One Hand Does Not Catch a Buffalo

by Aaron Barlow

  “You never get bitter here?” I ask. “You see the corruption and you are making no money. You are trained in India right?” She nods yes. “In India you could make quite the salary, correct?” I ask.

  “Let me tell you. In India with my degree I could be living like a princess. I moved to Africa forty years ago with my husband, a Kenyan born in Homabay, a Luo. We came here to Kisumu, to his family. Then I went briefly to train in the U.K. I did my residency in a hospital in the U.K. But I was in agony, let me tell you, between just us. Total despair and despondence. People in the U.K., they act so arrogant and so serious. It was so cold there on every level, let me tell you. Standing far apart from one another. Nobody seeing anybody.

  So I came back to Africa. I make pennies a day you know. But in the evening, at the end of the day, and the end of this lifetime what will I say? Will I say goodbye to my gold and my pennies? At the end we only remember the good we did. It is the good we did that matters, the people we helped. We are not alone in this universe. We are part of everybody else. The tapestry is here.” She points to her face and to my heart.

  “I get bitter,” I say. “I get so angry at all the injustice. I wish I could be like you.”

  “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, rubbing my arms, smiling. “In you I see something. You are really a good old, old soul.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You have a malady of some kind. A small, small malady. But you will be fine. You must drink lots of boiled water, lots. Rest and sleep. This malady may be a virus. But I am in the mindset that it is more of a soul malady. Your soul may be shifting a bit. This is common. But if you stay in Africa you will mend that soul and then it will shift again. That is life. You have to work with that shifting.”

  How does one respond to this? This was like a scene in a fairy tale, the wise Indian sage giving advice from the beyond to an ignorant, lost and searching young person set adrift in a foreign land. And yet it felt real, solid, comforting and healing. As I emerged from the table I felt a touch of relief, I breathed a little deeper, life seemed lighter and more hopeful. I thanked her kindly and asked how much I owed her.

  “You pay what you can pay. I do not wish to strip a Volunteer of all funds and assets. You are suffering enough. As I say, I have what I need to enjoy everything. You enjoy everything too.”

  As my hand grasps the doorknob I stop still and stare at her. I want to take the entirety of her in: her delicate face with eyes too wide for refined features, the dramatic flair of white shooting through her hair like a lightning bolt, the shiny gold rings on her fingers, the rows and rows of colorful medicines in glass jars, her stifling hot little room, the wooden desk she has sat behind for thirty-five years listening to the agonies and sufferings of the sick, the forgotten, the despondent.

  “Oh, can I buy you a slab of paneer?” she asks. “I know how much you like it.”

  “I am fine,” I say. “I am finer than I have ever been.”

  I wonder how many people had left this small room feeling better, healed slightly, or even completely, without swallowing even one pill. I wonder how many people died in this office, or died before reaching this office, or died after leaving this office—dying from so many easily curable diseases. I wonder how many people actually did pay her. I am convinced she did it all for free, never charging a soul. She lived off her husband’s earnings, earnings she found more than sufficient. She has treated thousands in thirty-five years. She never charged a single one.

  “I feel a lot better,” I say. She smiles like she expected me to say this. She knows the rarity of grace has bestowed itself unto me. She raises her hand, wiggles her fingers, the rings making sounds like bells.

  “Believe me when I say you can enjoy everything,” she says. “Nothing is too good to be true. Just laugh more. See people and really see them. See it all. See the tapestry.”

  I experienced the failures of nations on the faces of Kenyan people. I realized what oppression and human greed and the thirst for power does to continents, to countries; how it obliterates self-worth, self-esteem, self-determination. I realized what white dominance is, and how it massacred and stymied a once proud and dignified continent of kingdoms and tribes. I realized the true meaning of corruption, how is seeps into every element of ordinary human life, how performing a simple errand can land you in jail or beaten or raped. I realized that life is complex, that culture is everything, that people are fundamentally 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 possibility is unknown or stripped away, people are left with their feelings and relationships. I learned how communities in Africa thrive in times of need, and how they accept and love the outsider once they feel non-threatened. I learned that Africans are the most forgiving people I’ve ever met. I learned that communication can surpass any language barrier, that cultural divisions can be broken down, that honesty and humility can reach beyond borders, beyond race and poverty.

  The concerns I have now are no longer the concerns I once had. The people I once knew are no longer the people I knew. The county I knew is now a foreign country. And yet as I run by the Hudson River, I see the shimmering lights of the Statue of Liberty shining, illuminating the water. I think of the immigrants who witnessed that torch for the first time, those who risked their lives on ships to enter this country seeking a better life. I think of the many people all over the world who still dream to come to this country in spite of any hatred or resentment they may have for America. I think of the many Ugandans, Sudanese, Kenyans, Somalians, and Ethiopians I encountered throughout Africa—in the post offices, fields, bodegas, on street 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 sadness that the world is so imbalanced.

