Peace Corps Writers Blog

Free and Fair Elections?

According to a recent article in the Washington Post, “Iran's hard-liners head into Friday's [March 14, 2008] parliamentary elections burdened by the unpopularity of President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad because of an ailing economy. But they have a safety net: Rival reformists are crippled after the clerical leadership threw out their best candidates.”
  Reading that article on line brought to mind an incident that took place while I was living in Rasht, the provincial capital of Gilan, during the 1960s. We, too, had parliamentary elections. Only, in one of the outlying villages, the wrong candidate won the election.
What to do?
Easy, said the people in charge. We'll void those ballots and bring in other people who live outside the district. So they hired a bus, brought in some peasants and showed them how to cast a ballot. They might even have had to register the newcomers on the spot before any balloting could take place.
They counted the new ballots. The right candidates were declared winners. And all was right with the world.
Perhaps the U.S. National Democratic Party can follow this model for the Florida and Michigan "redo" rimaries. Why not just transport a couple busloads of people to the polling places?

 

A New Moon Brings New Hope

A New Moon Brings New   Hope

                                                                                                    Jennifer B-C Seaver (Iran 1966-68)

While Jews celebrate the New Year, Ramadan, or Ramazzan, as it is known in Iran, begin tonight when religious leaders observe the new moon. For the next lunar month, Muslims around the world will observe the holy month of mourning, one of their five pillars of faith.

This morning I watched The Today Show’s Matt Lauer reporting live from Tehran, the capital of Iran, in instant communication with his colleagues back in the United States. Once more I dreamed of a time when I'll be able to show my husband the country I once called my adopted home.

Five years ago, I was part of a group of RPCVs who traveled there under the auspices of the Carter Center’s Friendship Force International. During our ten-day excursion, we spoke to many people, reunited with a few old friends and formed friendships with strangers. We saw that two thirds of the population is under the age of thirty and therefore never knew the Peace Corps presence throughout their country. Nevertheless, like Matt Lauer, we ran into many who were curious about us and anxious to talk to us.

I am saddened that as long as there is continued animosity between our two governments and no diplomatic relations, travel between Iran and the USA remains difficult.

Four decades ago, when I taught English, I usually wore conservative clothing by American standards although I never wore a chador. I complained in 2002 about having to wear a headscarf and manteau (overcoat) in the oppressive heat of late summer. I wish the conservative government currently in power had not reverted recently to a strict observance of a dress and morality code. At that time, we had hope that under the former leader, Iran was beginning to open up to the west.

But I still see some signs of encouragement. Boys and girls are being educated. In fact, more women than men enroll in higher education. Unlike Saudi Arabia, Iranian women drive, vote, hold public office, and work outside the home. Soon, I hope, we can join together in a common call for peace and freedom in the near future.

How Sodabi Fits Into Development

Forget coffee! Forget tea! Forget Vodka! Sodabi is Benin’s number one drink- the demi-god that everyone adores in Benin, the country whose most famous asset is being the origin of Voodoo.  Sodabi is so widespread, people have no idea of the extent of its force. It is, what I would call, the national fetish.  The word SODABI does not change from region to region within the country, nor from dialect to dialect, but in my village, Kemon, the people have a special name for it: “Mousoukou!” the word for “cat,” because when you take it down, it is sure to scratch you. You see it at all funeral, birth, and traditional religion ceremonies. Men and some women touch it in the morning and at night. It’s an aperitif, an aphrodisiac, and a great leveler, though it can start arguments or even fights. It’s the drink of choice, especially in my region (central Benin), and costs about ten cents per shot- a conveniently cheap sip.

I first found out about Sodabi on a pirogue trip when I was a Peace Corps volunteer in Benin. I was invited on a tour of voodoo sites that were located on an island in large river outside the coastal capital of Porto-Novo. At midday, parched from forgetting to bring drinking water, the sun beating down through humid southern air and reflecting off the river at my skin, I was handed a clear plastic shot glass of the potent liquor. I was instructed directly by the guide to “consume!” Behind our pirogue was another, larger pirogue filled with voodoo partiers, women’s shoulders scarred with tribal markings and old men with Papa Smurf –like hats tilted to the side. I couldn’t understand how everyone on this pirogue, more than fifty middle-aged people, had the energy to sing and dance during the hours that they would normally use to spend their “repos” time, to rest and sleep in the middle of the day. And then the effects came on, and I understood where they were coming from.

In Kemon I used to wait until 10am to walk into the center, or “downtown,” to find my work partners, buy vegetables, or visit friends. I avoided leaving my house until late morning because I didn’t want to be in town in the earlier hours. There was just something unusual to me about how there were so many perky men crowded around the main intersection, each and every morning. Why were they all shouting and laughing, eating enormous pounded yam meals, revving their motos, planning trips with friends,  arranging community meetings, or gathering to go to the fields?  I wasn’t ready for this heightened level of energy in the mornings, when I could be quite peaceful in my house at the edge of the village.  There, only a distant crow or children’s voices would slowly wake me up.  Then I would sweep my house and grounds in a sleepy rhythm, matching all the other sweeping, as I became fully awake. A year later, I finally got over my cloudy awe of village life and noticed that Sodabi was being sold in three different places at the intersection.    

Consequently, as I started to work more with Michel, the coordinator of my assigned NGO, we would meet his wife’s “restaurant” before riding on his moto to the surrounding villages. Her restaurant resembled all the others in Kemon, a branch-assembled shade structure filled with a small group of skinny men sitting on benches, outside the woman’s house where she kept a supply of cooked rice, meat, okra and sauce to sell, as well as, what do you know, SODABI! I would always be obligated into drinking a shot, because to refuse would be offensive. And there were always people at the restaurant that were quick to greet me and watch me accept the offer. (Though, there are some ways to trick everyone into thinking that you drank it, like spilling it when no one was looking or pouring it onto the dirt and claiming that you were honoring the ancestors, whoever they were.) As a university-educated woman who worked outside my home, I was already assuming a man’s role, and this continued right down to the Sodabi drinking. The more time I spent at this restaurant, the more I was able to understand how the men were using this morning buzz to socialize, to get a little space away from their families in such a tiny village where everyone know everyone. I began thinking that this was the only appropriate way these men could meet up to do business like selling their crops, hiring laborers, or discussing local politics.

Like Michel’s wife, other women ran businesses in Kemon. Many venues were only a couple of benches, a handful of shot glasses, and a selection of Sodabis, all of which had their own medicinal purposes. Branches and leaves of aloe, neem, or eucalyptus were put into bottles and sold as remedies or concoctions that give men their “force,” if you know what I mean. Most women, who traditionally don’t drink alcohol (which I thought was beneficial for the babies in their wombs), would patiently serve the talkative and sometimes incessantly flirtatious men.  I was sure that despite their calm facades, these hostesses would be laughing inside as their customers’ eyes turned red and they left the bars to stumble home, because they were actually making cash off of every shot poured.  Though Sodabi was consumed at these bars all day, I noticed more the drinking in the mornings, probably because it was so rare in my own culture. Most drinkers I knew well reported a need to “see clear,” in the mornings.  People swore that the Sodabi buzz subsided quickly, but some would occasionally forget to go to work or be distracted from errands that they were supposed to do.

Sodabi, from what I could detect, had its equal positive and negative consequences. For some men, it was simply a habit.  They could drink one shot and they were finished, with a healthy appetite and a readiness to work.  One time, I gave the three masons who were working on our community latrine project a quarter of a liter, and that was enough to inspire them to get the work done for the day. Other men, very clearly, had lost all ambition to work, ended up neglecting their children and wives, failing to earn any income.  It was true that the farmers in my rural village led lifestyles that did not require being as timely or as regular by our Western standards, or a need to be intellectually focused for long periods of time, and that most of their food was free, from the fields straight to the marmite. But not growing enough crops to sell for hard cash could be devastating, especially when a child gets sick and the family has to pay for an expensive consultation and imported drugs at the local, government-run clinic.

