A Devilishly Hard Decision… The Title to My Peace Corps Africa Book

April 8, 2014January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 32 Comments

Pat hay stack and part voodoo nightmare, a Liberian Bush Devil shuffles through the dirt toward me.

A fading photo from 1967 captures a Liberian Bush Devil, part hay stack and part voodoo nightmare, as it shuffles toward me through the red laterite dirt.

So, I’ve been struggling with the title of the book about my experience as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Liberia, West Africa. As part of the process, I asked for help from my fellow bloggers and friends.

Step one included developing four options and providing backstories. Step two involved reviewing and summarizing the input.

Now it’s my turn.

I have two objectives for my title. First, it needs to be catchy. Unless people are familiar with an author or have recommendations from a trusted source (friend, author they enjoy, media), the first thing that leads them to choose a book is its title.

Second, the title needs to reflect my Peace Corps Africa experience.

For example, on the one level, The Dead Chicken Dance is about cutting the head off a chicken and watching it dance– slightly unusual and a little macabre. As such, the title might gain attention. But there was more. Early Peace Corps was struggling with how to prepare people to jump into another culture that was totally foreign to them. Killing, gutting, and plucking a chicken was guaranteed to provide trainees with a challenging experience that few of them had ever had but might face as a Volunteer. It’s a long ways between buying a pasty white, pre-packaged chicken in the grocery store and picking up a hatchet to cut the head off a feathered, clucking Henny Penny.

The Bush Devil Ate Sam and The Lightning Man Strikes Again reflected two aspects of African culture that were quite real to tribal Liberians. Both of these titles were designed to capture attention, but they also represented the dramatically dissimilar world that tribal Liberians existed in. Understanding Liberia, in fact understanding much of Africa, depends upon recognizing these differences.

How Boy the Bad Dog Ended Up in Soup represents a sharp break from our Western dog-centric world… of which I am very much a part. Dogs were a legitimate food source in Liberia. Students would tease me by coming by and pinching my cat, Rasputin. “Sweet meat, Mr. Mekemson” they would say while smacking their lips. They were cautious, however. Rasputin could take care of himself: “Pinch me once and I’ll squawk a warning. Pinch me twice and I’ll take off your finger.” As with each of my other titles, there was more to the story with Boy than a gastronomical challenge. It went beyond scary that soldiers would show up at my house in the middle of the night solely because the dog had eaten a guinea fowl. It was strange with a strangeness that I would think of more than once when Liberia fell into the tragedy of its civil wars.

As I noted when I summarized the responses on titles, each title received strong support but Boy received the fewest ‘votes.’ Part of this may because we are so dog centric. As one blogger observed, the title might turn people off. I get that.

Support for the other three titles was evenly split. For me, it finally came down to either the Bush Devil or the Lightning Man. The Dead Chicken relayed an insight into early Peace Corps and cross-cultural challenges, but the other two did more to capture the Africa experience. Tossing a mental coin, I’m going with the Bush Devil. As my blogging friends James and Terri Gallivance, who have lived in Africa, noted: “We’re voting for The Bush Devil Ate Sam because we feel it embraces the mystery that is Africa.” The mystery that is Africa seems like a good place to start.

On a more prosaic level, I am adding “And Other Peace Corps Tales of West Africa” as a subtitle because it is important to have both Peace Corps and Africa included. Next up: the cover. As soon as I develop examples, I’ll post them.

NEXT BLOGs: Peggy and I will soon be heading into Nevada where I have several posts I am thinking about including 1) an art hotel in Reno created by Burners from Burning Man, 2) the remote town of Hawthorn with its history of being America’s primary ordnance depot (bunkers fill the desert), 3) the Extraterrestrial Highway and Area 51– subject of more conspiracy theories than there are people in Nevada, 4) Death Valley in the spring, 4) the Valley of Fire, 5) Red Rock Canyon, and 6) Las Vegas being Las Vegas. BUT, IN THE MEANTIME, I will post on another of my favorite petroglyph sites, Painted Rocks out of Yuma Arizona. I think I will also revisit the actual Big Foot trap about three miles from my home and see if Bigfoot is hanging out there. (It sort of goes along with the ET Highway.)

The Dead Chicken, the Bush Devil, the Lighting Man, and the Bad Dog

March 31, 2014January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 27 Comments

Gbarnga, Liberia where I served as a Peace Corps Volunteer from 1965-67. The photo was taken at that time.

A dead chicken, a bush devil, a lightning man, and a bad dog walk into a bar… Just kidding.

Last week I asked for help from my blog followers, Facebook friends, and members of my book club to help choose a title for the book on my Africa Peace Corps experience. The choices were:

The Dead Chicken Dance
The Bush Devil Ate Sam
The Lightning Man Strikes Again
How Boy the Bad Dog Ended Up in Soup

Each title also included a subtitle connecting the book to Africa and the Peace Corps.

The input was great and there were many thoughtful comments on the various choices. There were also more general suggestions such as put the titles in the active voice and make them shorter. An example of the former is The Dead Chicken Dance might become The Dead Chicken Dances or Dead Chicken Dancing. In the latter, How Boy the Bad Dog Ended Up in Soup might be retitled Bad Dog Soup.

Here’s a pie chart that shows how people responded:

What seems clear here is that the Bad Dog was not good. But let me note, Boy did have some strong support. Alison and Don felt the title had a “good hook to it.” And Kocart said, “Boy the Bad Dog. Of Course.” Naturally. Linda at Shoreacres, who lived in Liberia, made the interesting comment, “Boy the Bad Dog certainly evokes all of the collections of African folk tales that are out there.” On the con side, The Writing Waters Blog observed that the title might be “too much for this dog loving country.”

Pull Boy out of the pie and what we have left is close to a dead heat. The titles are running nose-to-nose. The dead chicken garnered 30% of the vote, the Bush Devil 33% and the Lightning Man 28%. It isn’t what I would call a clear mandate. (Grin) So how about the very thoughtful comments? Maybe they are too thoughtful! Strong arguments were made for each title. I found myself nodding, ‘that’s right’ over and over as first one title and then another worked its way to the top.

Some of the comments:

“The Dead Chicken Dance hands down. I would pick it up and look at it. That’s as good of a title as “Getting Stoned With Savages…” which was a damn good book!”

“The Dead Chicken Dance is my favorite…. A touch grisly plus touch of the familiar plus invitation to dance equals enigmatic… Strong short and sure of itself like The Ballad of the Sad Cafe, The Joy Luck Club, The Kite Runner.”

