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Leslie Sheppard left July 2nd, 1996 for Gabon to serve in the Peace Corps. His mission was to help build a school in a remote village and to help in any way needed during his tour there.

July 7, 1996  Howdy from downtown Libreville! I am discovering how hard it is to write here. The days are full, either with meetings, (no classes yet), or just plain socializing. I am in demand as someone to socialize with, which is a refreshing change from the recent past. In part I think it is because my reaction to the scary first day of orientation was to joke around and put up a big front, and once my initial nervousness wore off, and everyone became more comfortable with one another, the joking and fun just naturally carried through.

Spending as much time as possible speaking to people other than Peace Corps folk. Still hopelessly superficial conversation (Bonjour, ca va? cava bien....), but it should improve with time. Last night we were formerly welcomed to Gabon with a performance of traditional Gabonese dance. Very exciting, very moving, and I almost fell asleep during it, as earlier I had spent several hours in the surf... on the eastern end of the Atlantic! Anyway, the chief dancer, in his explanation of the dances, stated that the important thing was to persevere. I have a feeling we have not yet begun to be challenged. Yesterday, as in the day after we arrived in Gabon, one of our group announced at lunch that he was leaving the service. His reasoning was that his motives were not the same as the Peace Corps, and that it seemed that Peace Corps volunteers and employees treated the indigenous people as inferior. This he explained in private to some of us as he packed. I argued that any organization was going to have it's flaws, but only the individual can really act on a personal basis with anyone, so it still came down to him.

The Peace Corps is certainly not the worst western organization to reach these shores, and of philanthropic organizations, it gives the individual volunteer a great deal of leeway in deciding in his or her approach to the job. I hope he will be happy, but I think he will regret his too-hasty decision.

We have one other possible drop-out, so far as I can see, (for different reasons), but for the most part, we seem pretty determined.

To that end, I've adopted the attitude that this is my home, and my fellow volunteers are my family, and I try to be a lightening and easing factor for everyone so we can be a happy family. I don't dwell on thoughts of my friends and you and "home" because it would be yearning for something I can't have now, rather than appreciating what I do have here.

For instance, right now a good number of us are writing or talking quietly with one another as a raucous rooster crows in the yard below, in a little lull between breakfast and another meeting. We are all together in a large barracks room, everyone with the bottom half of a bunk bed, the top half being to suspend the mosquito netting. `Stage' begins in ten minutes, have to go, but I'll continue as soon as possible. I'm pretty tired today, hope I can stay awake.

Well, it's next morning. I got more sleep last night than I've had in days, but I still feel like I have felt since the dawning of time when I first woke up. Will I ever become a morning person?

Went into town yesterday afternoon with two other `trainees', Teri and Amy Jean, and Jean-Paul, a local who is among the instructors for our language training. As I was the only with any French knowledge, I had to translate between the members of the group. It is amazing how quickly so much of this forgotten knowledge returns. Along with the normal stops, I.E. the market, (which was closed, and that was the only way we could walk through - crowded), the post office, the "super-march'e", Jean-Paul took us to the radio station "Africa No. 1" and arranged a short tour, technical but interesting, which culminated in a disc jockey welcoming us by name to Gabon; a greeting which was heard all over the world!

As fun as dealing with local life is, these classes are a pain in the ass. Wake up at 6:30, breakfast at 7:00, then solid classes `til lunch, then solid classes `til dinner. When we have free time I try to socialize and get to know my new family and support group. Right now they're the other volunteers, but starting Thursday we're moving into host families' home for 6 weeks, then out to a site to build a "practice school".

One way I've dealt with the separation from all things familiar is simply to run headlong into my new situation. Life is kickin' here. There's enough life going on all around us; chickens, dogs, cats, lizards, birds, rats, bugs, bugs, bugs, and this is the biggest school in Gabon, not a farm!

Anyhow, lot of friends, tell you about them all sooner or later, trying to talk the lingo as much as possible, getting way to little sleep.

I'm great, things are great, feel like I'm where I need to be.

I'm no longer in the Peace Corps, dormitory, that is. Instead we have all packed up our mosquito nets (yes, we have them) and moved into host families. This is my first night as the newest member of the family, KOUMBA. I have been adopted by my new brothers, Appollinoure and Pamphile. Appolinaire's wife, his 3 children, and the brother's mom. She's ailing and on a low salt diet. I am going to make a concerted effort to talk to her, as she does not join the rest of the family at the dinner table. My french is terrible, and I feel terrible asking for endless repetitions, but my brothers are kind, and after 20 minutes of sheer "what have I done!" hell I begin to feel at home.

It was a terrible shock to leave 26 other English speakers and move in with a French speaking family, POW!, like that, but if Peace Corps taught me anything so far it's that change is slow, but not always. When my faith is shaken and I begin to despair, I gather my thoughts, speak to myself in English, and review my reasons for being here. I am in AFRICA! REALLY! and although there are doors, windows, cars and buildings, it is still a different world. Had baked fish heads for dinner tonights. They're good with worstershire. Manioc is good somewhere far away from me. Another volunteer, (actually right now we're "stageurs" or trainees, until we're sworn in) and I went swimming in the ocean today before we left for our various families. She was the first to leave with her host family. It's amazing how one day can be the most placid and the most terrifiying, all in a matter of hours!

Still, as I have said, I am constantly aware of how comfortable entropy is, and how uncomfortable pushing yourself into an alien world, but it is amazing when you can pull back far enough to appreciate the situation.

Two thoughts before I sleep: One, Pamphille told me tonight that we were family, and that his house was a safe place for me, against attackers and those who would poison my food. His family are not racist.

Gabon, in general, is not racist. Do you appreciate the irony? I have gone in one short hop from being a white man in Alabama, to being a white man in Gabon, Africa. I am the tiny minority, the man who invites stares wherever he goes. It is a gift to be able to see the world through different eyes. Never have I been the racial minority. C'est l'experience ca plus profound, Oui? My other observation is from the beach today. Renee' and I would lie on the sand til we got hot or bored, then would splash out into the surf. The transition between comfort on the beach and the exhilaration of the waves was uncomfortable. We wanted to turn back and we never thought the ocean would ever be warm and inviting.

Just like in an experience like this, you leave the comfort of home with the promise of exhilaration in a new setting, but the transition is chilling, seems to take forever, and makes you wish you could turn back. But if you jump in, brave the cold, and just get down to business, you find it is the greatest thing you could've done. Just like the Gabonese surf. Good night, ma chere.

It's two days hence, and it gets getting better and better. It's very, very hard to believe that I've only been here a week, as everyday is crammed full to the gills with new stimuli and many new lessons. The only way I can tell that I'm making progress is by looking at the short length of time I've been exposed to Gabon, and even though I'm not thinking in French, people apparently think I know enough to confound me with wildly rattled off conversations. perhaps my knowledge of the basics is good enough to merit that unexpected jump to the complex. Still, keeping my head clear, my ears open, and my french at my tounge all the time, now especially with the home-stays (which is truly like throwing the baby in the deep in of the pool) I am exhausted all the time and my emotions tend to sag at the edges. Not enough, though, to even come close to breaking me.

