Peace Corps Volunteer

Chapter 16: Dirt Roads Don’t Have White Lines… Peace Corps Tales

/ Curt Mekemson / 6 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.

When I have finished, I will publish the stories in digital and print book formats.

A ‘mini-mart’ was waiting for us when we arrived in Ganta. Included were these containers of monkey meat. Note the skulls in the blue basin and the tails behind the basins.

When we boarded the Pan Am jet at JFK, we abandoned the life we had known.  Three-inch cockroaches, a rickety outhouse, and a hole-in-the-ground well came with the territory, as did boiling our water, reading by lantern, and eating chop.

And so what? We had kids to teach, collard greens to eat, and a zinc roof to keep out the rain. Serving as a married couple, we also had each other… our own little society. Plus we had Sam. He was bright, funny, and provided an introduction to the Kpelle culture. He also did many of the chores.

Life was almost too easy, too routine. We were good at self-entertainment; it is a primary survival skill for Peace Corps Volunteers, but we had jumped from racing down a multi-lane freeway to walking on a dirt path. The tumultuous year at Berkeley, marriage, Peace Corps training and Africa had happened bang, bang, bang. Now life was more like drip, drip, drip.

After two months we were climbing the walls like bug-a-bug. We needed a break. Relief came in the form of an invitation from our friend Morris Carpenter. He had escaped from Yopea and landed a job teaching sixth-graders in Ganta, 30 miles upcountry from us. Wellington Sirleaf, the Peace Corps driver, dropped off the note. Since there was neither phone nor mail service, Wellington was our once a week contact with the outside world.

I found it ironic that Morris and I lived closer together in Liberia than we had in California. Getting from Gbarnga to Ganta, however, was more challenging than getting from Diamond Springs to Auburn. We had two options: money bus or taxi.

The money bus was the more colorful choice. Think of taking a giant cargo van, cutting out windows, attaching a roof rack, and cramming it full of people, pigs, chickens, goats, bags of rice, fresh produce, luggage boxes and anything else a Liberian might need to survive on or sell.

These workhorses of the Liberian transportation system disdained schedules and stopped frequently. Minimal shocks, uncovered wood benches and bumpy dirt roads guaranteed butts were begging for mercy inside of 30 minutes. Packed conditions denied wiggle room to relieve an aching tailbone but might provide a kid or rooster for your lap. And there was always a chance of a breakdown accompanied by the fervent hope your driver would fix the problem in less than three hours.

We decided our daily life provided enough cross-cultural adventure and opted for the taxi. We packed a bag, left Sam in charge of buying a chicken, and walked into town to where the taxis gathered.

A dirty, grey, battered Peugeot was leaving for Ganta “small,” in a short time. “Ten dolla,” the driver informed us. “Five dolla,” we countered. Seven was the agreed price for the two of us. Then it was time to “wait small.” The driver wanted more passengers. After about an hour he gave up.

Any thoughts of a civilized trip in to Ganta were dispelled in the first five minutes. The driver drove like he saw a green mamba in his rearview mirror and the snake was gaining. While the law required us to be on the right side, dirt roads don’t have white lines. I doubt it mattered. When a car-eating pothole was located on our side of the road, we were on the other, even on a blind curve. It wasn’t a game of chicken; it was Russian roulette. Occasionally the driver would honk his horn.

Fortunately, the ride was relatively short. Our introduction to Ganta was a barrier backed up by an armed soldier.

“You pay,” the driver informed us. He had neglected to tell us there was a fee for entering the town. Turns out it was a bribe, or a dash as they call it in Africa. “Five dolla,” the soldier demanded as he looked at us menacingly. It made me angry but I took out two dollars and handed them to the driver. “Five dolla,” the soldier repeated. I shook my head no. The soldier glared at me again and then took the proffered money. Ever so slowly he opened the gate.

Dashes were a way of life in Liberia as they are in much of the world. It was a game we had to play, but we didn’t have to like it. “Asshole,” I mumbled as we drove off.

Ganta’s taxi stand included a mini-mart. Tribal women were sitting on the ground and selling a variety of items. One woman wearing a black and white wrap around lappa featured five metal basins filled with what appeared to be smoked animal parts. I looked more closely. A small, shrunken-head sized skull glared up at me with vacant eyes. A dozen or so other skulls looked elsewhere. Another basin contained legs; another split rib cages, and another long, curved tails. It was monkey meat. I looked more closely at the skulls.

“You buy?” the woman asked. “No thank you,” I replied a bit to hastily. Monkey brains were not on my list of preferred foods. She laughed.

A small boy appeared in front of me and shoved a boiled egg in my face. “Ten Cents.”

“I will give you ten cents to take us to Teacha Carpenter’s house,” I countered.

“Twenty.” “Fifteen.” “Okay.” We had struck a bargain.

Teacha Carpenter was waiting for us with a cold beer and laughed at our stories. He was a veteran PCV at the end of his term. We were green Volunteers at the beginning. Our traumas were everyday life to him. He had his own tales. An army of mice lived in his attic.

“I hear them doing parade drills every night. Back and forth, back and forth with the sergeant barking orders.” He hired Metternich the Cat to solve the problem. Each morning Metternich deposited two or three dead rodents for inspection. He was making a significant reduction in the mouse population. Besides all the mice he could eat, Metternich took his pay in chop.

