe?
9:40Iturnoffmysenses.Ifeellikesourmilk.Curdledandugly.
9:42Womentalktome.Askmethemosttrivialofquestions.Areanywordscomingoutofmymouth?
Ican’ttell.
9:50It’sover.Timetoleave.Headbackhome.Girlsarepickedup.Andcarried.Andstrappedtothe
back.Thewalkbegins.Themarchcommences.Andthesingingstarts.WithaheadreelingIfocusonthe
basictaskofwalking.Ofputtingonefootinfrontoftheother.Everythingaroundmefadesjustalittle.
Becomesabackgrounddrop.Whitenoise.Static.
10:15WearrivebackinourvillageofMissirahTabadian.Tothesamecompoundwherejustafew
hours earlier everything seemed so different. All nine girls are laid down side by side, each with a
colorfulribbontiedaroundherhead.Markingherasexcised.Thevillagecomestoseethem.Likeina
museum.
10:25Ireturntomyhut.Exhausted.Tainted.Mymindisablankandatthesametimeflooding.
10:30IthinkIjustmaythrowup.
EnidAbrahamilivedandworkedasaPeaceCorpsVolunteerinMissiraTabadian,asmallvillage
locatedinsoutheastSenegal,WestAfrica,from1998-2000.UponcompletingherPeaceCorpsService,
Eniddecidedtobecomeanursewiththehopeofreturningsomedaytothedevelopingworldto
providesustainablehealthcareandeducationtounderservedareas.Sheisaproudsinglemomofa
remarkablycurioustwo-and-a-halfyear-oldboy,Mika,andagentlefox-likedogsherescuedfromthe
streetsofNewYork.Thisstoryisonethatisfeaturedinhermemoir,RainWashesOverMeUnderthe
Moon.
ABrotherinNeed
GENEVIEVEMURAKAMI
PersistenceisperhapsthemostimportantattributeofaPeaceCorpsVolunteer.
AS A RURAL HEALTH VOLUNTEER IN A VERY SMALL VILLAGE OFFULANI FARMERS AND HERDERS,I SPENT ONE DAY PER
weekworkingatahealthcenterinaneighboringtown.AlthoughIwasnotahealthcareprofessionaland
could not provide medication, the people of my village thought I was some kind of healer and often
broughttheirsicktomebeforemakingthetrektothehealthcenter,hopingforaquickfix,freeofcharge.I
treatedminorcutsandgaveadvicewhenIcould,butmostofthetimeIhadnoideawhatwaswrongand
endedupreferringthemtothenurse.
Roughlytwomonthsintomyservice,Diallo,amanwholivedinmycompound,becameextremelyill,
andmyvillagefamilyaskedmetoseehim.Ilookedathisfeverishpuffyfaceandhisswollenjointsand
thewayhewincedwhenItouchedhiselbow.Withaweakvoice,hetoldmeallhisjointshurt.Iguessed
hehadaninfectionanditappearedveryserious,soIsuggestedwegotothehealthcenterrightaway.My
familyknewImeantbusiness;nobodygoesanywhereduringthemiddayheatinthehottestinhabitedplace
onEarth.
IttookusanhourtotransportDiallothetwomilesbycharrette(adonkey-drawncarriage).Hisfriend
Kamaraheldhiminhisarmstobreakthestressofthejoltingrideontherough,reddirtroad.Kamara’s
soulful eyes peered out from the turquoise fabric that encircled his head and face, looking down
worriedlyathisfriend.
ThiswasbutoneofmanyactsoftendernessIwouldwitnessamongthesepeople.Itoowasworried
and,asthesunbeatdownonus,Iprayedwewouldmakeittothecenterbeforethenursecloseditfor
lunch.
But we were late, and I was forced to interrupt the nurse’s much-needed afternoon nap. I felt I was
pressingmylucksincethenurseandIwererelativelynewinourworkingrelationship;wehadnotyet
formed much of a bond. We both spoke French, but that was about all we had in common. His living
quarterswereattachedtothehealthcenter,sopeoplecametohimdayandnightfortreatment.Therewas
no such thing as an appointment, so the poor man never got much of a break. Standing in his doorway,
squintingatusashiseyesadjustedtothebrightsun,heseemedannoyedatmyrequest,buthegroggily
agreedtosee“myvillagebrother.”
A nurse in Senegal can make medical diagnoses and prescribe medication much like a doctor, even
thoughhereceivesfarlesstraining.Duringaconsultationthereisalmostnocommunicationbetweenthe
nurseandthepatient:thepatienttellsthenursethecomplaint,thenursedoessomeexamining,writesa
prescription,andtellsthepatienthowtotakethemedicine—butdoesnotusuallytellthemthemedicine’s
nameorexplainhowitworks.Mostoftheruralpeopleareilliterate,keepingthemevenmoreinthedark.
ThisiswhyitcameasnosurprisetomewhenthenursedidalittlepressingonDiallo’sjointsandsent
himawaywithaprescription.
The nurse abruptly told me he was going back to sleep and walked off. I offered to wait until the
pharmacyreopenedafterlunchtopickuptheprescription,whileDiallowastakenbacktothevillageto
rest.AfterIboughtthemedication,Ireadtheinserttofindoutexactlywhatkindofdrugitwas.Iexpected
anantibiotic,butitwasamusclerelaxer!Myheartfell;intuitivelyIknewthismedicationwouldnothelp
him.
Iwondered:ShouldIjustgiveDiallothemedication,orshouldIgobacktothenurseandtrytogetthe
prescriptionchanged?Thiswouldinvolvesecond-guessingaprofessionalwhoIhadtoworkwithforthe
next two years. I had no credibility; I was not a health professional. And I had annoyed him by
interruptinghisnap.
Diallocouldonlyaffordtopayhalfthepriceoftheprescription,andIcoveredtheotherhalf,which
wastheequivalentofafewdollars.Drugswerefairlycheap,butmoneywashardtocomeby.Ifeltlike
wewerejustthrowingitawayonthismedication.
Finally, I went back to the nurse’s house, but he did not respond to my knocks. Due to a lack of
electricity, I had to get back to the village before the sun went down, and I could not go back empty
handed. I pedaled through the African bush, the cool breeze against my face, which normally made me
happy,butwhichdidnothingforthesickfeelingIfeltinside.
MyonlychoicewastogiveDiallothepills.Myskillsinthevillagelanguagewerenotyetstrong,and
Ididn’tknowhowtotellhimwhatIreallythought.Besides,Ididn’thaveaback-upplan.Inthevillagers’
eyes,anymedicationisbetterthannomedicationandIfiguredtheywouldhavemoretrustinthenurse’s
decisionthaninmyopinion.Havingtakenthiskindofdrugmyselfinthepast,Iknewthatatleastitwould
makehimfeelgood.Still,itfeltwrong;Ididnotbelieveitwouldcurehim.
Withsweatrunningdownmybackandtearsonmycheeks,Iwatchedhimtakethepills.Itwasn’tinmy
jobdescriptiontocurehim,butIhadgottenmyselfintothismess,andIfeltaresponsibilitytodomybest
forhim.Istayeduphalfthenightscouringmyhealthbooksbycandlelight,butfoundnothing.
Thenextday,althoughDialloseemedmorepeaceful,hisconditionwasworse.Hisfacewasgetting
puffierandhisskin,oncegoldenbrown,haddevelopedagraytint.Thejointsinhisarmsandlegswere
getting larger and more painful. My village brother had rigged a sling made out of brightly colored
Africanfabric,becauseDiallocouldn’ttoleratethepainofhisarmshangingathissides.Hecouldbarely
walk,butmanagedtoshuffleovertomyhutandaskifhecouldhangoutwithme.Hesaidmyhutwas
coolerandhewantedsomeofmy“specialwater”(Ifilteredit).ButitwasallIhadtooffer.Ilookedat
himsittingonmybed,sickerthananyoneIhadeverseeninmylife.Iachedtoprotecthim.
Hopingthathefeltbetterthanhelooked,Iaskedhim,“Asamorisedha?”(Haveyouhealedalittle?)
“No,” he replied, and the sinking feeling in my stomach increased. His swelling made me think of
circulationproblems,andIhadafeelingitwasnotgoingtogetbetter.
Ihadabadfeeling.Thismanwasmyage—twenty-six—and,asfarasIwasconcerned,thiswasnot
histimetogo.IwasnotabouttochalkthisoneuptoAllah’swill.Uptothispointnobodyhaddiedinmy
village,andIreallywantedtokeepitthatway.Besides,DialloandIhadlivedabouttwentyfeetaway
from each other for the past two months. He had grown on me. This sweet, soft-spoken man was my
friend,andIhadneverlostafriendbefore.
Feelinghelpless,ItoldhimIthoughtheneededtoseethenurseagain.Hethentoldsmethathehad
decided he had an “African illness” and it needed to be treated the “African way.” This meant using
traditional medicine. He told me he was going to see a traditional healer the following day. Since we
wereon“Africantime,”Iknewitwouldprobablybeafewdays,andIfeltitmightbetoolatebythen.
ThisAfricancultureusestraditionalhealersasmuch,ormoreoften,thanWesternmedicine.SinceIwas
fairlynewtotheculture,hearinghimsaythiswasunexpected,butIshouldn’thavebeensurprised.Thisis
amanwhoworeacharmaroundhisneckwithamirrorembeddedinittowardoffbadspirits.
WhatIwasupagainsthere?HowfarshouldIpushWesternmedicineonhim?AllIhadmanagedtodo
sofarwasstressouthisbodygettinghimtoandfromthehealthcenter.ShouldIletitgoandlethimdeal
withtheillnesstheAfricanway?Iknewlittleabouttheirtraditionalmedicine;howwasItoknowifit
wouldn’tbethebettersolution?
ThiswasoneofmanyinstanceswhenAfricawouldhumbleme.
Laterthatnight,IkeptpicturingDialloshufflingaroundwithhisarmsoutinfrontofhimlikeazombie.
Icouldnotbearit.HowcouldIjustlietherelookingupatthestarswhilemyfriendwasprobablydying?
And,really,whatdidIhavebettertodo?Iwasnewhereanddidnothavemuchworkyet.My“job”for
thefirstsixmonthswastolearnthelanguageandgainthetrustofthepeople,integratingmyselfintothis
extremelydifferentculture.
IdecidedIcouldn’tletthisonegoandpickeduponeofmybooksagain.Tomygreatsurpriseandby
the grace of God, I came across a drawing of an African man who looked to be in the same physical
condition as Diallo. He had the swollen face and the swollen painful joints. It was like someone had
drawnapictureofDiallohimselfandslippeditintomybook.HowhadImissedthispagebefore?The
imagewaslabeledRheumaticfever,which happens when strep throat is left untreated and the bacteria
progressestotheheartvalves.Penicillin,anantibiotic,waslistedasthemedicationtotreatit.
At breakfast the next morning, I asked Diallo if he had had a sore throat recently and he said yes.
Things were starting to make some sense. It dawned on me why we get tested for strep in the U.S.
wheneverwehavesorethroats,andwhyitneedstobetreated.ItoldDialloIthoughtImightknowwhat
waswrong,butIneededtoconsultwiththenursefirst.IaskedDialloifhewantedmetodothis;Ididnot
wanthimtothinkIwastotallydisregardinghisplansfortreatinghisconditiontheAfricanway.Hesaid
yes,andawayIrodeonmybike.
FeelingalittlemoreconfidentnowthatIhadareference,Ishowedmybooktothenurse.Thebook
wasLa,OuIln’yapasdeDocteur,theWestAfricanversionofWhereThereisNoDoctor.Thenurse
toldmeheusedtohavethesamebook,andIthinkthisgavemesomecredibility.Ishowedhimthepicture
andItoldhimIthoughtthisiswhat“mybrother”musthave.Itoldhimthatthemedicationheprescribed
wasnothelping,andthatDiallowas,infact,gettingworse.IknewIwasriskingseemingdisrespectful,
butalifewasatstake.Fortunately,thenursedidnotgetangryordefensive.Hesaidheoriginallythought
Diallo had an articulation problem of the joints, but he agreed with me that Rheumatic fever was most
likelywhatwasreallygoingon.SinceitprobablywouldhavekilledDiallotobetransportedtothehealth
center again, I went out on another limb and asked the nurse if he would be kind enough to ride his
motorcycle out to my village and give Diallo a shot of long-acting penicillin. He agreed to do it, and
Diallogothisinjectionthatevening.
ThenextdayDiallostartedtolookbetter;withinafewdaystheswellingandpainwerealmostgone.
Hereceivedanadditionalshot,perthebook’sprotocol,aweeklaterandafterthat,besidessomeresidual
weakness,heseemedbacktohisoldself.
Diallothankedme,butitdidnotappeartobethatbigofadealtohimoranyoneelse.Thevillagers
wentabouttheirbusinessasifnothingreallyhappened,thoughIfeltIhadwitnessedamiracle.Ididn’t
thinkanyone,evenDiallo,realizedhecouldhavedied.ButIwaswrong.
Althoughhefeltbetter,Diallowasstilltooweaktocontinueworkinginthefieldsunderthehotsun.
Hewasaguestofmyvillagefamilyandwasearninghiskeepbyworkingintheirfields.Hedecidedtogo
backtohisnativecountry,Guinea,tobewithhisfamily.