Perseverance.  And please tell everyone that I think about them all the time, and starting in a couple months will be able to write much more. At the moment I'm in the host family's home. Both Pamphille and I overslept from a nap and missed going out today. Hooray! Take that sleep where you can get it. It's Sunday, so nothing went on today much. Part of the morning i was at Lycee Leon, my other home at the Peace Corps base, and I was talking to another construction volunteer who is having some problems adjusting. Telling somebody that it's only bad for another 2 months has a hollow ring to it. I hope he knuckles it out, and I hope I can help him do it, because in supporting another you forget your own fears. That's another problem with homestays. As you remember in France when I was there, if an exchange student shuts himself away, the host family may simply turn him off as well, which is what I believe has happened in a couple of cases. Even wild me, who has some French, the frustrations of communicating are so that too many snags in a conversation can result in an uncomfortable silence and an unresolved situation. All of which point to the need exactly of homestays. We will be alone, speaking French, and will have to communicate on some basic, concrete level. However for some who are unaccustomed to such a culture shock, or who have not known French before, perhaps taking them out of the security of the group so soon was not the ebst idea. Besides, living in barracks quarters with half men/half women was delightful, and made for many opportunities for joking around and flirting. Falling in lvoe would be a hopeless and completely frustrating thing to happen right now, but if there was any chance at all of doing so, I know the girl I'd fall for. But enough about that.

I'm going to give you a saga of free association observations, sights/smells that I've encountered here. I have been nowhere yet (not until next monday) but Libreville. Libreville is the third world.

The public transportation service in Libreville, which we must use in order to get around, is abundant, invariably red and white, breakneck, and quite inexpensive (if it is before 6 and you bargain for the price before you get in.)

I think morns will improve markedly when we enter the interior, where I hope to find more true Gabonese culture, rather than the Gabon, French, American mish-mash of the city. For everyone's information, right now the temperature hovers between 80° - 90°, with a lot of humidity, so it's not unlike home at all, weather wise, although I notice that the moment I begin to drink a hot-beverage, like cocoa or tea, my bent equilibruim is topped and I begin to sweat.

People may speak a simple sentence to me, but there is so much noise: cars with little or no exhaust, people yelling and talking in loud voices, jet airplanes, roosters, dogs fighting, that I invariably ask for a repetition, another factor that makes things frustrating.

In case you're concerned, I'm eating very well, although perhaps not what would be your first choice in cuisine. Variety is limited, consisting mainly of rice, green salad, usually a meat or some fish stew (watch those bones, they're bastards!) and lately one or two types of manioc, a root vegetable that at it's best tastes like dry potato or sweet potato, and at, well, not best is inedible at the moment (and I've met locals who won't touch it.) French bread is omnipresent, and water is de riguer as a beverage, although we sometimes have soda with dinner here at my house.

Now that I've made such good friends amongst the other volunteers, I am loath to leave them at the end of the day. We've known each other only a week and a half, but it's been so intense I feel I'm being separated from family. The Peace Corps is hard, make no mistake. I'm amazed at the things I miss, but I keep an eye to the future, to the Leslie to come. I don't want to burn out and I think the only way to keep from doing that is to look at the things you don't like; the dragons in the world, the poverty, imbalance, and ignorance everywhere in the world, and strike at it. Everyday you learn something that will enable you to help another strike at the dragon and train others who, in time, will change the world. Change is slow... but it is, in the end, inevitable.

Nothing works quite right here. The clock on the wall has a second hand which races down one side 3 seconds at a time, and creeps and backslides up the other side.

It's 10 PM, (22 hours) and I've just come back from making a long circuit around my little city here with my brother Pamphile to meet the rest of the family. Met a lot of people, drank a beer, drank a coke, watched a Michael Jackson video (Pamphile's very into Michael Jackson), watched two geckos on the wall go after flies. Most of Pamhile's relatives live on land owned by his father, now deceased.

Never get drunk in Libreville, because the sidewalks are uneven, if there are any, and the usually concist of concrete blocks laid across an open....er....drainage channel. Walking at night is hairy on the street, but back in the quartiers it's like the jungle took everything back. Huge roots bisect rotting masonry slabs, stairs lead to nowhere, it's preety damn cool.

17 July 96 It's midnight and I won't get enough sleep tonight, because Pamphile wanted me to go with him to visit his friends. It's great doing the exchange student/host family thing, and equally great doing the Peace Corps thing, but together they wipe me out. All right, remind me tomorrow to tell you of crappy ubiquitous white plastic chairs, beaucoup de poulet pour diner tout les jours, and Pamphile and his friends heated discussion on whether or not Michael Jackson is a pervert.

President of France Jacques Chirac is in Gabon today, in Libreville, and the city is on it's ear: There are so many cars, so many various soldiers, gend'arms and armored vehicles, oh, and closed roads it was nearly impossible to get home tonight. But I did just fine. As usual, I'm dead, dead, tired, and it affects my ability to cope with the situation, exhaustion depression and all you known but as long as I know that, it's bearable.

Phew. It's morning two days hence. I've got a couple of minutes before French class. These letters take forever. There is no time to write. -- Like I said, no time to write between classes, time-wasting psychobabble sessions, and visiting and plodding through simple conversations with my host family. When I do have a little time with my fellow volunteers, I like to visit with them and swap war stories. Now I'm writing during a class that I'm compelled to attend, the Gabonese Educational System, but has nothing to do with me or my job. It's interesting, yes, but it's a waste of precious-precious time.

Anyway, wanna know what I had for dinner last night? I ate African, big time. Gazelle meat, (uiande de brousse, or bush meat), avacado, fish stew with bones, scales, head and tail, and manioc. Manioc is a root vegetable that I think I mentioned in a previous letter. In a strong enough sauce (Gazelle, which is very gamey tasting; with hot peppers) manioc is edible, and not too bad. I won't starve. Actually, Clarice wants me to take a picture of myself close to when I leave their house, so my family in America can see how fat she's made me.

Average day for me: I get up, believe it or not, at 6 A.M., brush my teeth, wash my face, and leave my house. I lock the door behind me, throw the key back through the window, and close the window. Then I went through my neighborhood toward the taxi stop on the main street. My neighborhood is lower middle class, I think, which is much different from what you recognize from the states. The streets are in extreme disrepair, with deep, huge potholes, which are, even in the dry season, inexplicably filled with water. I pass a butcher/meat roaster, at work early in the morning, and closer to my shop, there is a beautiful catholic church, with no glass, but wooden louvered windows. Chickens and dogs abound around the streets, along with inumerable yellow budgie-like birds. At my taxi stop, I usually have to ask 2 or 3 taxis before I find one going my way. it's kind of like paying to hitchhike....

