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August 13, 2002
Ndende Computer Lab
Gabon
Dear gang,
So I guess I should start with the beginning, where I left off. This would be, then, right after I found out Dante had died. I had to go to Lambarene for Training of Trainers, and I was already pissed because I was a day late through the incompetance of Pauline. Bob the chargeur told me that a LBV car would come and get me at the house in the morning (Monday), but at 8;30 no one had showed up. I went to the carrefour and found, of course, that there were no cars going to LBV from Ndende. "Wait for Tchibanga or Lebamba and maybe they’ll have a spot," he said. So, I wait at Seydou’s cafet and get hit on by the old Nigerian guy who owns the Michelin. Bobby from Tchibanga rolls in and I jump up – he has a place as far as Mouila, in the cabin of his black pickup. We pull into Mouila around 11:00 and they take me right to the gare, where I get a green van amid some confusion. We tool around getting gas and people bitch about being en retard. I am aborded by a water treatment guy the whole way up who wants to listen to my walkman and talk about American university programs in water treatment. I eventually tell him that please, I just lost my uncle, leave me alone.
We get into Lambarene at 3:00 after a flat tire and lots of dust, and I stop a cab. "Atongawanga," I say. He shakes his head. His cab is empty. I do my best cute Americaine pout. "Pourquoi?" He can’t find an excuse and I get in.
I hike up to the training center which is in my old neighborhood – the kids see me and do a double take. "Anna? Mais tu as grossi!" Yep, thanks. Other kids can’t be sure it’s me and so they don’t even say anything, which seems worse, somehow. I’m coughing and choking on the dust from the ride and walk in to a group session on the program for the stage. I am useless. Jenny comes up and says "I’m so sorry," and gives me a hug and then she starts tearing up. I’m in that post-bush-taxi daze and can’t respond more than "Thanks," and "Hey." "We’ll talk later," she promises. The health group is confused. I change the subject by asking how long TOT is – three days? A week? I explain I found out yesterday I was supposed to come, and everyone groans in understanding. "Pauline didn’t notify any health people till last Friday. I saw her typing the final list up in her office. She didn’t even try to contact people – Crystal made calls on her cellphone." We get through the session and go for a beer at the Maison Blanche, which has a snazzy new rooftop terrasse. More bitching ensues and I discover that there will be no per diem this year, and the ten mille I brought with me will have to last a week of beers and grilled fish and lunches. There’s no way.
We got pretty pissed and drafted a letter to Pauline that Clem later typed up and neutored. So Crystal and I rewrote the original and signed it. Clem did’nt feel this was appropriate, because he hates conflict and is a doormat. Pauline will use you like one, if you let her.
We slept at the Soeurs, and continued with TOT bullshit for the rest of the week. I went out with Jenny and cried one night, and we hung out with facilitators and ate fish and Togolese food. Admore proved to be an incompetant, defensive, egomaniac, and Giselle has skills but not the personality to control the stage in a way that would make it run well. We missed Helen.
A letter from Marily said all kinds of terrible things about getting visas for people visiting Gabon, so I freaked out and decided to go to LBV to figure all this shit out. I could have called Adele on Friday and gotten the same info, in time to get down to MYB for July 4, but of course telephones are not in my consciousness anymore. I’m reminded of Ben, the missionary kid from Mali, who at Cornell would walk half an hour to a friend’s dorm to see if he was there. Didn’t occur to him to call, after growing up in a Fulani village.
So, Libreville. Bleh. I ran around, got some shirts at the moutouki – nice ones, fitted button downs from Gap – and established that I was there for no reason and now it was too late to get to Mayumba. I had an abscess on my foot when I arrived Saturday night, from a mosquito bite I’d scratched, and that had healed over the infection. Joseph got some hot water and gauze and pushed all the pus into the center, and it felt a lot better. .... That night Jean Luc our doctor came in at 10:30pm with betadine and bacitrin and bandaids. .....
Victoria and I raided and organized the PCVL office in the Bureau, finding 20 copies of various important health manuals and other resources, including info on the old Women in Development program. Which is now defunct, so we have to invent it again. Joseph took us to a Ghanaian fish woman in Charbonnage, they had good sauce but it was basically the same fish as everywhere else. I took people shopping in MontBouet and then we got ourselves invited to the embassy 4th of July party. The new ambassador had arrived and this was his first big party, so it was typey and black tie. We all got dresses made – or bought african outfits – and we were the only ones out of 500 people wearing non-European clothing.