  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.

  After graduation from New York University, Eric Stone taught ESL/ESOL in China, Brazil and throughout New York City. He then joined the Peace Corps, launching and managing an HIV/AIDS, malaria and TB care and support center in Western Kenya from 2004-06. He went on to earn a master’s degree in Social Work & International Affairs from Columbia University, and is now a social worker with the Department of Veteran Affairs.

  The Drums of Democracy

  Paul P. Pometto II

  “They” may try to stop it, but the drumming lives on.

  Many people imagine the sounds of Africa to be the roar of a lion, the laugh of hyenas, or the calls of exotic birds. This may still be the case if you are camping on the ledge of Ngorongoro Crater in Tanzania or staying in a guesthouse in one of Namibia’s or South Africa’s national parks. In Ouédo, where I was living for two years as a Peace Corps Volunteer, the most acute sounds of “my Africa” were the drums. Every night, there were the sounds of the drums.

  Prior to assignments to our villages in 1974, the Peace Corps had flown us to Cotonou, the economic capital of Dahomey, and trained us for three months in the culture of the nation, French (the national language), some Fon (the language in the region of my future assignment), and basic agricultural methods (grain storage being my project). We learned within our first weeks the importance of using only the right hand for eating and greeting, the practice of tasting all liquids before offering them to our guests, and other basic courtesies. We also learned fairly early about animism and the importance of the voodoo culture in everyday life to Dahomeans. This included the sacredness of pythons and a similar respect for
baobab trees, wherein people believed some of their ancestors resided. During one of our first receptions, which was at the home of the Peace Corps Director, the staff consulted a witch doctor to ensure that it would not rain on the event. Daily rains were part of this particular season. Indeed, it did not rain in the yard where the reception was held.

  Ouédo was located on a dirt road perhaps eight miles from Abomey-Calavi, which was the closest town with a post office. Back in 1974, Volunteers depended on la poste for receipt of mail and monthly allowances. Each of us had been issued a small motorbike—a mobylette—that facilitated trips to the post office and our job sites. Cotonou was about ten miles south of Abomey-Calavi. The official capital of Dahomey—Porto Novo—was further east, toward the Nigerian border. I also used the mobylette to visit the farms where I was promoting and assisting the construction of small, cement grain silos. At the end of each day, I liked to either take a walk or a ride on the bike to visit different homesteads. Dahomeans were most hospitable and seemed always to enjoy my visits. Over time, they returned visits to my tin-roof bungalow. This is how I learned about the Fon people and some of the practices of their voodoo beliefs. I would learn later that millions of people practice this religion all over the globe, including in the United 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 human was inside this costume, it startled me as I struggled to turn around the bike in the narrow walkway to race the other direction.

  A visit to the Temple of Pythons in Ouidah was particularly impressive to our group of Peace Corps Volunteers. The temple was simple—round and made out of clay—but it contained dozens, perhaps hundreds, of pythons. We were coached on how to approach these symbols of deity, and at the appropriate moment, to touch or pick up one of the snakes. We had already been instructed never to disturb a python that was crossing our path or the road. In a car, we nearly always came to a halt to permit a python to cross the road. Unfortunately, there were times at night on paved roads when we didn’t have enough time to stop, though some of these snakes were strong enough to survive such bumps in the road.

  One day in 1975, my assistant ran into my hut to inform me that the nation had changed its flag. He was concerned because I had just paid for a tailor-made flag of Dahomey for my own collection. Nonplussed, I simply asked the tailor to make me another flag, using the new design. About a week later, he mentioned to me that a few more changes had occurred. Dahomey was now the People’s Republic of Benin, there had been a revolution, and Marxism-Leninism was the new philosophy of President Mathieu Kerekou. I also learned that it was against the law to make the new flag. One had to purchase flags that had recently been made in North Korea. More importantly to Ouédo, the president had banned voodoo practices and the playing of the drums!!

  The silencing of the drums changed the entire environment of my village. Ouédo had no televisions or theaters; it had no electricity or running water. I was content to spend some of my free time reading by the 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) friends and neighbors about having a great celebration, in part, because they had invited me to so many family ceremonies. Fortunately, one of my friends was the brother of President Kerekou’s driver, and I was given permission to have the party. There was food and drinks for all who visited from Ouédo and other villages. Stilt dancers excited the gathering and the drums played wildly.