I am very popular, both with the volunteers and trainees, and with the host country national launguage trainees, and I brown-nose well with the higher-up so I'm not in any danger.

It's saturday afternoon, and I'm sitting outside my host family's house, because the door is locked and I'm not sure whether they've left or are taking naps. It's a good opportunity to write. I've decided to spend the weekend here, to the disappointment of both my friends and myself. I need to stay here, because it's not fair to treat the Koumba's as a hotel. Even though this was not my choice, I'm here and they are good people, and I want to honor them and let them know I appreciate what they are doing. It's hard. though, as my french reaches it's limits within seconds of the start of a conversation. I'm still tired but, hey, I knew that when I signed up. This job constantly pushes the envelope and requires lots of energy, physical and especially mental and emotional. But you know that. Instead I'll tell you that Libreville is the 3rd most expensive city in the world to live, and that's a relief to know, as I'm broke. Luckily payday's monday and I learned some important lessons about what not to do. Couple of days ago, some of the volunteers, another trainee, Alex (a good friend) and myself went out to a French ex-patriate bar in town. Rich french kids, in Gabon with their oil company parents, or else in the military, hang out there. Expensive is a mild term. It was outrageous by American standards! 1 hour playing pool cost between 4 of us 6,000 francs (12 dollars!) Still, it was a surreal experience, stepping out of Gabon and into europe for a night, and a good time, drinking something other than Re'gab (Corona beer, with lime that night!) for a change.

I'm sure you know about the plane crash. I heard about it 2 days ago (today's the 20'th) but am only getting details slowly. By the time you get this, you and me both will know if it was deliberate. Worry not, everything's dandy here.

July 30, 1996 I was so tired last night when I went home, all I could do was sleep, although another of Appolinoire's brothers, Jean-Pierre, a civil engineer, felt it necessary to ask me a thousand questions first, and correct my french on all of them. ECK! I'm waiting to begin my french lesson, and I've got so much to tell you about the past few days. To begin with, thursday morning around 7am the constructors, Rod - a volunteer, Mirielle - a french teacher, Jeremy - another volunteer, and a hanger-on for the ride, ten people in all, piled into a land cruiser, en route to Tchibonga down south, way south of the equator! For the first 3 hours the road was smooth, over the equator, past this dead guy in the road (no kidding! But it wasn't particulary dramatic, no mob hit or political assasination, just a drunk guy who wandered into the road and apparently, got his head run over.) Weird sight, but after the uncomfortable silence in the car, we all realized it's just par for the course in this world. Stuff you only hear about happens just as often in the states.

Appolinoire has wished you well, as I'm writing at the dining table in the house. Tomorrow night he's invited all the construction volunteers to come over for a small party. Coincidentally, there's another party later on with all the volunteers. It's gonna be a rough night, but hey.... I can handle it. Imagine, my host family has invited all my friends over. Isn't that wonderful? They're very good to me, and here I'm truly part of the family. I got lucky. Speaking of volunteers, you may be getting this letter sooner than my others, as it will hopefully be mailed in the states by one of the two volunteers in our training group who has dropped out. The second construction volunteer, and a health volunteer, have decided, for personal reasons which I don't entirely understand, but respect nonetheless, to ditch service and tuck tail for home. Good thing they didn't join the army!

Gotta say, when I first talked to them the night before they left for a hostel closer to the Peace Corps office, the hopes and expectations they had on returning home were seductive. I found myself yearning for my life back home, then I snapped out of it and realized what kind of trap that was, that they had already fallen into. Thoughts of home prey upon your insecurities and weaknesses. They make you see your life then through rose colored glasses. Kevin, the construction volunteer, once he had reached this point, refused to find joy in anything here, not even the marvelous trip we had to the interior! Therefore, I re-committed myself to this job, and this experience. I am here, by the grace of god, where I am needed, where I can touch people, do good, make a difference. Things that I can do because I am here, and I am strong enough. Truth be told, in realizing, little by little, that I really am the right man for the job.

Geez, I ran our of room and still haven't talked about my trip! Too much to say, too little time. Suffice to say, I HAVE SEEN THE PROMISED LAND! I'm gonna love this job!

August 11, 1996  My stage here is winding up, it's monday morning, and friday morning we (the construction volunteers and I) leave for Dyene in the far north of the country. There are only 5 of us left now: three adults (40's), Larry, who's going to be coming back here to work the bureau (office) end of things, Leone, a successfull architect who put her practice in Rhode Island on hold to come here, and J.J., a contractor from Arizona. J.J. and I could have had a lot of fun, but his delight is in recounting stories of his wild years, not reliving them. To round out this group, we have Steven, a fresh out of college architect student. Although he's closer in age, his life experiences still have him at the idealistic stage, and his sudden switches between complaining and reading me because I'm complaining will not allow us to share any common wavelength for long. In other words, the best friends I have made so far, I'm again leaving behind me. Sure is a trial by fire. As much as I want to be self reliant, the connections I make with other people make or break me. This is why I have no time right now. I feel like I did before I left for the Peace Corps, wanting to draw out the time I have with the friends I've made.

On a more positive note, construction move to Oyeeme marks the beginning of technical training, the next step closer to actually starting my job.

August 26, 1996  It's Sunday mid-morning. I just finished washing dishes, and now I'm sitting in the old dilapidated school house on the site where we're building the new school and teachers house. I also just had a good cry. It was a long time coming, and I could feel it trying to break the surface many times before, but this was the first good opportunity. Right now your son feels like a big weakling who has no purpose being here. I don't know how to do this work, my french is better than the other construction trainees but I still can't hold a conversation, and I have no stamina. I'm tired when i wake up, and exhausted but wired when i got o bed, and there's no time in between to have so much as a daydream right now. This will pass, because I'll get smarter, stronger, and once I'm established in my village, I'll have time to myself. Trouble is, in the mean time I'm playing it awfully close to the bone. Tears well up in my eyes at the simplest, stupidest things, like the fact that we have 'BAMA' mayonnaise, imported from Birmingham, AL, at our table each night. I've never experienced anything so unfamiliar before in my life, which I knew when I came would happen, but it sure feels different when your waking up every day in it. The little things that remind me of home only make me miss it more. I guess a big thing that affected me was the realization that a volunteer, who'd been here for 2 years and was slated to leave a couple of days after my birthday, ending his service after a successful tour, isn't particularly in love with the people here. I thought after a while I'd start thinking of this place as home, and still really hope I will, but his confession that he still didn't understand folks here was sobering. Obviously I don't understand. But then again, I don't know myself. I can't even give people a straight answer as to why I'm here. I don't know. Sometimes I think this was foolish, throwing myself into this positive, but traumatic situation, right after having weathered an over-long, not so positive traumatic situation. I also kick myself for leaving you, and pray things are going well for you and your spirits are high. I don't know think this letter so far helps, but please just take it as the depression burns of confusion, exhaustion, and fear. They pass. There is a saying here in the Peace Corps: STAGE SUCKS. (pronounced 'STAHJ') Stage is what I'm doing, basic training more or less. Inconvenient, frustrating, annoying, scary, tiring.