I would use the Dead Chicken Dance, but I’d change it from “The Dead Chicken Dance” to “Watching a Dead Chicken Dance.”

Personally, I like The Dead Chicken Dance best. They’re all catchy, but for some reason, this one jumped out at me most. My second choice would be The Bush Devil Ate Sam. In fact, now that I see them both side-by-side, I like them equally. Oh, boy, that wasn’t much of a help, was it? 🙂

“The Bush Devil Ate Sam” is definitely my favorite; short, catchy, intriguing, and feels more encompassing of a collection of African stories than the others…

“I am leaning toward the Bush Devil Ate Sam as I have met Sam, a doctor trained in the American University system, highly educated, yet “marked” by his right of passage to manhood.”

“ (The Bush Devil Ate Sam) is the most cogent, the most compelling.”

“Curt, these titles are all great and we love the stories behind them. We’re voting for The Bush Devil Ate Sam because we feel it embraces the mystery that is Africa…”

“Personally, the one that would make me pick up the book first would be “The Bush Devil Ate Sam.” It has three things: something exotic (the bush devil), something familiar (the name Sam being a sedate, western-sounding name makes it more familiar and less threatening), and the mystery of how the two came together – you can be pretty sure something called a bush devil didn’t literally eat Sam, so what is this really about? Of all of your proposed titles, it was the one that made me most want to find out the story behind it.”

“ …the one that was most immediately appealing was the Lightning Man Strikes Again and the most intriguing was The Bush Devil Ate Sam.”

“I read all of the stories to the boys and there was a unanimous vote for The Lightning Man Strikes Again. Very catchy and a fun story!” (The grandkids check in.)

“I loved all the stories but my favorite title is The Lightning Man Strikes Again. I usually choose books by the title and I’d pick that one up just because of the sound of it. Lightning is fascinating anyway and the title sounds interesting and humorous, which goes perfectly with those stories. I’ve always wanted to join the Peace Corps and can’t wait to read this now.”

“The Lightning Man Strikes Again: I like it because it has a double entendre..Is it about someone else or are you the lightning man helping to bring change to Africa…  Can’t wait to read your follow up post!”

“Love The Lightning Man Strikes Again – can just feel the dread the Lightning Man induced. Do let us know when you make your choice.”

“The problem is that ALL the titles are intriguing; they all entice the reader to want to read the stories. But, if forced to choose, I would go with the lightning man. I’m not quite sure, maybe because it relates so directly with superstition and myth.”

Life’s about choices, right. It may be about the title of a book or it may be about which piece of monkey meat you are going to buy. The lady selling the meat held up a little head and said, “Very tasty.”

So… these are some of the thoughts you have shared. They represent views from people with widely varying backgrounds… including writers, the under ten crowd, and folks who have lived in Africa. Do you see my dilemma? Thanks so much for taking the time to participate. It means a lot.

NEXT BLOG: My choice and the reasons behind it. (Yes folks, I am going to drag this out for one more blog.)

Chapter 7: Liberia, A Nation Born and Nurtured in Paranoia… Peace Corps Tales

November 23, 2012January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 5 Comments

Welcome to “The Dead Chicken Dance and Other Peace Corps Tales.” I am presently on a two month tour of the Mediterranean and other areas so I thought I would fill my blog space with one of the greatest adventures I have ever undertaken: a two-year tour as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Liberia, West Africa. Every two days I will post a new story in book format.

When I have finished, I will publish the book digitally and in print.

President Tubman’s Mansion circa 1965. A small elite of wealthy Americo-Liberians ruled Liberia from its founding.

Liberia was born and nurtured in paranoia. Its birth took place in the US during the early 1800’s. The number of free black people was growing rapidly in the North. Yankees saw this growth as an issue of assimilation and competition.

Southerner slave owners saw it as a dangerous threat.

The existence of free blacks encouraged their slaves to think of freedom. Insurrection was a real possibility and that possibility generated deep paranoia in the minds of slave owners. Visions of being killed haunted their dreams.

Various solutions were suggested including the creation of a new state in the US strictly for free black people. Louisiana was named as one possibility. Carving a state out of western territories was another proposal. Henry Clay, Andrew Jackson, Daniel Webster and a number of other prominent Americans offered a different solution: ship free African-Americans back to Africa.

The idea was greeted with enthusiasm. Northern humanists believed that free blacks would be more successful in Africa. Southern slave owners felt that removing free blacks from the continent would eliminate their influence. Powerful Christian groups added their support. A foothold in Africa was an opportunity to save millions of ‘heathen’ souls.

Free blacks were not asked for their opinion.

In 1816 the American Colonization Society (ACS) was founded and by 1820 the first group of 88 African Americans and three white ACS agents sailed to Liberia on the ship Elizabeth.

Life was bleak and dangerous at first. The tribal people were not happy at seeing the intruders take over the region and the Americo-Liberians (ALs), as they came to be known, constituted a very small percentage of the total population. Many died from disease. The new Liberians had long since lost their immunity to tropical bugs.

Purchasing land for the colony from the reluctant tribes was not easy. Gunboat diplomacy solved the problem. Lieutenant Robert Stockton of the US Navy persuaded a local tribal chief, King Peter, to sell the area that would become Monrovia. He pointed a gun at the Chief’s head.

Further territory was added by Stockton’s successor, Jehudi Ashmun, using similar methods. In 1825 he persuaded King Peter and other tribal chiefs to sell prime real estate along the coast for 500 bars of tobacco, three barrels of rum, five casks of gun powder, five umbrellas and miscellaneous other trinkets.

In 1847 Americo-Liberians declared their independence from the American Colonization Society and Liberia became the first independent black republic in Africa.

Only a tiny portion of America’s black population, some 17,000, emigrated from the US to Liberia. African Americans had lived in the US since early colonial times. Their culture was that of their white counterparts, not their distant cousins in Africa. They had fought in America’s wars and helped build the nation. The United States was their home.

Africans freed from slave ships and a small contingency of blacks from Barbados supplemented the Americo-Liberian population.

The history of Liberia is the history of the relationship between Americo-Liberians and the tribal people. The ALs had learned their lessons well in America. They quickly set themselves up as the ruling class. Tight controls were established over the government, military, education, media and economic opportunity.

Tribal Liberians were regarded and treated as second-class citizens and possibly even slaves. In 1929 the League of Nations instigated an investigation into the use of forced labor on the Spanish Island of Fernando Po. Liberian soldiers were used in raids on tribal villages to obtain workers. High government officials were involved. There were rumors that Liberia’s President Charles King, and Vice President Allan Yancey participated in the scheme.

