Au Gabon: Memoirs by a Peace Corps Volunteer in Central Africa
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By Jonathon Shacat
Written in 2001 based on true events that took place in 1999.
My eyes open to the sounds of an annoying rooster crowing outside my window. It must be morning. I raise my mosquito netting and slide my feet into the plastic sandals I never leave bed without. Walking on the dirt floor is unwise, I’ve learned, due to chiggers and parasites that may burrow beneath the skin of my soles.
I pull on a long-sleeve shirt and pants. In the living room I grab a roll of pink toilet paper off the shelf and make my way out the door of my mud-wattle house. The latrine is in my backyard, concealed by the rain forest surrounding Mikouandza.
I live in a small village in Gabon, Africa, where I teach villagers to construct ponds and raise Tilapia. I am a Peace Corps Volunteer. I came here thinking I could make a big difference in the lives of the people, but the truth is change happens incrementally and one person at a time. Sometimes, it seems I am the one who has changed the most.
In the center of the latrine is a gap. As I squat down, I listen to the termite-infested logs beneath me, checking for any telltale cracking sounds. I do not want to fall into that horrid pit. The sun has not yet broken through the misty morning sky. Despite efforts to swat the mosquitoes and gnats, they hungrily swarm my exposed tender skin. I do my business quickly.
Bugs don’t like smoke, so I head to mama Antoinette’s kitchen. It's a mud brick building, with a dirt floor. There is a fire on the ground, near the center of the room. Antoinette is sitting on a short wooden bench. She is heating water so we can drink instant coffee. She says she wishes we had some bread to compliment our breakfast. Occasionally a man drives his pickup truck along this dirt road selling stale bread from the town of Mbigou, but lately it seems he has stopped coming.
Antoinette asks if I would accompany papa Joseph to his ponds today. I hesitate to say yes. Joseph's ponds are a lost cause. He uses his old age as an excuse for not taking care of his fish. Joseph feeds them monthly, not daily. But I agree to go. I hope that, indirectly, my efforts will boost the protein intake of at least one child in the village when a pond is harvested. Kids here are malnourished, and trying to stop their suffering by giving out food is unsustainable and unrealistic. There simply aren’t enough cans of sardines.
Antoinette hands me a cup of sweet coffee and gives me Joseph’s cup, too. She asks me to take it to him. I walk to the corps to garde, a communal hut where Joseph sits on a rickety chair beside a fire. I join him. I tell him I will help him care for his ponds if he wants. I add that we should go today because tomorrow I leave for a week-long bike trip to visit other fish farmers in the south. Joseph takes a sip of the warm, black, sweetened liquid and nods his head in agreement.
I prepare for work, putting on my knee-high rubber boots and changing into a short-sleeved shirt. I gather my machete and leather gloves. The sun is out, and the flying insects have gone away. It promises to be a nice day. The sky will remain bright until late afternoon when it is overcome by dark storm clouds that bring a torrential downpour.
I meet Joseph as agreed. He is wearing shorts and a shirt. I notice his only preparation was to get his machete. How primitive this culture prepares its people for the forest, I think to myself.
We leave for the brief hike. The trail is narrow, overgrown and so steep I have difficulty making my way. At some points, I have to grab hold of the brush to prevent myself from sliding down the decline. Last night’s rains have left the ground slick. As I stumble and slip, I notice Joseph's bare feet. His skin is calloused from years of wear. Nearly three times my age, he navigates the rugged terrain better than I. This frustrates me.