Before I knew about his plans for leaving, he stepped into my hut one morning and asked me if he
couldhaveapictureofme.Irritated,becausehewastheumpteenthvillagertoaskmeforaphoto,Iasked
himwhyhewantedone.Hetoldmehewantedtoshowhismotherapictureofthegirlwhosavedhislife.
Thatwashowhereallythankedme.
Genevieve(Wittenberg)MurakamiwasaHealthVolunteerinthevillageofAllahBougou,inthe
TambacoundaregionofSenegal,WestAfrica,from1999-2001.SheiscurrentlyaRegisteredNursewho
caresfornewbornsandnewmothersinthepostpartumunitofalocalhospital.Thisstoryisthewinner
oftheJasonandLucyGreerFoundationfortheArtsPrize.
ATreeGrowsinNiamey
STEPHANIEOPPENHEIMER-STREB
Americanconnections,abrother’sdeath,bringaSenegalvolunteertoNiger.
THISISASTORYOFFATE,CHANCE,ANDREMEMBRANCE.ITSPEAKSOFTHEPOWEROFRELATIONSHIPS,NOMATTERHOW
brief.Andintheend,itisnotentirelymine.
MyownPeaceCorpsexperienceinSenegalyearsagomademeeagertoreturntoWestAfrica.The
desertandculturesofNigerhadfascinatedmeforyears,andIembracedtheopportunityforasix-month
stay.Asthedeparturedateapproached,Ifoundmyselfinanewrelationship,oneabouttoconnectmeto
thisland-lockeddesertnationmorethanIcouldhaveimagined.
Chris was twelve when his older brother left to serve in Peace Corps Niger. Mark had been so
anxioustoknowwhetherPeaceCorpsacceptedhimthathehandedthelettertohislittlebrothertoopen
and read to him. It was 1985 when Mark left for Niger, where he completed his first three months of
training.InthemiddleofaFebruarynight,heboardedabusforthenortherntownofArlitwherehewas
tospendtwoyearsasamedicaltechnician.Aboutsixhoursoutsideofthecapitalcity,thebuswashitby
atruck—thedriverisrumoredtohavebeendrinking.
In the basement of Chris’s house, over twenty years after the accident, we found a box of Mark’s
things:groupphotosfromtraining,acopyofhislastjournalentry,andsignaturesofthosewhoattended
his memorial at the embassy in Niamey where Volunteers planted a baobab tree and marked it with a
plaquebearinghisname.
AftergettingsettledinNiger,IvisitedthePeaceCorpsofficeandmentionedMark’sname,knowing
thatmanyofthemechanics,drivers,andguardsspenddecadesinservicetothePeaceCorps.Amanina
khakisuitapproached.HespokeverylittleFrench,andhisthinbodytoldthestoryofsomanyNigeriens
—one of poverty, hunger, and sickness. He seemed unsurprised that someone connected to the family
wouldbenowsittinginfrontofhim,twenty-someyearslater.“Iwenttogethisbodythatday.”Westared
at each other in silence before he continued, “For years I passed the site of the accident—the gnarled
metalleftatthesideoftheroadhauntedme.”Hewasnowanoldman,sickandtired,butheremembered
vividly.
Severalmonthslater,ChristraveledforthefirsttimetoAfrica.Hearrivedtoseeme,butalsotopay
tributetohisolderbrother,tomakeajourneythatfateforbadeyearsbefore.Thebuscarriedusnorthfor
fifteen hours, and I imagine the road has not improved since the 1980s. Large buses barrel down the
eroding pavement, unable to stop should a goat, cow, or child be so unfortunate as to cross their path.
Large trucks pass the buses so closely that divine intervention alone must keep the side mirrors on the
vehiclesintact.
Thesiteoftheaccidentpassedussorapidlyithardlyseemspossiblethatsomethingsotragiccould
happensoquickly.Wequietlygazedoutthewindowatthedustintheairthatswirledaroundthemudhuts
andgranaries.
ChriscarriedMark’sguitarandplayeditonourtravels,itssongliftedtothenightskyinanoasison
the night we became engaged to be married. I now wore Mark’s godparents’ ring on my left hand. The
guitar joined the celebration in duets with Tuareg musicians and paused only at the cue of clinking tea
glasses:asthetraditionsays,onefordeath,oneforlife,andoneforlove.
Before departing Niger, I stopped by the Embassy and said goodbye to the new seedling now
flourishingundertheover-attentiveEmbassysprinklersystem.Theoldbaobabtreenexttotheplaquehad
long since died. Turning to leave, I almost ran into a man who had silently approached. He had a hoe
thrownoverhisshoulder.Hisclothesweretatteredand,althoughhisfacewasaged,hestillcarriedhis
youthinhischiseledmuscles.
“Wasityouwhoplantedthetree?Ihavebeenaskingforyou.Iwastherewhenweplantedthefirst
one.Iremember.”Westoodforamoment,oureyeslocked.Asharednodbrokethecontact,andIturned
againtoleave.
Inhislastexistingjournalentry,MarkexpressedhesitationaboutleavinghisnewPeaceCorpsfriends
anddepartingforhispost.Hecomparedtheanticipationtoridingarollercoasterandfeelingthefirstdip.
“Itisgoingtobeincredibleoutthere,thatfirsttimeoutonmyown.Iamsureit’ssomethingthatI’llnever
forget,andafterseveralmonthsofhotseasonIexpecttobeaseasoned,emaciated,PeaceCorpsmarine.”
And he writes, “I’ve just got to keep in mind why I’m here: (1) adventure; (2) to learn about another
culture;(3)tolearnalanguage;(4)tohelppeoplehere;(5)tobelessmaterialistic;(6)tohavesomething
in life to look back on; (7) to demonstrate willpower and resourcefulness and skill; (8) to finish
somethingIstarted.”
ForMarkandotherVolunteerswholiveonthroughthememoriesofsomanypeoplearoundtheworld.
StephanieOppenheimer-StrebwasaPCVinSenegalfrom1999-2001whereshebecamegoodfriends
withamoebae,whicheventuallyinspiredhertopursueacareerinpublichealth.Shecurrentlylivesin
BaltimorewithChris,whereshestrivestomaketheperfectcrabcake.
Jaarga
BETSYPOLHEMUS
Politeness,andrespect,canmakefamilyasstrongasintimacy.
ASNANAMANDIAMANKA ANDI WALKED ACROSS THE SCORCHED SAND BEHIND OUR FAMILY COMPOUND, HE TURNED
and smiled warmly at me. With his smile came so many distinctive facial effects: the flash of a few
resilient teeth, weathered and shrunken skin drawn up into thin creases around his mouth, and sunlight
reflectedoffofthemoistureinhisbloodshoteyes.Ihadbeenlivinginhiscompoundforfivemonths,but
onthatdaytheaffectioninhissmileconvincedmeofmyplaceinhisfamily.
InhighschoolIfeltincrediblyconfined.IfoundbreathingroomincollegeduringroadtripstoCanada,
Seattle,theRedwoods,andMexico.Needingmoredistancestill,IwentwiththePeaceCorpshalfway
aroundtheworldtoSaareFoode,asmallPulaarvillageintheKoldaregionofSenegal.
Scoresofpeoplewereraucouslyawaitingmyarrival,theirdeepblackbodiesoverflowingonblazing
off-whitesand.Mycompoundforthenextthreeyearswasmarkedbyabaobabtree,aspeciesrevered
culturally and religiously in Senegal. This one had a crooked trunk, bent over at the waist, extending a
branchy hand in welcome. I was breathless for my first appearance, pedaling my standard-issue bike
through winding paths of loose sand. Stomach afloat, my first impression of the village left me numb,
blank,dizzy,dry-mouthed,grinninguncontrollably.
Thegrouprushedtowardme,drawingmeintoaswirlingtide.OnebyoneIshookcallousedpalms
withmyrighthand.Horrifiedchildrenranscreamingfrommeinalldirections,afewneverhavingseena
whitepersonbefore.
Youngmenhuddledaroundasmallteapotrestingincoals,unimpressedbymyarrival.Womenleapt,
dancedandclappedtodrumbeats,barefeetthumpingtheearth,elbowstuckedintightattheirsides.A
littlegirlmeticulouslystrippedfeathersfromalimp,headlesschickenwhilekitchen-hutsmokeswirled
black behind her. A cast-iron pot, so large I could have stepped inside, boiled fiercely over burning
wood. Goats bleated and left trails of round droppings among trampling feet; donkeys let loose with
horrendouslyfoulflatulence.
The children returned from fleeing, lime-colored mucus dribbling over their mouths and chins, and
begantostrokemyarmsandlegswiththeirroughanddustyhands.
I was shown into the largest hut of the compound, now bursting with bodies. When my eyes finally
adjustedtothedarkness,Iallowedthemtowandershamelesslybetweenthefacesofmen,seatedonathin
mat made of quilted rice sacks. Some wore battered beanie caps, long tattered robes and cheap silver
rings; others wore aged slacks and stretched polo shirts. They did not return my glances. I knew
instinctively that these men ruled Saare Foode. As I sat on the hut’s rickety bed, a platformed foam
mattresscoveredwithaghostofasheet,thegroupbegantopray.Withhandscuppedtogetherintheirlaps
andopenpalmsfacinguptowardAllah,themengruntedinunisonastheleaderpausedforbreath.
Itwasonlyaftertheirprayerswerecompletethattheysawme,anawkwardmomentforall.Brown
eyesrestedonme.Stiffbodiesshiftedonthemat.Ilookeddownatmyfeet,comparingmynewrubber
slipperswiththeirs,oldandworn,somefusedtogetheragainwithheat.Ilookedupattheroof,lashed
togetherwithbamboopoles,thewedge-shapedspacesfilledinwithdriedgrasses.
Onebyonetheyacknowledgedmypresence,hopingforgoodthingstocomefrommywork.Butwhat
could a young American girl do to improve Saare Foode? Did the village need a millet machine,
vegetablegarden,biggerboutique?Fingerspointed;thediscussionbecameheated.Menstoodandraised
theirvoices.WhatIhadlearnedsofarofthelanguagedidmenogood;Iwaslost.
Astretchofsilencefollowedthechaos.Thegroupthenexchangednodsandmurmursofapproval.The
meetingwasover.Onemanbegantostandslowly,slightlywobblyfromthestiffnessofage.Hisskeletal
framerevealedaheightofsixfeetormore;ashadowofgrayinghaircoveredhischin.Iknewthismustbe
myfather,thechief.
Ashemadetoleave,IclearedmythroatandsurprisedevenmyselfasIasked,“Honowoniindeam?”
Hestopped,turnedtolookatme,andrepliedthatIwouldnowbecalledSona.Inoddedandaddedmy
consent,“Awa.”
After he named me, I addressed him as jaarga, or chief, in the Fulakunda dialect of the Pulaar
language.Heseemedtoappreciatetherespect,buttherestofhisfamilylaughedatthestuffiness.Atmy
mother’s advice, I tried using baaba, or father. He seemed just as content; however, knowing that the
words for father and for donkey sound alike, I grew self-conscious about getting it wrong. In the end I
settledforNa(pronouncedwithaSpanishtildeoverthen),shortforhisfirstname,Nanaman,justlike
everyoneelse.
Forthreeyears,heandIexchangedgreetingseachmorningfromthedoorwaysofourneighboringhuts.
First he performed ritual ablutions of his hands, feet, face, ears and mouth with a plastic kettle full of
waterwhileIscannedthecompoundforthebroommadeofboundpalmfrondsIusedtosweepmyentry.
Thenhe’dturnmywayandaskhowIhadwoken,andifIwaswithpeace.IrepliedthatIwasjam tan,
with peace only, and asked the same of him. These greetings are central to Pulaar conversations; I
experiencedthesamewithnumerouspeopleeachmorning,butmyfirstexchangeofthedaywasusually
withhim.
Truthbetold,IgrewclosertotheothermembersofNa’sfamilythanIeverdidwithhim.Hisonly
wife,Wonto,quicklybecameanothermother,tuckingmeunderherthinlittlewingstoguidemethrough
herextraordinaryworld.Myolderbrother,Wuura,exceedinglyintelligent,understoodbetterthananyone
where I had come from. His wife, Wopa, and I had a turbulent relationship, culminating in mutual
admiration: her firstborn was named after me, and I intend to do the same for her. Na’s only daughter,
Maimuna, who has since passed away, immediately fell into place as the only sister I have ever had,
sharing snickers with me over bad hairdos and saisai, tricky men. My three younger brothers, Daoda,
Djibby and Diao, took care of me in any way that they could, preparing hot tea or a rare treat of fried
eggs, running errands, guiding explorations via cattle trails, taking me to soccer games. Na remained
remote, perhaps hesitant to fully embrace my cause or abilities. Despite this distance between us, I
respectedhimdeeply.
IpresentedbothNaandWontowithgooro,orkolanuts,wrappedinstripsoftornpaperbags,ona
regular basis. For many of the cultures in Senegal, kola nuts are a respectful gift, offered and received
during traditional ceremonies and holidays. The price fluctuates regularly, but never too far from
affordable,evenduringthecloseofameagerdryseason.MensellthemonstreetcornersinKoldatown,
outoflargeburlapsackssetupright,thenutssplitintolayersofvariegatedpinkandbrown.BothNaand
Wonto endured an addiction to the nut’s caffeine, suffering through headaches when not chewing on the
rubbery slices. I could count the number of teeth left in their mouths on one hand; what was left was
stainedyellowish-brownbytheirhabit.