Whether King was involved or not, there is no doubt he was corrupt. The 1982 Guinness Book of World Records listed his 1927 election as the most corrupt in history. King received 234,000 votes from Liberia’s 15,000 registered voters.

Fernando Po represented the tip of a large iceberg. Tribal people were expected to provide free labor for public projects such as road building. They were also expected to provide an inexpensive to free source of labor for the large Upcountry farms of Americo-Liberians. Tribal chiefs also benefitted, as did a Major American corporation.

In 1926 Liberia provided Firestone Tire and Rubber Company with a 99-year, one million acre concession to grow rubber trees. There was to be an exemption on all present and future taxes and the government guaranteed a cheap labor supply… even if soldiers had to recruit it. During my time in Liberia, Firestone workers would go on strike to earn $.25 per hour.

Power and privilege were the results of the policies of the Americo-Liberian government. But it was power and privilege accompanied by an underlying fear that the majority native population would rise up in revolt. This in turn led to a siege mentality similar in nature to that felt by the white slave owners in the Southern United States, which is ironic, to say the least.

When Jo Ann and I arrived in August of 1965, the role of the Peace Corps was to help bring Liberia’s tribal population into the twentieth century. It was a first for the country, considering that Americo-Liberians had worked so hard for so long to keep the tribal population under tight control.

The times ‘they were a changing’ however, as Bob Dylan sang. Independence was sweeping through the continent as one country after another threw off its colonial chains. Liberia’s tribal people’s were aware of what was happening in the world around them and the natives were getting restless.

On an outward level, we found a number of similarities between the United States and Liberia. English was the national language, the currency of the country was well-used American Dollars, and the flag was red white and blue complete with eleven stripes and one star. We even learned that the commanding general of the Liberian army was named George Washington. Government and judiciary were patterned after the American system.

In reality, Liberia was a one party state. The government was controlled by the True Whig Party, which in turn was controlled by Americo-Liberians. What justice existed was heavily weighted toward keeping the ALs in power.

The challenge to William Shradrack Tubman, who had been President since 1943, was to convince the tribal people they were getting a good deal, make a show of it internationally, and still protect the privileges of the Americo-Liberians.

It required an incredible balancing act at which Tubman was a master. The recipe for success involved one part substance, five parts fancy footwork, and ten parts paranoia. The paranoia evolved from the fear that the tribal Liberians would take the process seriously and demand their share or, God forbid, all of the goodies.

As long as Peace Corps Volunteers behaved themselves, they were part of the substance. The Liberian government made it quite clear that there would be serious consequences for anyone caught challenging the supremacy of the Americo-Liberians and the True Whig Party. For Liberians, the serious consequences could mean jail… or worse. For us, it was a one-way ticket out of the country.

I would find myself on the edge of being shipped out, twice.

Chapter 6: Dr. Livingston, I Presume… Peace Corps Tales

November 21, 2012January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 2 Comments

When I have finished, I will publish the book digitally and in print.

My friend Morris Carpenter at home in Mississippi… some 45 years after he welcomed us to Liberia.

We made it to the right terminal on the right day and at the right time. In fact, our paranoia insisted we be four hours early. We watched lots of planes take off and land.

Finally, we found ourselves flying over a rough Atlantic. To quote Snoopy, “it was a dark and stormy night.” Lighting danced between the clouds as we struggled to deplete the airplane’s complimentary booze supply. We toasted each other, we toasted the fact we had made it, and we toasted Liberia.

“Good morning.” The pilot’s speaker driven voice woke me from my booze-induced sleep. Jo and I scrambled to look down and were met by a vast sea of green broken occasionally by small clearings filled with round huts. Tropical Africa!

There was brief stopover in Dakar; French-speaking Senegalese served warm coke and stale ginger snaps for breakfast. It’s the type of meal you really should forget but never do. Two hours later we dropped into Robert’s Field, Liberia’s International Airport. The stewardesses wrenched open the door admitting a sudden blast of heat and humidity. Roaming the streets of New York City in August had prepared us for the weather but not the view.

Striding across the tarmac to greet us was my old friend Morris Carpenter. He and I had been in student government together at Sierra College near Sacramento.

Morris was a year ahead of me and transferred to Chico State College at the end of my freshman year. We remained close friends via long, handwritten letters. During his senior year he joined the Peace Corps and was assigned to Liberia. His letters from Africa were part of my inspiration for joining. Little did I dream that Jo Ann and I would end up in the same country.

All grins, we tumbled into each other. I couldn’t resist saying, “Dr. Livingston, I presume.”

Morris, as he put it, had been camped out on the Peace Corp’s Director’s desk in Monrovia for a month seeking a change in assignment when our arrival was announced. He quickly volunteered to pick us up. The Director, recognizing an opportunity for Morris-free time, had agreed even faster.

On our way into Monrovia, Morris filled us in on life in the Peace Corps as ‘it really was.’ One year of living in Liberia had coated his youthful idealism with a thin veneer of cynicism.

His first assignment had been as an elementary school teacher on Bushrod Island located next to Monrovia. That career came to a crashing halt. He caught the Principal squeezing hot pepper juice into a young girl’s eyes. Whippings were common in Liberian schools but the fiery liquid was over the edge. He grabbed the Principal’s arm.

“You are a ‘small’ woman,” he angrily accused her, which is a major insult in Liberia. As it turned out, the Principal was a cousin to one of Liberia’s ruling elite, which made her a ‘big’ woman. Morris was booted out of the school within 24 hours.

Peace Corps staff was sympathetic but powerless. They found Morris employment as a Public Administration Volunteer in the Liberia Department of Education where he spent a frustrating six months attempting to establish a modern filing system. It didn’t happen. The Department served mainly as an income producing opportunity for the relatives of prominent politicians. Finding files was not a required skill set.

“I couldn’t get past ABC.” Morris grumbled. He was much more successful at his night job: locating Monrovia’s best bars and bar maids. It was time to move on.

Morris requested a rural Up-country assignment. And he got it. Peace Corps found him a job teaching at an elementary school in the small village of Yopea. It was about as rural as Peace Corps assignments went in Liberia. Getting there involved driving 130 miles Upcountry on Liberia’s main dirt road and then following a small dirt track for 20 miles to the tiny village of twelve huts, a two-room school, and a Care kitchen.

He shared teaching responsibilities with the Principal. His job was to teach the fourth, fifth and six grades. Students came from surrounding farms as well as the village. Life was much quieter and more productive than it had been in Monrovia.

