Letters from Hannah

Dear Mom and Dad,

I went to Gamba. I caught a 5 kilo ray guitar that is not-so-good eating - and nearly got eaten myself by a hippo. Here's the story.

Kara came up to NDD for a day to talk over some stuff -- she went back to TCH and I followed her down the next day, Saturday. I thought maybe I'd leave for Gamba Mon or Tuesday, but K's neighbors were hosting a retraite de deuil (end of mourning) party and I was invited to crash it.

In the long courtyard running in front of the neighbors' row houses, about 50 chairs were set up. At one end was a cubicle-sized area blocked off with white sheets and palm fronds. Inside, on a little table (draped in white) were a few bottles of liquor. I'd been told it wouldn't start till 5 -- it started at 6:30, people filling up seats and standing behind us. The girls leaned on us, oblivious -- we were just another part of the chair really -- body parts don't belong to you, they belong to everyone, which I like -- no apologizing when you brush up against someone, or squish into a taxi. They played with our hair, too, which I can never get enough of (and neither can they). The men were all at the far end, making comments about the bibamba (us), but whatever. The women of the household came around with popcorn and croquettes -- flour sugar baking powder eggs kneaded together and cut into small cubes, or twisted into rolls, and deep fried (think tough, not so sweet donuts). Then they came --

Hold up. This is all wrong.

In fact, we were sitting there, waiting for it to start, and a small procession came out of the house. A couple women laid nattes (woven raffia mats) on the ground before a white robed woman, her face and hands and feet chalked white with Kaolin (the widow). Two girls behind her sprayed perfume at her as the matte women hustled to get the back natte around to be the front natte. There was also rice throwing. The widow sat down in the alcove, looking at the ground. A guy came up and said something in Punu, then cinq mille, and laid down a five mille bill on the table. Everyone clapped. More people came up and gave 2 mille, cinq cent, a mille franc. An old mama that Kara had never heard speak got really animated -- Tchibanga Oyé! "Oyé!" the crowd chorused. Mayumbe-Massang Oyé! "Oyé!" and reeled off a bunch of Punu, then sauntered up to the table and with excellent showmanship slapped down cent franc. Cent franc will buy you, let's see, a small bag of lait caillé, or 4 gateaux (big croquettes) or an onion, or a small Malian loaf of bread, or 4 condoms, or a small bean sandwich. It's like 15 cents, but in buying power terms it's more like a dollar (think the 99 cent menu at Wendy's). The mama did this five times, I think, each time rousing the crowd with that booty-shaking I am so jealous of and cries of Tchibanga Oyé! She was great. The widow went back inside, changed into a regular outfit (bogolan print ensemble) and the tributes continued. As Prisca explained later, the idea is you say something like, "Your husband died and you've been in mourning for ___ (a month in this case, sometimes 6 months, a year) and you've been stinky and ugly and dirty, and now we're lifting off the mourning and you're pretty and good smelling again and can have fun, so here's two mille, go have yourself a drink and a good time." Of course, it costs way more to throw a retraite de deuil than you get back in donations, which is why so many families keep having to put them off (same with marriages).

The widow changed a final time and then the snacks came out, and the drinks. People get pushy at that point -- a lot of freeloaders show up at these things -- but things were handled the usual way, by shouting and public shaming. The music started and the photographers were taking pictures (mille franc for a photo). At 8:00 it was pretty much over -- after the drinks people lose interest. Kara and I went out with a Lebanese friend of hers who communicates solely in 3rd grader put downs and fuzzy logic -- "Why are you in NDD? It's a hole! There are no bush meat restaurants anymore? The planes don't fly? It's all your fault! You ruined everything!" Still, better than sitting at home staring at the walls.

Ariel (Fish PCV, 4th year) and his Gabonese wife Jocelyne came in and on Thursday we finally left for Gamba. (Wednesday there were no cars. There are only 3 who do the route, one was en panne -- uh, what do we say, in the shop? Broken? Jeez.)