Morris had planned a tour of the local leper colony for us. In particular, he wanted us to meet Freddie, a wood-carver he had befriended. Leprosy, Morris explained as we walked over to the colony, is hard to catch.

We were glad to hear there was little danger but still wary. Most of what we knew about the disease related to the old horror stories, the ones that led communities to ban lepers to remote locations. Losing body parts is scary. While leprosy might not be highly contagious, it was still contagious.

A neat row of cabins surrounded by banana, avocado and palm trees announced our arrival. It seemed that the lepers were well cared for and well fed.

The leper village in Ganta, Liberia as it looked in 1965.

Freddie reinforced my opinion. He had a lean-to studio and was dressed in a clean white T-shirt, jeans, and polished brown shoes. Chips were flying as he chopped away on a block with a curved head adze. The smell of freshly cut wood permeated the air. A scroungy brown and white dog was lying off to the side. It opened an eye, gave a partial wag, and went back to sleep.

I couldn’t stop myself from checking to see if Freddie had lost any limbs. Except for grey blotches on his hands, he appeared intact. A devil mask was displayed beside him. Other carvings were stacked against the wall.

Freddie the Carver at work in his studio. A medicine mask with horns is on the left.

Freddie grinned as we admired his carvings. It was obvious that he took pride in his work, that he had found a way to soften the fright his disease must cause.

I was developing a taste for African art. Its primitive subject matter jumped past my rational mind and captured my subconscious. I found one piece particularly appealing. Two large feet were connected to stumpy legs that disappeared into a shapeless robe that flared downward from the neck. There were no arms. A gigantic head with a mouthful of 28 teeth and a large nose topped off the neck. It was like a circus clown, both scary and humorous.

“It’s a Bush Devil,” Morris explained. The Bush Devil, so named by disapproving missionaries, was a powerful force within the tribal society. I happily broke out five dollars and bought the piece.

Back at Morris’s we ate four-pepper chop, drank more beer, told more tales and went to sleep with mice marching back and forth in the attic.

Chapter 15: A Short Lesson on Cats and Guacamole… Peace Corps Tales

/ Curt Mekemson / 4 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.

When I have finished, I will publish the stories in digital and print book formats.

James Gibbs is one of the world’s leading experts on the Kpelle people. In this photo, a Kpelle woman and her daughter take turns mashing palm nuts into palm butter… one of my all-time favorite foods.

Now is the time for a good guacamole story.

The anthropologist James Gibbs was living in Gbarnga while he was studying the Kpelle people. Sam worked for him as an informant about Kpelle customs. It was where he had learned the ‘taboo’ word he applied to the snails he didn’t want to eat.

One evening James and his wife Jewelle invited Jo Ann and me over for dinner. It was our first invitation out as Peace Corps Volunteers.  I should also note we were still at the point of being recent college graduates and somewhat awed by academicians. We dressed up in our best clothes and headed off down the road past Massaquoi School to where they lived.

The Gibbs had an impressive house for upcountry Liberia. They were sophisticated, nice folks who quickly put us at ease. Among the hors d’oeuvres they were serving was a concoction of mashed avocado, tomatoes and peppers that Jo and I found quite tasteful. We made the mistake of asking what it was.

“Why it’s guacamole of course,” Dr. Gibbs declared in an “I can’t believe you asked that question” tone of voice. We must have looked blank because he went on, “Surely anyone from California knows what guacamole is.”

Surely we didn’t. I felt like Barbara Streisand in Funny Girl when she learned that pate was mashed chicken liver. It was 1965 and Mexican food had yet to storm Northern California. Yes, we’d been to the UC Berkeley but dining out there on a survival budget meant beer and pizza at La Val’s or a greasy hamburger at Kip’s. To change the subject I called attention to their cat.

“Nice cat,” I noted.

Mrs. Gibbs gushed. “She’s in love.”

Dr. Gibbs jumped in, obviously glad to leave the subject of guacamole. “The boys are coming by every night to visit. We hear them yowl their affection up on the roof.”

The cat looked quite proud of her accomplishments. Having been properly introduced, she strolled over and rubbed up against my legs. I reached down and scratched her head, which served as an invitation to climb into my lap. While arranging herself she provided me with a tails-eye view. Staring back at me was the anatomy of the most impressive tomcat I’ve ever seen. She had the balls of a goat!

I could hardly contain myself. “Um, she isn’t a she,” I managed to get out while struggling to maintain a straight face.

“What do you mean?” Dr. Gibbs asked in his best professorial voice. Rather than respond verbally, I turned the cat around and aimed his tail at Dr. Gibbs. Understanding flitted across his face.

“We never thought to look,” he mumbled lamely. We were even. While the kids from the hills might not know their guacamole from mashed avocados, they did know basic anatomy.

Chapter 14: A Quivering Carcass… Peace Corps Tales

/ Curt Mekemson / Leave a comment

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.

When I have finished, I will publish the stories in digital and print book formats.

Women in Gbarnga carried produce to and from the market on their heads. It was very graceful. Banana trees are growing on the left.