If it became too quiet, he escaped to Monrovia and its bright lights on his Honda Motorcycle. Morris told us he would have been happy to finish off his Peace Corps experience in Yopea. “I liked the Principal, enjoyed the kids and built a basketball court.”

He didn’t, however, like the Volunteer that Peace Corps assigned to work with him a few months later. JCC was a fundamentalist from Tennessee who considered it his responsibility to convert the ‘heathen’ Liberians. This may have been appropriate behavior for a missionary but it was inappropriate for a Peace Corps Volunteer.

The dislike was mutual. JCC did not approve of Morris’s lifestyle. Adding fuel to the fire, Peace Corps required that the two share a house. The close proximity didn’t work. Morris wanted a divorce. “He was just too goofy.”

Morris hopped on his Honda and zipped in to Gbarnga to meet with Peace Corps’ Upcountry rep, Bob Cohen. “I want JCC out of my village,” Morris demanded. Bob told him that it was only a personality clash. “Go back to work.” Morris went back to Yopea all right, but he packed his bags and headed for Monrovia.

“Either find me a new assignment of send me home,” he told the Liberia Peace Corps Director.

And that’s where we came into the picture.

Morris dutifully dropped us off at Peace Corps headquarters in Monrovia to begin our in-country orientation and take care of miscellaneous bureaucratic chores. While Jo Ann and I had been playing at the World’s Fair, our fellow volunteers were sweltering through hours of meetings. Now it was our turn.

Chapter 1: An Ugly War Encourages Me to Join the Peace Corps

November 11, 2012January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 7 Comments

When I have finished, I will publish the book digitally and in print.

The main street of Gbarnga Liberia in 1965 where I was serving as a Peace Corps Volunteer.

Tears tracked across Jo Ann’s cheeks and I struggled to be sympathetic. It wasn’t easy.

We had just left her parents in San Francisco and boarded a United Airlines jet bound for New York City. Except for the time I surrendered five hard-earned dollars for a helicopter ride at the El Dorado County Fair, it was my first flight ever.

The jet taxied out on to the runway, climbed above the bay, and banked toward the east. We were leaving family, friends and life in the US behind. While Jo wrestled with the past, my thoughts were on the future.

Africa, teaching and adventure beckoned.

For seven hours we would be winging across America and gazing down on cotton clouds, mountain ranges, deserts, plains, cities, towns, farms and forests.

We waved goodbye to California as the plane flew over the Sierra-Nevada Mountains. The towering granite of the Crystal Range gave way to the deep blue of Lake Tahoe. My mind turned to our new status as Peace Corps Volunteers. Six months earlier we had serious doubts this day would arrive.

It was the spring of 1965 and Uncle Sam was looking for recruits. He’d bought a used colonial war from the French and needed soldiers to fight. Being a 22-year-old male about to graduate from college, I was a prime but reluctant candidate.

The conflict in Vietnam dated back to 1946. It was born ugly. France had lost her colonial empire in Indochina to the Japanese during World War II and Charles de Gaulle wanted it back. The Vietnamese Marxist Ho Chi Minh wanted independence. War was the result. Russia sided with the North Vietnamese in hopes of expanding her influence. NATO and the US jumped in to thwart Russia and support France in her colonial ambitions.

By 1955 France had abandoned the fight as a costly, no-win disaster that had sucked up more and more of the nation’s human and financial resources. Now, it was our turn. We would provide ‘military advisors’ and financial aid to the politically corrupt but anti-communist regime of Ngo Dinh Diem in South Vietnam. Over the next ten years our support continued to grow.

By the time I was ready to graduate, the US was ready to send in the troops.

The Cold War was raging. America’s leaders saw Vietnam as a critical step in stopping the spread of communism and communism was seen as an anti-capitalist, anti-Christian, and anti-democratic evil extending its cancerous tentacles throughout the world. Lose Vietnam, the Domino Theory argued, and all of Southeast Asia would follow.

My political science professors in International Relations at UC Berkeley had a different perspective. Communism was changing. It was no longer monolithic in nature but had taken on a nationalist flavor. Communism in Russia was different from communism in China. The Russians were as fearful of Chinese massing on their border as they were of the US’s nuclear weapons.

One day I arrived at my class on Comparative Communism and learned my professor had been invited to Washington to provide advice on Vietnam. The message he carried was that Ho Chi Minh was a nationalist first and a Marxist second. He was seeking independence for his nation. He was no more interested in being dominated by Russia than he had been in being dominated by France.

Becoming involved in a full-scale war was not in the best interest of the United States and might prove to be a costly mistake.

Washington refused to listen. America’s leaders had grown up on a steady diet of Cold War rhetoric. Not even the insanity of McCarthyism had shaken their faith. Being ‘soft on communism’ was political suicide. When Khrushchev banged his shoe on his desk at the United Nations and said he would bury us, we banged back.

But I was convinced there was more to the fight in Vietnam than a communist grab for power. My International Relations major was focused on Africa and the news out of Africa in 1965 was on the struggle for independence from colonial powers. I felt Ho Chi Minh was involved in a similar fight.

I decided Vietnam was not for me. Fighting in a war I didn’t believe in and killing people I didn’t want to kill was at the very bottom of my bucket list. And there was more. I am allergic to taking orders and can’t stand being yelled at. I’d make a lousy soldier.

I saw a court-martial in my future.

If drafted, I would go, however. I couldn’t imagine burning my draft card, running off to Canada or hiding out in the National Guard. I actually believe we owe our country service. Luckily, a temporary solution popped up. Peace Corps Recruiters were coming to Berkeley.

John Kennedy proposed this idealistic organization to a crowd of 5,000 students during a campaign speech at he University of Michigan on October 14, 1960. He was running four hours late and it was two in the morning. The response was overwhelming. One of his first acts as President was to create the agency.

Peace Corps service would not eliminate my military obligation but it might buy time for the Vietnam War to end. Of more importance, I felt the Peace Corps provided a unique opportunity to travel, represent the US in a positive way, and hopefully, do some good.

I talked the idea over with my fiancé. “Let’s do it!” Jo Ann responded. She and I would go together as a husband and wife team. When the Peace Corps recruiters opened their booth in front of the Berkeley Student Union, we were there to greet them.

“Sign us up,” we urged.

“Fill these out,” the recruiter responded, handing us two umpteen page blue applications. “You will also have to pass a language aptitude test in Kurdish and provide letters of recommendation.” I had my doubts about the Kurdish.

Apparently we looked good on paper. In a few weeks the Peace Corps informed us that we had been tentatively selected to serve as teachers in Liberia, West Africa. My brain did a jig. The age-old question of what you do when you graduate from school and enter the real world had been answered, or at least postponed.

