One Hand Does Not Catch a Buffalo

by Aaron Barlow

  In the end, Percy survived. I wrapped his feet every other day from my Peace Corps medical kit, and the doctor came to give him a shot for to avoid infection. Because of this experience, all of us grew close. Even Afoulan and the doctor took a fondness to Percy.

  The whole village talked about the cat incident. People from surrounding villages would ask me about Percy’s health. I got made fun of but, for the most part, people recognized how important my cat was to me. When in the past, people ran away from my cat or didn’t understand my affection toward him, now villagers would come to greet my cat and bring me dinner because they knew I was distressed.

  After having witnessed me doctor Percy, mothers came knocking on my door accompanied by their children. The mom would announce that her child had a cut and ask for a bandage and some disinfectant. Even though I’d been trying to avoid using my Peace Corps medical kit, I surrendered and bandaged up every single one of those kids until my supplies ran out.

  There is a fine line between cultural integration and cultural exchange; Percy bravely and admirably did his part to further mutual understanding. Through his suffering, he bridged a gap I had been perplexed 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 nurture my neurotic and irrational behavior. That, to me, is love and acceptance.

  Although I have moved back to America, Percy is still roaming free in the village, recognized and respected by all those he meets on his path.

  Merci Percy.

  Michelle Stoner, upon earning a degree in French and Geography, joined the Peace Corps and served as a community and youth education volunteer in Niger, West Africa, from 2006-09. She extended her Peace Crops service to become the HIV/AIDS and Gender and Development Coordinator for Peace Corps Niger.

  Elephant Morning

  Aaron Barlow

  Sometimes events get away from us… or something allows us to get away.

  Sitting under a restaurant veranda, August 2, 1990, in Dapaong, Togo, eating half of a grilled chicken, a bottle of sparkling water beyond. Jean jacket draped over a chair. Below me, on the street, my motorcycle rests safely on its kickstand, the sun having long since dried the mud beneath it.

  I pick. There isn’t much taste to the chicken.

  The sound of other dirt bikes draws my attention. Four round the corner, each topped by a rider in a yellow full-faced helmet and goggles. They come to rest in a neat row next to mine.

  A normal occurrence: Dapaong is where we get our mail. I move my jacket, tossing it onto the low cement wall. Helmets now hanging from handlebars, gloves stuffed inside, jackets coming off quickly in the heat, the riders come to my table, pulling over a couple of chairs from the next.

  “What happened to you this morning?”

  “We heard the strangest story.”

  “In your village, they said you were hurt; you don’t look hurt.”

  I reach up and feel the scratches on my scalp. “No, not much.” They wait expectantly. I sigh, and start:

  “I was drinking my coffee, under the paiotte outside my compound, by the bean field. Listening to the BBC.”

  “Did you hear the news?” I interrupt myself. “There’s a war in the Mideast. Iraq invaded Kuwait.” I speak in a monotone simply because I don’t know what emotion to express. I’d been going over this for hours, but was no closer to any understanding. “The BBC began to tell about the war. But something caught my attention, moving toward me from out by Nassiett.

  “From out in the bean field, an elephant was walking toward me.”

  “But you see elephants all the time!”

  “That would be exciting for us posted where there are none. Not for you!”

  “Yeah, but I’ve never gotten close.” I pause again; this time, they wait. “So, I ducked back into my bedroom hut for my camera bag. As I ran back out, I scooped up the radio.

  “That small hill behind my house, you know it?” They nod. “I thought I would be safe there, and could get a good picture, for it was headed right by my house, on its way back to the Fosse aux lions across the road.” Again, they nod. They had passed through the game park on the road to Dapaong.

  “Further on from my house, on the other side of the bean field, a group of people also watched as the elephant lumbered toward me. Damage to crops was already done; the elephant was heading home. So we all just watched, 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 ear-flapping or trunk-raising, turned toward me and charged—straight up my little hill.” I stop there. One of the things that had been bothering me was that no one was going to believe this. These four, however, had already heard some of the story. So, I knew I could continue, but slowly, deliberately. I did.

  “It moved fast, shaking the ground, steps roaring as I turned and ran.

  “I lost my sandals as I dashed down the other side of the hill and sprinted into the bean field, cameras and paraphernalia flapping, radio in hand blaring about Kuwait,” I laugh; it does seem strange, “elephant right behind me. I remember deciding to scream, but it came out an odd, low moan as scary as the elephant, so I clipped it off.

  “I remembered hearing that elephants don’t corner too well. I might be able to circle around behind the elephant and back up the hill and over to the safety of my house. But I slipped on the moist earth as I turned, and I fell.

  “Fell flat.” How to tell what happened? I look in the faces of my fellow PCVs for a moment before continuing:

  “I felt hopeless, sliding, about to hit the ground.” How could anyone understand this? “As I went down, I twisted to look at the elephant and wondered what its foot was going to feel like on my head. I wondered if I would survive and doubted I would.”

  Remembering, I feel I’m not really even sitting here, but am only watching.