On the flipside, Sodabi was great for “ceremonies,” or weeklong funerals a couple months after an elder’s death, convoking all the distant family members and friends. Drinking a little when a person is catching up on years of being absent from relatives always seemed to be a well-used convenience. And believe me, family ties are very present with such complex extended families.  Parents stopped yelling at their kids and everyone got up and danced.  Sodabi would destroy any family tensions and was incredibly effective at keeping the partying going well into morning- with drumming or crackly-cassette music that seemed to have only one volume level- the loudest possible.

Despite all the papers that Peace Corps handed me during training and service, warning of the dangers of Sodabi, I willingly became a faithful worshipper, though was sure not to enter the lifestyle. Peace Corps doctors explained scientifically that Sodabi contained toxic metals and formaldehyde, but the reality was that it was more than 60% alcohol, and if it hit the bloodstream of a young, recent American college graduate who had never left her hometown in the cornfields, Peace Corps did not want to be responsible for her outbursts, nor for her tainted reputation in the village. 

After many months of observing and integrating into village life, I started to look for an even deeper understand of the local psyche. Sitting and sipping in the Sodabi shacks required a huge mental compromise. I had to encourage myself to willingly risk the villagers’ perception of me as a respectable, responsible, and professional woman, for the experience of participating in the most honest conversations that I have ever had in my life. In a Sodabi shack anything goes in a dialog, as long as you have at least 50 francs worth of a buzz on and no one becomes violent or asks the owner for credit.  In these shacks I learned the truths about African life and the human condition, the explanations behind some of the outrageous traditions, the secret gossip of the village, opinions on politics, and what the people really thought about Westerners.  The Beninese are known in other African countries to be great philosophers and academics. Beninese can be found sitting and talking about anything, since they have a great ability to synthesize and reflect on world issues, such as refugees, global warming, and taxes, though most can rarely locate their own country or even the African continent on a world map.  They take time to contemplate and love listening to their radios that broadcast Radio France International two times a day. The Beninese, the great intellectuals, are known to be peace-lovers, always a little hesitant to take action and react to a wrongdoing.   The average man or woman would prefer talking out a problem with an enemy, not without it heating up mind you, for an entire day without eating, rather than holding up a fist to fight. This laid-back  and wise mentality is what I interpreted to be one reason why development has not happened so quickly, and why there is a great sense of frustration among the youth who desire material things, but don’t know exactly how to go about taking action and organizing themselves. Maybe the elders know that too quick development would be a recipe for disaster. Maybe the Sodabi is slowing it down in a good way.

Today, the average Beninese village may not be capable of building its own roads. A Beninese woman may not be literate enough to write down records of her onion sales, but Sodabi manufacturing is a lucrative business and has sent kids to school and university.  Anyone who can afford to buy three tin gasoline barrels and some rubber tubing can make it. Palm juice is extracted from the coconut-producing palm tree, either by cutting a whole in it and draining it out (like maple syrup), or by cutting the whole tree down which is less sustainable and unfortunately the most used method. Sodabi is made all over Benin, but the “bonne chose” or the “good stuff” is made in the south, where, due to the wetter climate, there are a lot more palm trees. Basically, the palm wine is boiled in the first and largest barrel, and travels into the second and third barrels through small plastic tubing as vapor, finally cooling down in the third. It is then poured into old liter bottles that have once contained imported rum and whiskey, and is ready to be drunk, shot by shot, 25 francs by 25 francs. To make that price relevant, with 25 francs you can buy a small bag of shelled peanuts, a condom, a bouillon cube, or a plate of white rice.

 

However one looks at it, Sodabi is alcohol, and whenever alcohol is present, no matter what the country, there are going to be addiction problems and relationship degradation, among many bi-products. In a country where the price of hard alcohol is virtually free, even for the Beninese, it can be even more dangerous.  I am always split as to condemning Sodabi and adoring it. I am not one to say that alcohol consumption is wrong- I've lived in Ireland, the country that is the proud home of Guinness beer and Jameson whiskey, and understand the necessity for indulgences. Humans are hard-wired to look for ways to relax and to take their minds off of the daily stresses. In Benin, where already there is not much paid work, unemployed men who aren’t busy doing the household chores that their wives do, drinking Sodabi is a great way to pass the time. What else would you do? How many times had I found myself next to a cold bottle of beer in the buvette with other Volunteers, complaining that there wasn’t enough development work to do?

Is it the alcohol that is preventing people from working? Or are there a variety of factors like poor soil, corruption, dependence on foreign aid, and a tropical climate, which create unemployment? Is Sodabi drinking a part of the culture that needs not be touched by a politically correct and psychoanalytic Western consciousness? All these questions I am not sure of, but I do know that the phenomenon of the scratching cat will certainly never be forgotten by me.

Return of the (Non) Native

July 2005

I left Thailand in 1980 after spending four years as a Peace Corps English teacher in a secondary school and three more working in refugee camps. I really don't know why it took me so long to finally make that journey back to Thailand. I guess part of it was the fear of facing the changes that I would possibly find hard to accept after all those years. The tsunami finally washed all that away, and I found myself needing to return to be reassured that all was well there.

The changes in Bangkok seemed profound to me at first. It was so strange to see tall buildings, a subway and a monorail! In many ways, I felt like Rip Van Winkle waking up from a long sleep to find a whole new world! I took a long walk the first night along Sukhumvit Road, a road I had traveled many times in the past. I could not gain a reference point until I had walked about 15 blocks and encountered the old railroad tracks.

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Khao Lak, Pangnga Part One

I am sitting here alone on the veranda of the Khao Lak Bay Front Hotel watching the sun slowly descending into the Andaman Sea. I feel like I am in a Somerset Maugham novel--- all teakwood, dusk, overhead fans..... As you look out over the beautiful view, a closer inspection tells you of darker days past. What was once, I'm sure, a beautiful pool area and gardens about half the size of a football field is now totally submerged in mud and water. You can just discern the outline of the pool itself and imagine how it might have looked last December 26th morning before the tsunami obliterated it and about 10,000 lives up and down these beaches.

A "to-khae" (gecko) skitters across the lattice work of the veranda's roof as sandaled footsteps approach sliding quickly across the smooth red-tiled floors to turn on the lights--- just enough for you to see your way. Small bats do their crazy dance in the sky looking for insects for their evening meal. The air is filled with the sweet aroma of countless tropical flowers. Sounds of croaking and chirping "chinchokes," to-khaes, frogs, and numerous other animal life common to this area, yet unknown to me, remind me that I am indeed a world away from the sights, sounds and smells that make up my world in the States.

The now gentle sounds of the waves are not reassuring. They are beautiful, but not to be trusted. Even sitting here now you are never so comfortable as this serene location demands of you--- paradise to hell in a flash.

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Last night I thought I heard a thump and felt a lurch of our train as it was speeding through the night bound from Bangkok to parts south. The attendant confirmed this morning that the train had indeed hit and killed two water buffaloes (as if there weren't few enough as it is)! "Sorry for the delay getting to Surathani," he said with a smile as he touched the brim of his cap. Surathani-- a small town that is at the hub of the south --- for people going just about anywhere but Surathani.