Hi again. it's now around noon on Wednesday, and I want to explain the above. I imagine such words put you into a panic, and I'm so sorry for that, but it presents an accurate picture taken with my other letters, of the scope of emotions we all run through here. Sunday I did end up talking to Joe, who's our cook, a fellow mid-westerner who's travelled as far as West Virginia before the Peace Corps. He empathized with my feelings, and said he'd felt much the same during his training. I truly believe this is designed, whether consciously or not, to push you to your limits. Conflicting, or non-present information is the rule. You're told where to be, what to do, and when to do it, something I've personally sought to avoid for most of my adult life. Plus, there's no escape to home at the end of the day. The giddy joy of discovery has passed and everything seems strange and unwelcoming. Welcome to a very strong life lesson. This is the pain of rebirth.

Also, in a move guaranteed to make the world look horrific and strange, I began coming down with something Sunday afternoon, I guess, and by monday morning I was full fledgedly sick. Under I went for a couple of days. Feeling feeble, and guilty because I wasn't working. Another stagiere, Larry, who had been sick in almost exactly the same way last week, came to offer me food and some reassurances. Seems (contrary to our long family tradition), that it's not such a bad thing to take care of yourself first. Actually, it's the only way you can go if you really want to help anyone else. If you're not happy, and strong, and healthy (and only you know what you yourself really need at any given moment) you're in no shape to help others.

Anyway, that was the flu I had. I'm over it now, and can come back to work for the pouring of the slab for the house and laying brick today. World looks better, too. I hope I didn't depress you with my whining, but who can you whine to if not your mom? Plus I don't want to think I've got it too easy here.

I'm very sorry for the long non-descriptive, mental mumbo-jumbo letters I send you. My mind is so busy processing what I'm feeling I can't concentrate on what I'm seeing! Today, after lunch and another french class, Joe Furber (the cook) and I went for a walk `en brousse', out in the jungle. It was a sizable well marked trail for the most part, winding 3.5km through the rainforest, small plantations of manioc, cocoa, and bananas, and some staggering vistas, and culminating in a plank and log bridge, solid but half submerged, across a shallow river, marking the border between Gabon and Equatorial Guinea. Joe swore the rustlings in the flora nearby was a border guard about to perforate us if we stepped foot into Guinea. I don't think that would be a preferred job anywhere.

Sept. 1, 1996  Buenos Dias! Never Complain. That's when god shows you how good you had it by making things worse. The constructeurs: Moi, Leone Nell Smets, J.J. Herrman, Steven Jallad, and Larry Fleming have made the break from the other poor saps in Libreville with their sissy electric light and running water, and are now up in a village 15 kilometers from Bitam, one of the northern-most points in Gabon. This is the home of the Fang, the largest and (politically correct speaking) most aggressive ethnic group in Gabon. Historically, they swept down from the north and took over most of what is now N. Gabon, and still have their fingers in lots of pies. Being as far north as we are, too, presents unique problems. For one, the Fang are a proud people and speak their own language, although most still know a 2nd language as well. Trouble is, a lot of folk come down from Equatorial Guinea, so their second language isn't French, it's SPANISH! Therefore communication is retarded, to say the least.

I'm also discovering that I am the construction volunteer I would have voted least likely to succeed. J.J.'s been in the construction biz for in-the-teens of years, Larry in the supervisory aspect of construction, and Leone and Steven are architects (her a practicing, muy successful architect, him a VERY recent graduate). I'm a jack of all trades, part-time tattoo artist who works on bikes in his spare time! Excuse me, but....what the fuck? Seems I am muy underqualified for this, providing me with an almost limitless source of anxiety. Those of you who think it's a blast over here, let me tell you, hell is everywhere, heaven's where you make it. I dream nightly of the idyllic life I left behind and all my friends. Another life lesson, if your dealing with people look no further than next door, because folks don't change anywhere in the world. There's nice folks, and there are pricks, in every flavor, financial category, linguistic group, and job, in the whole world (thus that I have seen). Sure I see some exotic stuff, but the major emphasis of this job is to impart new knowledge to hayseeds whose lingo you (and they for the most part) can't speak! Right now everything I think is colored by a semi-burned out state I exist in for stage (stahj'), our basic training program. Physical work is hard and heavy, and I don't know what I'm doing, and I don't know the language I'm doing it in, and all our time is regimented, and we are, for the moment, not free citizens any longer. It's a situation to survive, merely, the object of which is to get out to your post, establish a mailing address, get some workers together, SLOWLY figure out what the hells going on, and then sit back and write all those letters you've been promising everybody

Random observations. People don't have personal cars around here at all. Just another reason why we are so bizarre. The accepted mode of transportation `en brousse' (in the sticks) is an `occasion', the only traffic on these back roads, which is basically a little Japanese pick-up, with hoops on the back for a canvas top and about, and I'm not exaggerating, 12-15 people in the back, not including the 3 or 4 in the cab. Of course, there's usually baggage, bunches of bananas, barrels of water, you name it, as well. In rainy weather, when the clay roads are slick as snake snot (tried to teach the Gabonese that expression) everyone has to get out and walk so the occasion can get to the top of the hill, then it waits and everyone climbs back on. But it works, and that is the way to go for travelling overland in this country.

Let's see, what else? Used half my free time yesterday, and a good chunk today, trying to get the generator back up and running. It was good to get back to mechanics and apparently I looked like I was doing enough that everyone was very supportive and confident of my abilities, until the actual stage mechanic came back, made me put everything back together, took it all apart again, didn't even ask me for even an opinion, and three hours later drove out to Oyem, two hours away, with the generator in the back of the truck. Ha ha! (smug, self satisfied laugh)

Sept 10, 1996  God this is frustrating. Besides the little "wunderkind", we've got experts in this stage. This means we've got opinions, at least four of them, for every single itty bitty operation we try. Today, after the flood that came racing towards the stage house, that JJ and I kept from swamping the kitchen, we're trying to build a simple diversion to redirect the water around the house. JJ and I were simply going to go ahead and do it, but out plans were obviously not complex enough, and once our resident architect got involved, the engineering grew to staggering proportions. Therefore I'm writing a letter instead. Funny how the old saying translates: Too many cooks spoil the soup. Here it's "Too many "Chefs" (name for the boss) spoil every blessed thing. I can't wait 'till this intermiable stage is over, and I can try to exercise my brain and not have all my ideas dismissed, labeled as "Oh no, we should .... instead." I concede that my experience level is not where their's is, but it's no reason to treat my input with casual disdain.