Uncle Sam with his growing hunger for bodies to fight the Vietnam War would have to wait.

Next blog: My roommate at Cal tells the FBI and Peace Corps I am running Communist Cell Block meetings in our apartment.

The Dark Side of African Tribal Beliefs… The Peace Corps Series

June 22, 2012January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / Leave a comment

This week marks the beginning of a new blog about my experiences as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Liberia West Africa from 1965-67. I am using a WordPress theme designed to look and read like a book. Each week I will post a new chapter. When I have completed the book, I will publish it both digitally and in print. Visit me at http://liberiapeacecorps.com/ to read the first and subsequent chapters.

This week I will post three different short stories about Liberia on this blog, “Wandering in Time and Place,” to give my readers a sample of what to expect on the new blog and in the book. Today’s story: The Dark Side of African Tribal Beliefs. (I have posted this story before under Lightning Man.)

Late one evening during a tropical downpour, a very wet and frightened candidate for student body president, Mamadee Wattee, knocked on our door. The opposition had purchased ‘medicine’ from a Ju Ju Man (witch doctor in Tarzanese) to make Mamadee sick.

It was serious business; people were known to die in similar circumstances.

Had the opposition slandered Mamadee or stuffed the ballot box, I could have helped. But countering black magic was way out of my league. I took the issue to the High School Principal and he dealt with it. Mamadee stayed well and won the election.

Later, he unintentionally introduced us to another tribal phenomenon, the Lightning Man.

I had left Mamadee with $50 to buy us a drum of kerosene while my wife and I were on vacation in East Africa. When we returned home, Mamadee was sitting on our doorstep. Someone had stolen the money and he was obviously upset. Fifty dollars represented a small fortune to most tribal Liberians. (Given that we were paid $120 dollars a month for teaching, it was hardly spare change to us.)

Mamadee’s father, a chief of the Kpelle tribe, was even more upset and wanted to assure us that his son had nothing to do with the missing money. It was a matter of honor. He offered to hire a Lightning Man to prove Mamadee’s innocence.

The Lightning Man had a unique power; he could make lighting strike whoever was guilty of a crime. If someone stole your cow or your spouse, ZAP! Since we were in the tropics, there was lots of lightning. Whenever anyone was struck, people would shake their heads knowingly. One more bad guy had been cooked; justice had been served.

We didn’t believe Mamadee had taken the money and even if he had we certainly didn’t want him fried, or even singed. We passed on the offer.

Another Liberian Peace Corps Volunteer chose a different path. Here’s how the story was told to us. Tom had just purchased a $70 radio so he could listen to the BBC and keep up with the news. He enjoyed his new toy for a few days and it disappeared.

“I am going to get my radio back,” he announced and then hiked into the village where he quickly lined up some students to take him to the Lightning Man. Off they went, winding through the rainforest to the Lighting Man’s hut.

“I want you to make lighting strike whoever stole my radio,” Tom said, and then paid five dollars for the service. (Lightning Men have to eat too.)

Tom and his entourage then returned home. By this time, everyone in the village knew about the trip, including undoubtedly, the person who had stolen the radio.

That night, there was a tremendous thunder and lightning storm. Ignoring for the moment that it was in the middle of the rainy season and there were always tremendous thunder and lightning storms, put your self in the shoes of the thief who believed in the Lightning Man’s power. Each clap of thunder would have been shouting his name.

The next morning Tom got up, had breakfast and went out on his porch. There was the radio.

(Note: Mamadee would go on to become an elementary school principal in New Jersey.)

The Tragedy of Liberia

April 7, 2011January 23, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 1 Comment

Bob and Gerry Branch invited us to stay at their apartment in Monrovia while JoAnn and I were ‘trained.’ In this photo, Bob watches a funeral parade outside his window while Jo looks at the camera.

(At the end of the last blog, my ex-wife and I found ourselves stranded in New York City because we had mistakenly flown to JFK one day late and missed our flight to Africa. In this blog, we reach our destination.)

We made it to the right terminal on the right day and at the right time. In fact, absolute paranoia insisted we be three hours early. We watched lots of planes take off and land.

Finally, we found ourselves flying across a rough Atlantic. To quote Snoopy, “it was a dark and stormy night.” Lighting danced between the clouds as we struggled to deplete the airplane’s complimentary booze supply. We toasted the fact we had made it, we toasted Liberia, we toasted Jo’s mom for her hundred dollars and we toasted toasting.

I finally managed to fall asleep and only awakened when the pilot announced good morning. Jo and I scrambled to look down and were met by a vast sea of green broken occasionally by small clearings filled with round huts. Tropical Africa!

There was brief stopover in Dakar where French-speaking Senegalese served warm coke and ginger snaps for breakfast. It’s the type of meal you really should forget but never do.

An hour later we were dropping in to Robert’s Field, Liberia’s International Airport. A stewardess wrenched open the door admitting a sudden blast of heat and humidity. Luckily, roaming the streets of New York City in August had prepared us. What we weren’t prepared for was the view.

Striding across the tarmac to greet us was my old friend Morris Carpenter from community college days in California. He had joined the Peace Corps the year before and been assigned to Liberia. By some quirk of fate we had been assigned to the same country and would end up living closer together than we had in California.

All grins, we tumbled into each other. I couldn’t resist saying, “Dr. Livingston, I presume.”

Morris, as he put it, had been camped out on the Peace Corp’s Director’s desk in Monrovia for a month seeking a change in assignment when our arrival was announced. He quickly volunteered to pick us up. The Director, recognizing the opportunity for Morris-free time, had agreed even faster.

On our way into Monrovia, Morris filled us in on life in the Peace Corps as ‘it really was.’ One year of living in Liberia had coated his youthful idealism with a thin veneer of cynicism. There were good reasons.

Liberia was a country that had been born and nurtured in paranoia. Its origins dated back to the early 1800’s when slaves were being freed in the New England and there was a growing concern about the expanding population of free black people. While most Northerners accepted that slavery was wrong, few were willing to accept their freed slaves as equals.

In the South, where slaves outnumbered their owners, fear replaced concern. Insurrection was a real possibility. Henry Clay, Andrew Jackson, Daniel Webster and a number of other prominent Americans proposed a solution: ship freed African-Americans back to Africa. The American Colonization Society was founded and a portion of the west coast of Africa purchased. Approximately 11,000 freed slaves eventually shipped out.

Life was bleak and dangerous at first. The natives weren’t overly happy at seeing their long-lost cousins appropriate tribal lands and the Americo-Liberians (ALs) constituted a very small percentage of the total population.