Gradually, we settled into a routine. By one in the afternoon, we had finished with another day of teaching and assigned it to the done pile. PB&J washed down by orange Kool-aid rewarded our success. Sam joined us. We bought the jelly and peanut butter from the Lebanese market. The bread came from the local baker. Occasionally it included bug parts. We looked before we bit.

Nap time was next; I fell in love with siestas. Rainy season helped. Torrential afternoon showers pounded down on our zinc roof, cooled the air, and lulled us to sleep. An hour later we rolled off the bed and jumped into lesson planning.

Monday through Friday Sam cooked Liberian chop for the three of us and on Saturdays Jo cooked Kwi food (western food) for him, usually pasta of some type. He had a teenager appetite and our budget was tight. Sam was off on Sundays.

Chop consisted of a thick soup made up of meat, greens, hot peppers, bouillon, tomato paste and palm oil. It was served on top of country rice, the staple crop and food of the Kpelle. The rice was raised on the hillsides as opposed to in swamps and arrived with small stones that Sam carefully picked out. The nearest dentist was in Monrovia. If you let him near your mouth he would find 15 cavities you didn’t have. Peace Corps paid well.

The meat might be beef, chicken, fish, goat or even pork, but we usually opted for Argentine canned beef.

Fresh beef required a six am trip to the market on Saturday. We knew it was fresh because the butcher carved it off a still quivering carcass that had been a live steer an hour earlier. You pointed at the cut you wanted. Anything without bone was steak. It was not marbled in fat. Liberian cattle were rib-showing skinny and fed off of any grass they could hustle. We sacrificed the meat to an old-fashioned meat grinder and cooked it to death.

Our experience with Gbarnga’s butcher convinced us that canned beef tasted really good.

The greens for our chop came from Gbarnga’s thriving open-air market. Collards, potato greens, eggplants, pumpkins and bitter balls were our options. Bitter balls tasted exactly like their name: eating them one time was once too many. The number of peppers thrown in depended on tolerance for hot. We progressed from being one-pepper-people to three-pepper-people during our stay. Palm oil added a unique, almost nutty taste.

The market was filled with tribal women selling everything from palm oil to large snails that constantly escaped from their tubs and crawled off. ‘Small boys’ were sent to retrieve them. Sam refused to cook the fist-size Gastropods. “They are taboo for my family.” Taboo was a word he had learned from an anthropologist. I wasn’t sure about the taboo part but hung in with him. I had no more desire for dining on the slimy creatures than he did.

Produce was carried to market in large metal bowls that the women balanced on their heads with ramrod backs and ballerina grace. Given enough beer, I wandered around our house trying to master the procedure. Five seconds were my record before everything came crashing down.

The women wore brightly colored lappas with blouses and headscarves. They would squat next to their produce and call out prices. Large, juicy oranges were “one cent, one cent” in season. Grapefruits were “five cent, five cent” and giant pineapples a quarter. Avocados or butter pears as the Liberians called them could also be purchased for a few cents.

The oranges sported green skins and the pineapples ant nests but both were “sweeto,” as my students liked to say. We added orange juice to our orange Kool-aid. Plopping the pineapples into a bucket of water over night did in the ants. By morning they were little black floaters, forming a scum on top of the water.

Our appearance at the market caused inflation but bargaining was expected. We took along Sam whose rapid Kpelle assured everyone got a fair deal. Eventually Sam took over the shopping chores. We’d send him off with five dollars and he would bring home a week’s worth of food.

When dark arrived in it’s efficient tropical fashion, we would light our kerosene lantern and get cozy. Peace Corps supplied each Volunteer with a book locker filled with one hundred books. We considered it our responsibility to read them all. TV was not an option. I was curious about who made the book selections. My money was on a Harvard professor of literature. The book lockers were heavy on classics and short on mysteries and Sci-fi.

Occasionally we would add a game of scrabble or cards to our evening routine. Around 10 PM it was time for us to eliminate any cockroaches that had strayed into our bedroom and drift off to dreamland.

Chapter 13: You Are Late, Mrs. Tubman… Peace Corps Tales

/ Curt Mekemson / 2 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.

 

Peace Corps Volunteer Phil Weisberg looking serious in Gbarnga, Liberia where he served as a Volunteer 1964-65.

Our life became routine, if you consider living without electricity or running water and parking your butt in a cockroach occupied outhouse as routine.

Morning started with a quick bowl of cereal topped off by a mixture of water and Milkman powder. Drinking the stuff involved an acquired taste I never acquired but fresh milk came with a question mark. Louis Pasteur had not made it to Gbarnga.

Water was equally scary. Amoebic dysentery is a common third world ailment that attacks your intestines with shock and awe. Think of it as Montezuma’s Revenge times ten. Peace Corps provided a ceramic filter and the Peace Corps doctor provided endless warnings. Paranoia ran rampant in our household. We boiled our water for ten minutes and then filtered it, even when it came straight from the rain barrel.

By 8:00 our screen door slammed behind us as we made our daily trek to Massaquoi and teaching. At least I hoped that was what I was doing. Nobody nominated me for teacher of the year but I was feeling less nervous about the job. In Peace Corps, you take your victories where you find them. I liked my students, followed the curriculum and tolerated the subject matter.