Jeez, I'm sorry. I guess I'm the one who's bitter. I think back to my last letter, berating those who try to make changes in things they don't fully understand, and I realize I am berating myself. These people are scared, worried, excited, anxious: everything I am as well and their reactions to this situation should not be judged by me, anymore than I would want them to judge me. It's easy to write this, and think it. but it's awfully hard to live it. When I'm unhappy and these folks are bothering me, it's so simple to write them off as pains in the ass that I want to go away. I suppose I still wouldn't want to hang out with them for too long, but they're good people, who are trying to do a difficult, I guess you'd say, job, just like me.

Alright, enough whining. I miss you so much (all of you can take this statement as gospel) that I can hardly put it into words. I know life goes on in the states while I'm gone, but please try to behave when I come back, or I'll regret ever having left.

Is it allowed to just not get along with someone? The annoying trainee from the last letter is back. Everyone is outside talking, and I'm in the house. Fortunately with electrical light from the generator at the moment. I try so hard to get along with him, but he's so unconscious of the stuff he says whereas I'm painfully conscious of the stuff I'm not saying, either to him, or in general that he, alone of everyone else, has proven he is incapable of understanding as of yet. Perhaps we are obliged to wade through the teeming masses of unpleasant people we encounter every day, in order to better appreciate those whom we truly connect with.

9/12/96  I'm sitting in a Peace Corps truck in Bitam, the closest town to the chantier. Condor, the stage mechanic, logistics man, etc is evaluating my driving under the guise of running errands. Our last stop was at the dreaded post office, where I got into a yelling match, in french, with the jaded civil servant behind the stamp desk.

Condor's doing something here at the local hospital. I think he's making me pay for making him wait in the car last time.

OK Here's the big news, and I hope it doesn't change after I tell you. J.J., the old biker type constructor in our stage group, is going do remain on this chantier in order to mop it up. 2 rooms and an office will have to be finished in the school, one teacher's house needed to be completed, and another, built by this inimatable English teacher turned frustrated Construction volunteer, is badly in need of repair. Besides allowing him to know his place in the universe, rather than being at loose ends not knowing his next post, J.J. already knows the workers here, and is hoping to get his french, which is rather lacking at the moment, up to par. So what does this have to do with me? I like J.J.'s way of working, his laid-back philosophy, in short, we get along preety well. He also has 15+ years of construction experience under his belt, whereas I have preety much none. I -DO- however, have a pretty good command of the local 'langue do frog'. Therefore we came up with the idea of us both staying here, me teaching him french, him teaching me technical stuff. We ran this by both big bosses last weekend, and pending any sudden turn abouts, they're in agreement that this is a good idea, because J.J. is not ready to face the french speaking world alone, and I am finding it difficult to learn anything right now, with everything so chopped up and people falling over one another.

Another added benefit is that the stage site '95 is STILL not finished,

 

Sept. 19, 1996  It's 7 in the morning, Friday, and we're getting ready to go to war.......You see that? That's the last thing I wrote before I lent my pen to this new dude Doug Layden, who took over when Condor jetted. 'Ready to go to war...' Fuckin' right that was! Today was a fuckin' nightmare! This stage can burn in hell. Half because I wanna have my life back, half because I know I'm gonna miss folks when they've all scattered to the 4 winds after this. Just like the hero says to the villian in the movies, "Pity, under different circumstances we could've been friends."

I could use some funk in my life. The pop music here SUCKS. It's called "ZOOK" and it might be the same crap Chris sent you. It all sounds like itself, and every bar, boutique, night club, what have you plays it way above the capacity of whatever speakers it careens through, and its just distorted and unpleasant. 'Course Joe, our star-crossed cook and my good buddy, listened endlessly to live Grateful Dead tapes, which also have negligible musical value to the uninitiated. I don't think 2 years is gonna be sufficient to 'irritate' me to bubble gum crappy pop in any language.

Sept. 23, 1996  Do you know why I'm here? Because I'm tormented. Because I can be miserable anywhere I go. Something inside me has obviously gotten sick of being scared and lonely and confused, and sent me to the scariest, loneliest, most confusing place it could imagine for me so that I would have to find a paradise here. No, so I WOULD find a paradise here. I think I try too hard. Of everyone here, I've felt like my inner demons were screaming louder than everyone else's, scattering my good feelings, and giving restless nights, full of horrible dreams. But there ARE no inner demons. There's just me, not enjoying my life. What in the world do I have more control over than my own life? It's the one thing I own outright.

Sept. 25, 1996 I'm going through the classic after effects of reading a good book. I finally found a copy of Richard Bach's "Illusions" in my hands, and knowing how much I needed a new way of looking at things at that very moment, I read it right then. Well, what do you know? He's got a very good argument against a lot of what our family holds so sacred: that would be the guilt we constantly inflict upon ourselves, judging ourselves with 300%, no 3000% sharper indictments than the rest of the world would slap us with if they had a problem with us, which they don't! Everybody is [too] wrapped [up] in a horrible cozy coccoon of their own self doubt, and paranoia, etc to notice any but the brightest highlights of anyone else's life.

To be specific, I have been having a whole lot of no fun here here so far, and I'll bet a BIG chunk of it is that I've been so worried about what other people think of me: Am I speaking French well enough? If I get tired during work and need to rest, will others think I'm lazy? When I take over here, will the villagers respect me? The answer is.... Maybe! Maybe you're understood, maybe you're not. That's not your problem. If other people don't understand you, TRYING to make them understand you is probably the worst thing you can do. They'll just shake their heads, and you'll frustrate yourself out of havig any semblance of a good time. Polonius was a fool, but he did say, 'To thine own self be true' all those years ago. Seems after all this time of trying to learn self-sacrifice, we've lost the ability to have fun ourselves, so we go around miserable all the time, grumbling, complaining, and not being a hell of a lot of good to anyone. I'm through being miserable here, I'll just go home if I have to be unhappy in a french-speaking, 3rd world country that stares at me all the time. At least back in the states we got TV, sit-down toilets and hot water! Nope. I'm here, and it took a long time to get myself here, and I'll be damned if I let anyone, like me for instance, get in the way of my full-out enjoying these next two fun-filled, adventursome, lots of people to hang out with, years. Nuff said.

This will be my last letter to you as a stagiare, or trainee. Come friday we're off to Oyem to a real motel (beds! hot water! a mirror!) (well, maybe. Nothings for sure here, I'm sure I wrote that before.) We swear in friday night, and after 3 months of INTENSIVE training, we get to be volunteers. I didn't out an exclamation point there, because it's almost a let down. Most people become 'volunteers' simply by raising their hands and saying "I'll clean the erasers, Mrs Crabapple!" Also, volunteers classically get a lot more than they bargain for.

Doug and I went back to his (soon to be my) house and made tortillas and sauce. The flour was full of weevils, but they're not poisonous, and everyone knows bugs are full of protein! Boy am I full now.

Friday the 27th of Sept 1996  Here we are in Oyem. The hotel does have hot water, but no knob on the spindle, so it's a challenge. I also had to repair the hose connection at the shower head end so it didn't spray water 90' way from where it was supposed to. I can't believe after all this time, tonight's the first night of our two year service. It seems so long. I don't suppose it helps that I'm sick again. just a little stomach bug, but it's enough to keep me near exhaustion, and has my emotions off balance so that the normal coping mechanisms aren't on-line. Nice way to start my service.