The ALs had learned their US lessons well though and soon established themselves as the ruling elite. They took control of the government, education, and military. The natives were regarded as second-class citizens.

Power and privilege were the results but it was power and privilege accompanied by an underlying fear that the majority native population would rise up in revolt. This in turn led to a siege mentality and paranoia somewhat similar in nature to that felt by the white minorities in the Southern United States prior to the Civil War. I would see and experience several examples of this paranoia during my stay.

Close economic and political ties were maintained with the US over the years. Starting in 1926 Firestone entered the country and eventually cut down vast swathes of rainforest to plant rubber trees. As we drove by a rubber tree plantation on our way to Monrovia, Morris explained that the industry was now suffering from labor problems that the military had been called in to quash. Apparently workers were striking to earn twenty-five cents an hour.

On an outward level, there were a number of similarities between the United States and Liberia. English was the national language, the currency of the country was well-used American Dollars, and the flag was red white and blue complete with eleven stripes and one star. Upon arrival we even learned that the commanding general of the Liberian army was named George Washington. Not surprisingly, the government and the judiciary system were patterned after the American system.

In reality the government was a one party state controlled by the Americo-Liberians and whatever justice existed was heavily weighted toward keeping them in power. While change was underway when we arrived, it was too little and too late.

The failure to educate and bring large numbers of tribal Liberians into the economic and political system from the beginning was one of the major factors leading to the tragedy that Liberia would suffer over the next three decades. Americo-Liberians, tribal Liberians and the country would suffer terribly due to this negligence.

Morris dutifully dropped us of at Peace Corps headquarters to begin our orientation and take care of miscellaneous bureaucratic chores. While we had been playing at the World’s Fair, our fellow volunteers had been sweltering through hours of meetings. Now it was our turn.

Another married couple from Group VI, Bob and Gerry Branch, generously agreed to host our stay. They lived in a second floor apartment that overlooked one of Monrovia’s main streets. It provided a birds-eye view of life in the city.

Monrovia was overflowing with impoverished young people living in crowded tin shacks.

Monrovia was bursting at the seams with impoverished young people escaping from rural areas. Tin shacks fought for space as extended families struggled to find shelter from tropical downpours. Taxi and money-bus drivers, using their horns for brakes, filled the air with unceasing noise while the barking and growling of mangy dogs filled in around the edges. Evening air was tainted with the unique smell of cooked palm oil, smoke and moldering garbage.

Of course it wasn’t all bleak, assuming one had money. Monrovia had several good restaurants, a modern movie theater, an air-conditioned supermarket and a large paperback bookstore, all of which we came to appreciate over the next two years. Most Americo-Liberians did quite well. President Tubman lived in an impressive mansion on the outskirts of the city.

President Tubmans Mansion in 1966.

For our part, we were quite relieved to learn that our assignment wasn’t in Monrovia. Originally, we had been assigned to an elementary school down the coast in Buchanan. It was supposed to be a plum assignment so naturally another couple grabbed it when we failed to turn up.

We were left with their jobs; Jo would teach first grade and I would teach second in the upcountry town of Gbarnga. (Upcountry was anywhere inland.) Apparently this was our punishment for partying too long in Auburn. So be it…

(Note… in my March 3 blog I reported on how Phil Weisberg was arrested for holding up a sign criticizing Mrs. Tubman. Phil has since responded that he wasn’t arrested but was seized by security agents and later released.)

Crazy Flumo and Captain Die: Two African Characters

March 4, 2011January 23, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / Leave a comment

The Peace Corps provided us with a house but first we had to win it back from the occupying forces: cockroaches and bug-a-bugs (termites).

All Peace Corps Volunteers have stories to tell about their first days on assignment: some funny, some sad and some even scary.

In Armies of the Night under Bone Stories I described how my new wife of three months, Jo Ann, and I survived our first night in Gbarnga, Liberia without water, light or food while being besieged by cockroaches, termites, crab size spiders and pounding drums.

Bug-a-bug tunnels snaked their way up all of our walls when we opened the door to our new house. This photo of a nearby 12-foot high termite mound testifies to how serious these bugs were.

A new day did manage to happen, however. Jo and I promised we would make it a good one. Her job was to mount a ferocious counter offensive on the bug-a-bugs (termites) and cockroaches that had seized our house. Sam, the young man who hoped to work for us, arrived early to help.

My job was to walk the quarter-mile to town, buy five gallons of kerosene, find the most toxic bug spray known to humankind, scavenge anything available that resembled food and stock up on booze in case my other efforts failed.

Since this was my first trip into Gbarnga, I was on display and more than a little nervous. It seemed like half of the town was out and their primary purpose was to stare at me. I smiled and waved a lot, like a princess on parade. They smiled and waved back.

Things were going well.

I quickly reached the main street. Open-air shops lined the dirt road on both sides. At first, they looked the same: white washed walls, red tin roofs, dark interiors, and faces staring out from inside.

A typical Liberian shop on Gbarnga's main street. The croc's tail was dragging in the dirt.

Then I begin noticing differences. Several were fronted with crumbling cement steps that had long since given up any hope of connecting to the eroded street. One featured a crocodile skin nailed to the front post, its tail dragging in the dirt. Another had brightly colored shirts and shorts strung up like Christmas ornaments.

Two or three were obviously makeshift bars, no more than holes in the wall. An ancient Liberian ‘Ma’ came staggering out of one with a half-pint gin bottle clutched in her hand. She noticed me, hoisted her bottle in a toast and took a swig.

A few shops were larger and resembled country stores filled with the minutia of daily life. Most were owned by Lebanese. At the time, they made up a substantial part of Liberia’s middle class. I was headed for one that Sam told me sold kerosene.

A group of men stood idly in front of the store. Had folks known I was coming, I would have sworn it was a reception committee. It’s show time went reverberating around my skull. I smiled my best Peace Corps smile. One of the men stepped forward to greet me. He was barefoot and wore a tattered shirt, tattered shorts and a big grin. His hand shot out

This is it I thought, my first official Liberian handshake. We had started practicing at SF State. The shake begins as a normal handshake but ends with you snapping each other’s fingers. An audible snap signifies success. It isn’t easy at first. If the person is really happy to see you he may go through the process two or three times.

(About the time the snap becomes second nature, it’s time to go home. Then you have to unlearn the process. Your American friends look at you strangely when you snap their fingers. At least my conservative Republican father-in-law did. But back to Africa.)