My mother tied her gooro into a top corner of her saba, or sarong, secured inconspicuously at her
waist. I asked her where Na kept his, since his billowing pants and tank top left little room for secret
stashes.Sheflashedmeagapinggrin,andtoldmethatNaburiedhiskolanutsunderayoungmangotree
behindhishut.Irespondedwithdisbelief,laughingatthepictureinmymindofNadiggingaholeinthe
soundlessnight,shiftylikeaprisonerspooninghiswaytofreedom.
A few days after she told me this, Wonto appeared in my doorway. Na had gone to the fields, she
whispered,andweneededtohurry.Notknowingwhatshehadinmind,Idutifullyfollowedassheledme
throughhishutandoutback.Itonlytookherafewminutestofindhistreasure,carefullywrappedina
scrapofwornmaterialandsecuredwithrope.Shesmiledatme,andwithherfingerspantomimedsealing
hermouthinsecrecy,herversionofzippinguptwolipsandthrowingawaythekey.Thenshereburiedthe
packagecarefully,justaswehadfoundit.
SaareFoode’schieflivedwithastutter.Hecouldpulloffceremonialeventswithoutahitch,yetthe
presenceofstrangersseemedtoblockhisspeech.Greatpatiencewasrequiredtohearthefinaldetailsof
hisstories;rounded“o”soundswereespeciallychallengingforhim.Mean-spiritedchildrenteasedhim
behind his back. Spiteful adults attributed his stutter to poor leadership skills and a lack of power. In
truth,Na’straditionalwaysdidfrustratethosewhowantedtoincorporatemodernityintoSaareFoode.He
spent free afternoons coiling rope fashioned by hand from baobab bark he had harvested and dried; he
indulgedinlazygossipandcardgamesattheboutique.Hedidnotunderstandbanking,booksorbatteries;
he was uninterested in lessons. Decisions, which by cultural rule should have involved the chief, were
sometimesmadeinhisabsence.
Wherever I went in Senegal, guests were always escorted out of the compound when leaving. We
would accompany a guest from the bumbaa, or the women’s hut, across the compound while making
small-talk, and then down the short sand path where the main road began. If the person was especially
respected,wemightescortthemfurther,theslowerthebetter.ThedaybeforeIwassupposedtoleavefor
good,rumorhaditthattheentirevillagewasplanningtoaccompanymeamile,intoKoldatown.Ididnot
waittofindoutiftheyactuallywould.
I had learned of another Pulaar custom surrounding a person leaving for a very long time: it is
acceptabletosneakoutinthemiddleofthenight.TheeveningbeforeIleft,ItoldonlyNathatIwouldbe
goneinthemorning.Ididnotwantanyonetoworryformysafety,andfelthedeservedasincerethankyou
forallowingmetobeaDiamanka.Hetoldmemydecisionhadbroughthimreliefandhappiness,andthen
hewishedmepeace.
Thesedays,WuuraandItalkonourcellphonessporadically,alwaysonaSunday.Hecalledonceand
I knew something was wrong from the hesitancy in his voice. I allowed the conversation to meander;
finally Wuura told me that Na was sick, and in the Kolda hospital with heart problems. My thoughts
returnedtoNa’ssmile,andhisacceptanceofmeasanotherdaughter.Heslowlyrecovered,althoughhe
willneverworkalongsidehissonsinthefamily’smilletfieldsagain.Wuurawillsomedaybecomechief
of Saare Foode, and in his capable hands I imagine the village successfully blending tradition with
technology.
Inmydreams,IseeNaseatedonanoldmossy-greenricesack,spreadoutintheshadeofhishut’s
bamboooverhang.He’ssurroundedbythemakingsofhisrope:stripsofdriedbarkcoiledinlooseloops.
Hislimberbodyallowshimtoleanforward,hisarmsreachingalongthelengthofhislonglegs,stretched
outinfrontofhim.Na’shandsdeftlytwistandturnthestrips,anchoredaroundhisoddlyshapedbigtoe.
Heat sizzles the ground, Wonto brings him a plastic cup full of cool water, and his wizened eyes shift
betweenhiswork,theroadandthesky.
Wuuracalled.IwashopingforanotherroutineSundaychat,filledwiththefamiliarexchangesofjam
tan. Instead, his voice shaky, he told me that my village father, Nanaman Diamanka, had passed away.
Wuura had put off the phone call for weeks, he explained apologetically, not wanting to upset me. I
remembered with a shudder what death encompasses for the Pulaar: thick emotional mourning, tears
heavy with grief, and oftentimes a very real physical reaction. Women wail out loud in gut-wrenching
tones,theircriesheardinneighboringvillages,andsometimesrollontheground,asiftryingtoshakethe
pain of anguish from their bodies. Preparations for the funeral of a chief would have been all
encompassing.SoIdidnotblameWuurafornottellingmerightaway.
JustbeforeNadied,Wuurahadrentedacar,heexplainedcarefully,andtakenNaallthewaytothe
capitalcityofDakar,lookingforbettermedicalcare.ThesenewdoctorsechoedwhattheKoldadoctors
hadalreadysaid:Nawassimplyold,andhishearthaddecidedtoletgo.Therewasnothingtheycould
do.
ItwasNa’sfirsttimetothebigcity,anexhaustingtwelve-hourcarrideawayfromtheonlyhomehe
had ever known. I cannot imagine what jarring pain the bumpy and dusty journey must have caused his
worn and fragile body. On the other hand, I can imagine the amazement his still-sharp mind must have
registeredonenteringthecity,thoseeyesIremembersowelltakinginhighrises,smoke-chokedtraffic
andthemanicuredlawnsofthePlacedeIndépendance.
Interestingly,WuuraalsotoldmeofhisdecisiontodeferhisrightaschieftoanuncleIhadnevermet.
IrememberedstoriesofAlasan:HelivedrichlyinNigeria,hadtravelledtoMecca,andwasregardedas
worldly and full of broad intelligence. Wuura assured me that the decision had been his alone, and
expressedhisstrongintenttobecomechiefwhenhefeltreadytocarrysuchresponsibility.HadIbeen
thereinperson,hewouldhavereadthedisappointmentonmyface.Instead,Ivoicedmysupportofhis
decision,asayoungersisterinhiscultureshould.
Wuurawasalsotheproudbearerofgoodnews:Wopagavebirthtotheirthirddaughter,Sadjio,and
myyoungerbrotherDaodaandhiswifehadtheirfirstborn,asonnamedAliou.Nowherehastheeveroccurringcycleoflifeanddeathbeenmoreevidenttome,bluntandnumbedwithreality,thaninSaare
Foode.
BetsyPolhemus,aPCVinSenegalfrom2001-03,livesinHawaiiwithherhusband,JohnnyDyer,
RPCVZimbabwe2001,Senegal2002-04.Sheis,forthemostpart,jamtan.
ForLackofaQuarter...
IRENEG.BRAMMERTZ
Deathneverlacksitsironies,especiallyavoidabledeath.
SHEWASLYING,HALFPROPPEDUPAGAINSTHERHUSBAND,ONTHEBENCHINTHEBACKOFTHELANDCRUISER.ITWAS
theonlytransportationtheyhadfoundsinceshehadfallenilltwoweeksago.TataDanielhadyieldedto
pressuretogivethemaridewhenonanerranddeliveringamessage.
AlleyeswereonLusadusu,whohadjustexaminedthewoman.“Sheisveryill,”heexplainedtome,
the PCV along on the trip. “She has a liver abscess from years of suffering from malarial and other
parasites:Ithasmadeherextremelyanemic.
“Mama Irene,” he requested, “we have to transport this patient with us to the hospital. There is no
medicineorequipmenthere.Canyousitinthefrontbetweenthedriverandme?”
Ilookedatthestrickenwoman:Shedoesnotappearveryold,maybelatetwenties.“Butofcourse,no
problem, I’ll squeeze in the front with you and Tata Daniel.” My mind wandered, remembering: These
tripsarealwaysdramatic.Lasttimewetransportedawomanwhowasinlabor,andIthoughtshewas
goingtohavethebabyrightthereinthebackofthetruck.Isupposewehavetobringthisone,too,in
spiteoftherules.
“Allpackedupandready,”TataDaniel,thedriverassuredhimselfofthisbylookingintherear-view
mirror.Hestartedtobackthetruckupthenarrowpathandtowardthedustyroad.Heworriedaloud:“I
hope we make it all the way to Kimpese without a hitch, or I’ll get blamed again, since I took it upon
myselftoacceptthisailingwomanpassenger.”
While still backing, there was shouting from the rear: “Stop, stop, she is having a seizure!” Nurse
Lusadusu got out and walked around to to re-examine the patient. Lusadusu now yelled for a blood
pressure gauge, the most high-tech item available. As usual, excitement caused him to stutter. After a
coupleofminutes,heexplained,“Irene,wecannottakethiswomantoKimpesetodie.”Thenheturnedto
thevillagenurseandcommanded:“SendoneofyourhelperstotheSeventhDayAdventistclinicandsee
iftheyhaveanIVandsomefluid.Itwouldbeembarrassingtoloseapatientwiththevillagerswatching.”
Just then the woman had another convulsion. Lusadusu asked the nurses’ aides to carry her into the
mud-brickHealthCenter.Besidesmyco-workers—NketaniandMatumonaandme—acrowdofcurious
villagershadgathered.Justastheaideswerepassing,carryingthewomanbyherfeetandshoulders,her
body went limp, releasing her fluids. I looked at the wet trail on the red earth. Oh, my God, the poor
womanjustdied,rightinfrontofmyeyes.Sheissoyoung.Lifeisn’tfair!Thesepeoplesuffersomuch.
Damnpolitics!Damnthesepeopleforbeingsocomplacent.Theydieforlackofaquarter...thefarefor
atriptothehospital.Lifeistoocheaphere,worthlessthanaquarter....
Lusadusu came out from the room where they had taken the body. Apprehensive, he made an
announcement. His mind was busy looking for the right words, but there were none. “Everybody must
think I am incompetent. I must save face. How do they expect me to do this job—an IV could have
stabilizedhertogethertothehospitalinKimpese.”Helookedupand,insteadofcommentingonwhat
hadjusthappened,saidtohiscrew:“Let’sreloadthetruck;wemustgethome.”
Daniel,Matumona,andNketani,weretalkingonthesideofthepath.
“Lusadusu,thiswasn’tyourfault;it’sthesystem.Theyshouldhavetriedtofindarideonaproduce
lorrytwoweeksagototakehertothehospital.Theydidn’twanttospendthemoneyfortherideonthe
lorry.Theywaitedtoolongtogethelp.Thereisnothingyoucouldhavedonetosaverher.”
Thewoman’shusbandhuddledinthedustbesidethepath,nexttoaneatlittlepileconsistingoftheir
cooking pots, reed mats, and other meager belongings. He covered his face with his large calloused
hands, trying to hide the tears. “How will I get her body back to my village now?” he pondered. “She
deserves a decent burial in the ancestral cemetery. How will I justify these additional expenses to my
otherwives?Ishouldneverhavebroughtherhere.Iwouldnotbefacedwiththisdilemmanow.”
IreneBrammertzimmigratedtotheUnitedStatesfromSwitzerlandin1964.Afterherchildrenwere
grown,sheservedinthePeaceCorpsinZaire(nowDemocraticRepublicofCongo)inthePublic
HealthProgramfrom1988-1990.HerserviceinthePeaceCorpswasthecatalystthatinspiredherto
furtherhereducation.Sheholdsamaster’sdegreeinPublicHealth,InternationalHealth
Management,fromtheUniversityofSouthFloridainTampa.
CrazyCatLady
MICHELLESTONER
Bridgingthegaponwoundedpaws.
AN IMPRESSIVELY SEALED PACKAGE ARRIVED AT MY HOUSE WITH THE PEACE CORPS LOGO NEATLY PRINTED IN THE
upperleftcorner.TheanticipationoffindingoutwhereIwouldspendthenexttwo-oddyearsofmylife
had grown so high that I almost couldn’t open it. My roommates and I rushed inside; as they huddled
aroundme,Ibroketheseal.
Niger.Niger?WhereonEarthisNiger?IhadspentthelastyearstudyingSub-SaharanAfrica,starring
at a map of the continent, wondering where I’d be going. Somehow I skipped over Niger. Puzzled, we
discoveredalandlockedcountryrightintheheartoftheSaharaDesert.
When I envisioned myself in Africa, I fantasized about living along the coast in an animist culture,
dancing around fires next to the ocean, praying to the wind for rain, wealth, and fertility. I imagined
stayinguplateatweddingsandnamingceremonies,dancingwiththewomenuntilourfeetblisteredand
thesuncameup.
WhentheplanelandedinNiamey,Iwasmortified.ThiswasanAfricaIknewnothingabout,avast,
endlessseaofchalkyrust-coloredsand,speckledwithlowandpokeyshrubsandtwistedknobbytrees.I
could feel the temperature rise as the plane hit the ground, fearing the dreaded hot season, where
temperatures reach 140 degrees Fahrenheit. The mystery of the desert and its boundlessness could
swallowmewhole.
Settling in, I saw my dreams of dancing barefoot with African women shift. After two months of
intensivetraining,Iwasdeliveredtomyassignedvillage.Kiota.Nigeris99percentMuslim,andKiota
isthemostreligioustowninthewesternpartofthecountry.AninfluentialSheik,orCaliph,residesinthe
town.PeoplemakepilgrimagesfromalloverWestAfricaandtheworldtobeblessedbythisSheik,who
soonbecamemy“father,”ashecametorefertomeashisdaughter,orsheikizo.