Tonight instead of going out and partying with everyone, I'm going to probably go to bed early so as to nip this in the butt, er bud, and have a fresh roll of TP near the sitdown toilet! (no seat though. what did I say? you never know.) It's one of the hardest things I've had to come to grips with: keeping your expectations low or having no expectations at all! Else set yourself up for disappointment, but it's hard not to look forward to something that should be good, and to relish its thought in your mind.

Throughout my life I've come to the realization that anticipation is is almost more savory than actual experience! The month of December leading to Christmas, for instance. Here it finding the nicest hotel in town wouldn't pass basic health standards in the states. Here it's finding that work will be longer than expected, occasions (the private bus service - see last letter) are cheap but it's a 2-day! journey from any chantier in the north to Lambarini, where Julia lives, so the likely hood of my seeing her is about.... Well, I just told Larry my theory about 'no expectations', and he said it was very Zen, then proceeded to remind me that if I just take it easy and take things as they come, things'll work out. Rides may appear whenre I least expect em. Knowing this is one thing, remembering it when you already feel lousy is another. I appreciated the reminder. Sure enought, too, best to nail the point home. Leone came by my room to call Larry to his French exam (we all get one today), and in the conversation that ensued following her 'How're you doing, Leslie?" She pinpointed the exact reason for my malady, and why I was feeling crampy! Seems on tuesday, after painting a lot of boards with used motor oil/diesel mix which seals the wood and repels termites, (primitive creosote) i got myself preety covered in it. All I wanted was a good soak in the river to clean up, but I ended up having to drive someone home, got invited to dinner, got poured a drink at another house, and stop two other places before I finally got to wash. Therefore the oil soaked in and I got sick. Now I'm feeling better, and know better too. Boy, do I bitch!

Oh, incidentally, I'm a volunteer! It's 11:00 friday night and I'm penning a last few lines before I sleep. I wore my hair down over my shoulders for swear-in, because that's how I wore it when I spoke at Dad's memorial service. I feel important. Purposeful. in short, the problems seem small, the job big, and the pride bigger. That'll all possibly change tomorrow, when JJ and I return to our ransacked chantier, but now I'm enjoying the glow. Thanks for being proud of me. Good night.

Everything's starting to move early this morning. I don't think I'll have the relaxing 2 hours I thought to write a second page, so I'll finish this and start another when I get back to the village. Sorry my letters are schizophrenic. the peaks and valleys really are amazing far from one another right now in my life, and it's surprisingly how little time it takes to travel from one to another.

Sept. 30, 1996  Weird paper, huh? When I run out of typing paper, this'll be what I'll be writing on all the time. I'm using it right now because I'm at Julie Silva's house in Bitam. She's an English as a foreign language teacher here at the catholic mission. Still Peace Corps, just not so backwards as some. She's dating another construction volunteer in the area named Tom. I'm watching the rain thunder down in the last hours of the day. My chatier's 15km outside of Bitam, normally not a long distance, but owing to the recent events, I'm not chancing the road in the rain.

Oct. 3, 1996   Well, thing's have calmed down a lot since then. Pasta, a little pig whom we kept along with another during stage, is cautiously exploring a bowl of old rice we put out for her. She was supposed to be part of the end of stage fete, along with her pen-mate, but since Joe was gone, it wasn't until the day before the fete that we realized she belonged to someone else. So, due to the chaos, she escaped uneaten. Now she hangs out on the site, reminiscing about the good old days of lots of leftovers, and we feed her a bit when we can, because we like her company.

The night before I wrote that introduction up top, I had also been in Bitam, I'd bought some bread, some fruit, an avacado, and a very preety raku ashtray with elephants with entwined trunks atop it, as a housewarming gift for J.J., who had that day moved into the tool storage house (hereafter - the magasin). It was raining as usual, not hard, as it had been earlier, just a medium drizzle. I'd had dinner with a couple of the volunteers, so it was dark as I put on my headphones. Bruce Springsteen started to sing "Thunder Road" and I took off toward home. I drove very carefully, as the roads turn to sluices and slurries of water and mud in the rains. On a downhill about halfway home, all the careful driving in the world couldn't have stopped that truck. Neither brakes nor steering mattered as the wheels tracked along a frictionless rut towards the left shoulder, which for obvious reasons, is actually a meter deep ditch along both sides to hopefully channel some of the water. I counter-steered, disengaged the clutch, and feathered the brake. The wheels caught the edge of the rut and began to climb back onto the road surface! Then, quicker than I could even swear, they found a new rut and slid smoothly into the far wall of the ditch on the right side of the road. Bread, avacados, ashtray, headphones and driver were sent at a considerable rate of speed forward. Luckily, Land Cruisers have almost vertical steering wheels, so I met plastic, not glass.

The start-up lights of the now stopped engine shown back at me. The windshield wiper had somehow been knocked too high, so I switched them off. Amidst the ringing in my ears and the screams of my left shoulder, I could hear Springsteen, faintly, singing "Born to run." For a minute, I just sat there, figuring my shoulder was broken, waiting to collect my wits enough to try and get back on the road. Then a face appeared in my side window. Ca va? he asked, and asked if I needed any help. I thanked him and said I thought I was ok. Well then, he said. Do you think you could give me and my kids a ride up yonder? !!? Only in Gabon would a man have the BALLS to ask someone who'd just careened off the road into a ditch, for a ride! What could I say? Yeah, sure, whatthafuck. A minute later, 12 ADULTS, not kids, had materialized and were singing in the back of my pickup as I drove the same treacherous road toward home. Guess it's hard to catch a cab that time of night on a Sunday.

So, like my story? Well how could you? I haven't told it yet! That's just the prelude!

When I arrived home after depositing my cargo, who all said "Thanks you meester" (folks love to practice their English on you), so I pulled into the chantier, stiffly pulled myself out from behind the wheel, and gathered my scattered belongings. Miraculously, the ashtray was intact! I went into the magasin, and caught up with J.J.. He was telling me about Daniel, our oldest and most level-headed worker, havign had come in earlier and ranting to J.J. to what end of which J.J. of course ahd no idea, as he speaks no French so far. As luck would have it, I got to hear the story first hand, for at that moment Daniel came in, tailed by Mayen Mbn, another worker.