I saw Pierre Mamboundou at the party and wanted to say hi – he’s the big opposition leader, like Morgan Tsvangarai in Zimbabwe, or Ravelomanana in Madagascar. But he’s also my mayor and my old deputé, so I figured I had a right to say hi at least, genre, I’m Hannah, the PCV from your town, hey, how’s it going? Marily of course nixed the whole thing. Too political to say hi. Bummer. We snacked on little egg rolls and cheesecakes and marinated chicken and Sam Adams, and had a good time, and behaved ourselves. We even met some nice Frenchies, who were no more out of touch with Gabon than any other rich person in a stratified society. Oh, and also Michelle, Stanley’s friend from Gamba, who does biodiversity research (surveys of species). Dumb me, standing right next to Marily, I say "Oh, there’s Michelle!"
"You know her?"
"She’s Stanley’s friend from Gamba." Oh shit, so how do I know her? "She came up through Ndende one time." Close one, Hanko. Keep your mouth shut deja!
Trying to get tickets for my folks and I was a bitch, but I was able to pay with Visa and only had to go to the airport three times before it was all over. I made Clem come with me the last time for emotional support – I knew I wouldn’t make it through without bawling by myself. They had torn off the ticket and given me the wrong part on my first trip, and I was fearful they had sold the ticket, or lost it, and I’d end up paying for it because God knows they never admit their faults here.
I flew back home on Saturday the 6th, and had two weeks in Ndende before my parents showed up. I went down to Tchibanga to see Kara, and to break things off with a guy I had sort of not really been seeing, a nice enough guy but only interested in himself. Boring. Later I went to see Julie in Lebamba, only she was house sitting for missionaries at Bongolo – hot water, West Wing, pepperoni pizza and huge cupboards of bulk American food items to eat. We had a pretty good time and it was fun to meet Jeff and his wife. He’s a dentist, and a dare-devil (he, Matt and Josh pirogued down the Loutsi to Mouila from Lebamba, over rapids). They left the states four years ago, sold everything, and got sent here (after a year in Burkina Faso to learn French). "I was expecting, you know, a mud hut, a dirty well, no electricity –" his wife said, "and instead we get sent here! I said to myself, well, the Good Lord provides!" They have another year here before going on to Jordan. Their kids are super nice, and blond. Brett, who’s 11, came into the house as I was scarfing down a pita with pizza sauce, cheddar cheese, and pepperoni, and said "oh – hi! I’m Brett." "I’m Hannah" "It’s nice to meet you. Will you be staying with us long?" I don’t know, he’s a little gentleman, but not stuck up. A good kid. The houses remind me of summer cottages, the cool breezes of the dry season, the incredible view of Lebamba (they’re up on a hill), the camp furniture. The fully modern kitchen, American cabinets, fridge, stove, washer/dryer, microwave, bread machine, juicer, toaster oven. Ridiculous.
Went up to Mouila Friday the 19th, and flew to LBV on the 20th with the departing Michelle, Ora, and Abigail. We found Patric’s wedding in the bowels of Owendo after much circling and calling on the cellphone. We arrived as they were doing the part where Patric is the coq and he’s gotta find his poule. First off a whole bunch of young girls are brought out – is your femme here? No? Sure? Aren’t these lovely ladies? Yes but – ok. So they all go back in, then come back out (Laetitia is now with them) under pagnes and sheets, covered up. He has to find her by her shoes. He was so nervous! He got up and faked out the older mamas holding up the pagnes, and got a peek at the feet. Everyone laughed – he’s such a clown. He finally found her and took the pagnes off to reveal her there looking hot and sweaty and pissed. Now came the big deal – the dote, or dowry. The whole ceremony from beginning to end is conducted through spokesmen, one for the bride’s family and one for the husband’s. So Patric’s guy gets up and starts in on how the dote is very important etc etc and has a guy bring over:
Six cases of Coke/Orangina/Fanta
Two bottles each of whiskey, malibu, and vodka
A ten liter bidon of vin d’espana
Some cooking things, pots etc
Cloth
An axe and a couple machetes
Various other things
Then he plopped down maybe 100 mille on the pile and said ok, whaddya think? The bride’s guy, who cracked up every two minutes, said (in punu) well hey, I don’t know, I mean, I had to get a new suit made for this and I don’t think this’ll cover all that. We don’t accept. So Patric’s guy fishes around in his shirt pocket and pulls out a wad of bills and puts maybe a quarter of what’s there down. They go on like this until the wad is gone, and then the bride’s family does the final deliberations. They agree. In total it came to about 350 mille, which Jean Jacques said is average for Gabonese marriages, but everyone was expecting/hoping that since Patric is white he would give more. He’ll have to give more later – la dote ne se fait pas dans un seul jour.