The train arrives at the station about 7:30 am, and there is an explosion of activity as if the curtain has risen on act one of a play. The taxi drivers and busmen are working the crowds imploring them to take this bus or that taxi-- Kho Samui, Phuket, Pangnga to mention just a few of the idyllic destinations. Market people are hawking all kinds of food to the hungry and still-sleepy passengers as they alight the train. In the center of all this cacophony is a pirate of a man barking orders this way and that. He is the ticket seller--- your passage to paradise! He tries to convince me to take the local bus to Khao Lak-- just as long, but a more direct route. I insist on the more comfortable bus to PangNga.

The bus takes me as far as the three corners at Khokloie, another nowhere hub to anywhere else. The foreign tourists on the bus look at me quizzically as I get off--- "Why is this guy getting off at this God-forsaken place?" --I can see some of them wondering. As the bus pulls away, I get similar looks from the Thais at the small restaurant that doubles as the bus stop. Twenty minutes pass before the bus heading for Takuapa picks me up. The "grapao" (ticket collector) is a lively woman of about 35 years of age. She motions me to sit in the back next to a ancient monk on his way to a temple 30 kilometers up the road. When she hears that I am going to Khao Lak, she begins reliving the stories often told of the tsunami. Her eyes widen as she talks in vivid detail about the bodies lying here and there. She is aware, as many Thais are, that there are many unhappy ghosts in Khao Lak. There are occasional grunts from the old monk, but I can't determine if he is agreeing with or admonishing the woman and her stories. I take a deep swig on my water bottle and wonder why anyone would travel down here any other way. I wouldn't have wanted to miss a minute of the past 15 hours traveling here from Bangkok.

The town of Khao Lak is about 2 kilometers along the north-south road running along the beach. Everything on the west side (beach side) was completely swept away. This was the area where many of the hotels and shops were located. Everything on the east side of the road was reasonably in one piece, buy it looked as if they needed to do a lot of cleaning and restoring of some of the buildings.

As I walked up the path to the hotel, I was greeted by the receptionist who was equally surprised that I was there. I explained why I had come, and we had a good chat about the hotel and what was or was not available at this time of the year-- like lunch and dinner. I checked in and hiked back along the road to a small restaurant jutting out on the cliff overlooking the sea. I talked to the owner as I ate my noodles with chicken. He spoke about that day and how he had taken a group of Italian tourists out on an overnight trip. When he got back he could not recognize the place. All the hotels and resorts along the beach were completely gone! He showed me a map of the area--- Khao Lak Orchid Resortel, Green Beach Resort, Happy Bungalows-- to name just a few of the many places no longer in existence. From our eagle's nest he pointed out where various hotels had been, jabbing the air with his finger as if he were painting on a large canvas. His brother, who had been working at the restaurant that morning, saw the tide go out and watched as people walked out to collect shells. He then witnessed the horror of the huge waves approach the beach-- catching everything and everyone in its way. The images of that morning are still very vivid in his mind. As tortuous as recounting the events of that morning seemed to him, at the same time the mere telling of the story seemed to ultimately have a therapeutic effect.

I spend the next few hours wandering the town. Everyone has a story, and they are eager to tell it.  The people you meet are so grateful that you have come. Even with their town in ruins, it is a hopeful sign that things will return to some semblance of normalcy. The hotels will rise again. The tourists will come back, the beaches again will be crowded, and everyone will be working again.

After a quick dinner, I walk back to the hotel along the beach. Six months later belts, suitcases, clothing, toothbrushes, and other articles litter the sands still. In my mind each object speaks a horrible tale. Had the owner escaped or was she dragged out to sea never to be seen again? I watch as crabs run down to the water's edge and know just when to retreat up the beach to escape the waves as they wash up on the shore. The irony of the scene does not escape me.   

Now Ruz Celebrations

Now Ruz Celebrations

I want to take this opportunity to wish one and all a joyous and prosperous New Year on March 20-21, 2007 because Iranians are a very special part of my global family.

One of my happiest memories of Iran is the Now Ruz celebration, a thirteen-day period of renewal and joy that begins on the first day of spring. This holiday is observed throughout many parts of central Asia as well as in Iran because it is not exclusive to any particular religious group.  Unlike Muslim holidays, which follow the lunar calendar and thus sometimes observances shift their times and dates each year, Now Ruz is always observed on the first day of spring. It's time to put on new clothes and gather together for parties and picnics. Schools, government offices, and most businesses close for the two-week period.

I was a teacher of English to high school and adult students in Iran during the 1960s.  An Iranian engineer, married to an American woman and living in Rasht, invited me to join him and his extended family to travel to the southern city of Shiraz for my first Now Ruz holiday. We attended a family reunion at a picnic in his father’s orchard outside the city. But first, we had to ford a shallow river. Family, friends, and servants transported beautiful carpets, a large samovar, and many containers of food – enough to serve a gathering of two dozen people! from their homes to the countryside for the occasion.

I celebrated my second Now Ruz with my own parents, who had timed their around-the-world trip to spend some time with me during the school holiday. I met them in Tehran and took them back to my home in Rasht. Then, a few days later, we boarded another bus going north to Ardabil so they could visit this ancient capital of Persia.

Traditional says that King Jamshid established Now Ruz as the first day of the Persian month of Farvadin during the Sassanian era (226 – 652 AD). But the Haft Seen custom is at least 2,000 years old. Some scholars date its origins in the Zoroastrian religion; others think its beginnings go back to Babylonian agrarian celebrations.

Until most Persians converted to Islam sharab – wine was originally part of celebration. Today, mirrors, boiled eggs (celebrating rebirth), sweets, candles, a goldfish swimming in a bowl and the Qur’an usually adorn the holiday table. Observant male heads of household recite religious verses as they welcome the spring equinox. Sometimes children also jump across a bonfire as they recall the Zoroastrian tradition of the Sacred Fire. The centerpiece of the holiday table, however, is the seven ‘s’es. (1) Sekeh – a gold or shiny coin represents prosperity. (2) Samanu – a sweet wheat pudding shows the sweetness of life. (3) Sabzi – green vegetables of herbs (sprouted a few days ago in a bowl) symbolize fertility. (4) Sonbon, a hyacinth flower, signifies new life. The next three items are typical foods: (5) Seer – garlic – a major ingredient in Persian cooking; (6) Senjed - a small native dried fruit; and (7) Serkeh – vinegar to ward off bitterness. Sib – apples – or sumagh – sumac – a common seasoning for cheloh kebab can also be displayed if the other items of food are not readily available.

As you sit down to a springtime picnic, may good health, prosperity, and joyful family reunions be yours! As we are all "Irish" when we celebrate St. Patrick's Day on March 17th, we can also all be "Iranians" and celebrate Now Ruz this year.

Moon Rocket

I see it now in my mind’s eye – from my house in Songhor - wind blown tufts of light green sugar cane surging like a great sea on Kenya’s Kanu Plains to wash gently against the thousand foot heights of the Nandi Escarpment. Some thirty miles distant, Lake Victoria Nyanza glimmered in the late afternoon sun. The image is clear, yet complicated by the rush of other images, faces, smells, sounds - by the sheer exuberance of memories that so indelibly marked this time in my life.

I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Central Nyanza charged with supervising the construction of a rural water system designed to pipe potable water to 1200 farms on three government sponsored Settlement Sugar Schemes. I worked most closely with a group of eight men whom I trained in the skilled work of the project. When resting we kibitzed and talked. They had many questions.

Maurice almost always began. With a twinkle in his eye, he probed for the amazing differences he reckoned inherent between whites and blacks. He questioned me incessantly about why I had come to

Kenya. I’m not sure he ever really understood my response. Maybe, presuming that I myself knew the answer, I couldn’t articulate it well. Altruism was beyond Maurice’s comprehension, but a thirst for adventure seemed to be a satisfactory motive. Another exchange went like this.