  Though the earlier spread of both Christianity and Islam had banned voodoo practices to no avail, Kerekou made a brave attempt to end this practice; however, by the 1990s, he had dropped the Marxist-Leninist policies, the “People’s” in the nation’s name, and the ban on voodoo practices. When, in 1991, Kerekou stepped aside to permit the victorious Nicephore Soglo to become president, many around the world took notice. Benin had become the first African nation wherein a democratically elected president followed a dictator without bloodshed. By the time Kerekou won the free and fair elections of 1996 and 2001, the nation was celebrating an annual Voodoo Day! Kerekou retired from office in 2006 upon the election of the current president, Boni Yayi.

  The drums have continued to beat as a democratic and peaceful society evolves in this area of West Africa. In fact, the call of those drums reached 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W., Washington, D.C., otherwise known as the White House. That President and Mrs. Bush visited Benin in March 2008 was a testament to that nation’s growth, to U.S. and international support for Benin’s evolving institutions, and to the recognition of a culture that even includes animism as the national religion. Peace Corps celebrated its fortieth year in Benin in 2008.

  Paul P. Pometto II is Deputy Chief of Mission at the U.S. Embassy in Djibouti. His long career in the Foreign Service is the consequence of two years of service as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Benin, where he served from 1974-76 in the grain storage program. Paul is a native and resident of Washington, D.C.

  Part Three

  Getting Through the Days

  Boys & Girls

  Ryan N. Smith

  A snapshot of African life in the twenty-first century.

  Right now it’s 106 degrees, and I’m in my house where it’s only in the 90s, writing and listening to the radio. My host-brother, Ibrima, is at the neighbor’s compound, drinking tea, talking to his friends, and listening to 50 Cent. My host-mother, Jarkong, is outside pounding rice, preparing for lunch. She started at noon and won’t be finished until 2:30, when the men return from the mosque. Fatou, the eldest daughter, sits next to Jarkong, tediously removing rocks and bugs from the rice. Her daughter, Niima, has her head under her shirt, breastfeeding.

  After lunch, the brothers will return to 50 Cent and other pleasantries. The women will scrub the bowls and pots; this time, Niima will be strapped to Fatou’s back with a long piece of fabric, knotted just above her pregnant stomach. Fatou and her husband have four children, all girls. For Fatou, each attempt at a boy means more rice with bugs that need to be removed, more time with a baby strapped to her back.

  Between meals you can usually find about half of the women washing the family’s clothes by hand. The other half are tending their vegetable gardens, a twenty- or thirty-minute walk from the compound.

  As the babies finally fall asleep, two of my host-brothers watch an early ’90s episode of The Bold and the Beautiful on a tiny black-and-white television hooked up to a car battery. The women iron clothes or sort vegetables to be taken to the market tomorrow. Ibrima is still over at the neighbor’s, where he is working on his eleventh cup of tea for the day, and where he’ll likely be until midnight or later. He’ll be the last one to get to bed tonight. Tomorrow, before sunrise, Fatou will be the first to wake, will strap Niima on her back and start walking to the garden. Her vegetables aren’t going to water themselves.

  Born and raised in Central Illinois, Ryan N. Smith served in The Gambia from 2007–09 as an Agro-Forestry Extension Volunteer. He served with his wife, Leslie Coleman, and they enjoyed baking dessert breads in their solar oven and sneaking into coastal resort pools. Ryan has a B.A. in Environmental Policy from Illinois Wesleyan University.

  I’d Wanted to Go to Africa, But the Peace Corps Sent Me to Sierra Leone

  Bob Hixson Julyan

  Youth, snakes, fantasies, age, and a country’s later tragedy…

  When I arrived as a Peace Corps Volunteer in the Sierra Leonean village of Yonibana in August 1965, Sierra Leone, the Peace Corps, and I were age mates. We all were young, untried, unformed, with the eager optimism of youth, fledglings for
whom the future was open and auspicious. In 1961 Sierra Leone had achieved its independence from Britain, the Peace Corps had been created by President Kennedy, and I had left high school to enter college. Now just four years later, we all found ourselves together, ninety miles upcountry from the nation’s capital, Freetown, in a village whose name, Yonibana, means “big ant” in the local Temne language. I was to teach English in the village’s new secondary school.

  A Peace Corps vehicle dropped me off at what was to be my home for two years, a well-built cement 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, the house had no electricity or running water.

  I was the first and only PCV assigned to Yonibana; an agricultural missionary who’d worked in the village the previous three years was on sabbatical, and aside from two locally born Lebanese traders, I was the only non-African for thirty miles.

  Just what I wanted.

  For this was Africa! The Dark Continent. Land of mystery and adventure. True, the secondary bush around Yonibana wasn’t exactly the great game plains of East Africa, nor were the people of Yonibana—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 iconic animals. I made a bad joke about this contrast: I’d wanted to go to Africa, but the Peace Corps sent me to Sierra Leone.