“Here comes Jane. She looks mad. Run Dick run.” did not get me excited. Neither did two plus three equals five or “Let’s see if you can print an A.”

On the other hand, the Liberian teachers at our school were getting by with a high school education. Between taking care of their families, illness and ‘don’t want to’ they were often absent. Pay was $40 per month without benefits. Like all government workers, they were required to ‘contribute’ one month of their annual salary to the True Whig Party. In fact, loyalty to the Party was more important than loyalty to the job.

Sadly, no Teacher meant no teaching. Substitutes were nonexistent. The kids were left to get by on their own, which they did like kids anywhere: laughing, yelling, fighting, playing games, and disrupting other classrooms. Sometimes, out of frustration, I would walk into an unsupervised classroom and be rewarded with instant silence. It lasted until I walked out the door.

Occasionally we escaped from our jobs. The students would be called out to join a work party, there would be a national holiday or an important politician would come to town.

Work parties involved beating the jungle back from the school. It lurked around the edges, eager to regain lost territory. All of the students were required to participate in chopping and hauling. We were expected to supervise.

The older boys wielded machetes. My 22-year old second grader, John, challenged me to a tree-cutting contest. It was a small tree, limb size. Naturally the whole class and half the school gathered around. I good-naturedly took the machete, sent a prayer to the forest spirits that I wouldn’t chop off my leg, and whacked downward with all my strength. Maybe, just maybe, I cut a third of a way into the sapling. The machete became stuck, like it was super glued to the tree. The kids broke out in laughter.

“Your turn,” I said to John, leaving the offending tool buried. He grabbed the handle, yanked the blade out, and swung the machete in one easy motion. The tree came crashing down. I told John he was now in charge of class discipline. The kids laughed again, but not so hard. Maybe I was serious.

Holidays normally celebrated some important event in Americo-Liberian history, like Matilda Newport mowing down Tribal Liberians with a canon. We shared the tribal perspective on the event but appreciated the day off.

When President Tubman or Vice President Tolbert came to town, school children were expected to line the streets and cheer. It was part of the National Unification Program. Tubman was the charismatic “father” of his nation, the big daddy. Teachers were expected to be there as well. And they were. It’s not smart to irritate your meal ticket.

Our presence was urged but not required. Most Volunteers opted out of the important politician parade. Part of it was because of irritation with the government but the main reason was that the politicians were never on time. Often the luminary was two or three hours late and it was pouring down rain, which it did half of the time, or the sun was boiling hot, which it did the other half.

One of our fellow Peace Corps teachers in Gbarnga, Phil Weisberg, took a different approach. He was a tall, gangly Volunteer who looked like he had recently lost something of profound value. He was a serious man who rarely laughed.

I remember three other things about him. One, he was in love with Barbara Streisand. He had all of her albums and would listen to her for hours on his battery driven record player.

Two, he instituted his own welfare system for needy Liberian kids. He would hire one kid to dig a hole in his backyard and a second to fill it in. Sam thought it was quite funny and laughed when he told us the story.

Three, if his students had to wait in the sun or rain for politicians, he was going to be there, suffering along with them.

Once, when he was waiting in the hot sun for the President’s wife, Phil decided to demonstrate his displeasure. He penned a sign that informed Mrs. Tubman, “You are Late.” Two hours later her motorcade tooled in to Gbarnga. Phil hoisted his sign and waved it at the First Lady’s limousine.

The protest lived as long as it took the security police to grab him. One didn’t mess with the President’s wife. One did not protest against the government.

After he had sufficient time to consider his crime, Mrs. Tubman directed the police to release him. For punishment Phil was transferred to Monrovia to teach Americo-Liberian children at a Methodist school. Several Peace Corps staff wanted to send him home… Phil’s antics made their jobs more difficult, but Liberia’s Peace Corps Director, William Wilson, supported him. Eventually, he returned to his teaching job in Gbarnga.

When Phil’s term expired he left his record player and collection with us, minus Barbara. It did include a great selection of the Kingston Trio, however. Sam spent his spare time getting Charlie off the MTA and Tom Dooley hung.

Chapter 12: Good Morning Teacha… Peace Corps Tales

/ Curt Mekemson / 4 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.

Palm trees peek over the roof of NV Massaquoi Elementary School in Gbarnga, Liberia while storm clouds gather. Jo and students stand out front in this 1965 photo.

I put on my coat and tie and shined my shoes. Jo donned her best dress. Kids were streaming by our house and staring through the screens, hoping for a glance at the new teachers.

Jo and I smiled at each other, took a deep breath, and walked out the door.

The air was warm and thick with humidity. Towering cumulus clouds filled the sky. Distant thunder rumbled. Rain was coming. We turned left on the red dirt road and joined the parade of students who glanced shyly at us. NV Massaquoi Elementary School waited.

It wasn’t far, maybe a half of mile, just far enough to get sweaty. Lush growth lined the road… green, dense, impenetrable, alive with buzzing, biting insects. The school sat off to the right in a clearing that been hacked out of the jungle.