“Robert,” Maurice asked, “Is it true that Mzungus (Europeans) eat frogs?”

I pondered. “Yes,” I replied. “Some Mzungus eat frogs, but only the legs. When fried up they taste a bit like chicken.”

Maurice looked skeptical. “Really,” he frowned. “Frogs.” He concluded, “Mzungus are very weird.”

Inspired, I noted, “You know, Europeans think that eating termites is very strange.”

Maurice absorbed this information, then shot back with a surprised query. “Why?” he asked, “termites are good.”

A more telling exchange occurred in July 1969. Americans had just landed on the moon. The guys were very interested in this news - more intently than I would have expected.

“So Robert,” Maurice began, “Is it true that Americans have landed on the moon?”

“Yes,” I responded pointing to the wisp of a moon still visible in the morning sky. “They are up there now.”

This confirmation engendered discussion of rocket ships and airplanes, which demonstrated these poorly schooled rural men’s lack of appreciation for the science and the technological accomplishment of the moon trip. Francis who was more cynical than his colleagues observed, “If Americans can build airplanes then certainly they can build a rocket.” He was puzzled however, by the fact that it had taken so long to get to the moon. “After all,” he noted pointing again to the moon, “You can see it right there!” This again raised the question as to whether the landing had really happened.

Ligolo, older, taller and stronger with his front teeth knocked out in the traditional Luo style, and who rarely participated in these exchanges, cleared his throat. The men craned anxiously in his direction when he asked the crucial question. “So Robert,” he paused, “What color is God?”

I was stunned. I had no context for the question. Yet obviously it lay at the heart of their concern. James, the most worldly of the crew who sported sunglasses and who shed his family name Oyier in favor of Bondi in honor of agent 007, saw my consternation and came to my aid.

“Robert,” he said, “We Luo people believe that God takes several forms and that he lives, at times at least, on the moon. The issue goes to the nature of God. If God is good, he is black like Africans. However, if he is evil, he is red.” James continued, “Ligolo’s question is fair. If Americans have gone to the moon like you say, they must have seen God. So, what color is he?”

I admitted it was a good question, and with further discussion I learned more about Luo beliefs, but I had no answer. However, we agreed to look for the answer. I brought international editions of Time and Newsweek back from Kisumu the next week and we scrutinized the stories and pictures for evidence, but – of course – found none.

I realized afterwards that this was one of those quintessential moments when each of my friends took one more step into the modern world and away from tribal traditions. The trappings of old beliefs diminished against the onslaught of new reality.

Before too long the issue of God on the moon faded away. Soon Luo owned and operated sugar trucks and buses, perhaps subconsciously reflecting this religious heritage, soon started bearing names like “Moon Rocket” or “Apollo 12.”

In the years since, I have subsequently reflected with some sadness how man’s crowning technological achievement of the 20^th Century unintentionally undermined beliefs that had sustained Luo people for generations.

White

YESTERDAY, I ATTENDED MY FIRST FUNERAL. I wore white and so did the corpse.

The body was wrapped in a heavy, white cloth and placed under a mango tree, surrounded by dozens of old women with missing teeth, gray hair, and skin as dry as coconut shells. The old ladies wore mismatched swatches of bright print fabric. Over a hundred people had gathered in the concession, and sat cross-legged on long, colorful rectangular mats. They paid their respects by playing cards, smoking Marlboros and drinking tea.

As I toured the concession, I felt hundreds of eyes on me. Trying to convince myself that I was not out of place, I casually made my way over to the body. A group of women standing guard over the body immediately surrounded me. One woman gestured that I should offer money — a gift of sorts, like bringing a tuna casserole to a wake. So I deposited 100 francs CFA (about 20 cents) into her hand. It was received with much appreciation — perhaps because I was a stranger, or perhaps because I had given too much considering the poverty that surrounded me. The woman who took the money began to sing in a voice that cracked and dipped and dove with joy, mourning, tribute. Then she stood up and began shaking a belt full of small, white shells that made the sound of unpopped popcorn in a hard, plastic container. She slowly danced her way towards me, lifted her hands to the sides of her face, and gestured for me to join her. Then a very tall old woman came forth and jumped into the circle that was forming around me, showing me how to dance. She bent her knees and hunched over, shuffling her feet in a smooth rhythm. She took the belt full of shells and tied them around her waist. She continued dancing and clapping her hands above and around the corpse.

I followed the women’s moves as best I could. Every one laughed and clapped in amazement and perhaps a little mockery. Two other women joined us, holding my hands in solidarity. Only women danced in and around that circle. The men stood back — too ashamed or too respectful, I wasn't sure which — to gather too close. It seemed so strange to me that the body wrapped in white never moved.

After a while, I excused myself and rode my bike home. I returned several hours later for the burial. As I arrived, the body was being removed from the concession. I watched as the men wrapped the body in more white cloth and placed it on one of those long, rectangular mats. Then they carried the mat to the center of the concession. The men lined up in rows, forming a box around the mat, and began to pray. They moaned and bowed their heads in synchronicity and moaned again. And when the last prayer was uttered, they shook their heads from side to side in unison, as if to say “No more, no longer.” All the while, the women stood outside the box. They were not allowed to see the body: the men, I was told, stand around the body to protect the women from night visions and spirits. The women stood covered in bright fabric, babies tied to backs, babies sucking nipples, staring.

Finally, the men picked up the body and quickly left the concession.

Everyone in the concession went along to the burial ground. We had at least a mile to go, and the midday sun burned mercilessly. The men ran with the body, and the women jogged behind. We ran across the cornfields, chasing the dead woman wrapped in white. Panting, laughing and sweating all the way, we joked to the stragglers, “Clear the road!”About halfway to the burial site, most of the women stopped, too tired to go any further.

Finally, we arrived at the burial site, where a deep pit had been dug. I watched the men place the body inside a slot dug out of the wall of the pit. Then they covered the slot with tree branches, large sticks, then more tree branches and leaves, until the body was completely covered. Then the men climbed swiftly out of the pit and began shoveling dirt furiously, as if to put it immediately behind them.

As I walked back to the concession, I saw the woman still waiting in the cornfields at the various places where they had stopped because they could go no further. I spotted my bike among the dozens propped against an acacia. I got on and rode home, not at all sure what to make of that day.

Lynn Marshall (Mali 1997– 99) was an agricultural extension agent in Mali.

This essay won the Peace Corps Writers 1999 Moritz Thomsen Experience Award.

Telling Time

FOR TWO YEARS I LIVED in a country with no seasons. We measured time by other means than falling leaves or snow, new buds on trees. There was a fresh breeze in the air, the ash of burned sugar cane floating in the window. There were times to go to work, times to stay home, an election, an eclipse; all of these differentiated the rising and setting of the same hot sun, and the appearance of a glowing moon and full set of stars. Rain would break the swelter like the fever of a child dissolves into sweat, and the whole city would breathe differently that day. Then the sun would come again and dry what had fallen, and could not last.

I came to this country with the expectation of seasons, and before I had woken to a blinding sun on Christmas, I imagined my yard littered with leaves, a chill in the air. It was here, in this place of 12-hour days and 12-hour nights, of weather and no seasons that I learned to tell time. Telling time is like telling a story: the truth, the time, depend on the teller and the audience. In Guyana, people will ask you, “Now is what time?” or, “Today is what day?” because they know the constants in life. There will always be “now” and “today,” while the names we give them, 3:15 or August 8th, are only names, and names that change.