In an Oscar-winning dramatic performance Daniel recounted having chased away 3 intruders on friday night, while we were all in Oyem for the swear-in. (we had left him to sleep in the magasin to guard everything.) By pointing a flashlight and a stick at them, and yelling for help, he had put them to flight, helped no doubt by the appearances of the school director, who came out with his shotgun. At this point Moyenemba, who was obviously drunk, interrupted to ask for a light for his cigarette. Daniel turned and SCREAMED at him in Fang, until Mba slunk into the shadows again. After this, nothing occured 'til sunday, Daniel told me, when as he was sitting at after mass lunch with his family and friends, an occasion stopped in front of his house, and TEN men got out, armed with knives, machettes (later he added spears) and clubs. They promised to kill him, and left.... MmmHmmm...., came my response. Pity, they voice of reason in our group has taken a half-gainer off the 12ft end of the pool. Flustered, but undaunted, Daniel launched into his 2nd retelling of the story, even more animated and furious than before -- Eh, excuse me, Leslie. Can I... Moyenemba, oblivious, interrupted again, but this time, along with the royal thrashing out, Daniel reared back and decked Mba, with all his strngth, across the face. Mba staggered into the hallway and crouched, cradling his now resonating cranium in his hands. Daniel now had my undivided attention. He repeated his story once again for clarity, and I very politely listened, nodding at the appropriate junctures.

Now came the request for a favor. This seems to be the only time a villager wants to spend any time around you. 'Course they spend alot of time around you, if that's any clue. Since he was threatened for defending our chantier, we (actually I, 'cuz I know the lingo) had to take him to the gendarmes (police) up the road on the Camerounion border, to file a report. This I did monday. The officer listened blandly to Daniel's tale, which by now was getting old, and gave him a convocation, or subpoena, for a hearing the next morning. This brings us to when I first started the letter, Monday night in Bitam, after trying in vain to radio Libreville, in order to tell them, and now you as well, that we were both going to be living in the magasin, and when work was over for the day, the chantier was closed, and nobody, but nobody, was allowed in, under penalty of being snuck up on and clubbed by us. J.J. and I made a big production about this, as it made Daniel happy (who in turn keeps the workers happy) and also promised us a modicum of privacy for a while. neat how things work out! Course, I've lost a whole house in the village in favor of a single room in the magasin, amongst tools and bags of cement. But it's quiet here, and in the village there's a commotion, and kids standing in your doorway staring at you, ALL the time. That's how Gabon is, especially if you're not the same color as the rest of humanity. Only through quick thinking upon weird circumstances did we accomplish this modicum of tranquility.

Tuesday came. The workers came. Daniel did not. I was dressed up for my first Gabonsese trial, on enquete (inquest). So, as it was approaching the hour of our enquete, I went searching for Daniel. I found him two villages down, trying to get either the chef du village, or the 3 lads in question, to go with us to the gendarmerie! Seems in Gabon you serve summons yourself. I don't want to say I figured, but the 3 kids were less than willing to accept a ride from their accuser to jail. Therefore, we had to go back to the chantier, where Daniel worked a half day, in his dress clothes, while we waitied for the 3 to pass by in an occasion. Apparently it's hard to get a cab on Tuesday mornings, too, because an hour and a half later the three came trudging by on foot, bound for the gendarmerie, in Meyo-kye, 14 kilometers away! As I rolled my eyes heavenward, God took pity and sent a occasion to pick them up. We waited another half hour for them to have a head start, then took off.

When we had all gathered in the Gendarmes office, (which is indistinguishable from any other Gabonese room, dirty concrete walls and wooden slatted windows, except for the presence of 4 tables and a like number of chairs, plus two for visitors, a typewriter, a daybed propped against the wall, and the whines and distorted voices of the radio room beyond.) Daniel began his deposition to the same gendarme, only now instead of his official French looking uniform, he sported a red/white striped t-shirt, jeans and flip flops. The three youths sat politely then each told their side of the story... all this was in french, as opposed to fang, for my benefit. Pointless, but a nice gesture. The gendarme, during all this, shredded a piece of paper and tossed the bits at a trash box, and at no time ever giving the impression that he gave a rat's ass. As the 3rd youth finished, the gendarme asked "Is that all?" and preceded to blast into the three kids! "Are you seriously trying to say you walked 3km at 2am, just to take a walk? Do you WANT to go to prison?" He laid into 'em for a good 20 minutes, while Daniel quietly beamed, pressed my hand and whispered "Everything's okay, now."

The youths were given orders to return Thursday. Daniel was asked to summon the two other witnesses from the first night, and we were free to go! Speedy 3rd-world justice! Who would've thought? Daniel bought me a soda at the bar afterwards and we talked a bit (I don't drink much beer anymore here, hot 20oz'ers cure you quick) then we caught up to the three little 'bandits' on the road, and gave them a ride home. Daniel was happy. First test.... first test passed. Today, thursday, J.J. took Daniel et al (including Moyemba, whose one eye is sowllen almost shut) back to finish up in Meyoteye. I promised him he wouldn't have to talk.

With all the problems this chantichas had, between the fiasco at the first constructor here, the robbery and attack, and other various and sundry that have become so matter of fact to make it into print, I feel like this is our place, and we're the guys for the job. Our workers seem to respect us, and between my language, J.J.'s technical, and our combined management, we ought to be able to pull a decent school out of this. Of course you won't hold me to what I just said, will you?

Things are definitely different and weird here, but it's not so bad. Fact is, the only thing that really sets me off-balance is thinking of home, and those left behind. You're probably thinking "Remember, Leslie, the grass is always greener on the other side," but I think you know how good you all are, and how much you mean to me. I had it really good in the states, between those I loved and my footloose lifestyle. I think the thing that made me journey to Africa, to take on this task, the only thing I didn't like about my life then was me. I thought I needed to have something big, something major, so I could point to it and say, "I did this! I accomplished something!" That's just silly though. I know I didn't need to prove anything to you all. it's funny how our longest journey's, to the most unfamiliar territores, are right here between our ears. Africa's just more folks, just like everyone else, plus a lot of bugs and trees and cool stuff, but it's just a place I came to reflect on what I do have, and who I am, and how content I could be if I only let myself.

I've come to many realizations here. It's truly the reason I came. I could leave right now happy with the me I am, but I gave my word to stay, and I always keep my word. Or well at least unless there's a really good reason not to. No, when I look at that little enameled Peace Corps pin I got last friday, I feel proud to be part of this. We're a lot cooler than the Marines, you know.

Oct 4th, 1996  After work today we threw a little party. Beer, popcorn, and a 200F a day raise. The workers loved the beer and popcorn, but they stared stonily at me when I announced the raise. Seems instead of a piddly 10% raise they were figuring on 75% or at least 50% more. Now I've got to spend my saturday morning argueing with, yes, Daniel again over why we aren't going to give them any more, and how we're actually being nice, because the raise wasn't scheduled until all the walls were up in the school, a good month away! This is, coupled with the fact that I have to take Daniel to the gendarmes AGAIN tomorrow morning (this is the fifth time) because J.J. can't speak enough french, and the gendarmes are threatening to throw one of the kids in prison in Oyem for a simple, first-time, gonna get whupped by his dad anyway, trespassing and harassment charge! I hope Daniel's proud now, after his hystionic retelling of "The great chantier break-in" (which incidentally, even Gabriel, who came running to his aid with a gun, doesn't believe.) Fortunately for the kid, who I'm sure has learned his lesson 6 times over (I sure have, and I didn't even do anything!) they asked us, the 'patrons' of the chantier, what they should do - freedom or prison. So thank god I got my french down in time! Tomorrow I go give my opinion on the fate of the little bandit, which will of course be to let his family handle it, and if it happens again, I'm going to call a pre-emptive napalm strike on the whole area! I am also in the process of not paying Daniel any more money, going to politely tell this rspected old wise man that I'm finished being his ride and his token white guy/authority figure, to the cops! Ingrateful bastards! I left my loved ones to help THESE people?