Four classrooms faced the road while two more faced inward forming an elongated U. Cement blocks painted blue sat on top of cement blocks painted brown. Palm trees peeked over the zinc roof. Shuttered windows and closed doors completed the simple structure. A flagpole with Liberia’s red, white and blue flag was planted exactly in the center of the yard.

Students and teachers milled about as we approached. All eyes were on us, two white people in a sea of black. A man broke free from the crowd and approached. It was the Principal. We smiled and shook hands and he pointed out our classrooms. The orientation was over. And so was the gathering.

Students and teachers moved toward their rooms. Jo Ann wished me good luck and stalked off to her first grade with a look of determination. I walked toward my second grade with a look of bemusement.

“Good Morning Teacha” thirty bright and shiny faces shouted in unison as I entered.

It was scary, scarier than the big burly policeman who had guarded the door to the Administration building at Berkeley. I was expected to entertain and actually teach these kids something over the next couple of years.

“How?” bounced around in my skull and jumped down to my stomach.

I had a total of two months training at San Francisco State on educational theory. I didn’t have a clue about managing a classroom of second graders or teaching reading and writing and arithmetic. The last time I had been in a second grade, I was seven years old. My brief stint at student teaching a third grade in was helpful. But ‘brief’ is the critical word here.

And how did a classroom full of middle class kids in South San Francisco relate to a classroom of tribal Africans in Gbarnga, Liberia?

My students came from another world: one where spirits lived in trees, ghosts were dangerous, lightning strikes could be controlled, birds were meat-flying, homes were made of mud, live termites were considered a delicacy, and tribal justice was determined with a red-hot machete.

“Good morning students” I replied and smiled. Look confidant, I urged myself. Take control. It became my mantra.

I walked up to the blackboard and wrote Mr. Mekemson. The silence of the room was broken by the squeakiness of the chalk. I introduced myself, pronounced my name and had them pronounce it… several times. They laughed.

“I am from California,” I explained and noticed a slight recognition. Hollywood was there. “It’s a long way off.” I sketched a map of North America, Africa and the Atlantic Ocean with X’s for California and Liberia. Then I drew a great circle route with Diamond Springs on one end and Gbarnga on the other. I added a large jet plane with me looking out the window.

It was my first geography lesson. Of course it was incomprehensible. The kids had never seen a map. The only distance they understood was one they could walk. Jet airplanes were rare tiny specks in the sky.

But they liked the picture of me looking out the airplane’s window.

“OK, it’s your turn. I want you to tell me your name, your age and what tribe you belong to.” I could sense Americo-Liberians in Monrovia frowning. We were supposed to be moving away from tribalism and toward national unity. My students weren’t there yet.  They were Kpelle or Mano or Bassa or one of several other ethnic groups first and Liberian second, a distant second.

The majority of my students were Kpelle. It was the largest tribe in Liberia and Gbarnga was in the heart of Kpelle country. But there were also several other ethnic groups. English was the common language that was supposed to bind them together. Tribal dialects were not allowed in the classroom.

I quickly learned English meant Pidgin English spoken with a deep Liberian accent. At first, it seemed like a foreign language.

For example, you might say to me, “I have to go down town for about twenty minutes. I promise I won’t be gone long. Please wait for me.” My students would say, “Wait small, I go come.” “Small,” I, might add, in Liberian time could mean a few hours.

One idiom I learned quickly was, “Teacha, I have to serve nature.”  That meant, “May I have your permission to use the restroom?” Actually it was permission to use the outhouse or just as likely the ‘bush’ or even the side of the building. One day I looked up and saw one of my male students standing outside and listening to me through the window. I saw a slight shake of his shoulder and realized he was peeing on the wall. I admired his dedication but discouraged the practice.

Another challenge I faced was age difference. My youngest student was a decent second grade age of seven. The oldest was 22, my age, and a heck of a lot tougher. Several were middle school age and had middle school attitudes.

Books created a different problem; for the most part, there weren’t any. What we did have for reading were vintage 1950 California readers complete with Dick, Jane and Spot. I suspect I should have been grateful for anything but it was difficult for tribal kids to identify with big white houses, white picket fences and little white kids.

As for Spot, he bore a striking resemblance to food. Later, when I had a cat, my students would tease me by pinching him and saying, “Oh, Mr. Mekemson, what fine meat.”

The room reflected the simplicity of the building. Shutters covered windows without glass and without screens. Open shutters provided air conditioning. Bugs were free to come and go. Closed shutters kept heat in and tropical deluges out. The only audio-visual aid available was my writing on the blackboard.

Eventually we got through introductions, seat assignments and the other chores inherent in the first day of class. It was time to teach. I broke out Spot.

Somehow I managed to struggle through that first day. There was a curriculum to follow. More importantly, Jo Ann I had taken over from the two Volunteers who had lived in our house. Unlike us, they were experienced teachers. The kids had benefitted from their expertise.

Back at home after school, Jo had a story to tell.

“I was reading the Owl and the Pussy Cat out loud when one of my first graders broke in and said, ‘Oh, Mrs. Mekemson, you shouldn’t say that!’ The whole class broke out in laughter.”

“I asked them what they were talking about. They clammed up. All I could get was nervous giggles.”

“After school I related the story to one of the Liberian teachers and asked if she had any idea what the kids were talking about. She clammed up as well but I pushed her.”