My watch broke in my first few months; I had calendars, but the holidays changed with the moon. Without the time tellers I depended on, I realized, for the first time, that I was on my own. My days and schedules shifted under the weight of unplanned, unused time, and I discovered that when time had no name, it became a broad expanse of life. Eventually, I learned to measure differently, to find my own names for seasons, without words or numbers. The poet Ted Hughes has written of this experience:

            I think of it
            As a kind of time that cannot pass,
            That I never used, so still possess.

I did not use this time either, I discovered it, and in so doing, reminded myself of what I had so easily and quickly forgotten in a well-measured life. More importantly, I learned to answer the Guyanese questions that had confused me initially. I could say that now is when is the frogs sing, and now is when the rain falls. Now is the howl of monkeys, the smell of curry stewing, the taste of mango pulled from a tree. And today, today is our understanding of being, our sense of ourselves as alive. It is without season or name, sun or rain, it is how we can live wherever we are and grow and grow and grow.

Katherine Jamieson (Guyana 1996–98) was an Urban Youth Development Volunteer in the Peace Corps. She taught literacy, health, and life skills classes, and helped to coordinate programs at an all-girls vocational training center.

This essay won the Peace Corps Writers' 2001 Moritz Thomsen Peace Corps Experience Award.

Thirty Years Later

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND what is ‘first class’” about this train car, my husband said.

I looked around at the dirty, rusty old car, with bent bars on the open window, red betel juice stains on the walls, and the single hard seat in the small cabin. I looked through the bars to the bustling train station, with hawkers, beggars, food and magazine stalls, travelers, crying children, hungry dogs, and all the noise that went along with the bustling activity in the humid Bombay afternoon. I could smell the pungent odor that is always present in India — a combination of rotting garbage, sweaty bodies, and smoke from dung fires. The sights, sounds and smells were coming back to me after thirty years of being away. I suddenly realized why such a decrepit car would be labeled “first class.” “It’s because we are the only people allowed in here,” I explained to my husband. “In India, there are people everywhere. You are never alone. It isn’t the quality of the cabin that separates us from the others. It’s the luxury of having some space and time to ourselves.”

We sat back and made ourselves as comfortable as we could on the hard bench in the humid afternoon air. The only first class tickets available for the four-hour train trip had been “Non AC” — that is, no air conditioning. I didn’t mind, however, as the heat and noise contributed to my nostalgia. The humidity, the vivid colors, the sounds of life at the station, and the scene of the ramshackle slums of Bombay as the train pulled out of the station were quickly bringing me back thirty years. Back to a time of idealism and the eternal belief of youth — that we really do have the power to change the world.

Joining the Peace Corps
My husband and I had joined the Peace Corps right out of college in 1966. The Vietnam War was raging, and we were among the “Peaceniks” who felt there was a better way. We were given three months of training in poultry management and the local Marathi language before we were sent off to Nasik, a town of 100,000 in the state of Maharashtra, India. There were twenty-one of us in group “India 26” — all of us scattered around the state whose most famous city is Bombay. At the end of our two years of service, most of us had come to the painful realization of how hard it really was to make any significant difference in the lives of people in a culture that is 5,000 years old. As a result, most of us gained more from our experience than we were able to give.

We returned to America in 1968 to begin the process of establishing homes and careers; and soon the PTA, the school board, and the local soccer leagues along with our jobs drained us of any leftover zeal to change the world. For some of us — myself included — eventual divorce, and the life changes that go along with it, also became a part of our life experiences. I remarried and moved on.

An opportunity to return
In 1998, my new husband, Pat, and I were invited to represent our software company at a conference in India. I decided to take advantage of the opportunity and to extend our business trip by two weeks and travel to Nasik where I had been stationed in the Peace Corps. It was not an easy decision to make and I was not sure what — or who — I was looking for by going back. However in November of 1998, thirty years after leaving India, we flew from Seattle to Bombay, and after one night in a hotel, found ourselves on the first class train to Nasik . Less than 48 hours after leaving home, I would be back in Nasik with a new husband, very little memory of the Marathi language, and thirty years of change — both within and without. I had no idea what to expect, and as the train moved slowly through the afternoon heat, passing lush fields and towns crowded with noise, people color, and life, I began to reflect on the people I had known when I lived in Nasik, wondering how — and if — I would find each of them when we arrived.

Remembering friends
My first thought was of Chief, a wealthy Hindu, who was used to power and money. Chief had a “purse” from the government, which he received for having been a “Chief” of a small sovereignty at the time of independence in 1948. Chief lived in the largest house in Nasik — full of servants, friends, family as well as local and at times national politicians. Chief gave large dinner parties, traveled the world, and was a very gracious host to the local foreign community. It was Chief I had called to say we were returning to Nasik, and he had been most gracious in arranging for a place for us to stay.

Falu and Roshan Irani were of the Parsi community. They lived in a small, older home on the family compound with their two teen-aged sons. Falu had been educated in England and raised in a wealthy family. He was a gentleman farmer, enjoying the time in his fields on his tractor and the feeling of dirt under his fingernails. Falu was also a hunter, helping local villages when a leopard or tiger crept too close and started taking their livestock or sometimes, a child. I remembered many evenings spent with Falu and Roshan, she sitting quietly after serving us an exquisite meal while Falu sipped whisky and philosophized on the meaning of life or told wild tales of his hunting experiences. Falu and Roshan were very peaceful people, rarely leaving the solitude and peace of their quiet compound.

The D’Souza family drifted next into my mind. They were Christians, with four teenaged children. Elias, at 19 was out of school and worked full-time with his parents on their small poultry farm. This very poor family was just starting their poultry endeavor with their first two hundred chickens when the Peace Corps Volunteers who preceded us in Nasik had begun to work with them. Those Volunteers were retired Iowa farmers who wanted to do something significant in their retirement. When we arrived to replace them, they had helped the D’Souza family build their poultry farm to nearly five hundred chickens. They had also started raising broilers as well as chickens for egg production. Most of our time as Volunteers was dedicated to this fine, hard-working family. At the time, they lived in the feed shed adjacent to their poultry house. Elias had once told me that the best gift Ivan, the retired farmer, had given him was to teach him how to work and to work hard. I knew Elias had put everything into his family’s business, and I was very curious to see if they were still in operation and what level of success they might have achieved.

The last family that I recalled touched my heartstrings the most, being among the poorest of India’s poor. Our sweepers had been “Harijans” or outcasts in the strictly stratified Hindu culture. All of the children in the family worked, and most days, ten-year-old Uma came to clean our rooms along with her six-year-old sister and two-year-old brother. Uma had a twinkle in her eye and a great smile. She would teach me Marathi words and I taught her English words, which she was very keen to learn. Each holiday she took time to teach me about the local traditions and would bring special sweets or colored powder to show me how they celebrated. I had held Uma at her wedding as she cried before she went out to meet her new twenty-one-year-old husband – ten years her senior. I had encouraged her to only have two children, hoping she and they could have a better life with fewer children to care for. I had long ago lost track of Uma and had no idea how or where to find her. I assumed she was living somewhere among the poor masses of India. I had committed a full week to trying to locate her on this trip.

Arriving in Nasik
It was evening as we pulled into the station. Nothing looked familiar as I walked towards the large, new station, and I almost wondered if I was in the right place. Suddenly a well-dressed man came towards me, and I realized it was Chief. The sight of the older, but familiar face was very welcome and I was relieved to be greeted with such warmth so very far from home. Chief took us to a restaurant for dinner, then drove us to the bungalow of a friend, where we would stay. It was only later that I would learn why we were not given accommodations in his own, large home.