Making a home for myself in Kiota, I unknowingly dipped into a world I knew nothing about and
actuallyfearedasanAmerican.Insteadofbeinginananimistculture,Iwasamongstsomeofthemost
devoutMuslimsinNiger.TheSheikattractedNigeriensfromdiverseethnicgroups,whotheninstalled
themselves in different sections of the town. The cultivating Zarmas, the Hausas. The nomadic Tuaregs
migrated in and out of the town, bringing their camels to the bush during the planting season. The
pastoralistFulanilivedontheoutskirtswiththeiranimalsintinyroundmudhutscoveredinstraw.Iloved
watching the young Fulani men come to town on market day with their ghetto-blasters blaring muffled
Nigerien music, their stylish top hats, colorful necklaces of red, yellow, and blue, and coveted plastic
sandalsthatdidn’tquitefit.
Iwastornoutofsleepeverymorningat5:15A.M .forthefirstcalltoprayerfromtheloudspeakeratthe
mosque.Theusualcalling,“AllahuAkbar,”wasfollowedbythevoiceofaman,ancientenoughtohave
seenNigerwhenitwascoveredinwater,singing.Icouldheartheentiretownawakening:thecrowof
roosters, the screaming of children on their way to school, the banging of pots and pans from women
beginning the long process of making meals, the sound of men getting water to perform their morning
ablutions, washing their feet, hands, arms, necks, and face to pray. I rolled over, feeling like an alien
lookingperplexedlyinonthisculture,wonderinghowitallrevolvedaroundamosqueinthecenterof
town.
Whowouldhaveknownthat80percentofmyjobasaPeaceCorpsVolunteerwouldbesocializing,
which was more exhausting than it sounds? All of a sudden, I had celebrity status, making half of my
villagecuriousadmirersandtheotherhalfcriticizingpaparazzi.Imaderoutinesformyself,circlingthe
villagefromdifferentdirections,duckingintorandomhouseholdstogreetpeople.Iusuallygotstuckwith
thekids,wasfedinterestingfood,andwouldendupsleepingorstaringatpeople,exhaustedfromtheheat
andunabletoconverseinthelanguage.
Astimewentby,Ibeganfeelingmorecomfortableandlesslikeanoutsider.ThereweretimeswhenI
forgot I lived in a rural bush town in West Africa, until catastrophic events happened and I needed
Westernconveniencesorconcepts—suchasaveterinarian.
One morning I awoke in a funk, frustrated at the slow progress I was making. I decided to release
some steam on a bike ride. At six in the morning, before the sun had unleashed its flames, I rode the
farthestIhadevergone,passingsleepyvillagesjustonthevergeofwaking.
MysensesswelledasItookinmysurroundings.Arainbowofbrightcolorsslowlyappearedonthe
horizon,amovinglineofyellow,blue,andredflagsswayinglightlyagainstarustorangeworld.Aband
of women was making the early morning trek up to my village to sell crafts and food, calabashes atop
theirheadsoverflowingwithguavas,milk,andmilletstalks.AsIapproached,weexchangedgreetings,
theylaughingatthewhitegirlwithaweirdhatandpantsonwhocouldsomehowspeaktheirlanguage,me
admiringtheirvibrancyandthelittlebabiesattachedtotheirbacks,asleepthroughtheirmothers’laughter.
Myfavoritepartoftheridewasdashingthroughaeucalyptusgrove,envelopedbythehealingsmell.
AsIrode,littlefrogsjumpedfromundermywheels,seekingrefugeinarainyseasonlake.Thesoundof
theswishofmytiresagainsttheirploppinginwatermademyinnerchildlaughaloud.
Onmywayhome,IpassedthroughavillageIknew,tryingnottobeseenbyanyone,avoidingengaging
in a stream of greetings. Nigeriens take greeting very seriously; one can get stuck on anything from the
weather to being single and sleeping alone. One of my favorite greetings was “Matte ndunya gorey,”
whichliterallytranslates“Howissittingintheworld,”or“Howisexisting?”Sometimesgreetingcould
be a sport, each party firing off greetings and responses, but other times it was exhausting for me. It
alwaysseemedsomeonecalledoutwhenItriedtorushonbyonAmericantime.
An elderly Fulani woman called at me, “Charifa!” and asked me to sit with her and her family. We
chattedandshelavishedmewithblessingsfromGodandbeggedmetotakeherdaughtertoAmericato
receiveaneducation.Ileftherhousewithanupliftedbutequallyheavyheartandsixguinea-fowleggsin
mypocket.Glorious!Iwouldgohomeandboilsomeeggs.Ipedaledgleefully,swishingandsplashing
throughpuddleswitheggsonmymind.
Excited and exhausted, I opened my house to find it covered in blood. Confused, I searched around
onlytofindmycat,Percy,lyingpatheticallyinside,bleedingprofuselyfromhisfrontandbackpaws.He
wascutsodeeplythatIsawbone,histendonsandmusclespouringoutofthewound.Gaggingindisgust
andpanic,Iwrappedhiminablanketandwashedhiscutswithwarmwaterandsalt.Iboltedoutsideto
consulttheblacksmith,Afoulan,whohadbecomeafather,brother,andbestfriendinmyyearlivingnext
tohim.Hehadalwaysbeenterrifiedofmy“huge”cat,buthewasmyconfidante.
MostNigerienscouldn’tunderstandtheconceptofcaringforpets.Somepeoplecanbarelyfeedtheir
households;havingapetisaluxury.PetsinNigerarekeptforpracticalpurposes;storeownersownscat
toridtheirstoresofmice.
I begged Afoulan to come see my cat, and he told me to stop freaking out, that Percy would lick
himselfbetter.Keepinghisdistance,AfoulantookonelookatPercyandunderstoodmypanic.Hetoldme
aboutamaninthevillagewhotreatedlivestockforalivingandwhomightbeabletohelpPercy.
Ihustledaroundmyvillage,neveraneasytaskconsideringtheimportanceofstoppingtogreetpeople
andtheslowpaceoflifeinthevillage.Hustle,Charifa,hustle!Justdon’tmakeeyecontact!Firststop:
CancelmyArabiclesson.Iwalkedintomyteacher’shouse,astudied,highlyreligiousmanfromChad
wholivedamongstagroupofothersinglemaleteacherswhocametoKiotatoteachschool.Hassimiwas
very modern for being so religious and he often had rap videos or explicit videos showing on his
TV/DVD. I got pressured into watching the video, all the while my heart beating pounding with worry
overmypoorcat!Itiscustomtostayforthreeroundsoftea,butIexcusedmyselfafterthefirst.
The livestock man was tall and kind-faced with a beard and a mustache, which is uncommon for
Nigeriens. He looked like he belonged in the 1950s in his clean, navy blue pressed suit. He seemed
peacefulanddignifiedandwasholdinganequallypeacefulbaby,whodidn’tmakeasound.Itoldhimall
aboutmyproblem.Helistenedwithaconfusedexpression,andIwasn’tsurprisedwhenitturnedouthe
hadneverworkedonacat.Hereluctantlyagreedtomeetmeatmyhousetoassessthesituation.
Irantothedoctor’sofficetoaskforsomecottontocleanthecat’swounds.Thewomenwhoworked
atthehospitalalwaysjokedwithme.WhenIcamerushinginhysterical,demandingmedicineformycat,
itcausedquiteariot.Thewomenaskedmeforanexorbitantsumofmoneyforthecottonballsandthen
toldmetokillmycatandgetanewone.Istompedoutwithtearsoffrustrationinmyeyes.
IboughtsomemeatonthewayhometofeedtoPercy.Thelivestockdoctorcameover.Whenhesaw
Percy’s wounds, he said he definitely needed stitches and that his front paw might be broken. What
happenedtothecat?Hesaidkidsmayhavetortureditor,sinceit’ssofat,maybesomeothercatattacked
itanditcouldn’trunaway,whichIthoughthighlyunlikely.ShouldIputPercyonabushtaxiandtravel
twototwelvehourswithhimtogettoaregionalcapitalandseearealvetorshouldIletthislivestock
doctoroperateonhim?
Weexploredoptionsanddecidedtogoaheadwithcatsurgeryinthevillage.Thenextobstaclewas
findingouthowwewouldholdthecatdownwhilethedoctorstitchedhimup.ItwasdecidedIcouldn’t
doit;Iwasn’tstrongenoughand“pitiedthecattoomuch.”
Afoulanrefused,sayinghe’dhavenightmares.Wefoundoneguywhoseemedoverlyexcited.Hewas
pacingbackandforth,yellingabouthowwe’dtiePercy’sfourlegsbetweentwotrees.Healmostseemed
madandhisaggressiontowardthecatwasunsettling,buthewastheonlyvolunteerwehad.Hegrabbed
Percy’s legs and tried tying them in rope, which didn’t work. I held Percy, who was struggling and
scratching me, delirious and exhausted. I finally recruited two strong young men to hold Percy down
whilethedoctorstitchedhimwithstring.Ididn’tevenknowifIwantedtogothroughwiththis!Whatif
Percygotinfectedorhediedfrompain?Didthisguyreallyknowwhathewasdoing?
It was two in the afternoon. This had been going on for hours. Luckily there was a prayer call;
everyoneleftmyconcessionbeforeIbrokedown.Istartedbawlingandhadameltdown.
AsIwascrying,oneofmylittlefriends,Barham,enteredmyconcessionandlookedatmeinterror.
Nigeriens don’t cry, ever. In the face of suffering or misery, the mentality is, Kala Suuru, or “Have
patience”;everythingthathappenswasintendedbyGod.Barhamdistractedmebyaskingaboutmymango
tree and instructed me on how to water my other trees. He scolded me because I didn’t add enough
manuretomygardenandIhadtolaughatthefactthatIwasbeingschooledbyasevenyearold.Iwas
humbledbyhissuccessfulattemptatcalmingme.
Afterprayer,everyonecamebackandIdecideditwastimetostopdiscussingandstitchhimup.We
were already all exhausted from running back and fourth, recruiting people, and exploring options. I
sterilized the doctor’s equipment and fed everyone crystallized ginger so our stomach’s wouldn’t turn.
ThesurgerywasoneofthemostgruesomeandbrutalthingsIhadeverwitnessed,thethreeofusholding
Percydownwhilehewascryingandjerking.
Intheend,Percysurvived.IwrappedhisfeeteveryotherdayfrommyPeaceCorpsmedicalkit,and
thedoctorcametogivehimashotfortoavoidinfection.Becauseofthisexperience,allofusgrewclose.
EvenAfoulanandthedoctortookafondnesstoPercy.
Thewholevillagetalkedaboutthecatincident.Peoplefromsurroundingvillageswouldaskmeabout
Percy’shealth.Igotmadefunofbut,forthemostpart,peoplerecognizedhowimportantmycatwasto
me.Wheninthepast,peopleranawayfrommycatordidn’tunderstandmyaffectiontowardhim,now
villagerswouldcometogreetmycatandbringmedinnerbecausetheyknewIwasdistressed.
After having witnessed me doctor Percy, mothers came knocking on my door accompanied by their
children.Themomwouldannouncethatherchildhadacutandaskforabandageandsomedisinfectant.
EventhoughI’dbeentryingtoavoidusingmyPeaceCorpsmedicalkit,Isurrenderedandbandagedup
everysingleoneofthosekidsuntilmysuppliesranout.
Thereisafinelinebetweenculturalintegrationandculturalexchange;Percybravelyandadmirably
didhisparttofurthermutualunderstanding.Throughhissuffering,hebridgedagapIhadbeenperplexed
by, and marked a poignant shift in how I existed in my village. Sure, there was laughter about the “cat
incident,” but the support the people of my village showed suggested that, although they may have not
understood the concept of pet care and cat surgery, they cared enough about me to embrace and even
nurturemyneuroticandirrationalbehavior.That,tome,isloveandacceptance.
Although I have moved back to America, Percy is still roaming free in the village, recognized and
respectedbyallthosehemeetsonhispath.
MerciPercy.
MichelleStoner,uponearningadegreeinFrenchandGeography,joinedthePeaceCorpsandserved
asacommunityandyoutheducationvolunteerinNiger,WestAfrica,from2006-09.Sheextendedher
PeaceCropsservicetobecometheHIV/AIDSandGenderandDevelopmentCoordinatorforPeace
CorpsNiger.
ElephantMorning
AARONBARLOW
Sometimeseventsgetawayfromus…orsomethingallowsustogetaway.
SITTING UNDER A RESTAURANT VERANDA, AUGUST 2, 1990, IN DAPAONG, TOGO, EATING HALF OF A GRILLED
chicken,abottleofsparklingwaterbeyond.Jeanjacketdrapedoverachair.Belowme,onthestreet,my
motorcyclerestssafelyonitskickstand,thesunhavinglongsincedriedthemudbeneathit.
Ipick.Thereisn’tmuchtastetothechicken.
Thesoundofotherdirtbikesdrawsmyattention.Fourroundthecorner,eachtoppedbyariderina
yellowfull-facedhelmetandgoggles.Theycometorestinaneatrownexttomine.