“You were reading about a pussy, Mrs. Mekemson.” The woman managed to stutter. “You know a woman’s down under.”

How in the world her first graders who could barely speak English had picked up this particular meaning of pussy, we didn’t have a clue.

Chapter 11: My Name Is Captain Die… Peace Corps Tales

/ Curt Mekemson / 10 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.

Young kids were always curious about how Peace Corps Volunteers lived. The smallest girl in this photo (third from right) was about the size of the girl who kept her nose glued to our screen door. This group insisted that we take their “picha.” 

In my last post, I ended up with Crazy Flumo wrapped around my ankles while his compatriots rooted him on.

Fortunately, my adventures for the day were over. I bought 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 and Club Beer, the national brew.

Jo Ann and Sam beat back the bug-a-bug and arrived at an uneasy truce with the cockroaches. They 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.

For a while, I maintained a squashed cockroach account on a paper I taped to the door. Somewhere around 70, I gave up.

I have a grudging respect for cockroaches. To start with, they have a bit of seniority over man, some 300 million years worth. Back before dinosaurs roamed the earth, cockroaches were hiding out in all of the nooks and crannies and they will probably be around long after humankind has gone the way of the big lizards. There are reportedly somewhere between 3500 and 4000 species crawling around and each one has a shot at survival.

Compare that with our odds.

Anyway, there we were… one happy little family, cockroaches and all. Jo and I were about to begin our career as elementary school teachers. Captain Die got to us first.

Captain Die was a well digger who was said to have spent too much time in dark holes. Our well was one of his jobs. He had dug it for our predecessors, two female Volunteers. Afterwards, he began stopping by to visit the women and bum cigarettes.

Therefore, it was no surprise when he appeared on our doorstep shortly after we moved in. His introduction was unique.

“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 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 thought we were trying to poison him.

A look of terror crossed his face and he spat 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 marched out of our house in disgust 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.  While the story may have been apocryphal, we were told 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 making a game attempt at hiding their culture shock when this big black man and his ugly dog appear at the screen door.

Maryanne 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 Maryanne’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.

In addition to the certifiable types who found PCVs an easy target, there were a lot of folks who were just plain curious about how we lived. One little girl would have put a cat to shame. I never could figure out where she came from.

She would stand on our porch with her nose pressed against the screen door and stare at us for what seemed like hours. After a while it would become disconcerting and I’d suggest she go home. She would disappear but then I’d look up and there she’d be again, little nose pressed flat.

Finally, deciding more drastic measures were called for, I picked up my favorite folding chair and plopped it down a foot from the door. Then I sat down and initiated a stare back campaign. I lowered my head and moved forward until I was even with her head and about five inches away. The little nose slowly moved backward, suddenly turned around and took off at a fast gallop.

After that she watched the weird people from across the street.

Next post: We begin our assignment as elementary school teachers.

Chapter 10: Crazy Flumo Shakes My Hand and Ankles… Peace Corps Tales

/ Curt Mekemson / 6 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 stories digitally and in print.

A typical Liberian shop on Gbarnga, Liberia’s main street circa 1965-66. Note the crocodile’s skin with its tail dragging in the dirt..

In my last post, we went to bed without food, water or light in our new home in Gbarnga, Liberia. Drums and screams filled the darkness with sound.

A new day did manage to happen, as they always do. Jo Ann and I promised to make it a good one. Her job was to mount a ferocious counter offensive on the bug-a-bugs and cockroaches. Sam was coming early with a broom.

My job was to walk the quarter-mile to town, buy five gallons of kerosene, find the most toxic bug spray known to humankind, and scavenge anything available that resembled food.

I added alcohol to the list.

But first I needed to replace the malarial pond residing in our front room. I grabbed the offending bucket and tossed the stagnant water onto a plant. “Waste not; want not,” my mother would have urged even though it was in the middle of Liberia’s rainy season and the plant had already received half of its annual 170 inches of rain.

Now I was ready to tackle the well.  My family had one when I was growing up. It came with a cover, a high-pitched whirring pump, and a holding tank. Except for power outages, we could depend on it to magically deliver water day in and day out.

Our well in Gbarnga was an unprotected hole in the ground waiting for someone to fall in. Next to it I found a frayed rope. I tied it to the bucket’s handle using a Boy Scout bowline. Then, making sure I had a firm hold on the end of the rope, I tossed the bucket into the dark hole. Kersplash! I gave it a shake so it would tip over and fill.

A five-gallon bucket of water weighs 43 pounds. By the time I yanked it over the edge, I had a new appreciation for modern technology… and for the Volunteer who had left the original bucket in our house.

I delivered my burden to Jo and started for town. Half of Gbarnga was standing along the road staring at me. I smiled and waved a lot, like a princess on parade. They smiled and waved back.

Soon I came to the town’s 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. 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 with planks doing the honors. An ancient Liberian ‘Ma’ came staggering out of one with a half-pint bottle of gin 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. Pale-faced Lebanese leased the shops. Lebanese made up the majority of Liberia’s middle class but were not allowed to own property. I was headed for a shop that Sam had recommended.