As Volunteers, we had enjoyed many meals and lively evenings in that magnificent home. Now, the morning after our arrival, I stood dumbfounded in front of it as I saw its wretched state of disrepair. The house had not been painted for years. Porches were sagging, the roof needed replacement and the yard was no longer maintained. Inside I could see that the house had not been cleaned for a long time and garbage was being thrown out the back door. Chief sat on the porch, petting his dog and drinking beer. As we began to talk, I realized that he had already had a lot to drink and that my dear, old friend was an alcoholic. He talked about his circumstances, saying that the purse from the government had run out many years before, and that he had been left without an income. His sons had been raised to be “idle wealthy” and were not adjusting well to establishing themselves as businessmen. With a growing sadness, I left to attempt to find my other old friends.

Falu and Roshan
We walked through the streets of the city, which had grown ten times in population over the years. The center of the town had changed so much it was difficult to orient myself. As we neared Falu’s compound, however, things began to look as they had thirty years before, and I approached their same small yellow house with a comfortable sense of the familiar.

My knock was answered. There stood Roshan, her face closed with suspicion at the strangers standing on her porch. Suddenly, her eyes widened and she smiled her warm, wonderful smile, as she recognized me with my full head of gray hair and my new husband. She welcomed us and as we shared tea she filled me in on thirty years of their family history. One of her sons now lived in the U.S. The other lived in the compound with his wife and two-year-old son. Falu himself was well, but had gone from being a reclusive farmer to a reclusive writer. He rarely left the compound, using his time to write stories of his hunting adventures. Falu slept all day and wrote all night, she explained. She invited us back for dinner to have a good visit with him.

That evening we laughed, remembered, and shared many old stories. Falu and Roshan were the same gentle people, happy and comfortable with the lives they were living. I asked them about the D’Souza family and it was from them that I got my first understanding of the measure of D’Souza’s success. They had prospered, beyond their wildest dreams, I was told. Roshan gave me their phone number, and I could hardly wait for the morning to make contact with them again. Roshan also knew something of Uma, as Uma’s family had also worked for Roshan. She was quite sure that many years before, Uma had moved to a town approximately 200 kilometers to the south. She had not heard anything of her or the family for a very long time.

That night my head was reeling. So far I had found two of the four families I had known so well thirty years before. Tomorrow I would learn of the D’Souzas and I had a lead to Uma. Would I actually find them all, coming full circle with my experiences over the span of thirty years? I contemplated the changes in Chief’s life — undoubtedly he had had too much money and too little discipline, slipping slowly into a decrepit and — for him — humiliating lifestyle. Alcohol had drained him of any energy to improve his condition, and he was simply drinking his time away. Falu on the other hand, reclusive as he had become, was still his old self — warm, humorous, and dedicated to his new writing career. I wondered what I would find with Elias and his family the following day. I finally drifted off to sleep, thinking mostly of Uma and wondering whether I would be lucky enough to find her among the masses of India’s poor.

The D’Souzas
The following morning I phoned Elias D’Souza. After recovering from such a surprise call, he invited us to visit their office later that day and to come to their house for dinner. As we drove up to the building that afternoon, I began to realize that something very big had happened with CHEMNR Farms. The building was large, the grounds expansive. As I came up the stairs, Elias ran out to meet me — there it was — the same great smile, only now on a handsome, successful, fifty-year old man. Over tea, Elias related the story of their success. He stressed that everything was based upon his having learned to work hard from Ivan and Edith Brotzman. For years he had not even had a Coke, as he put every rupee back into the business. All of the children had worked with the family business and all were still involved. Only his father had passed away. Richard, his younger brother, was an integral part of the business, even though he had been paralyzed at age fourteen by the use of an unsterile needle during an appendectomy.

The business now had farms in many locations and employed several thousands of people. The business volume was over fifty million dollars a year, the largest chicken operation in all of India. Elias travels the world on business trips, and tries to get to Florida several times a year to visit Ivan, who has remained like a father to the entire family.

After a tour of the facilities, we were taken to Elias’ home. Where once we had worked side by side, debeaking and plucking chickens in their dirt yard, now stood a 12,500 square foot mansion, complete with manicured grounds, swimming pool, and Italian marble floors. Elias’ gracious wife, Terry and their three young adult children greeted us with warmth and curiosity. We were so comfortable with these fine people that we accepted their invitation to move to their guestroom and remain with them for the rest of our stay. Over the course of the next few days we visited Elias’ mother, brother and sisters, meeting their children (including an Edith and an Ivan) and reminiscing over the changes their hard work had brought.

But Elias had one more surprise in store for me. During our first visit to his office, I had told him of my desire to find Uma, and the very small lead I had from Roshan, that she might be in a town called Ahmednagar, about 200 kilometers to the south. Elias took down what little information I had and offered to call his good friend, Mr. Roy, who happened to be the Superintendent of Police in the Ahmednagar district.

That very evening, as we returned from touring the CHEMNR — now C and M — farms, Elias greeted us with the news that Mr. Roy had called him back saying that Uma had been located. I couldn’t believe my luck, and asked if they were very sure that it was she. His answer brought tears to my eyes — “Yes,” he said. “they are very sure, because when the policeman asked if she was Uma Chhajalane, she at first was very afraid. When they said an American woman was looking for her, she began to cry, then laugh, then cry and laugh again.” I realized it must be her, and that we still shared the emotional bond that had so tied us thirty years before.

Uma
The following day, we hired a car and drove to Ahmednagar. Mr. Roy had invited us to his bungalow to be reunited with Uma. We approached the imposing compound dominated by the stately English-style bungalow with its large covered porches. Trees shaded the well-kept yard; servants rested or walked slowly through the hot sun. Several government jeeps were parked on the side of the house. I felt nervous and suddenly very unsure of myself.

Mr. Roy and his wife, both of whom were very excited about the scheduled reunion, greeted us at the door. He had brought Uma and her family to the compound, and they were already waiting for us. His making the arrangements, and bringing her to his home particularly touched me, as India is a highly stratified culture. Mr. Roy, as the Superintendent of Police, was one of the most important people in the district. Uma, as a low-class sweeper, was one of the least important. Yet Mr. Roy treated her with tremendous respect throughout our visit that day. Both he and his wife were extremely enthusiastic about the event, and those under him followed his commendable example.

After sharing a cup of coffee and making a “game plan” for the day, Mr. Roy took us out to the porch, where Uma and her family and friends were waiting. There was a cluster of animated, village people. Although I hadn’t seen Uma since she was twelve years old, I knew her instantly, and as she ran to me and we threw our arms around each other, I felt my heart would burst. She was so small, at about 4 feet 8 inches — no taller than when I had last seen her. She gave us flower leis, homemade sweets, placed red dots of respect and welcome on each of our foreheads. She had even hired someone to take photographs. I wondered how she could afford all she had done to make our welcome special.

As I could no longer speak Marathi, we conversed in English with the help of an English-speaking young man accompanying Uma. His name was Sunil, and I was soon to learn that he had a special place in her life. I was also about to learn what my longest-lasting influence as a Volunteer may have been. In the sixties, we were very concerned with the growing population, and many of us committed to the concept of zero population growth — that is, having no more than two children to replace yourselves. As a Volunteer, I had strongly encouraged Uma to have no more than two children, assuring her that both she and her children would have a better life with fewer to provide for. Uma had believed me and had given birth to just one son and one daughter. How could I know, in my youth, or have the foresight to understand the consequences of that commitment on her part? Now, at the age of 42, Uma was a widow, her husband having drunk himself to death some years before. Her daughter, Sarika, had married the previous year and had moved to another city, becoming part of her husband’s family as is the custom in India.

At this point in the telling of her story, Uma’s voice became shaky and she began to cry. Her oldest child, her son, Sunil, had been killed in a motor scooter accident the previous year. He was one of thousands of young men who are killed in car and motor scooter accidents every year in India, with their terribly overcrowded roads, jammed with speeding buses, full of dangerous potholes, and snuffing out young lives in tragic accidents on a daily basis.