Now, when the road to Mayumba is bad, it's really bad -- huge mud pits and gullies and broken bridges -- you'll see the pictures -- but the road to Gamba, once you leave la Nationale (LBV-Mayumba) is something else entirely. You turn off onto a patch of grass and then you're on this sandy track through rainforest. The track had dried into gullies and fissures and at one point they ordered us out of the truck. We walked ahead and I looked back to see the truck on three wheels, the front left tire pawing the air like a pissed off circus tiger. It bucked and tilted and made it over the trough and we got back in. It was only the beginning.

After the rainforesty part we broke out into a kind of rolling hill Oklahome! type vista, with short grass savannah, as if the sea lay just beyond (it did). We went through Panga, where PCVs built a lean-to on the beach some years back (with, uh, leftover materials from the school construction program), and found friends of Ariel's, and some lonely Foreign Legion guys. They wanted to go to Gamba but their military jeeps were too heavy for the ferry. Ha! Christoph, from Poland, told us our brother with the red hat had come through yesterday. "Ah, Pete," I said. This was good news. Someone else from my stage, not just me and some departing EE volunteers.

The real fun started after the ferry (the kids pulled it along the guideropes) -- miles and miles of sandy flat grassland, no real road, just lots of diverging and converging tracks. About 40 times we drove through black water -- puddles, sinks, lakes -- up to the windshield and over our feet. We just plowed right through as the engine threw off steam. The Car Talk guys say if the water's over the wheels the engine'll stop, but I'm not so sure. We were in deep. I have pictures, from the way back, when the driver and the other front seat passenger, a chauffeur who does Gamba-Mayumba, of one spot. "Wait, wait," they said. "Here's a good place, it gets really deep. Vas-y, tire!" as water sloshed over the bottom third of the windshield.

We got to Gamba, cleaned up, went out for grilled fish and beers. The next morning we packed up the pirogue with fishing stuff, camping stuff, a bottle of gas, two coolers filled with blocks of ice (made from old 5 liter oil jugs), and our food. On the boat ride up we saw 4 hippos in the lagoon, which stretches for 3 hours in all directions and has a thousand small islands filled with wildlife. You generally only ever see hippo heads -- catching them out of water is pretty rare. They kill more people every year in Africa than any other animal -- they're fiercely territorial and will capsize boats if you get too close. The four we saw would surface, keeping an eye on us, then sink under again for a minute before coming back up, their nostrils, eyes, and ears the only things visible. Like crocodiles, or icebergs. I was nervous. Ariel said that they were still in the same place he had seen them 2 years ago -- like I said, territorial.

We got into the village near the point -- the embouchure -- where the lagoon met the coean. The house we were supposed to stay in wasn't ready so we got an upgrade for a night to a sweet timber lodge down the road -- 3 little bungalows and a beautiful main house with huge decks, red wood, and treetrunk coffee tables. Their kitchen was fully equipped and we made dinner there before going out to fish.

The boys wanted to fish at the point on the reverse side, opposite the actual point, but our boat guy kept saying non, les elephants, we can't moor here, les elephants, stop with the flashlights you'll make them charge! It was dark, only a quarter moon, and after some heated arguing we moved over to the point side and set up. Ariel went nuts over the schools of mullet, which he uses for bait (some of these were big enough to eat), and Stanley threw me a pole, outlined casting, and took off into the darkness.

Now, the last time I caught a fish I was like 7 (I hooked a trout in a catch and release pond in Tasmania in 1989, but the while sucker got away). I was under no illusions -- the boys were there to fish; I was there to see animals, do some fishing, and enjoy myself. I would not get crabby or rude if I didn't catch anything. So I'm casting for distance into the dark water, unable even to see how far I'm getting the lure out, happy to just be out in the middle of nowhere doing something new. After a while I switched to bait, but because I don't know how to filet I got the measliest morsel of mullet and stuck it on my hook.