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 put on 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 in San Francisco. 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. Then a fourth time.  Nobody had mentioned four times to me and this time the guy wouldn’t let go. The men were laughing out loud now.

My hundred-watt smile became a twenty-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. It lasted as long as it took the guy to drop to the ground and wrap his arms around my ankles. By now the other men were all but rolling the street.

I had become prime time entertainment, the George Custer of Gbarnga.

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. He 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.

I later learned that a tall Texan Peace Corps Volunteer had walked several yards down the main street of Gbarnga with Flumo tenaciously attached to one leg. I’d gotten off easy. Having met one of Gbarnga’s true characters, I was about to meet another.

Next post: Captain Die, our well digger, stops by and introduces himself… “My name is Captain Die because I am going to die someday.”

Chapter 9: The Levitating Squat Routine… Peace Corps Tales

/ 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.

Termites, or bug-a-bugs as the Liberians called them, created large mounds such as this one throughout the rainforest.

In my last post, Jo Ann and I travelled upcountry to Gbarnga, Liberia and our Peace Corps assignment. Arriving after dark at our new home, we opened the door to find the house swarming with life.

“Lots of bug-a-bug and cockroaches,” Sam observed as we peered in at the chaos.

Sure enough, our flashlight revealed that the writhing floor was a multitude of three-inch African cockroaches scurrying every which way. The tunnels climbing the walls had been sculpted by termites, or bug-a-bug as the Liberians colorfully named them. The tomb-like odor was how a house normally smelled in the tropics when left vacant for a few weeks.

Bob’s proudly drawn bucket of water sat carefully placed in the middle of the living room. Warm thoughts of veteran Peace Corps Volunteers taking care of the new kids temporarily blocked our darker visions.

I directed the flashlight into the bucket. A thick layer of scum reflected the light as a complete ecosystem came to life. Somewhere in the house a malaria-bearing mommy mosquito was extremely proud of her progeny. Hundreds of little wigglers broke the surface, virtually guaranteeing the continuation of the family line for a thousand years.

“Can you imagine what this would have been like if the Volunteers hadn’t cleaned?” I chuckled nervously, making a weak attempt at humor. Jo Ann recognized it for what it was worth and ignored me. I had the uncharitable thought that cleaning our house out had meant removing the furniture.

“Let’s tour our new home.” Again silence, but at least Jo Ann followed me. I had the flashlight. The bedroom was first. A fist-sized crab like spider went scurrying sidewise across the wall. Splat! One problem was eliminated. I hoped that its aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters weren’t the vengeful type.

Our bed was a moldy mattress shoved into the corner. It smelled suspiciously like the house.

“Hey, our first furniture,” I noted, still trying to get a laugh. This time I was rewarded with a weak smile.

Next we came to the kitchen. There was no chance it would show up in Sunset Magazine.  A kerosene lantern, kerosene stove and kerosene refrigerator filled the space. But there was no kerosene.

My thoughts returned to the PCVs and what they might have done. I envisioned the refrigerator running and full of cold beer. Then I just envisioned the beer. It didn’t have to be cold, just plentiful. But there wasn’t any beer, there wasn’t any light, there wasn’t any drinkable water and there wasn’t any food. It promised to be a long night.

“I need to visit the outhouse,” Jo Ann announced. My bladder gave an empathetic twinge. Our last pee stop had been in Monrovia. The three of us trooped outside. Jo took the flashlight and disappeared into the rickety one holer.

“Curtis!” she yelled. I yanked open the door and prepared to be heroic. Jo Ann was standing inside with a wild look on her face. The flashlight was shining down into the hole. Thousands of little eyes stared back at us.

“Lots of cockroaches,” Sam noted. He was beginning to sound repetitious.

That was the night that Jo Ann mastered her famous levitating squat routine. Cockroaches used your butt as a runway when you sat on the toilet. Jo solved the problem by positioning herself about five inches up in the air. I am not sure how she managed this Yoga feat but her rear never touched an outhouse seat during the two years we were in Africa.

I used a different approach. A loud stomp on the floor sent the cockroaches scurrying downward. The trick was to escape before they came back up. My habit of reading in the bathroom was sacrificed to the cause.

There wasn’t much left to do but send Sam on his way and try to get some sleep. We retired to our bedroom and I scrutinized the walls to see if any new monster crab spiders had appeared. They hadn’t. Word of their truncated life span had gotten around.

I then beat the bed for several minutes with the sincere hope of persuading any other unwanted guests to hit the road.

I also leaned the rest of our furniture, three well-used Salvation Army type folding chairs, against each of the screened windows. Veteran Peace Corps Volunteers had warned us that rogues, i.e. burglars, loved to rob green Volunteers on their first few days in town. The chairs would serve as a primitive burglar alarm. My theory was that jiggling the window would knock over the chair and scare away the rogue. It was guaranteed to scare the hell out of us.

Finally it was time to crawl in. We left our clothes on. Jo Ann, by this point, had reached a high level of unhappiness. I was glad there were no handy airplanes around. There was a story about a Volunteer who had landed at Robert’s Field Airport, taken one look and climbed back on the plane. My perspective on the evening was that things had been bad enough they were bound to get better.

That’s when the drums and screaming started.