Sunil had still been unmarried. Suddenly Uma was truly alone in a country with no social safety net, where your sons care for you when you are old and unable to work. Yet Uma now has no sons. I felt the weight of my words of thirty years before and asked myself for the first, but not the last time, how much of her situation resulted from my own words to her, however well intended at the time.

As we crammed thirty years of history into our first excited minutes together, the others in the group that had come with Uma were gathering around, staring, smiling, and generally fawning over us. Uma introduced us — her sister Jaisri was there, whom I had also known thirty years before. Uma explained that she now lived with Jaisri, also a widow, along with her son, his family, and Jaisri’s mother-in-law. Various friends and neighbors had also come to share the day. I could see that they were wearing their best clothes, their faces full of smiles and curiosity. All the while, the young man, Sunil, continued translating their Marathi into excellent English for us.

Gently, Uma put her hand on Sunil’s arm. “This is now my son,” she said. “That is why I call him Sunil.” I saw the warmth of the smile that passed between them. Yet had I not just been introduced to “Sunil’s” real mother? I saw her there now — tall for an Indian woman, in a bright green sari, smiling through the crowd with pride at her son. Sunil went on to explain that he and his mother lived near Uma, and that they had been very worried about her after losing her only son. Sunil had begun to check on her every day, to see that she was eating and whether she needed anything. Soon, Uma was calling him “Sunil,” and they began to grow close. “Now,” he said to me, “I visit her every day. If I ever missed, she would worry that something was wrong. But it is OK, because I never miss. She has had enough worry and sadness in her life.” Where there is no safety net by the government in India, their rich cultural fabric holds strongly together. Needs are met. People are not left to suffer alone. They fill in the gaps for each other, and life moves on. I was very impressed.

A visit to Uma’s home
At this point, the entire entourage proceeded to load themselves into the two government jeeps that stood waiting. Pat and I were pushed aboard, and off we went, through the streets of the town. People were hanging onto the sides of the jeeps; colorful saris were blowing in the wind. The excited drivers honked their horns as though they were escorting a maharaja, warning everyone to get out of their way. Uma and her family laughed, waved, and shouted for joy. It was a glorious moment for them, these hard-working people from the lowest class of their society, riding jubilantly through the streets of their town in the jeeps of the Superintendent of Police, celebrating their moment of glory.

We arrived at a small, clean compound. The walking areas were built up, so the drainage ditches cut into them actually worked and the walkways were clean and dry. The houses with their shared walls had been recently painted a faded whitewash of pastel blues and pinks. Uma’s unit consisted of a small living room, an adjacent room with a table, a tall wardrobe, and a color TV set, much to my surprise. A kitchen off the back had shelves lined with colorful brass and stainless steel pots, and a washroom had running water for several hours a day. The community toilets were behind the housing units. I could see the bedrolls stashed here and there around the house, and it was clear that at night all of the floor space was taken up as sleeping space. The house had a wonderful smell — onions, curry, spices — and they had a feast ready to be spread. Gone, however, was the smell of a dung fire, as they cooked on two propane burners. That meant that gone, too, were the constant eye infections of the women as they labored over the relentless smoke of the dung fires of the past.

We were brought into the dark kitchen, where Uma, laughing, had both of us making chapattis to go with the chicken curry meal they had prepared. Pat and I ate alone, while what seemed like the entire population of the housing compound stood at the door and watched our every move. We looked through her photo album, seeing pictures of Sunil and her daughter, Sarika, as they grew up. The last photo was that of a handsome young man with dark eyes, staring out at us, taken just weeks before the accident that took his life.

Uma opened the wardrobe and removed a bright orange sari, which she handed to me as a gift. I was overwhelmed at the amount of their giving out of their poverty. We talked, laughed, took photographs, shared memories. The afternoon passed.

Finally, it was time to go. According to the plan we had made with Mr. Roy, only Uma, Pat and I returned in the jeep to his residence. The three of us were escorted into his living room and were offered Coca-Cola. Uma at first refused the glass offered to her by the servant, thinking it was not meant for her. Mr. Roy, however, spoke kindly to her, and told her she was a guest in his house and to please accept the refreshment. She blushed and took the glass from the tray.

A gift for Uma
At this point I took the watch off my wrist and put it on Uma’s slim arm. She smiled her thanks. This was my time to talk about how to give back to Uma. I asked Mr. Roy to ask her what she needed, or what I could do for her. I didn’t know how, or in what form I could meet her greatest needs.
Upon translating my request to her, Uma gave an animated response. I saw tears come to the eyes of Mrs. Roy, who had joined us, and even Mr. Roy seemed to collect himself before he spoke. “She says she has everything she needs, Mrs. Carey. She is just so happy you came to visit her.”

I felt tears stinging my eyes as well. This was a meeting between two women — one of the richest in the world by most standards, and one of the poorest. Uma had spent the day welcoming us, feeding us, giving us gifts. This was now her opportunity to ask for anything in return and she knew I would try to give it to her. Yet short of bringing back her son, there was nothing that she really needed or wanted in life. She has strong emotional support with her adopted son, Sunil, her sister’s family, and her neighbors and friends. She has a roof over her head, plenty of food, and enough to wear. She has a job cleaning for the government making $700 per year, which combined with the incomes of the other adults in the household is enough to meet their daily needs. She even has an advantage over many Indians because she works for the government, which will mean she will get a pension in the amount of half her salary when she retires.

I was touched. I was impressed. And I was very humbled. She really did have everything she needs. She doesn’t face loneliness, hunger, fear of danger, or lack of purpose. What could she possible need from me? It was quiet for a moment while the reality of her strength and position in life settled into us. The moment passed, but it will not soon be forgotten.

After some discussion with Uma and Mr. Roy, we finally did discuss how I could send her some money on a regular basis, which she said she would accept. He cautioned me not to send more than $700 a year, the amount of her salary, as he felt it was important not to set her up as a target or alienate her in any way from the safe emotional and cultural environment that she currently enjoyed.

The three of us parted from Mr. and Mrs. Roy, thanking them for their hospitality and gracious hosting of my reunion with my dear old friend. The fact that the Roys were of a high class, and had treated Uma and her family as guests in their home was not lost on me. As we left, Mr. Roy told me he would check on Uma periodically, making sure all was well. The man was a jewel.

We climbed back into the car we had driven, bringing Uma along to return her to her home. Along the way she asked us to stop at several places, dragging us out of the car and bringing us in to meet her boss, her co-workers, other friends. She wore the big smile I knew so well as she showed us off to her friends, and I was happy for her. I was happy for myself. Just as when I was in the Peace Corps, I came to give, but received more than I gave. Once again, I was leaving with a full heart and a renewed appreciation of what matters in life. Thank you Uma. Thank you India. Thank you Peace Corps. I am a better person because of you.

by Barbara Carey (India 1966–68)

This essay won the Peace Corps Writers' 2002 Moritz Thomsen Experience Award.

The Last Ride

I HAD SAID SO OFTEN that leaving my Senegalese village, Keur Madiabel, would the most difficult part of my three-year Peace Corps service. Every time a farewell scene crept into my mind, I banished it quickly and vowed to think about it later. But, before I accepted the reality of my departure, “later” was looming over my head and it was time to drive — for the last time — from my village to the regional capital, with a fraction of my original possessions thrown into the backseat of a Peace Corps vehicle.