After the deliberation both parties were asked are you sure you want this person ? In, ni tsi rond, said Laetitia. Neen, neetsee rond, said Patric, and everyone laughed and clapped and that was it, they sat down on their marriage couch and then we all got drinks and hors d’oeuvres. P said L was happy I was there, which made me feel good. We got a ride home with a buddy of Michelle’s husband Armand before dark, and chilled.
Sunday I don’t think I did anything, just email and typing and printing of documents and copying. Got into a long discussion about the Fang and the murder with the copy guy, who said Karen was looking for trouble because she drank to excess. Then a health official came in, a short guy with an elevator shoe, and he was very reasonable and bought me a drink and talked Ebola. He was at the meetings Jean Luc attended till they kicked him out.
Mom and Dad got in right on time – I got up at 4:40 am and got a taxi out to the airport. Deserted. Then people started coming in and I got more and more excited and nervous and then, there they were! Dad tried to get a luggage cart but it was paying and then I waited while they waited for the bags – there’s a big wall with only this little window. I kept thinking they wouldn’t get their bags but it was fine. I stopped the hotel van as he was pulling away – nous sommes avec vous – and got a lift in. I tried to explain the sights but it was early and they were confused. We checked in, got to the room, they unpacked a little and showed me my stuff – cd player, speakers, cds, underwear, clothes, books, cheese from Paris, pine nuts, it was like Christmas.
That first morning I dragged them all over town – to coffee near the embassy, which they thought was better than in Paris; to the small Artisan’s market for a preview; to the case, to put Dad’s shiny new Imac laptop into a locker; to the bureau, to turn in my quarter report (which wouldn’t print) and meet the bosses. We were beat by noon, and went back to the hotel for a nice buffet lunch and a good nap. Mom watched for news of the Tour de France and I experimented with the cd player. I was only disappointed they didn’t bring chocolate.
Dinner at Dolce Vita, pizza, which they exclaimed over, and then I took them back to the hotel. It was wierd to be told not to worry about money – I’d try to get a taxi, trois places, to coffee in the morning and not understand their impatience or their incomprehension of why a difference of a dollar was important. And then going out to restaurants and not looking for the cheapest thing, or (even more surprising to me) feeling like I had to finish all my food. Quoi?! But it’s wasting food! That I paid good money for! Except, of course, it was their money, and so moot.
Tuesday we went to the same coffee place, but they were out of coffee. Enh? Yeah, le café est terminé. Ok, fine, we had bad chocolat. We walked down to the museum, where we saw fishing nets and baskets and masks and sticks and statuettes and fetiches and drums and balafon and harps, etc etc. Mom wanted to take pictures of the masks but we had to buy a brochure instead.
After the museum we went food shopping – Michelle had told me where to get brown sugar, a place called Prix Imports downtown. Not only did they have brown sugar, but also raisins, sunflower seeds, pickled peppers (for Mike), Frenchy sauce things for pesto and soups, and a good looking meat and cheese section. I picked up a bunch of things and we got the rest at Mbolo, like cheese for making pizza in Ndende, and potatoes for making mashed potatoes with Cantal that Dad brought from France. I figured we could get potatoes in Ndende, but you never know. We spent a whole bunch of money and it seemed pretty obscene.
Back at the case for leftover pizza lunch I started feeling stressed out. So far everything had gone really well and they were happy, exclaiming over the good food and the stores and the hotel. That was fine, I thought, but what about when things start to go wrong? What if someone is really rude to them, or we get cheated or mugged or robbed or stuck in a ditch with two flat tires? I got really protective of them – don’t fuck with my folks sort of thing – and their (naïve?) exuberance was irksome. This is not the real Gabon! I wanted to shout, but at the same time I didn’t really want them to experience the real Gabon with all its difficulties.
We went to email, which was great, then back to the case for West Wing and a nap before going to the Saigon for dinner. Michelle and I met them at the hotel and we ate really good food. Afterwards, we made sure they crossed the street ok, and then they made sure we got in a cab. The next day they’d come to the case before we left for the airport.