We shook. Our hands parted. Snap! It worked. All of the men beamed and I beamed back. Their official greeter grabbed my hand again. Snap! Another success and more beaming. And again. And again

Nobody had mentioned four snaps to me and this time the guy wouldn’t let go. The men were laughing out loud now. My hundred-watt smile became a forty-watt grimace as I politely tried to retrieve my hand. No luck. I steeled myself, gave up any pretense of being polite and yanked. My hand pulled free and I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

The sigh lasted as long as it took the guy to drop to the ground and wrap his arms around my knees. By now the audience were all but rolling the street. I had become prime time entertainment and was beginning to understand what George Custer must have felt like.

I might still be there if the cavalry hadn’t arrived. It came in the form of a handsome Liberian man in a well-tailored suit who appeared on the scene and gave Flumo a healthy kick in the butt. Flumo let go.

“Hi, I am Daniel Goe, Vice Principal at Gboveh High School. Welcome to Gbarnga.” he introduced himself.

We shook hands in the old-fashioned way as Daniel explained that the man who had his arms wrapped around me was known throughout the Country as Crazy Flumo. I wasn’t the only person to receive his attention.

Once, Daniel told me, Flumo had thrown himself down in front of Vice President Tolbert’s car and wouldn’t move until the VP climbed out and gave him five dollars. New PCVs were a special target. I later learned that a tall Texan Volunteer had actually walked several yards down the main street of Gbarnga with Flumo tenaciously attached to one leg. I’d gotten off easy.

Fortunately, my adventures for the day were over. I bought my kerosene, found a bug poison so potent it was outlawed it in the US and discovered such fine culinary treats as canned beef from Argentina.

Jo Ann and Sam beat back the bug-a-bug and managed to arrive at an uneasy truce with the cockroaches. The nasty beasts would limit their forays until after we had gone to bed and stay out of our bedroom. In return we would only kill those we could reasonably stomp without tearing our house down.

Anyway there we were, one happy little family, cockroaches and all. That’s when Captain Die arrived on our doorstep.

Captain Die was a well digger rumored to have spent far too much time in dark holes. He had dug the well at our house for the original occupants, two female Volunteers. Afterwards, he began stopping by to visit the women and bum cigarettes. He had a rather unique way of introducing himself.

“Hello, my name is Captain Die. My name is Captain Die because I am going to die someday. This is my dog, Rover. Roll over Rover. Give me a cigarette.” Rover, who was a big ugly dog of indeterminate parenthood, dutifully rolled over

It made quite an impression. We explained to Captain Die that neither of us smoked but invited him in to share some ice tea we had just brewed. We gave the Captain a glass and he took a huge swallow.

I have no idea what he thought he was getting but it wasn’t Lipton’s. He must have thought we were trying to poison him. A look of terror crossed his face and he spit the ice tea out in a forceful spray that covered half the kitchen and us. Dripping wet, we found ourselves caught between concern, laughter and dismay. The Captain, in disgust, marched out of our house in military fashion with Rover close behind.

In addition to having found our predecessors an excellent supply of tobacco, Captain Die was quite taken with one of them. The story was told to us how he appeared at the door when Maryanne’s parents were visiting from the States. Captain Die was a man on a mission. He was going to request Maryanne’s hand in marriage.

I’ve always imagined the scene as follows.

Maryanne’s parents are sitting in the living room on the Salvation Army chairs and making a game attempt at hiding the culture shock they are undoubtedly feeling when this big black man and his ugly dog appear at the screen door.

Marianne jumps up and says, “Oh Mom and Dad, I would like you to meet my friend, Captain Die.” Mom and Dad, brainwashed by Emily Post and wishing to appear nonchalant, quickly stand up with strained smiles on their faces.

Captain Die grabs Dad’s hand and tries to snap his finger at the same time proclaiming, “Hello, my name is Captain Die. My name is Captain Die because I am going to die some day. This is my dog Rover. Roll over Rover. Give me your daughter.”

No one told me how Marianne’s parents responded to the good Captain’s offer so I will leave the ending up to the reader’s imagination. I can report that Maryanne was not whisked out of the country by her mom and dad.

(Today completes my daily tales of my life as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Gbarnga, Liberia. This week I have been utilizing my travel blog to honor the 50th Anniversary of the Peace Corps. There are more stories of Africa, however, and I will continue to work them in as the year goes by.)

Main street Gbarnga in 1965.

How Boy the Bad Dog Ended Up in African Soup

January 16, 2011January 23, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / Leave a comment

(Peace Corps is celebrating its 50th Anniversary this year. In honor of this significant achievement, I will devote several of my travel blogs over the next few months to my own experiences as a Peace Corps Volunteer in West Africa when Peace Corps was still in its infancy, 1965-1967.)

Boy was a very bad dog; he didn’t like black people.

In fact, he didn’t like anybody very much. Boy lived with a Peace Corps Volunteer named Holly in the upcountry town of Gbarnga, Liberia where my wife and I were also Volunteers.

Holly had another dog named Lolita. When Lolita had puppies, she decided that Boy wanted to eat her children and drove him off. He decided to take up residence at our house.

Normally I wouldn’t have cared. We already had three dogs that didn’t belong to us. One more wouldn’t hurt. It was Boy’s attitude that bothered me. Having a large dog with a nasty attitude attack African friends and students was socially inappropriate not to mention un-Peace Corps like.

And there was more. Boy had an issue with my cat, Rasputin; he regarded him as prey. I initiated several discussions with the dog about his bad habits but all he did was growl.

Consequently, I lacked sympathy when the soldiers came. They were standing outside my house waving their guns when I arrived home from teaching.

“What’s up?” I asked in my most official Peace Corps voice. Messing with Liberian soldiers was not smart. Even the government refused to issue them bullets.

“Your dog ate one of the Superintendent’s Guinea Fowls,” their sergeant mumbled ominously. The Superintendent of Bong County was the equivalent to a governor except he had more power. He lived about a quarter of a mile away and his Guinea Fowls roamed around the government compound. It appears he was quite attached to them.

“Which one?” I asked innocently.

“What does it matter which Guinea Fowl the dog ate?” Sarge sneered.

“No, no,” I responded, “I meant which dog.”

He glared at me for a moment and then pointed at Boy. I relaxed. It didn’t seem like Do Your Part, Brownie Girl or Puppy Doodle would have done in one of the Supe’s Fowls. They preferred their food cooked.

“Why don’t you arrest him?” I offered helpfully.

“Not him,” he shouted. “You. You come with us!” Apparently the interview wasn’t going the way Sarge wanted. I decided it was time to end the conversation.