Here's one of the nice things about guys -- they'll show you how to do something once, then it's up to you to figure it out. None of this hand-holding walk you through it 4 times. Just tie the knot and cut yourself some bait and get to it.

I walked out to the point and cast a couple of times into where the ocean waves roiled over the outgoing lake current. I could feel the tide tugging the line, and then the rod bent and the line started going out. "Yo!" I yelled, thinking this would bring them running (girl in distress!). Not likely. "Hey, I got something!" That brought 'em. This was the first hit of the night and there were the usual beginner's luck.man, we knew Hannah was gonna hook into something huge/etc. patter. Stan laid out the basics of reeling it in -- and then all of a suddent it was gone, the line was slack. "Shoot," I said.

But the stupid fish had just swum towards me, as I discovered a minute later. Now with Ariel (master fisherman)'s help I brought it in -- Stan dragged it up on the beach -- a weird sharky looking thing, flat, with a pointed nose [see separate pictures] -- translucent veined flesh around a cartilege sword. "A ray guitar!" said Ariel. Not too good for eating, but he's probably 5 kilos." Stanley slapped me on the back. "Welcome to guytown!" I felt ridiculous and pleased -- but mostly ridiculous. This was a guy trip. I was just profité-ing, which is legit, and I'd had a legit invitation, but I was still the girl. Jocelyne was there, true, but she didn't fish. So, whatever. Not for nothing is Peace Corps Gabon's motto "Il faut profiter."

I dragged my fish up to our camp and a few minutes later Ariel comes in with one of his own. "Couldn't stand it that someone caught a fish, could you," Steve said. "Had to go out and catch your own." "Well, yeah, but mine's smaller!" said Ariel. He sounded almost a little serious. Later in the trip he would wake Steve up (when we spent the night on the point) by saying, "Hey, Steve -- I caught a rouge, it's bigger than yours." Ariel's a good guy but he's all about fish. All fish all the time. He's a sweetheart, unless you're catching more than him.

We packed up. The next day we went trolling. Stan got a couple 3 kilo barracuda that we ate for lunch and Steve got a big capitaine, "the beastfish," - 8 kilos. Poor Pete still hadn't caught anything. That afternoon some friends of Steve's came out to go on the elephant hike, but due to some problems with our tour/fishing company we had to cancel it. Turns out the outfit we'd signed on with doesn't do fishing, and by going out the previous night we'd violated some rule. The whole afternoon was the boys endless variations on "Why couldn't they have told us that from the beginning, instead of this bullshit, "you can fish, but not a lot."?" Meanwhile, I assisted a lively discussion of women's rights and roles, polygamy, marriage, and raising kids, between Djabel, a young Senegalese party guy, Jocelyne, and Hermelia, a London and Paris-educated minister's daughter (25) working for Shell. Ludo, a small French guy, tried to chime in but was laughed down -- he's only been in Africa for a month! they all seemed to say, casting him affectionate looks of pity. His wife, Celine or Cecile, had grown up all over Africa, and mostly let the Gabonaise and the Senegalais duke it out. I mostly, just watched as well. That night we moved back to the house we had originally been slotted for, and chilled. Stan's friends had left, sans the elephant hike, but they would have plenty more chances if they wished.

In the morning we fished and caught nothing -- Ariel in particular was getting more and more stressed out as he failed to catch anything. That afternoon we did the hike -- two hours out along the beach, where we saw 2 elephants eating, and a family of hippo tracks (baby hippo! cute! danger!) Our guide seemed hell bent on getting back home and walked right by a big elephant on our way back. I hissed at the others to make them stop. I don't think my pics came out -- it was already dusk. We were beat at the end, and pissed at the guide, but there was an even bigger annoyance waiting for us at the point -- a small city of Dutch (Shell) weekenders, tents and SUVs, lanterns and small children. Ariel went berserk, as he had with the Legionnaires at Panga. "What are they doing here? Who said they could camp there? They're ruining the fishing shining their lights all over! They don't even know what they're doing! This place used to be so great!" I wanted to point out that they had the same right to be here as we did but it wasn't worth making him madder.