I realized I had left my wallet at the bureau the day before, so dashed off at 7:30 to retrieve it. We got to the airport at 9:00 and checked in, first in line. We waited in the freezing cold salle d’attente until 12:30 when the flight was canceled. The only good thing was the café upstairs was showing the tour, so we had a passable beef thing and fries while watching America’s Hero Lance Armstrong destroy the peloton. We all stayed at the case that night since Mom and Dad had checked out, and had dinner at a mediocre Lebanese place in Louis. Thursday the plane took off as scheduled and we managed to get a ride to Ndende with Terri and Karen from the Bongolo Mission hospital. I had used my wiles at the LBV airport when I’d recognized Karen and Bob as Americans, and probably Bongolo people, since she was flying to Mouila. "Hi! You’re American? From Bongolo? Yeah, hi, I’m Hannah, the Peace Corps volunteer in Ndende. Going to Mouila? Yeah, us too. These are my folks, Diane and Roger. Yeah, nice to meet you too. Yup, they’re visiting, you know, flying to Mouila and then we’ll try to get a bush taxi or something to Ndende. Oh, no kidding? Terri’ll be there? Well if that works out that would be wonderful, that’s really very kind of you. We wouldn’t want to trouble you any but – you’re sure? Ok, great."
So, everything worked out fine. The dry season is cloudy, so we couldn’t see much from the plane until we landed. Tracy was going up with a couple Bongolo visitors, and as hoped we got a ride back with Terri, stopping at the Mouila case to pick up condoms and ask Cherie to check on our return flight reservations (what a champ!). I think Mom was nervous as Terri drove speedily over the bumpy dirt road, but I tried to point out exciting things like villages and the haunted tree. The story goes that when they made the road, they tried to cut the tree down, but as they hacked into they heard voices. "What are you doing, crazy road guy!" they heard. "This is the village of _______, leave us alone or we’ll get you good!" So they made the road go around it. I didn’t tell Mom that this was where the gang of highwaymen stopped cars to rob and kill people back during elections in November.
We got in to Ndende and rested – I went out to get stuff for spaghetti sauce and we made that for dinner. The first night there were some weird noises – banging of the door or window (might have been the water bottles contracting in the fridge) and footsteps outside my window (chickens, most likely) and I was scared and pissed that someone would try to frighten my family. But everyone slept well. Those four days in Ndende we walked around, made pizza with Mike, had salad that Seydou brought over, got him to make shirts, met the marché mamas and my friends, and videotaped Ndende. We ate sanglier at the Hotel, which they enjoyed a lot, and took pictures of the old and new post offices. The old one’s roof blew off back in 98 or so, and the new one won’t open till it gets a telephone (never). We saw the river, and lac bleu, and everyone told my parents how nice I was and how was everyone over in the states? How do you like Gabon?
Monday morning the bush taxi picked us up and we squished in for the ride to Mouila. We did email and I checked on the plane, then we hung out at the case on the porch until 3:00. Dad and I went to see if there was mail, but the PO was closed for lunch. He saw the old and the new bank, the marché, and bunches of shops and stores. We got omelettes and yogurt to bring back, and read our books.
The flight back was uneventful and we checked back into the hotel and got our complimentary drink. It was Mom’s birthday so we went out for Chinese food in Louis, at the Hong Kong. I stayed with them at the hotel instead of at the case, which is next door to the loudest bar in Gabon. The next morning we took a cab to PK8 to get a car for Lambarene. I was nervous but we had a game plan – don’t get out of the car till you get the price and the place you want. The taxi stopped and the chargeurs descended upon us like the flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz, grabbing my backpack and almost pulling me out of the car. "Venez venez Lambarene Lambarene venez donnez le sac donnez vennez ! »
I yelled at them "Nous trois derriere, cinq mille cinq mille" until I got a nod from one. But the others were still pulling me and the backpack seemed about to rip. "Ohhh! C’est quoi c’est!?" They backed off not even a little. "Toi, on y va". We got out and saw an older guy smiling at us, come with me, he said. "Nous trois derriere, cinq mille cinq mille?" Yeah yeah, he said. No problem.