  “Oddly—yes, it was odd and I can’t explain it—but looking back at the elephant seemed better than imagining it behind me. Yes, I really did feel less panic as I fell. Before, I had no idea how close it was, no idea if it were about to crush me right then. Now I would, at least, see my end.

  “The elephant was slowing. It knew I was trapped. It seemed to take so long for me to hit the ground.

  “I decided to stay down. Scrambling about in a panic would do no good.

  Staying, I felt a weird sensation. Face it: this may be very painful, but there’s nothing you can do about it. Let it happen. Maybe it won’t be so bad. The mud may cushion the blows.

  “Stupid thoughts, I know.

  “The elephant, even walking now, could have been on top of me.

  “Instead, it halted about three meters from me.

  “We watched each other. I’ve been sitting here for hours, remembering. Running it through, again and again.

  “First, it looked at me out of its right eye. Then it swung its head for its left. I stared at its trunk, at the massive furrows between its eyes. It moved its head back and looked at me once more out of the right eye. The radio, still on, speaker facing the mud, babbled.” Now, I lean forward over the table, closer to the others.

  “The elephant’s ears had a series of healed gashes along their edges, and holes torn clear through in places. Perhaps it was old. It had no tusks, none at all. Just emptiness where they should protrude. It swung its head, for the other eye to see me, and then again. I looked at its skin, rough and dirty, wrinkled and gray, with occasional thick hairs upon it.

  “‘It’s your move.’ I stared back, concentrating on its eye. ‘I’m at yo
ur mercy. But please make it soon, whatever you do; this lying here waiting will kill me if you do not. Imagining what it might feel like if you do me in: I do not like these thoughts.’

  “The elephant swung its head, looking at me from one eye and then the other.

  “I hadn’t moved, hadn’t done anything but look back. Now, slowly, I slid the straps attached to my cameras, bag, and meter from around my neck. If given the chance, I’d decided, I would run once more. This time unencumbered.

  “The elephant was giving me hope. I wasn’t going to let that die. If it only wanted to crush me, it would have already done so.

  “It continued its slow swinging contemplation for a moment more, then turned slowly to its left, to face the Fosse, turning its head back to watch me, still. It had its tail, now, toward that group of villagers who had been watching when I first came out of my compound—who had witnessed the chase and fall in absolute silence, completely unable to come to my aid.

  “‘Are you offering me a chance, elephant? If so, I’m going to take it.’

  “Scrambling, then, I was up, dashing madly toward the watchers, who were yelling now, ‘run’ and ‘hurry,’ though I hardly needed encouragement. They didn’t run away as I neared, and I couldn’t hear the thundering that had pursued me earlier. I stopped when I reached them and turned to watch the elephant. I was completely out of breath and beginning to shake, but curious as to why it had let me go and why it had chased me in the first place.

  “It had turned back to where I’d lain, had stepped over to the equipment I’d dropped. One piece at a time, it lifted the radio, my light meter, and each camera to its mouth with its trunk, tasting and dropping each in its turn.” I stop again and look at each of them. This part had seemed unreal even as it happened. I didn’t know if I believed it, even though I’d seen it. “Then it took my camera bag by its strap, lifted it high over its head, and twirled the bag through the air. Film canisters, filters, and odds and ends of paper flew from it before the elephant let go, sending the bag on an arcing course out over the field. The elephant turned away from us, then, walked a few meters on, and looked back. Slowly, it reached down with its trunk and snatched up a clump of grass. Slowly, it ate the grass. Then, it headed back to the park.”

  No one says anything for a moment. Then I continue:

  “I walked back to where my cameras, radio, and bag lay, gathered up as many of my things as I could, and carried them home. As far as I could tell, neither of my cameras was broken—the ground, after all, was soft. The radio was still playing.

  “At home, I examined myself in a mirror, finding I was bleeding from a couple of scrapes by my hairline. My right side was a solid streak of mud down arm, trunk and leg.

  “A couple of the villagers, guys I know fairly well, accompanied me home, and kids were now running up, presenting me with bits and pieces of my belongings, including my sandals. I thanked them, took a bucket shower, put water on for more coffee, and stepped inside to find fresh clothes.

  “The clock by my bed said it was now twenty-five minutes before seven, just a bit more than half an hour since I’d sat down before. I mixed more coffee, walked back outside, sat down, wiped the dirt from the radio, adjusted the dial back to the BBC, and tried to prepare for the day once more. Now I could focus on the more important news, the conquest of Kuwait.”

  No one says anything. I pick up my knife and fork and try to eat the chicken.

  Aaron Barlow, a PCV in Togo from 1988-90, is the author of a number of books in the cultural-studies field, including The Rise of the Blogosphere and The DVD Revolution: Movies, Culture, and Technology. He teaches at New York City College of Technology. His most recent book is Quentin Tarantino: Life at the Extremes. He is the editor of this volume.

  At Night the Bushes Whisper

  Jack Meyers

  Learning to see the world through other eyes at a cattle station in Somalia, though too late to save the other and barely in time to save himself, Meyers confronted the bush—and a lion.

  Somalia is harsh. A land of semi-arid savanna with a few fertile areas along the two main rivers, its predominant vegetation is flat-top acacia sprouting from red soil, intermixed with thorn bush. It is hot and dry inland and hot and humid on the coast, broken only by the two rainy seasons tempering the heat with added humidity.