“Look,” I said, “that dog does not belong to me. I am not going anywhere with you.” With that I walked inside and closed the door. It was risky but not as risky as going off with the soldiers.

My wife and I didn’t rest easy until that evening. It was a six-beer night. Finally, around ten, we went to bed believing we had beaten the rap.

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

“What in the hell was that?” I yelled as I jumped out of bed. It was pitch black and five o’clock in the morning.

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! It happened again.

“Someone is pounding on our back door,” Jo Ann said, sounding as frightened as I felt.

I grabbed our baseball bat, ran for the door and yanked it open. Soldiers were everywhere. The same friendly sergeant from the night before was standing there with the butt of his rifle poised to strike our door again.

“Your dog ate another one of the Superintendents Guinea Fowls,” he proclaimed to the world. I could tell he was ecstatic about the situation. He had probably tossed the bird over the fence.

“This time you are going with us!” he growled with emphasis on are.

In addition to being frightened, I was angry. “I am sorry you are having such a hard time guarding Guinea Fowls,” I said, trying to sound reasonable, “but I explained to you yesterday that the dog does not belong to me and I am not going anywhere with you. Ask Mr. Bonal and he will tell you the dog is not ours.” John lived next door and was the high school principal.

Sometimes the bold approach is the only way to go. Sometimes it isn’t.

I closed the door and held my breath. Sarge was not happy. We could hear him and his soldiers buzzing around outside. It sounded like a hornets’ nest. Still, yanking a Peace Corps Volunteer out of his house and dragging him off in to the middle of the night could have serious consequences. I imagined the headlines:

Soldiers Beats Peace Corps Volunteer Because of Dog’s Fowl Deed Liberian Ambassador Called to White House to Explain

I hoped the sergeant shared my perspective. At a minimum, I figured he would check with Bonal. John might not appreciate being awakened in the middle of the night but it served him right for laughing when I had told him the story the night before. I also suspected he was awake and watching the action.

We had a very nervous 30 minutes with soldiers rumbling around outside but they finally marched off. Round two for us! I could hardly wait for round three. This is the point in the US where you would be calling your attorney, mother and the local TV station. My only backups were the Upcountry Peace Corps Representative and Doctor; one to get me out of jail and the other to stitch me back together.

Happily, our part of the ordeal was over. It turns out that Peter, a young man who worked for Holly, owned Boy. The soldiers finally had someone they could bully. Peter was hauled in to court and fined for Boy’s heinous crimes. Boy, in turn, was sold to some villagers to cover the cost of the fine. As for Boy, he was guest of honor at a village feast. Being a Bad Dog in Liberia had serious consequences.

A Letter from Africa

October 13, 2010January 23, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 2 Comments

The hospital ward at Phebe Hospital in Liberia, Africa. Netting provides protection against malaria bearing mosquitos. Air conditioning from the tropical heat is provided by fans during the six or so hours the hospital has electricity each day.

I received a letter last week from Dr. Kylkon Makwi of Suakolo, Liberia. It was an old fashion type of letter. It came in the mail and was handwritten.

When I first met Dr. Makwi, he was a 13 year old boy who went by the name of Sam Kollie. It was the summer of 1965. My former wife Jo Ann and I had just arrived in the upcountry town of Gbarnga, Liberia where we were to serve as Peace Corps teachers.

We were tired, hungry and nervous. It was the end of a long day that had started in Monrovia, Liberia’s Capitol. A week earlier we had been partying in Jo’s back yard in Auburn, California. Now we were in the heart of West Africa. The Peace Corps driver, Wellington Sirleaf, made a quick stop to introduce us to Bob Cohen, the Upcountry PC Director, and was taking us to our new house.

There was one more stop before we got there. This time it was to see Shirley Penchef, another Peace Corps Volunteer. She was waiting at her house with a young Liberian of the Kpelle tribe and a surprise.

“This is Sam,” she bubbled (Shirley always bubbled). “Sam is so excited you are here! He has been waiting weeks for you! He is going to be your houseboy!”

Jo and I were speechless. We had talked about the possibility; it was common practice among Volunteers. A young Liberian would help with chores, earn spending money and often eat with the Volunteer. Both the Liberian and the PCV gained from the experience.

We recognized the value of the arrangement but had decided that having a houseboy didn’t quite fit the Peace Corps image. Like how do you tell the folks back home you are roughing it out here in the jungle and doing good while someone cooks your dinner, washes your clothes and cuts your grass?

On the other hand, how do you tell a woman who talks in exclamation points and a 13 year old boy who is grinning from ear to ear that you don’t want what they are selling?

“Uh, gee, uh, well, why doesn’t Sam help us get settled in and then we’ll see,” we managed to stutter. It was one of the better decisions we were to make in Liberia.

You’ll find the complete story of our first day in Gbarnga under “Armies of the Night” on the sidebar. It includes drums in the night, ghosts, screaming and monster spiders… but no beer.

Sam was a bright young man. Eventually he would get a full paid scholarship to Brandeis University in Boston, pick up his MD in Monrovia and earn a Masters in Public Health at Loma Linda University in Southern California. Life would not be easy for him, however.

The story of modern Liberia is one of the great tragedies of our time. A revolution that begin with the elimination of the ruling elite quickly degraded into tribal warfare that featured modern weaponry in the hands of children and dark juju, the voodoo of West Africa. Brutality, death, disease and starvation were the results. A full generation of Liberians was either lost or forever scarred by the nightmare.

Today, Liberia is struggling to recover and Sam/Kylkon is part of the effort. He and a handful of other medical professionals are working at Phebe Hospital in Upcountry Liberia. The odds against success are staggering.

As Kylkon notes, “there is a gross shortage of health manpower and hospital supplies.” (2009 statistics from Liberia report there was one doctor per 100,000 people in Upcountry.) Even basics, such as bed linens are missing. “We are in need of patient gowns, surgeon gowns and gloves, instruments, anesthetics and therapeutic drugs.” He sometimes performs surgery wearing an apron.

Hospital facilities in Liberia were damaged during the war and are “badly in need of renovation and repair.” Electricity and water at Phebe are limited to six or so hours per day.

Phebe serves the surrounding communities such as Gbarnga, which now has a population exceeding 50,000, and border populations from neighboring countries. Few people have the money to pay for their care.

“People come by my house at all hours begging for drugs,” Kylkon reports. But there are few drugs to be had.

It is hard, almost impossible, to imagine the challenge of providing medical care under such circumstances. The tragedy of Liberia continues.

Hang in there Sam. Our thoughts and wishes are with you.