Anormaloccurrence:Dapaongiswherewegetourmail.Imovemyjacket,tossingitontothelow
cementwall.Helmetsnowhangingfromhandlebars,glovesstuffedinside,jacketscomingoffquicklyin
theheat,theriderscometomytable,pullingoveracoupleofchairsfromthenext.
“Whathappenedtoyouthismorning?”
“Weheardthestrangeststory.”
“Inyourvillage,theysaidyouwerehurt;youdon’tlookhurt.”
Ireachupandfeelthescratchesonmyscalp.“No,notmuch.”Theywaitexpectantly.Isigh,andstart:
“Iwasdrinkingmycoffee,underthepaiotteoutsidemycompound,bythebeanfield.Listeningtothe
BBC.”
“Didyouhearthenews?”Iinterruptmyself.“There’sawarintheMideast.IraqinvadedKuwait.”I
speakinamonotonesimplybecauseIdon’tknowwhatemotiontoexpress.I’dbeengoingoverthisfor
hours, but was no closer to any understanding. “The BBC began to tell about the war. But something
caughtmyattention,movingtowardmefromoutbyNassiett.
“Fromoutinthebeanfield,anelephantwaswalkingtowardme.”
“Butyouseeelephantsallthetime!”
“Thatwouldbeexcitingforuspostedwheretherearenone.Notforyou!”
“Yeah, but I’ve never gotten close.” I pause again; this time, they wait. “So, I ducked back into my
bedroomhutformycamerabag.AsIranbackout,Iscoopeduptheradio.
“Thatsmallhillbehindmyhouse,youknowit?”Theynod.“IthoughtIwouldbesafethere,andcould
getagoodpicture,foritwasheadedrightbymyhouse,onitswaybacktotheFosseauxlionsacrossthe
road.”Again,theynod.TheyhadpassedthroughthegameparkontheroadtoDapaong.
“Furtheronfrommyhouse,ontheothersideofthebeanfield,agroupofpeoplealsowatchedasthe
elephantlumberedtowardme.Damagetocropswasalreadydone;theelephantwasheadinghome.Sowe
alljustwatched,waited.
“I had two cameras, one you look down into. I did. Then I lifted my little rangefinder and snapped
again.
“I felt great, excited; never had I been so close. But the elephant, without warning, without earflappingortrunk-raising,turnedtowardmeandcharged—straightupmylittlehill.”Istopthere.Oneof
thethingsthathadbeenbotheringmewasthatnoonewasgoingtobelievethis.Thesefour,however,had
alreadyheardsomeofthestory.So,IknewIcouldcontinue,butslowly,deliberately.Idid.
“Itmovedfast,shakingtheground,stepsroaringasIturnedandran.
“IlostmysandalsasIdasheddowntheothersideofthehillandsprintedintothebeanfield,cameras
andparaphernaliaflapping,radioinhandblaringaboutKuwait,”Ilaugh;itdoesseemstrange,“elephant
right behind me. I remember deciding to scream, but it came out an odd, low moan as scary as the
elephant,soIclippeditoff.
“Irememberedhearingthatelephantsdon’tcornertoowell.Imightbeabletocirclearoundbehindthe
elephant and back up the hill and over to the safety of my house. But I slipped on the moist earth as I
turned,andIfell.
“Fellflat.”Howtotellwhathappened?IlookinthefacesofmyfellowPCVsforamomentbefore
continuing:
“I felt hopeless, sliding, about to hit the ground.” How could anyone understand this? “As I went
down,Itwistedtolookattheelephantandwonderedwhatitsfootwasgoingtofeellikeonmyhead.I
wonderedifIwouldsurviveanddoubtedIwould.”
Remembering,IfeelI’mnotreallyevensittinghere,butamonlywatching.
“Oddly—yes,itwasoddandIcan’texplainit—butlookingbackattheelephantseemedbetterthan
imaginingitbehindme.Yes,IreallydidfeellesspanicasIfell.Before,Ihadnoideahowcloseitwas,
noideaifitwereabouttocrushmerightthen.NowIwould,atleast,seemyend.
“Theelephantwasslowing.ItknewIwastrapped.Itseemedtotakesolongformetohittheground.
“Idecidedtostaydown.Scramblingaboutinapanicwoulddonogood.
Staying,Ifeltaweirdsensation.Faceit:thismaybeverypainful,butthere’snothingyoucandoabout
it.Letithappen.Maybeitwon’tbesobad.Themudmaycushiontheblows.
“Stupidthoughts,Iknow.
“Theelephant,evenwalkingnow,couldhavebeenontopofme.
“Instead,ithaltedaboutthreemetersfromme.
“Wewatchedeachother.I’vebeensittinghereforhours,remembering.Runningitthrough,againand
again.
“First,itlookedatmeoutofitsrighteye.Thenitswungitsheadforitsleft.Istaredatitstrunk,atthe
massivefurrowsbetweenitseyes.Itmoveditsheadbackandlookedatmeoncemoreoutoftherighteye.
Theradio,stillon,speakerfacingthemud,babbled.”Now,Ileanforwardoverthetable,closertothe
others.
“Theelephant’searshadaseriesofhealedgashesalongtheiredges,andholestornclearthroughin
places. Perhaps it was old. It had no tusks, none at all. Just emptiness where they should protrude. It
swungitshead,fortheothereyetoseeme,andthenagain.Ilookedatitsskin,roughanddirty,wrinkled
andgray,withoccasionalthickhairsuponit.
“‘It’syourmove.’Istaredback,concentratingonitseye.‘I’matyourmercy.Butpleasemakeitsoon,
whateveryoudo;thislyingherewaitingwillkillmeifyoudonot.Imaginingwhatitmightfeellikeifyou
domein:Idonotlikethesethoughts.’
“Theelephantswungitshead,lookingatmefromoneeyeandthentheother.
“I hadn’t moved, hadn’t done anything but look back. Now, slowly, I slid the straps attached to my
cameras,bag,andmeterfromaroundmyneck.Ifgiventhechance,I’ddecided,Iwouldrunoncemore.
Thistimeunencumbered.
“The elephant was giving me hope. I wasn’t going to let that die. If it only wanted to crush me, it
wouldhavealreadydoneso.
“Itcontinueditsslowswingingcontemplationforamomentmore,thenturnedslowlytoitsleft,toface
theFosse,turningitsheadbacktowatchme,still.Ithaditstail,now,towardthatgroupofvillagerswho
had been watching when I first came out of my compound—who had witnessed the chase and fall in
absolutesilence,completelyunabletocometomyaid.
“‘Areyouofferingmeachance,elephant?Ifso,I’mgoingtotakeit.’
“Scrambling, then, I was up, dashing madly toward the watchers, who were yelling now, ‘run’ and
‘hurry,’thoughIhardlyneededencouragement.Theydidn’trunawayasIneared,andIcouldn’thearthe
thunderingthathadpursuedmeearlier.IstoppedwhenIreachedthemandturnedtowatchtheelephant.I
wascompletelyoutofbreathandbeginningtoshake,butcuriousastowhyithadletmegoandwhyithad
chasedmeinthefirstplace.
“IthadturnedbacktowhereI’dlain,hadsteppedovertotheequipmentI’ddropped.Onepieceata
time,itliftedtheradio,mylightmeter,andeachcameratoitsmouthwithitstrunk,tastinganddropping
eachinitsturn.”Istopagainandlookateachofthem.Thisparthadseemedunrealevenasithappened.I
didn’tknowifIbelievedit,eventhoughI’dseenit.“Thenittookmycamerabagbyitsstrap,liftedithigh
overitshead,andtwirledthebagthroughtheair.Filmcanisters,filters,andoddsandendsofpaperflew
from it before the elephant let go, sending the bag on an arcing course out over the field. The elephant
turnedawayfromus,then,walkedafewmeterson,andlookedback.Slowly,itreacheddownwithits
trunkandsnatchedupaclumpofgrass.Slowly,itatethegrass.Then,itheadedbacktothepark.”
Noonesaysanythingforamoment.ThenIcontinue:
“Iwalkedbacktowheremycameras,radio,andbaglay,gatheredupasmanyofmythingsasIcould,
andcarriedthemhome.AsfarasIcouldtell,neitherofmycameraswasbroken—theground,afterall,
wassoft.Theradiowasstillplaying.
“At home, I examined myself in a mirror, finding I was bleeding from a couple of scrapes by my
hairline.Myrightsidewasasolidstreakofmuddownarm,trunkandleg.
“Acoupleofthevillagers,guysIknowfairlywell,accompaniedmehome,andkidswerenowrunning
up, presenting me with bits and pieces of my belongings, including my sandals. I thanked them, took a
bucketshower,putwateronformorecoffee,andsteppedinsidetofindfreshclothes.
“Theclockbymybedsaiditwasnowtwenty-fiveminutesbeforeseven,justabitmorethanhalfan
hoursinceI’dsatdownbefore.Imixedmorecoffee,walkedbackoutside,satdown,wipedthedirtfrom
the radio, adjusted the dial back to the BBC, and tried to prepare for the day once more. Now I could
focusonthemoreimportantnews,theconquestofKuwait.”
Noonesaysanything.Ipickupmyknifeandforkandtrytoeatthechicken.
AaronBarlow,aPCVinTogofrom1988-90,istheauthorofanumberofbooksinthecultural-studies
field,includingTheRiseoftheBlogosphereandTheDVDRevolution:Movies,Culture,and
Technology.HeteachesatNewYorkCityCollegeofTechnology.HismostrecentbookisQuentin
Tarantino:LifeattheExtremes.Heistheeditorofthisvolume.
AtNighttheBushesWhisper
JACKMEYERS
LearningtoseetheworldthroughothereyesatacattlestationinSomalia,thoughtoolatetosavethe
otherandbarelyintimetosavehimself,Meyersconfrontedthebush—andalion.
SOMALIA IS HARSH.A LAND OF SEMI-ARID SAVANNA WITH A FEW FERTILE AREAS ALONG THE TWO MAIN RIVERS, ITS
predominantvegetationisflat-topacaciasproutingfromredsoil,intermixedwiththornbush.Itishotand
dryinlandandhotandhumidonthecoast,brokenonlybythetworainyseasonstemperingtheheatwith
addedhumidity.
I was to be acting veterinarian on a 20,000-acre cattle holding ground in the southern part of the
country, about forty kilometers west of the southern port city of Kismayu. I had only the barest of
informationabouttheplaceandknewverylittleotherthanIwouldbesharingabungalowwithanIndian
veterinarianbythenameofDr.K.K.George.
TheplacelookedexactlyasIpicturedacompoundintheheartofAfricawould.Therewasasmall
clearing cut from the brush and cleared of all vegetation. One large building stood on one side of the
compoundandacrossfromitweretwohutscloselypackedtogether.Theyweremadeofmudandwattle,
paintedwhiteandtoppedwiththickgrassroofs.Thecontrastofwhitewashedbuildingsonredsandwas
spectacular,andtheoverallappearancewasoneofanoasisofcomfortandhospitality.
A thin, very dark man of East Indian features emerged from the one of the huts as I arrived. He
approachedwithawidesmileandextendedabonyhandthatappearedtobeallknuckles.
“Afternoon,sir,”hesaidaroundamouthfulofbrilliantwhiteteeth,“I’mbeingDr.K.K.George.”He
thenadded,“Nodoubt.”
I shook a hand, rather limp and much frailer than it looked, and told him my name and expressed
pleasuremeetinghim.
Dr.Georgehadnotimeforsentiment;hegrabbedmydufflebagandstartedtowardagreendoortoone
of the huts, “This vere you being placed. Very nice accommodations,” he said, and then added, “no
doubt.”
Theroomwasspartanindeed.Athinsaggingmattresswaslaidonarustedspringbed.Nexttothebed
wasaroughwoodennightstandwithakerosenelanternandacandle.Anoval,wovenrushmatlayonthe
floor to complete the furnishings. As I walked into the room I saw a lone light bulb hanging from a
crossbeam.AtleastIcouldexpectlight,butthenwhythelanternandcandle?Ihauledmyfootlockerinto
theroomandDr.Georgedepositedtheduffelbagonthebed.
“Beingjustlikehome,mostlikely,”hechirped.“I’mshowingyouaround.”
Westartedwiththehutnextdoor;thiswastheeatingroomandwasopenandscreened.Nextwasthe
outhouse,aboutthirtyfeetbehindthehuts.
He then stopped at a tiny dollhouse sitting atop a five foot post from which dangled a rope. Out
poppedalittlemonkeythatimmediatelybegantochatterandmakeallmannerofnoise.ItjumpedontoDr.
George’sshoulderandbegantogroomhishairasDr.Georgemadethesamechatteringnoisesback,the
twocarryingonaconversationforsometimebeforerememberingIwasstandingthere.
“ThisbeingMonk.HeisblackfacedvervetmonkeyandbeingherevhenIarrivedalthoughbeingin
muchfinerfiddlenow.”Heplacedthemonkeybackinthehouseandbeckonedmetofollowtoasmall
building similar to the huts but with a metal roof. This was the laboratory. Dr. George took out an
impressiveringfullofkeys,searchedforsometime,thenproducedonethatheinsertedintothemassive
lock hanging on the door. He opened it and motioned me in. Inside was a well-stocked and clean
laboratorycompletewitheverythingneededtodiagnoseandtreatcattlemaladies.
“Dinneratseven,vaterforvashingincookhut,generatorstartingatsixandrunningtonine.”Withthat
Dr.K.K.GeorgewalkedofftochatterwithMonksomemore.