  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 information about the place and knew very little other than I would be sharing a bungalow with an Indian veterinarian by the name of Dr. K.K. George.

  The place looked exactly as I pictured a compound in the heart of Africa would. There was a small clearing cut from the brush and cleared of all vegetation. One large building stood on one side of the compound and across from it were two huts closely packed together. They were made of mud and wattle, painted white and topped with thick grass roofs. The contrast of whitewashed buildings on red sand was spectacular, and the overall appearance was one of an oasis of comfort and hospitality.

  A thin, very dark man of East Indian features emerged from the one of the huts as I arrived. He approached with a wide smile and extended a bony hand that appeared to be all knuckles.

  “Afternoon, sir,” he said around a mouthful of brilliant white teeth, “I’m being Dr. K.K. George.” He then added, “No doubt.”

  I shook a hand, rather limp and much frailer than it looked, and told him my name and expressed pleasure meeting him.

  Dr. George had no time for sentiment; he grabbed my duffle bag and started toward a green door to one of the huts, “This vere you being placed. Very nice accommodations,” he said, and then added, “no doubt.”

  The room was spartan indeed. A thin sagging mattress was laid on a rusted spring bed. Next to the bed was a rough wooden nightstand with a kerosene lantern and a candle. An oval, woven rush mat lay on the floor to complete the furnishings. As I walked into the room I saw a lone light bulb hanging from a crossbeam. At least I could expect light, but then why the lantern and candle? I hauled my footlocker into the room and Dr. George deposited the duffel bag on the bed.

  “Being just like home, most likely,” he chirped. “I’m showing you around.”

  We started with the hut next door; this was the eating room and was open and screened. Next was the outhouse, about thirty feet behind the huts.

  He then stopped at a tiny dollhouse sitting atop a five foot post from which dangled a rope. Out popped a little monkey that immediately began to chatter and make all manner of noise. It jumped onto Dr. George’s shoulder and began to groom his hair as Dr. George made the same chattering noises back, the two carrying on a conversation for some time before remembering I was standing there.

  “This being Monk. He is black faced vervet monkey and being here vhen I arrived although being in much finer fiddle now.” He placed the monkey back in the house and beckoned me to follow to a small building similar to the huts but with a metal roof. This was the laboratory. Dr. George took out an impressive ring full of keys, searched for some time, then produced one that he inserted into the massive lock hanging on the door. He opened it and motioned me in. Inside was a well-stocked and clean laboratory complete with everything needed to diagnose and treat cattle maladies.

  “Dinner at seven, vater for vashing in cook hut, generator starting at six and running to nine.” With that Dr. K.K. George walked off to chatter with Monk some more.

  Dinner usually consisted of onions sautéed in ghee with tomato paste and some meat, sometimes goat, but mostly you didn’t want to know. This was poured over a glob of mushy noodles. Drink was either watery lime juice or sweet tea. Dr. George loved the stuff and made little mewing sounds as he ate. I, on the other hand, lasted about three days before cooking for myself.

  After dinner that firs
t evening, Dr. George became expansive and wanted to talk. However, I first asked him if it was O.K. to drop the Dr. George business. What could I call him?

  “K vould being alright.”

  “O.K. K…,” I began.

  He interrupted me, “Vhich vone?”

  “Which one what?” I asked.

  “Vhich K, first or middle?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. Let’s try the first K,” I said.

  “That being vrong. I using middle K,” he said with smile and a little wiggle of his head. Dr. George was full of odd mannerisms, each one meaning something different. Wiggling his head on his shoulders like one of those bobbing dolls on the dashboard of a car could mean a number of things. It was up to me to figure them out.

  “Alright, so middle K, I wanted to ask you…”

  “Actually ve Indians don’t usually use given names, my surname vill sufficing. George being fine… just George.” Again the head bobbed, but this time he also cracked his knuckles. This meant that he was pleased with himself for making a jolly good joke.

  Over the next few weeks, I was to learn a lot about and from Dr. George. To say he was one of the oddest and at the same time one of the most intriguing people I have ever met is not an exaggeration. For starters, Dr. George practiced Ayurvedic medicine. This is an ancient practice perfected in India and, in many cases, running contrary to modern Western medicine; in some cases it supersedes it. Basically Ayurvedic medicine uses herbs, poultices and infusions as its main means of treatment.

  My first introduction to Ayurvedic medicine came after I was on the holding ground about a week. Dr. George and I were in the laboratory examining some slides under the microscope for trypanosomiasis when a voice yelled out from over by the cattle dip, “Hodi, Hodi. Ngombe na mahaaradi.” Neither one of us knew what it was saying, but rushed to the door to find out what the clamor was about. One of the herdsmen was standing next to a large white bull sporting the largest set of lyre-shaped horns I had ever seen. The man was pointing to the right leg of the bull and which was swollen below the knee and seeping 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 intrigued by the strange language of the herdsmen and was later to learn it was Swahili, a lyrical language and the linga franca of East Africa.