No one had told us that a Kpelle funeral was like an Irish wake.

Mourners stayed up all night pounding on drums, wailing and drinking lots of cane juice, a concoction similar in nature to moonshine. It was important that the dead be sent off properly. Otherwise the spirit of the dead person would become irritated, hang around and do all sorts of bad stuff.

Of course we knew nothing about any of this. All we knew was that people were beating on drums and screaming. It was time to circle the wagons. Eventually I went to sleep; I don’t think Jo ever did.

Next post: We wage war on the bug-a-bug and I have an encounter with Crazy Flumo.

Chapter 8: Armies of the Night… Peace Corps Tales

/ Curt Mekemson / Leave a comment

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.

A view of Monrovia from Bob and Gerry Branch’s apartment.

Bob and Gerry Branch, friends from training in San Francisco, generously agreed to host our stay in Monrovia. They lived in a second floor apartment that overlooked a busy Monrovia street. It provided a birds-eye view of life in the city.

Monrovia was bursting at the seams with young people escaping from rural areas. The poverty was intense. Tin shacks fought for space as extended families struggled to find shelter from tropical downpours. Taxi and money-bus drivers used their horns for brakes and competed with barking mongrels in creating unceasing noise. Evening air was tainted with the unique smell of cooked palm oil, smoke and moldering garbage.

On the plus side, 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 and the top families lived in luxury. They owned mansions in Monrovia and large farms Upcountry. Many had second homes overseas. Their children went to college in Europe and America and dressed in the latest fashions. President Tubman’s official residence, located on the edge of town, cost the Liberian people $15 million. This was approximately half of Liberia’s total government budget the year it was built.

We were quite relieved to learn that our teaching jobs weren’t in Monrovia. Originally, we had been assigned to an elementary school down the coast in Buchanan. It was supposed to be a plum location complete with golden beaches and palm trees swaying in the breeze. The Director told us our top rating in training had earned us the assignment. The rating was news to us.

Naturally another couple grabbed it when we failed to turn up on time. We were left with their jobs; Jo would teach first grade and I would teach second in the upcountry town of Gbarnga. Apparently this was our punishment for partying too long in Auburn.

Gbarnga was a long 120 miles out of Monrovia on the nation’s primary dirt road. With a population approaching 5000, it was Liberia’s largest upcountry town and the center of government for Bong County.

We were eager to get there and escaped from Monrovia as soon as the Director said go. Wellington Sirleaf, the Peace Corps’ driver, carted our minimal belongings and us up to our new home. We arrived in Gbarnga just before dark… tired, hungry, and nervous.

Our feelings ran the gamut from “wow, we are finally here” to “what in the heck we have gotten ourselves into?”

What Gbarnga had that other upcountry sights lacked, however, was an official Peace Corps staff person, Bob Cohen, and an official Peace Corps doctor, Less Cohen (not related). I assumed this would make our life officially easier. Sirleaf took us straight to Bob’s trailer. It was located on a well-maintained USAID (United States for International Development) compound. Bob came out to greet us.

Bob Cohen and Les Cohen (not related). Bob was our upcountry Peace Corps Representative and Les was the Peace Corps Doctor.

“Welcome to Gbarnga,” he said. “Your house is located across town.”

Using mental telepathy, I beamed at him, “Invite us in for dinner. It’s the proper thing to do.”

“The Volunteers had a work party and cleaned your house last week,” he went on, oblivious to my sendings. I urged Jo Ann to look hungry. “And, they even drew you a bucket of water.”

This seemed to impress Bob, so I mumbled something like, “They shouldn’t have.”

“Wellington will drive you over so you can get settled in. Enjoy your evening.” And with that, Bob returned to his trailer. I pictured his filet mignon getting cold.

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. It wasn’t food.

“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 PCVs. 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 fit the Peace Corps image.

I mean 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.

“It’s time to go,” Wellington announced impatiently. I surmised that a delicious plate of hot Liberian food was waiting for him somewhere in Gbarnga as soon as he could lose us. Sam, Jo Ann and I climbed in the jeep, waved goodbye to Shirley, and went bouncing off down the road.

I don’t want to be melodramatic about the introduction to our new home but a little horror movie music might be appropriate. The sun had just set when we arrived. In the tropics, that’s like someone turned off the lights on a dark night. Twilight doesn’t exist.  Fortunately we had a flashlight.

Outward appearances weren’t bad. Our new home was a typical Liberian town house. Two sets of closed shutters and a door stared out at us. A zinc roof capped the whitewashed walls. Off to the left was a hole in the ground that Sam informed us was our well. Peeking out from behind on the right was the outhouse. All in all, it was pretty much what we expected.

A day time view of the house with me standing on the left.

Then we opened the door.

It was a full-scale Armies of the Night scene straight out of Hollywood: the type of scene Bella Lugosi drooled over. Our noses were assailed with the scent of something that had been entombed for a thousand years. The floor writhed with life. Hundreds of small tunnels etched their way up the walls. I jumped back a foot. Jo Ann qualified for the Olympics.

Sam laughed…

Next post: We learn about what lives in our house; Jo Ann masters the levitating squat routine; and drums and screams make for a restless night.

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

/ Curt Mekemson / 2 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.

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.