Alfred was a great driver and we were comfy in the back, not squished. The woman in front stopped us every ten miles to buy bush meat and bananas. Alfred let us stop at the Equator and take pictures, and even took one of all three of us. Mom was really excited about crossing the equator so many times and in different forms of transportation. We got in to Lambarene and decided to have lunch first, at Delices des Lacs, or Mama Claires, where we ate often as stagiaires. We had fish and feuilles de manioc and manioc. They didn’t like the manioc. We stopped at the training house to find Brenda and Richard and make dinner plans, but found only Richard, so we went over across the way to chez Raoul, where Brenda was putting together good luck packages for the stagiaires site visit. Then we decided to walk to the Mission, with a shortcut Brenda told us about. "Go by the stade, then you’ll see the minister’s house, and then you’ll come out by the freres and from there you can go to the Soeurs." Simple enough. Unfortunately, during the last election they paved a bunch of roads, so it was no longer clear that the road that went right at the stade was not the one we wanted. We went by an impressively opulent house that we assumed was the minister’s, and then got to a dead end down a dirt path. Coming back up we saw two young men emerging from a piste – is that the chemin to la Mission? Yep, it sorts by the bridge. Ok.
In fact this was not our piste, but a treacherous and steep path I was sure would give Mom or Dad a broken ankle. But we got a great view of the downtown, and the foliage was quiet and full of birdcalls and green plants. It was like being en brousse, which was good, because we’d spent the whole of our time in cities or in cars. In fact, this was a much shorter way, though it would have been certain death in the rainy season.
In Lambarene we took a lot of shortcuts, through the marché a few times. It felt kind of silly to be clambering up rocky sills with the rents, but they seemed to like it. We eventually did find the right path to the Sisters, whose mission is beautiful and calm and has hot water. After visiting Schweitzer, that night we had fish in Isaac with Brenda and Richard, and in the morning we went to visit Sali, who’d just had her first baby. We gave her some baby clothes and she gave us really nice basin cloth, and we chatted for a bit. We had lunch at Mme Mbaye’s, poulet nyembwe, with Arsene and Steeve, who bitched about Admore, their incompetant chef.
Going back, Alfred picked us up, and drove terrifyingly fast. He dropped us off at the hotel and we decided to go have Indian food at Shalimar. No one was that hungry but we got eggplant and coconut curry and it was all really good. In the morning we hit the Artisans market for masks, statuettes, butterfly collages, letter openers, clay passports, the king of Segou, and some fish for Miki, Dad’s assistant. We went a little overboard but hey, you know, whatever. We got sandwiches and ate at the Case, Dad got his computer out of storage, and after a quick trip to email and Jackson Music (to check on my Raaboon cd) we went back to pack and go to early check in, which didn’t take long considering the length of the line. We had time to kill, so headed back to Jackson Music, got my cd, and then went, after much deliberation, to Dolce Vita for drinks and dinner. The waitress saw me looking at the Raaboon and asked if she could put it on. "Oui, mais c’est fort," I said. No problem. The staff was still setting up tables and cleaning, and they all started grooving to the Gabonese hip hop from Tchibanga. It was fun. We had dinner, and then got in a cab. Mom was worried about me getting a cab back after the airport, and I thought it would be best if they dropped me off at Université and then continued without me. We said goodbye quickly in the taxi, kisses and hugs over the front seats, and then, zoom, off they went. It didn’t hit me till a little later, and then Field of Dreams was on, the end, where he says "hey dad – wanna have a catch?". Oyo.
I think it would have been worse, though, had I gone with them – it would have been like saying goodbye the first time, all scary and emotional. I don’t like long goodbyes and that’s what you get at airports.
Jenny came in from Europe, sans her bag, and Stanley took her out to Jean Paul II for beer and fish. Crystal and Michelle and Ora came too.
Jenny and I caught a ride to Lambarene the next day with Charles, and she got a banana truck bound for Mouila that night. I stayed in Lambarene and came down to Ndende Saturday with the stagiaires on site visit. It was all not organized and no one was putting people into the right buses. We got to Mouila and then Ndende-LBB-MBG continued. We got in, found the retraite de deuil had not started and that we had plenty of time. Mike and Julie were there and had made cookies. They’d been waiting all day for us, thinking Alfred would try to get all the way to MYB, if not TCH, on the first day. Two days ago that had been the plan, but something changed and of course no one thought to tell the hosting volunteers. We cleaned up and went to the retraite – Julie and the stagiaires left early to get food and rest, and Mike and I ate at midnight. There were maybe two hundred people? And enough food for everyone. The ceremony was short, the widows came out, they family greeted them, and then there was food and dancing. A rival drum group showed up and was better, so everyone moved to dance over there. I had given Jenny’s boyfriend Mohammed the video camera to film with – as Mike said, he doesn’t have the cultural hangups and honte that would prevent me from shooting good footage. We stayed till 2:30 but the party was still going. My students showed up, drunk and wearing crazy Bozo wigs, and dancing provacatively. This drew ire from some of the family.