My last full day
Most of the afternoon on my last day in Keur Madiabel, I spent talking with my adoptive family, Ousmane Thiam, his wife Mame Diediou and their children. Ousmane and I sat outside on two broken wooden-back lawn chairs while he fiddled with the wire antenna of a hand-held radio with speakers that I had given him. We talked about the kids’ education, how I could wire money to him through Western Union (when, God-willing, I got a job and had some money) and the project I wanted to pursue — to publish the poetry and prose of an extraordinary villager, collaborator and friend of mine who had recently died from an unidentified illness.

Mame and I talked while she was ironing, again mostly about the children and which of them was destined for education beyond the 6th grade. Incredibly, I found myself agreeing with her statement that only three of their six children would likely be encouraged in school; I urged her to push the youngest — Kiné, Mbaye and Elise, my 1-1/2 year old namesake. In an another attempt to stress the importance of girls’ education, I also mentioned that I thought the eldest girl, Ndeye Astou, was a very good student — although I suspected the Ndeye’s destiny as the oldest daughter could be to stay in the village and help in the household until she married. Culture prevails, and I’d grown to accept that, although it rarely stopped me from expressing my opinion to my Senegalese friends. I now wonder if anything I’d said or demonstrated, albeit with a certain American optimism and illusion, will have a significant impact on this family or on the teachers and students from eight rural villages with which I had worked.

At the end of my conversation with Mame, she said “Elise is your daughter too, and she belongs to you even if you can’t take her with you to America.” I was stunned to hear those words aloud, even though the “giving” of children to other family members was not uncommon. To me, it was an immeasurable demonstration of love, friendship and acceptance of me as a member of their Senegalese family. It was then that I felt the haze of our cultural differences, which I had fumbled in and out of for three years, was transgressed by our common work, love and humanity.

That evening, Ousmane talked with me for a long time before and after dinner about how he felt I was like a member of the family. He said that when he decided to name his youngest daughter after me, he did so not because he thought I would give them things or that I would bring her to America. It was, he said, because he knew I was human, as they were human, and none of us differentiated between our conditions or ourselves. I ask now, why does the idea that there is nothing more or less human about a white or a black, or an affluent or an illiterate, or a Catholic or a Muslim, or an African or an American seem like an unshakable truth? That last night, sitting in the dark with Ousmane and Mame, I felt truly united in humanity when he said we were “comme des parents” (like family). He thanked me again and told me not to worry about leaving them; we had already formed unbreakable bonds, even if it took me 2 or 5 or 20 years to come back to Senegal.

The children seemed particularly somber, yet still went about his or her tasks. After Ousmane’s speech, Mbaye, the precocious three-year old brother of Elise, kept asking me where I was going, and I felt like he was doing so with an incredible insistence for truth. He knew I was GOING and I couldn’t bring myself to answer him with any reassuring measure in my voice.

After dinner we all sat down to watch “Mari Mar” on television and Ndeye was squeezed next to me on the corner of my chair, as usual. I didn’t follow the show and kept thinking about the fact that I would probably never again be a part of this scene — this comfortable family setting: sitting with a group of African children and adults who considered me something between a sister and an aunt, all crowded around a 12-inch black and white television run off a 12v car battery to watch a cheesy Mexican soap opera dubbed in French. Finally, I went home to my compound around 12:30am and went directly to sleep. I still hadn’t accepted that I was really leaving the next morning.

Time for departure
I woke up at 6:00am — a certain rarity for me, and immediately started to load my truck. Ousmane had sent his older son and nephew to help me. When I left the house where I had lodged for years, I thought it would be fairly easy to say goodbye to my landlords and their family, to which I was not nearly as close as the Thiam’s. But, right at the end, I chocked up so unexpectedly that I hurried the rest of the handshakes and good-byes and jumped in my truck.
     When I arrived at Ousmane’s I went inside the house to greet everyone before we started unloading the belongings that I was going to leave behind with the family — my wooden double bed frame, sponge mattress, metal tuna fish can footlocker, double-sized Peach Corps-issued mosquito net, buckets, clothes, pencils, scraps of material and all kinds of small treasures that the kids would find ingenious uses for. Mame hardly looked at me and went into the kitchen.

The event that sticks most in my mind from that day is breakfast. Mame brought me into her and Ousmane’s bedroom and set down a meal of duck, fried potatoes and onion sauce that was left over from our dinner the night before. Elise came in and sat down on her little wooden stool and we ate together. Actually, all I did was pick at the bread. Once I looked at Elise, I felt my throat tighten and my stomach fall into a pit; I couldn’t eat and I just kept crying into my bandana. Though she ate, the 1/1-2 year old watched me and between bites she tentatively called my name, “Khady?” She knew too, I think. When Mame took the breakfast bowl away she didn’t even comment on how little I had eaten.

The rest of the family joined us in the bedroom and we made small talk. Thankfully, Ousmane was there to get me going. He said I shouldn’t linger nor have any ceremony; it was simply time to leave. The children were suddenly quiet. Mame went on arranging the plastic bowls on top of the dresser, keeping her face turned away from me. Ousmane asked me if I had a piece of cloth. All I had was my wet bandana, but he found small strips from another scrap of blue tie-dyed material I had given them. He told me to tie a thin piece of cloth around the wrists of both Mbaye and Elise. I did it, but didn’t need to ask why.

It was the moment to leave. I could barely touch any of them or say anything. Hugging seemed too dramatic and if I had done that, I would have broken the cultural code of restrained, repressed emotion — something I had promised myself I would not do in public. Instead I shook Mame’s hand and looked at her beautiful Diola face for an instant until we both looked down. I touched each child’s face, kissed Ndeye on the head and turned to leave the room. Mame stayed inside with all of the children except Elise, who I was carrying, and Ousmane walked with me to the truck. I met Mame’s sister at the door and shook her hand. She surprised me with a sob and her abrupt retreat back into the room. Finally at the entrance of the compound I quickly shoved Elise back to her father before she had the chance to cling to me as she often did when I left her. I thanked Ousmane and shook his extended left hand — the hand used to wish someone well on a journey and a gesture promising that we would see each other again someday.

As I drove slowly out of the village, I looked, for the last time, at the ancient mahogany trees that lined both sides of the tar road, the sandy fields that were being prepared for the growing season, the electric power lines there were still not connected and the sparse, sublime horizon that had been stripped of almost all green. On the way out, I picked up a villager who wanted a ride to Kaolack, the regional capital where I had packing and writing my close-of-service report to finish. Once past the village limit, I couldn’t hold back any longer. My passenger looked embarrassedly away from my unstoppable flow of tears, and the only I words I spoke for 35km were to ask him to put on his seat belt.

Afterword:
Ousmane Thiam and his family continue to live in the Muslim village of Keur Madiabel, and they remain in frequent contact with the author. Ndeye Astou, the eldest daughter, did not pass her entrance exams last year in order to continue education beyond 6th grade, but Ousmane is encouraging her to try again. The author helps to financially support the education of Elise Thiam, who is now four years old and attending her second year of pre-school in another village.

Immediately after the destructive events of September 11th, the Thiam’s tried for three days to get through the phone lines to the United States. Mame said they “could not sleep or eat until they spoke with [me] to ensure [my] safety and well being.” Recently, the family telephoned the author to express their condolences on the one-year anniversary of September 11th. Ousmane said that they are praying for her, and for America.

Elise Annunziata lived in Keur Madiabel for two years working with students and teachers in eight surrounding villages to develop Environmental Education curricula. She extended a third year in Senegal as a Volunteer Leader in Kaolack and also worked as a Peace Corps trainer for the first Environmental Education program in Guinea (Conakry). Now living in Arlington, Virginia, Elise has a Master of Arts in Environmental and Natural Resources from The George Washington University and currently works for the Sierra Club in Arlington.

This essay won the Peace Corps Writers' 2003 Moritz Thomsen Experience Award.