Dinnerusuallyconsistedofonionssautéedingheewithtomatopasteandsomemeat,sometimesgoat,
but mostly you didn’t want to know. This was poured over a glob of mushy noodles. Drink was either
waterylimejuiceorsweettea.Dr.Georgelovedthestuffandmadelittlemewingsoundsasheate.I,on
theotherhand,lastedaboutthreedaysbeforecookingformyself.
After dinner that first evening, Dr. George became expansive and wanted to talk. However, I first
askedhimifitwasO.K.todroptheDr.Georgebusiness.WhatcouldIcallhim?
“Kvouldbeingalright.”
“O.K.K…,”Ibegan.
Heinterruptedme,“Vhichvone?”
“Whichonewhat?”Iasked.
“VhichK,firstormiddle?”
“Beatsthehelloutofme.Let’strythefirstK,”Isaid.
“Thatbeingvrong.IusingmiddleK,”hesaidwithsmileandalittlewiggleofhishead.Dr.George
wasfullofoddmannerisms,eachonemeaningsomethingdifferent.Wigglinghisheadonhisshoulders
likeoneofthosebobbingdollsonthedashboardofacarcouldmeananumberofthings.Itwasuptome
tofigurethemout.
“Alright,somiddleK,Iwantedtoaskyou…”
“Actually ve Indians don’t usually use given names, my surname vill sufficing. George being fine…
justGeorge.”Againtheheadbobbed,butthistimehealsocrackedhisknuckles.Thismeantthathewas
pleasedwithhimselfformakingajollygoodjoke.
Overthenextfewweeks,IwastolearnalotaboutandfromDr.George.Tosayhewasoneofthe
oddestandatthesametimeoneofthemostintriguingpeopleIhaveevermetisnotanexaggeration.For
starters,Dr.GeorgepracticedAyurvedicmedicine.ThisisanancientpracticeperfectedinIndiaand,in
many cases, running contrary to modern Western medicine; in some cases it supersedes it. Basically
Ayurvedicmedicineusesherbs,poulticesandinfusionsasitsmainmeansoftreatment.
MyfirstintroductiontoAyurvedicmedicinecameafterIwasontheholdinggroundaboutaweek.Dr.
George and I were in the laboratory examining some slides under the microscope for trypanosomiasis
whenavoiceyelledoutfromoverbythecattledip,“Hodi,Hodi.Ngombenamahaaradi.”Neitherone
ofusknewwhatitwassaying,butrushedtothedoortofindoutwhattheclamorwasabout.Oneofthe
herdsmenwasstandingnexttoalargewhitebullsportingthelargestsetoflyre-shapedhornsIhadever
seen.Themanwaspointingtotherightlegofthebullandwhichwasswollenbelowthekneeandseeping
blood and serum. He kept talking but, again, neither of us had the slightest idea of what he was saying
until another herdsman approached and translated for us, in a mixture of Somali, Italian, and broken
English, that a twig had stabbed the bull’s leg a few days before and it had become infected. I was
intriguedbythestrangelanguageoftheherdsmenandwaslatertolearnitwasSwahili,alyricallanguage
andthelingafrancaofEastAfrica.
Dr. George examined the wound then went into the laboratory returning with a scalpel, gauze, and
several pharmaceutical bottles. He bent down and quickly made a deep incision below and on the
oppositesideofthelegfromthewound.Hethenmixedacombinationofherbsandointmentsandapplied
them to both sites, wrapping the gauze around the leg. He stood up and cracked his knuckles in
appreciation of the fine surgery he just accomplished. I asked him about antibiotics. He said that herbs
andtheointmentofthenemanthatreeweresufficientalongwiththenaturalabilitiesoftheanimaltoheal
itself. The problem with Western medicine, he explained, was that it presupposed that the body had no
ability to heal itself. Eventually the body came to rely on antibacterial intervention and virtually shut
downitsowninherenthomeostasis.Ihadtoadmitthiswasanovelandthoughtprovokingapproach.
Dr.Georgehadahabitofchallengingmetoexpandmyknowledgeintootherareas.Asitturnedout,
however,theleggotworse,infectedatbothwoundsnow.Igavethebullalargedoseofampicillinand
dosed the wounds with griseofulvin. It made remarkable progress after that. Dr. George seemed
unaffectedbymyapplicationofWesternmedicinesaying,“Vellitbeingapparenttheherbsandointments
prepared the beast for your antibiotics. I must say they vorked vell together.” That summed up our
relationship,differentcultures,differenttraining;butweworkedwelltogether.
IwasfeelingparticularlyboredanddepressedwhenGeorgeknockedonmydooronenightandasked
ifIwouldliketotakeawalkwithhim.Thiswasunusual,asitwasafterdarkandtherewereunfriendly
animalslurkinginthebush.Itwasafullmoon,ahuntingmoonandIhadratherstrongtrepidationsabout
venturingoutsidethecompound.Buthepersisted,andIgrabbedanoldshotgunandtheonlythreeshells
wehad.
Thenightwassilentexceptfortheoccasionalcackleofaguineafowlorthelowofthecattleinthe
nightbomas.Thesandwassoftandwarmfromthedayandtheairwasbeginningtocool.Themoonwas
up about 45 degrees and cast a bright glow on the bush, throwing shadows across our trail. George
walked on for some time without saying anything. We had gone a little more than a mile, and I was
beginningtofeelmoreateasewhenheabruptlystoppedandcockedhisheadtotheside,listening.He
walked over to a large thorn bush and leaned over, touching his ear to the feathery leaves, “What…” I
startedtoask,butheheldupahandforsilence.Heturnedtomeandsaid,“Therebeingdangerabout.Ve
mustreturningtothecompound.”
Heturnedandjoggedoffthewaywehadcome.NotabouttobeleftbehindevenifIdidn’tknowwhat
thedangerwas,IovertookGeorgeandlefthimbehindasIranbacktothecompound.Iwaswaitingatthe
cookhutasGeorgestaggeredupandsatdown.
“Whatwasthedanger?”Iasked.“Andhowdidyouknow?”
Ittookafewmomentsforhimtocatchhisbreath.“Thebushtellingme.”
“What do you mean the bush told you? Bushes don’t talk.” I was starting to feel that George was
playingaprank,anEastIndianversionofthemythicalsnipehunt.
“No,”hesaid.“Everythingtalks.Youjusthavingtolisten.Animals,trees,brush,thevind.Allhaving
story.Trickbeinglearningtolisten.Brushtalksbestatnightvhentherestoftheworldstopstorest.It
recallstheeventsofthedayandcommentsaboutvhathappened.Howmanyandvhatkindofbirdrested
initsbranches,theantelopethatforagedonitsleaves,theantthattickleditsbarkasitscamperedupand
down,thehatedtermitethatateitsflesh.Ittalksofthesunandthevindandtherainandtheachesand
painsofgettingold.Justlikeus.Nodifferent,”hethenadded,“nodoubt.”
Istilldidn’tbelieveawordofit,“Youmeanthatbushactuallytalkedtoyou?Whatlanguage?Hindior
Englishormaybebusheshavetheirownlanguage.”
Mysarcasmwaslostonhim.“Nolanguage.Theytalkingintoyourhead.Itelling,youhavetolearnto
listen. The ancients learned to listen. Modern man losing the art. Too many distractions; radio, TV,
yelling.”
“Sowhatdidthatbushtellyou?”Iasked.
“It telling lion vas about.” He was bobbing his head now, and I knew he was pulling my leg and it
pissedmeoff,soItoldhimgoodnightandwenttomyhuttoread.
The next morning, while we were at breakfast, a herder came running up the yelling, “Calli, calli
daxxo.Ninwademadi.”MySomaliwasgoodenoughbynowtoknowthathewassayingcomequickly,a
manwasdead.Wefollowedhimatarun.Aboutquarterofamileintothebushwecameonasmallcircle
ofherdersstandingaroundapileofbloodyrags.Theypartedasweapproached.Mystomachinstantly
turnedandIlostmybreakfastontoasmalltermitemound.Therewasn’tmuchleftoftheman.Hehadbeen
tornapartfromthechestdownandhisentrailsandribswereexposedandgleamingintheearlymorning
sun.Ironically,hisfacewasuntouchedandappearedrelaxedandcomposedasifasleep.
“Whathappened?”Iaskedinaraspyvoice.
Oneofthemenanswered,“Libah.Lion.”
IlookedatGeorgeandthehairstooduponthebackofmyneck,andIhadthestrangestsensationthatI
hadwitnessedsomethingbeyondmyabilitytoprocess.Thiswasunnatural,strange,andscary.Ilookedat
George;hejuststoodtherewithhishandsclaspedtogether,slowlybobbinghishead.
Therewasthesoundofclothrustlingandfootsteps.Arushofbodiespressedus.Thewomenfromthe
villagehadbeeninformedofthedeathandweredescendingonus.Onestrodeforwardandstoodstaring
atthebody,andthenbeganahigh-pitchedkeening.Theotherwomenjoinedin.Amansteppedforward
andcoveredtheremainswithawhitesheetandseveralothersstoopedtopickupwhatwasleftofthe
body.Theytookhimofftothevillagetoprepareforthefuneral,whichbyMuslimpracticemustoccur
beforesundown.AsGeorgeandIwalkedbacktothecompoundIasked,“Theyreallydidtellyouofthe
lion,didn’tthey?Buthow?”
Hedidn’tanswerforthelongesttime,finallysaying,“VhenIfirstobtainedvetdegreeIvasassigned
to game preserve in Rahjastan. It being most isolated and remote of areas. Dry, desolate, hot and
unfriendly.IvasfromKaralaState,rainy,green,andhavinglargefamilyandverylargepopulationsof
peoples.NowIvasallalone.Novone,justmeandtheanimalsandthebush.Notevenmuchfoodandthe
vatervasterrible.IvasabouttoquitandgoinghomevhenanoldFakirvanderedintocampvoneday.”
“Awhat?“Iasked.
“Fakir,aholyman,”heanswered.“Forfourdayshesittinginshadeundertree.Iaskhim,vantingfood
orvater?Hesayingnothings.Thenfinallyhespoke.‘Itistimeformetoeatanddrink,forwhatyougive
me,Iwillteachyoumanythings.’Hestayforthreeyears,talklittle,eatlittle;butIlearnmanythings.”
“Howlongdidyoustayatthepreserve?”Iasked.
“Istayingtwelveyears,”heanswered.“Untilthevarandthesoldierscomingandkilleverythingand
therevasnothingleftformetotakecareof.”
“Hetaughtyoutolistentothebushes?”
“Vell,notexactly.Heteachingmetoopeningmymindandseeingthevorldthroughothereyes.Vonce
youseeingvorldfromothereyes,youhavingdifferentperspective.Hetellingmethatvhatveseeingnot
alwaysbeingvhatisreally.Therebeingcompleteothervorldvereallthingsbeingequalandallthings
abletobeingtalkingtoeachothers.”
Attheedgeofthecompoundhestoppedandcontinuedhistale,“Itryingformany,manyyearstofree
mindandseeothervorld.VonedayIstaringintoasmallpoolfromrecentrainandseeingmyreflection.
Thenreflectiondisappearing,andIseeingsomethingelseandthenIlookingfromreflectionatmyself.I
seeingfromothereyes.FromthatdayonIlook,seeandhearingdifferent.AndIabletolisten.”
Myskepticismhadbeenwitheringforsometime.Itwasbeingreplacedwithasortofreverencefor
thisthin,quietmanwhowassocompletelyself-composedandsocompletelyatpeacethathecouldshed
physicalconfinesandenterintoanetherealuniverse.
“Youkeepsayingthatyou’reabletolisten.Canyoutalktootherentitiesalso?”
“Listeningismostimportant.Firstlisten.Listen,learn,feel.MyopinionnotvorthmuchuntilIlearn.I
beingapprenticeformanyyears.FinallyvhenIlistenenough,learnenoughthenIabletocommunicate.”
Hefellsilent.Icouldtellthedeathoftheherderhadastrongeffectonhim.Itaffectedmealso,but
moresoasashockatseeingahumanbodysobrutalized.BeforeGeorgeenteredhisroomheturnedand
said,“Lionlikinghumanmeatnow.Vemustbeverycareful.”
Icouldhearthelionroaringdeepintothenight.Itwasclosetothecompound,andIcantrulysaythat
the roar of a lion, loose, close and ready to do harm is the most terrifying of sounds. My bladder was
closetoburstingbeforefirstlightgavemeenoughconfidencetoruntotheouthouse,clutchingtheshotgun
tightlywithonehandwhileundoingmybeltwiththeother.
Threenightslater,thelionmadeanotherkill,ayounggirlwhowascarryingajarofwateronherhead
andwasonlyfiftyfeetfromherhut.Ithappenedsofastthatsheutterednotacryandthenshewasgone
into the descending darkness. They came to my hut and asked me to help them search for her. I had a
flashlight and the shotgun. I asked George to come along and, although very frightened, he agreed. We
startedtrackingatthepointshewastaken.TheSomaliswerethebesttrackersandtookthelead,although
itwasoneoftheBantugirls,Tatu,whohadbeentaken.Theycarriedtorchesheldhighinonehandand
spearsormachetesintheother.Theyweresilent,followingthefainttracksinthesandorthetinydropsof
bloodthatweresprinkledsocarelesslyalongthetrail.Thesilencewasominous;successwouldgiveno
rewards. The silence was ominous because we all knew that death would be a visitor again this night.