It was a little weird – Mike and I still felt like outsiders, not really knowing the family as well as Jenny, and she was involved in the food preparation and the serving and we just sat there. But Ma Christine had made me a dress from the cloth they all bought; I just didn’t know what to do, plus I had the stagiaires to herd around. It might have been different if I had gotten there earlier, I don’t know. Maybe not. Jenny’s really good at integrating.
The next morning I got up at 6:00 and waited for Alfred, so we could go back up to Mouila, get the MOB-TCH-MYB stagiaires, and take them to post. We found Matt (TCH, TEFL) near the case and he told us the key Jim had for the case only opened one of the locks. They had all slept in a brothel that night. The keys were in Ndende, with Mohommed and Jenny. I felt awful and Joey and I tried to figure out solutions – Alfred had to go back through ndende to get to Tchibanga, so maybe he could find Moh or Jenny and tell them to get the key back. We loaded up the truck, amidst a lot of tired and confused stagiaires. The gas bottle the training director had bought for Moabi had been locked in the case shed by the night guard, Camera, so we had to leave it. Screw it, I said. We’ll figure it out.
On the way to Moabi I had the sickening feeling the same thing would happen – we had one of the keys to the door of Ora’s house, but there were other locks. The twisty road did not help my lack-of-sleep nausea. The poor MYB and TCH kids had to go back that same way – the road from MOB to TCH was out. At the house we opened the door and found we had light and water, so everything was fine.
With us was Tony, a language facilitator, whom Eric (Ndende, TEFL) accurately describes as "utterly devoid of personality". He was there to work with Jamie on French, though she has a super bad attitude, linked to poor self-image (I’m stupid, I hate French, I’m a terrible student, I just shut down when I get frustrated). Her French isn’t that bad, she can say stuff, and make herself understood, and understand basic ideas in a conversation. She’s anal. Her housemate is totally laid back, and well groomed. "Stop! You’re exhausting me just talking about it!" she’ll laugh as Jamie would plan the next day’s activities. Anyway, we all cleaned, though I let them do the nasty stuff while I read. They’ll be able to learn everything they need on their own, despite Jamie’s insecurity and endless questioning. If she can just direct her queries towards Gabonese, she’ll be fine.
I came back with them to Mouila and met up with Kara and Julie and Jenny and Mike, and Eric, who hated Ndende. The first thing he said to me was "I think I need you to take me around town sometime." Apparently he did not feel a warm fuzzy sense of welcome by walking around with Mike all week. Mike’s great, of course, and I’m so glad he’s my postmate, but he’s not friends with a lot of people in town. They had decided on Moustafa’s house, which apparently has hot water and tiled rooms and satellite tv next door. Now we just need to get the proviseur to agree to pay the utilities. I’d brought a couple extra cushiony chairs from Moabi for him, figuring whatever house he chose probably wouldn’t have furniture, and I was right.
Here’s what I know about Eric: from Boston, went to Penn (same class as Carrie Wong in Fougamou, 01), majored in Fine Arts and French, likes to paint, was excited about painting at post, except it’s Ndende, and so not at all scenic. Loves cats and adopted one (LT Gray) the first night in Gabon. Worked at an anthropology museum last year designing exhibits and building them. Not gay. Has sisters. Plays basketball. Wants to make a lawn sculpture. He and Mike get along great and while I’m glad Mike’s got a buddy, finally, I want to be friends with the guy too. Shouldn’t be too hard, he seems really nice and considerate, and everyone has wonderful things to say about him. He hangs out with his papa in Lambarene and reads Les Trois Mousquetaires en francais. A genuine nice guy? Only in Peace Corps.
Speaking of genuine nice guys, Jeff Thorn keeps writing me howlingly funny emails. Go Jeff.
I got a free ride to Ndende from Bakari, Ora’s boyfriend (she left now, though). He drives the bread truck and gave me four breads. What a sweetie (of course, he’s Malian, so that explains everything). He drives pretty fast though, so I probably won’t ride with him again. At one point we were behind an oil truck and all we could see was a wall of billowing dust. Two cars passed us going the opposite direction while we were blinded. Scary. We literally could not see the truck that was a car length in front of us. As Bakari said, though, "if it was night, you could see the headlights." Didn’t really make me feel better.
Now I’m home, finally, but leaving tomorrow for TCH and the 17 Aout (DeeSett Oot!). Bongo will be there. Then off to the village to see Ma Yvonne and Papa, and then two weeks of stage and a week in LBV for midservice medical (barf!!). I just want to stay at home.
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