We set up two tents and ate our beans and rice and made a fire and fished. I slept; they fished, and when I woke up our coolers were full and the tarp was rolled over a 12 kilo barraduca (Stan) and several large rouge and capitaine. Ariel was ecstatic. Happy, goofy, magnanimous, helpful, kind -- we packed up, took pictures at the dock, and set out for Gamba, where we sold, gave away, and prepared the 70 kilos we'd caught. My ray guitar went to a neighbor who I'm sure was not exactly thrilled (beggers can't be choosers doesn't really exist as a concept here). Monday we recovered from the sleepless nights -- Tuesday we threw a party. Wednesday we recovered some more, Thursday we tried to leave -- but no cars. That afternoon Steve and Pete and I (Pete caught a fish, by the way -- Stage 01 caught one fish each) took a taxi out to the airport and hiked a half an hour on a service road to the beach. At 6:00 pm. Light was fading as we went out, making the swampy forest that much more spooky -- huge, dorm room sized spider plants; towering leafy giants; I tell ya it was primeval, right out of Jurassic Park. We got to the beach and turned back around -- it would be 7:00 by the time we got back, and fully dark. The beach was maybe 50 m wide, and as you reentered the forest there was a small pond, on both sides of the road, marked off with tree trunks -- not really a bridge, just the road, built up a little, and a pipe to allow the water through underneath. As I stepped on to the road I noticed a path leading into the water from the beach. Hippos, I thought, made that -- and then I looked into the pond and there he was watching me, his massive head not more than 15 feet from where I stood. I let out a strangled cry of Hippo! and pointed, as he submerged. Steve only barely saw him and Pete missed him entirely, so they were hanging around to spot him again but I was not about to get sent home in a box, my features too mangled by hippo teeth for an open casket funeral. ParDON. So I booked it across the pseudo-bridge.

We didn't see him again. We hurried home in the dark, searching for elephants and Steve cracking lame jokes that I probably should have found funny but -- no, actually, they were lame. ("I think I heard a hippo behind us!") No elephants. No Gabon vipers. No mobs of mandrilles. Home, safe and sound.

We left Friday morning and I got back to NDD Saturday, just in time to get in grades before all my students left for vacation. My birthday was Wednesday, the World Cup started Friday, and I threw my terrasse party Saturday for my neighbors, prof friends, and friend friends -- 24 people, I think. I made chili and Mike made hummus, which no one touched -- Mom made salt fish (from Gamba) and local eggplant, beans and turkey, and chikcen and eggplant. Anosthene made feuilles de manioc and Guyette made croquettes. I bought 24 sodas and 12 beers, and between the Muslims and the teetotalers and the kids the sodas were gone like that. At a Gabo party the hosts (me and Guyette) are expected to serve drinks, open them, pour them into glasses (while kneeling). I let Guyette do that. It was fun, we all danced, took pictures, had a good time. The adults were a mix of folks and left or fell asleep early -- the family and my neighbors stayed till 12:30. Fun fun.

I'm in Mouila, which has internet now, for real, that is useably quick. A sea-change, esp. now that the phone is unreliable (remind me to tell you the story behind our $2000 phone bill. It's a doozy.) Today was Jenny's Earth Day Fair, which was amazing -- booths on protected species and meteorologie and logging and gorillas and ecology and protected species bingo, memory, word jumble. Tons of people -- 200-300? More? She got a radio comedian and his troupe to come down from LBV and that brought a lot in, but she just did a super job organizing and getting Gabonese to show what they know and do. The kids and adults both loved the games and everyone read the posters Mike drew -- beautiful. Amazing thing she did, wow.

My folks are bringing a cd player so if you've been wondering what to send me now you have another option (esp. for you w/ burners!). I miss all of you and wish I could really show you how amazing this place is. I am so lucky.

Love,

Hannah