Thesilencewasominousbecauseeachofusknewwhathadtobedone.
Westoppedfornoapparentreason.ItwasGeorgewhospokeinawhisper,“Thebushbeingafraid.
Thislionisevilcreature.Itkillnotforfood.Itkillyounggirlforfun.Notnatural.Notnaturalmaking
scarebushandallcreatures.Allanimalsrunaway,thehyenaeven.Birdsflyaway,smallanimalsburrow.
Bushsayingbeverycareful.Sayingmustdriveevilspiritaway.Tonight!”
Themencouldn’tunderstandGeorge’swords,buttheyunderstoodhistone.Theywereclosertothe
earththanIandsensedGeorge’stalent.ThemenacceptedandreveredGeorgeasasoothsayerandtook
seriouslyhisfear.Welookedateachotherasfellowtravelersonatrailofdeaththentookupthechase
again.
AnoldTurkananamedFaroledatafasttrot.Howhecouldreadsignsinthedark,ontherun,wasa
mystery,yethefollowedthespoor.Wehadgonelessthanamileandhadenteredintoheavybrushwhena
loudroareruptedjustoffthetrail.Immediatelyascreamfollowedastheliontoreataman’smidsection
then bolted off into the darkness. It happened so fast that no one could react, only the man who was
writhingontheground,onesidelaidopenchesttomid-thigh,bloodalreadysoakingthesand.Georgeand
I stopped to administer to him and the rest ran after the lion. I was really scared, shaking scared. My
upbringingandexperiencehadnotpreparedmeforthis.Hereatmyfeetwasamansilentlysufferinga
horriblewoundenduredfromabeastwhosepower,ferocityandcunningwerebeyondus.Georgetoreoff
hisshirtandstuffeditintothemostgapingwound,tryingtostemtheblood.Istartedtohelp,butsawa
whiteobjectlyingbehindathornbushseveralfeetaway.Icautiouslywalkedtowardit.Itwasthelittle
girl, Tatu. She was dead, but the lion had had no time to start in on her. She was intact except for an
brokenneckandlonggashesalongherbody.
GeorgegotupandwalkedovertowhereIstood,“Notbeingmuchwedoingfordeadgirl,needing
helpwithlivingman.”Hetuggedmebacktotheinjuredherdsman,andItookoffmyshirttohelpbandage
him.Weweresoengrossedthatwedidn’tnoticethetawnyshapewatchingfromunderthespreadofa
thorntreenottwentyfeetaway.SuddenlyGeorgelookedupwithastart.Hetouchedmyarmforattention,
“Lionbeinghere.Bushallaroundfrantic.Thatdevilgiveshaketoherdsmenanddoubleback.Itbeing
close,gettingshotgun.Now!”
I reached behind me, picked the shotgun up and turned. And looked dead into the eyes of pure,
unabated evil, its hot, fetid breath washing over me. I jerked the barrel up instinctively and pulled the
trigger. Nothing, a dud shell. The lion bowled me over, knocking the two other shells away. It was on
Georgeinaflash.StunnedIstillwasabletograbtheshotgunbythebarrelandswingitashardasIcould
downonthelion’sback.Iswungagainandagain,cursingandswearingtotryandcloseoutthesoundof
George’sscreams.
Thenitwasquietandthelionturneditseyesonme.ItstaredatmewiththemostmalevolentlookIhad
everseen,asiftosay,I’mleavingyouforanothertime.ItgavealastswipeatGeorge’sinertformand
vanishedintothebrush.
IdroppedthegunandkneltatGeorge’sside.Hiseyeswereopenandalookofbemusementwason
hisface.Iwasafraidtolookathisbody;Ihadseenthedeadherdsmanandcouldn’tfacethatmutilation
again.InsteadIcradledhisheadinmyarmsandheldoneofhislong,bonyhandsuntilhegaveagaspand
hishandfelllimpinmine.Igazedintohissightlesseyes,rememberingallthiskindandgentlemanhad
saidtomeovertheshorttimeIhadknownhim.
ItsurprisedmetoseehisfaceglisteninthemoonlightasifawashuntilIrealizedthatmytearswere
freelyflowing.Icouldhearthefootfallofmanyshoelessmenrunningtowardusandthenacircleoflight
cast over us from the burning torches. The men fell silent as they saw the body in my arms, then they
gatheredaroundinacircleasonebyonetheyknelttotouchGeorge’scheekandsayabriefprayer.Iheld
myfriendlikethisuntilIknewitwastime.ImotionedforoneofthementotakeGeorgethenstoodup,
shaky.Theyknewwhatwasnext;oneofthemenhandedmetheshotgun.Itoldthemtheshellshadbeen
knockedoutofmyhandandweallsearchedthebrushuntiltheywerefound.Iloadedoneandclutchedthe
otherbetweenmyfingers.IdroppedtoonekneetotouchGeorgeoncemoreandaskedforhisprotection
andguidance.FaronudgedmyarmandIfollowedhimintothedarkness.
Hewentfastasusual,followingthespooratatrot,ignoringthepullandtearofthewait-a-bitthorns
grabbing at our bare arms and legs. Suddenly, he stopped and stared at a clump of dense brush, then
walkedslowlyforward.
Hewasfivefeetfromthebrushwhenitexploded.Thelionburstforwardwithblindingspeedandran
straight into Faro, knocking him down and with a great roar was about to tear his throat out when it
suddenlyturneditsheadandlookedatmewithamixtureofhateanddisdain.ItdroppedFarolikearag
dollandtooktwostepstowardme.Iraisedtheshotgunandwasabouttofirewhenthelionjumpedtothe
sideanddisappearedintothebush.IrushedtoFarowhodidn’tappeartobeseriouslyhurt,butwasinno
wayabletocontinuethechase.
Iplungedintothebushafterthelion.IhadnoclueastowhereitwasorwhereIwas.Ididknowtwo
things:thatIwantedtokillthatbeastworsethanIhadwantedanythingbeforeandthatlionwouldfind
me.
IstoppedrunningandstartedthinkingaboutGeorgeandhisteachings.Somethingofhimenteredinto
me;agreatpeacecameintomysoulandhatredwaspushedout.
NowIdidn’twanttokillthelion,allIwantedtodowasreturntothecompoundandprepareDr.K.K.
George,myfriend,forburial.Andtomournhimasbefitthedepartureofapuresoulfromthistarnished
earth.
Iturnedandwasfollowingmytracksinthesand,draggingtheshotgunbythebarrelandremembering
thedaysandeveningsspentwithhimwhensuddenlyIheardsoundsallaround.Softsounds,high-pitched
sounds,wheezingandsoughingandthesoundsofancientvoices,raspyanddry.Ilookedaroundandtried
to pinpoint them, but they came from all directions and seemed mostly to come from…within. I didn’t
reallyhearthem,theyweresimplypresent,andtheydidn’tcomefromanywherespecifically.Ilistened,
but in a different way. I listened from another source, another sense, and then I was able to understand
individualsounds,notaswordsbutasideas.IlistenedasGeorgehadsaid,notwithmyears,butwithmy
body.Itriedtobecomeonewithmysurroundings,apartofeverything.Thebushwaswithinmeandittoo
mournedGeorge.ItalsowarnedmethatthelionwasstalkingandthatthatIshouldcontinuewalkingjust
asIwasandthatthebushwouldguidemeandprotectme.
Itcouldn’tprotectGeorge,evilincarnatewantedhissoulasitdidallsoulsthatwerepureandgood,
and so the ancients had sent this abomination. But I was neither pure nor particularly good and the
ancientsreallydidn’tcare,sotheabominationcoulddowithmeasitwished,butthebushwasnotabout
toabandonme.FearleftandIfeltcomfortedandready.
Now!Theacacia,thethorn,thewait-a-bitandthetallgrassallcrowdedintomyhead.Turnandfire!
Without hesitation I swung around, threw up the gun and fired into the darkness. A flash of flame
illuminatedthelionnotfivefeetbehindmeandspringing.Theblastcaughtthecreaturefullinthefaceand
smashedittotheground.Itwasagainquietanddark.
Istartedtopanic,fearingthatthelionwasstillalive,whenthesoundsagainenteredmymind.
Thisdevilisdeadtheysaid.Buttherewillbemore.Maybenotherebutelsewhereinyourlife,far
fromhereormaybeeveninyourownheart.Striveforpurityinallthatyoudo.Whenthedevilcomes
forth,cometousandlisten.Foryoumustfighthim.We’llbethereandsowillbeanother.
IsworeIthenheardashortchirp,thesoundofknucklespoppingandafaintvoicesaying,“Nodoubt.”
JackMeyers(Somalia,1968-69;Kenya,1969-70)becamearesourceeconomist.Hislastcareer
positionwasDirectorofInternationalProgramsforResourceManagementInternationalbefore
movingintoconsultingandwriting(currentlyhehastwocompletednovelsandtwoinprogress).
PartFive
SustainablePeace
ChildrenoftheRains
MICHAELTOSO
Contextandculture:AfricawasmuchbeforethecomingoftheEuropeans,andcontinuestobeAfrica,
foralltheoutsideinfluence.
WEAREINANZA’SGARDEN,WATCHINGAHARMATTANSUNSINKOVERAMANGLEDSCREWPALMANDWHAT’SLEFTOF
theseason’smilletharvest.ThievesbrokeintoAnza’sgranaryand,whiletheydidn’ttakeeverything,he
isdisheartened.Conversationhastakenanunusuallysombertone.Abdousaysthatwhathewantsinlife,
tofeelsecure,isazincroofoverhishead.
MostDjermausebraidedgrassandreedsforroofing.Someoftheupwardlymobilehavebeguntobuy
sheets of zinc, a widely popular and sought after commodity because they do not leak during our short
rainyseason.Anzastaresoutintohisgardenandsaysthatstoredawaymilletiswhatgiveshismindrest.
Whenyouhaveasackofmilletinthecorner,hesays,yourwifeandkidssleepsoundlyatnight.Yousleep
soundlybecausetheysleepsoundly.Aswewatchthelastraysofsunthroughbrokenmilletstalks,Anza
speaksinaquiet,measuredtone,Ndawaynogogakunniga,watungadi,agogatunwindikulubon.
“Youthinkthesunsetsonyourcompoundalone?Standupandseehowitfallsontheentirevillage.”A
succinctDjermaproverb.
Ihaveseldombeenaccusedofcomingupshortonwords.LearningDjermadidn’tchangethat,buthas
taught me the value of spoken word. Discovering, memorizing, and learning to call upon just the right
proverb,atjusttheinstant,changedmylifeinFalmey.
Theseage-oldsayingsencompassmuchofwhatmakesseeminglythreadbareDjermasuchapoignant
language.Aswithaproverb,therearefewwords;eachandeveryonehasmultiplemeanings.Thisisthe
powerofaliving,spokenlanguage,thepowerofaproverb;shouldyoudrawuponconventionalwisdom,
noonewillarguewithyou;withtherightwords,youcansilenceyourenemies,embraceyourlovedones,
andtellafancifulstorytotoddlers—inthesamebreath.
BeforetheFrenchcametounitetheDjerma,Hausa,Fulani,Tuareg,Beriberi,andGourmancheinside
arbitrary lines on a piece of paper and began imposing head taxes, there were the Fulani Jihads of the
eighteenth century. Before the Fulani spread across the Sahel to purify Islamic practices, there was the
Songhai empire. Before the Songhai controlled the salt caravans, Tuaregs navigated the desert seas by
starlight,markingeachsecretoasistownwithadistinctsilvercross.
Yes, long before white Peace Corps Volunteers arrived in Niger, people have been uprooted,
supplanted,forcedtomigrate,learnedtothriveinwhateverplacemustnowbecalledhome.
The Land Rover dropped me off in the village in late October. Falmey was teaming with youth; the
harvestwasabouttobegin.HadIbeendroppedoffinMarch,Iwouldhavemetwomen,children,andold
men.ThereisnoeconomytospeakofinNigerand,withdesertificationgrowingworseeachyear,most
young men travel south to Cotonou, Accra, Lagos, Kano to find work. They work until clouds gather
above the Sahel, and then they follow these clouds home to begin the harvest. These are the kurmizey,
taabusizey,childrenoftherain.Theyarethediasporaofthisage.
Trulythereisnothingnewunderthesun.
KurmizeyarethesonsofDjermafarmerswhotravelacrosstheSahel,downthroughthesavannahsto
theseacoastinsearchofwork,onlytoreturnfortheseasonofrainsandharvesteachyear.Taabusizeyare
childrenborninaforeignland,theyarethefruitsofaprodigalson’sharvestsenthometobeclaimedby
theirfamily.French-speakingDjermasnamedthisdiaspora,thisscatteringofyouth,Exode.ADjermafolk
hip-hop poet, the late Moussa Poussi, sang a song, “Taabusizey.” Moussa wove old farmers’ songs of
longingfortheirchildren’sreturnwiththerebellioussongsofyouthreadytoseekgreenerpastures.
Everyyoungtravelerinmyage-setknowsthiscall-and-response.Whenyoutraveltoaforeignplace,
whenthebrightcitylightshityouforthefirsttime,whenyoufirsttasteCoca-Cola,whenyoulearntoeat
foodsotherthanmillet,baobableavesandpeanutsauce,andyoudon’tknowasoulintheworldbecause
youcan’tspeakthelanguage,youbegintowhistlethissong.Yousingthesongasyouwalkalong,and
morelikelythannot,yoursongwillfinditscompanion.
AnotherDjermayouth’swhistlewilljoinyoursandyouarenolongerastrangerinastrangeland:You
havefoundsomeonetolookafteryouandtolookafter.
MyfriendYayetaughtmethissongshortlybeforeIwastobeginmypreparationsfordeparture.He
insistedthatIlearnit,thatIknowthewordselderssingfromtheirfieldsascloudsgatheronthehorizon:
rain clouds gather and bring your children home for the harvest. Elders and children sing to one
anotherfromacrossthesavannahsandcloud-filledskiesthatseparatethem.
Childrenoftherains,prodigalchildren:givebirthandsendyourchildrenhome.
Weareleaving,untilwecomeagain.Fathermustn’tlookforus:mothermustn’tlookforus.
Thosethatsearchedforuswerebelittled.
Thewaterofbelittlementcatchesoneintheeyes.
Theautomobileisleaving,motheriscrying.
Theguitaranditsstringsshouldneverseparate.
Theoldkokoroba-madehoeleansagainstakokorobatree.
Thesleeperandhismilletspoonaresleepingunderneaththegranary.
Wildmilletiswaitingtobecomeporridge,thefamilyawaitsitsarrival.
Andthismilletdrinkleftinthesunmustspeakofitsplaceandlooktothesun.
Forifitfermentsandturnstopoison,itwillbethefamilywhodies.
Yaye’s mother is a Fulani herder, his father is a Djerma farmer. He was born in Falmey; he often
travelstoGhanatofindwork.TheyearIcametothevillage,hemarried.TheweekbeforeIleft,heandI
slaughteredasheepforhisson’snamingceremony.YayespeaksthepigeonEnglishspokeninAccra,but
weconverseinDjerma.Wehadneverrelatedwithwords.
HeandIwerefriendsbecauseoftheknowingstareIwouldcatchoutofthecornerofhiseye,assome
passer-bymadecommentsaboutmy“foreignness.”Weconnectedbecauseheknewwhatthatwaslike.
IpackedtoleaveFalmeyasthethirdseasonofrainsfelldownaroundus.ADjermaproverbsayslife
islikeamango,justasitbecomesripe,iffallsfromthetree.Yayetaughtmetosing“Taabusizey,”andas
Isangitformyage-setbeforeleaving,IrealizedthatYayewasn’tteachingmethissongsothatIcould
findaDjermafriendintheUnitedStates:thatwasthefancifulstoryforthetoddlers.Yayewassilencing
those who had mocked him, who had mocked me, for being different, because some had never left
themselves. Because some of them had never sung the song in a foreign land. Yaye’s gift to me was a
wordtoassociatewithaprecioustimeinmylife.Hewaswiseenoughtoknowthatitisn’tthespoken
wordthatmatters,butthelayersofmeaningyoucanfoldbeneathitssound.
MichaelTossowasaCommunityandYouthEducatorinNigerfrom2004-06.Since2009hehasbeena
PreventativeHealthEducatorwiththePeaceCorpsresponsibleforimprovingruralenvironmental
andnutritionoutcomesthroughnon-formaleducationandcommunityactioninSenegal.
Acknowledgements
WHENJANEALBRITTONASKEDMETOEDITTHEAFRICAVOLUMEOF PEACECORPS@50,IHADNOIDEAWHATIWAS
gettinginto,noideawhatawonderfulprojectthisisorofthepoweroftheessaysthatshehadcollected
(though one of them was mine). Jane had a vision for this series that I only learned to appreciate as I
worked on it, coming to understand something that I may have forgotten in the years since my own
formative Peace Corps experience: Peace Corps changes lives, both of the Peace Corps Volunteers
(PCVs)andthosetheyinteractwith.Fewdevelopmentprojectsororganizations(ifany)havehadsucha
continualandpersonalimpactasPeaceCorps.
So,thefirstpersonIhavetothankhereisJane.Thoughmynamemaybeonthecoverofthebookwith
hers,thisisreallyherproject,aresultofhervision.Myhatgoesofftoher.
Then I have to thank the contributors. We have had an overwhelming response to Jane’s call for
submissions, and I have had the unfortunate task of winnowing them down to a still-unreasonable (but
workable) size, sometimes cutting much of what these passionate Returned Peace Corps Volunteers
(RPCVs) have written so that more of them can be included. They have reaffirmed the importance and
powerofthePeaceCorpsexperience,buthavepullednopunches,depictingthebadandthedifficultas
wellasthegood.
ThisvolumeowesagreatdealtoProductionDirectorSusanBrady,whodemandsahigherlevelof
workthanIcanprovide,gettingmorefromme(andfromthestories)thanwouldotherwisebepossible.
Anysuccessthisbookhaswillcomebecauseshehasmadeitwelcomingandaccessible.
Finally,Iwanttothankmywife,JanStern,whonotonlyhasassistedme,butwhohasbeenwillingto
accommodatetheworkintoouralreadyover-extendedlives,findingwaysforthisprojecttobeincluded
evenasitbecamemoreandmorealaborofloveandmoreandmoreconsuming.
StoryAcknowledgments
“WhyIJoinedthePeaceCorps”byRobertKleinpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byRobertKlein.
“ThereattheBeginning”byTomKatus,GeorgeJohnson,AlexVeech,andL.GilbertGriffispublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthors.
Copyright©2011byTomKatus,GeorgeJohnson,AlexVeech,andL.GilbertGriffis.
“LearningtoSpeak”byTomWellerpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byTomWeller.
“FirstandLastDays”byBobPowerspublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byBobPowers.
“HenaKisoaKelyandBlueNailPolish”byAmandaWonsonpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byAmanda
Wonson.
“ComingtoSierraLeone”bySarahMoffett-Guicepublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011bySarahMoffett-Guice.
“ShatteringandUsingBookLearning”bySusanL.Schwartzpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011bySusanL.
Schwartz.
“TheAdventuresOverseas”byLarryW.Harmspublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byLarryW.Harms.
“AToubacintheGloaming”byE.T.Stafnepublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byE.T.Stafne.
“FamilyAffair”byArneVanderburgpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byArneVanderburg.
“YourParentsVisitedYouInAfrica?”bySolveigNilsenpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011bySolveigNilsen.
“WhatITellMyStudents”byWilliamG.Moseleypublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byWilliamG.Moseley.
“SlashandBurn”byKellyMcCorkendalepublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byKellyMcCorkendale.
“TwoYearsLastsaLifetime”bySallyCytronGatipublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011bySallyCytronGati.
“SisterStellaSeamsSerene”byStarleyTalbottAndersonpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byStarleyTalbott
Anderson.
“LateEvening”byLenoreWaterspublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byLenoreWaters.
“TheForty-EightHourRule”byMartinR.Ganzglasspublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byMartinR.Ganzglass.
“FullCircle”byDelfiMessingerpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byDelfiMessinger.
“APromiseKept”byBethDuff-Brownpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byBethDuff-Brown.
“TheUtopiaoftheVillage”byHeatherCorinneCummingpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byHeatherCorinne
Cumming.
“TheEngineCatches”bySusannaLewispublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011bySusannaLewis.
“Yaka”byKellyJ.Morrispublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011by.
“NousSommesEnsemble”byAnnaRussopublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byAnnaRusso.
“TheSweetestGift”byJayneBieleckipublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byJayneBielecki.
“TheConference”byMarcyL.Spauldingpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byMarcyL.Spaulding.
“Girls’School”byMarsaLairdpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byMarsaLaird.
“Testimony”byStephanieBanepublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byStephanieBane.
“AfricanWoman”byDorotheaHertzbergpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byDorotheaHertzberg.
“MyRiceCrop”byEdmundBlairBollespublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byEdmundBlairBolles.
“GentleWindsofChange”byDonaldHolmpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byDonaldHolm.
“LaSupermarché”byJenniferL.Giacominipublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byJenniferL.Giacomini.
“Mokhotlong”byAllisonScottMatlackpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byAllisonScottMatlack.
“ChangingSchool”bySandraEcholsSharpepublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011bySandraEcholsSharpe.
“TheSeasonofOmagongo”byAlanBarstowpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byAlanBarstow.
“Tapping”byEricStonepublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byEricStone.
“TheDrumsofDemocracy”byPaulP.PomettoIIpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byPaulP.PomettoII.
“Boys&Girls”byRyanN.Smithpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byRyanN.Smith.
“I’dWantedtoGotoAfrica,ButthePeaceCorpsSentMetoSierraLeone”byBobHixonJulyanpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.
Copyright©2011byBobHixonJulyan.
“Breakfast”byJedBrodypublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byJedBrody.
“DailyLife”byKathleenMoorepublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byKathleenMoore.
“WatotoofTanzania”byLindaChenSeepublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byLindaChenSee.
“BeggingTurnedonItsHead”byKarenHlynskypublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byKarenHlynsky.
“Time”byPatriciaOwenpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byPatriciaOwen.
“LearningtoPlaytheGameofLife”byLawrenceGrobelpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byLawrenceGrobel.
“AFirstRealJob”byJoyMarburgerpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byJoyMarburger.
“It’sCondomDay!”bySeraArcaropublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011bySeraArcaro.
“TheCivilizedWay”byBryantWienekepublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byBryantWieneke.
“WhoControlstheDoo-Doo?”byJayDavidsonpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byJayDavidson.
“TheRideHome”byBinaDuganpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byBinaDugan.
“TheLittleThings”byStephanieGottliebpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byStephanieGottlieb.
“ThereWillBeMud”byBruceKahnpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byBruceKahn.
“TheHammaminRabat”byShaunaSteadmanpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byShaunaSteadman.
“StraightRazorsinHeaven”byPaulNegley,Jr.publishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byPaulNegley,Jr.
“BigButtsAreBeautiful!”byJanetGraceRiehlpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byJanetGraceRiehl.
“MonsieurRobertLovesRats“BobWalkerpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byBobWalker.
“Imani”byDanielFranklinpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byDanielFranklin.
“Hail,Sinner!IGotoChurch”byFloydSandfordpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byFloydSandford.
“AVisitFromH.I.M.”byCarolBeddopublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byCarolBeddo.
“MoonRocket”byRobertE.Gribbinpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byRobertE.Gribbin.
“BuryMyShortsatChamborroGorge”byThorHansonpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byThorHanson.
“NearDeathinAfrica”byNancyBillerpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byNancyBiller.
“BoeufMadagaskara”byJacquelynZ.Brookspublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byJacquelynZ.Brooks.
“TheBaobobTree”byKaraGarbepublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byKaraGarbe.
“TheSportsBar”byLeitaKaldiDavispublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byLeitaKaldiDavis.
“OneLastParty”byPaulaZoromskipublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byPaulaZoromski.
“ThePeaceCorpsinaWarZone”byTomGallagherpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byTomGallagher.
“HoldingtheCandle”bySuzanneMeagherOwenpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011bySuzanneMeagherOwen.
“AMorning”byEnidS.Abrahamipublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byEnidS.Abrahami.
“ABrotherinNeed”byGenevieveMurakamipublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byGenevieveMurakami.
“ATreeGrowsinNiamey”byStephanieOppenheimer-Strebpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byStephanie
Oppenheimer-Streb.
“Jaarga”byBetsyPolhemuspublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byBetsyPolhemus.
“ForLackofaQuarter…”byIreneG.Brammertzpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byIreneG.Brammertz.
“CrazyCatLady”byMichelleStonerpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byMichelleStoner.
“ElephantMorning”byAaronBarlowpublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byAaronBarlow.
“AtNighttheBushesWhisper”byJackMeyerspublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byJackMeyers.
“ChildrenoftheRains”byMichaelTosopublishedwithpermissionfromtheauthor.Copyright©2011byMichaelToso.
Specialthanksto
TheJasonandLucyGreerFoundation
fortheArtsfortheirgeneroussupportof
thePeaceCorps@50Project.
AbouttheEditor
BEFORE JOINING THEPEACECORPS AS AN AGRICULTURAL EXTENSION AGENT FOR ANIMAL TRACTION(PLOWING USING
oxen)inTogo,AaronBarlowspenttwoyearsteachingattheUniversityofOuagadougouinBurkinaFaso,
wherehewasSeniorFulbrightLecturerinAmericanStudies.FascinatedbyAfrica,butrealizingthecity
experiencewasfarfromthewhole,hewantedtoliveandworkinavillage.
Barlow’sPh.D.fromtheUniversityofIowawascappedbyadissertationonthescience-fictionwriter
Philip K. Dick and completed in 1988. He did not become a full-time academic in the United States,
however,until2004.Inthemeantime,inadditiontohisPeaceCorpsexperience,heco-foundedandrana
café/gift shop in Brooklyn, New York, called Shakespeare’s Sister, dedicated to the idea that there is
talentandartineveryindividual.
Nowaspecialistintheintersectionoftechnologyandculture,Barlowhasproducedfourbooksover
the past six years, two relating to film and two to new media and the blogosphere. He teaches at New
York City College of Technology, a part of the City University of New York where he enjoys working
with a student body representing over 100 different languages and cultures, a diversity he learned to
appreciatewhileaPeaceCorpsVolunteer.

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One Hand Does Not Catch a Buffalo: 50 Years of Amazing Peace

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