O.K. That was just to give you the flip side of the great coin of African life here. In two years, we will never make connections anywhere near the power of our people at home. We're always outsiders, even from each other, I find. People, I guess, naturally take from strangers, and give to family. Folks here always take stuff back to their wives and kids, even their salaries! Today both Daniel and Moyenmba took their 2nd beer back to their wives. We'll never ne like them here, no matter how 'grass roots' we try to be. Too much is too different. I have always thrived on the love of those close to me. It being so far away, and there being no local source (save J.J. and Julia) makes it hard.

Now I'm going to try to be more uplifting, because by the time you read this I'll be a month further into this and hopefully wiser and more content for the experience. Pasta's still hanging around. She'll eat from our hands now, and we've made it known (and it's a big joke now) that she's our buddy, so Xmas dinner better be turkey. I know he'll stick for me for all I've got, but if Pasta and I are dog/person buddies by the time this is over (this chantier) I'm going to ask Gabriel if I can buy her from him, and take her to my next chantier. Hell, people have pets here, why not a pig?

The road in front of our chantier, with it's head in Bitam and tail at the Camerounian border, is probably older than this country. It was not made for motor vehicles (I've made that abundantly clear, I'm sure. (By the way, shoulder's much better) The road winds, dips and rises past more than a dozen villages, most of whom have only existed in their present location since the government, in order to better count it's constituents in the different regions of Gabon, moved all villages from their age-old locations, far back in the forest, to the side of the road. This was called regroupment. I've seen a couple of old villages down south, which are still occupied from tmie to time, due to the village plantation being nearby.

Even though these villages are kilometers apart from one another, foot traffic abounds. As soon as day breaks, as we're rolling out our wheelbarrows, women with huge baskets strapped to their backs, or basins of laundry, are making their way down the road. Men follow with machettes, or chainsaws, or the odd shotgun (held together with pipe clamps invariably) to harvest, or cut lumber, or hunt. The women return in the evenings, their packs loaded down with wood or produce from the plantation. The men return too, empty handed save the chainsaws balanced perfectly on their heads as they stroll home. Always in groups of two or three, or alone. No corporations here. Next day when business calls us down the road, we see the products of the men's labor: stacks of beautifully sawn, straight, chain-saw cut lumber. This is the efficiency of a people left to their own devices, and I ask myself, what is it we expect to teach these people? Since when has progress improved their lives? Between the love/hate relationship I have with the people amongst whom I live, this is a question I wrestle with almost daily, as I sit and reflect on the day's madness or magic. What is it that has possessed man, especially white European or American man to wander to the far places of the earth, whether for conquest or simply exploration. Seems everywhere we go we find folks who have been there for eons, and happy for it, or folks who were happy 'till others like us came and tried to improve upon something we didn't understand.

---Well, J.J. came to the rescue. I posed the above question to him, and he handed me a xeroxed portion from a book about Gabon we'd been given at the swear-in, but I hadn't read it. In it, it described the birth of the construction program in Gabon, how peace corps had gotten involved, and, more importantly, why. I won't go into details (for once in my life) but suffice it to say it reminded me that I, who am loved and have friends at home, I am over here to be me. Maybe I won't make connections as strong and as lasting as the ones I have with you, but I will make connections. I'm a simple, decent fellow from America. I'm not rich, powerful, or glamorous. I'm just folk. Maybe folks here won't have to travel halfway 'round the world to learn what I am coming to know.

Don't let the most negative parts of your life become the biggest thing in it. It really is a matter of perspective. If I fumed about the workers or the roads or the food (or the lack thereof) or the lack of running water, lights, music, cold drinks, conversations in English, or a thousand other things, I would be sick constantly, or worse, I'd quit. But I write my complaints and my fears in these letters. I vent, I fume, and I work things out. And then I reflect on how beautiful this place is, and how amongst all the birds and insects you hear at night, I also hear monkeys, and things 99% of the world will never see, let alone hear, as I am.

I can do this not because of where I am, but because I, from sheer necessity, have to leave my fears and bad feelings behind, break 'em off a bit at a time, work through them, and let them go away, or I could not survive... anywhere.

Oct 6, 1996   There is a big spider in the outhouse behind the magasin, one of those ones who spins the web with the zigzag-y thing in the middle. Herb & Jenny had em in the haystacks. Anyway, at certain times of the day, I find time to reflect on this spider, due to her convenient position. I've seen her go for flies now three times, running up on em, grabbing them with her forelegs, running back to her kitchen and wrapping it up, all in the blink of an eye. Watched another spider spinning her web one night. When you go to bed, sometimes you'll throw your shirt over the nail driven into the wall, and by the next morning it'll be ATTACHED to the wall, the bookshelf, the ceiling (roof) and a dozen other things. With all the buggies here, spiders have to be VERY industrious.

Oct 12, 1996  I think my pig gave me fleas. Actually, I'm not sure. She's been itching a lot, and I've got fleas, but it could be just because we're both sorry sons-o-bitches. (well, not actually, she's a 'daughter-o-sow) Her name is Pasta, and although she was pen-mates with Erika, the pig we ate for the end of stage fete, Pasta ain't gonna be eaten. She's this guy in the village's pig, but she hangs out up here with us all the time. Pigs here are free-range critters. She's pretty cool, you'd like here. It's amazing the vocabulary something that only grunts can have.

The big thing that's happened since I last wrote is that now I'm officially a volunteer! Whoo-hoo! I've even got a little cloisonee button that says so. Making the big bucks now, boyee!

Oct 13, 1996  I finally got to sleep a bit today! Yesterday eom dumb-shit politician came through drumming up support at 1am on a saturday morning! God was trying to tell him what a bad idea that was and made his battery go flat. Of course being a dumbshit he didn't get the message, but instead sent Daniel (always Danliel) up to wake us up to give him a jump. Daniel refused at 1am, and again at 4am, saying that due to security problems, the chantier was tight shut at night, and it was a well-known fact that we would take out anyone trespassing (see Mom's letters of a couple weeks back) Anyway, he didn't start calling for us until 6am that morning SATURDAY morning, and we ignored him until 8:30. of course I had to go, because J.J. again could claim ignorance on the basis of not knowing the language. I spent an hour learning how profoundly ignorant the assembled party was about basic mechanic, like positive is + and negative is - on a battery. We finally got his car started with a length of lamp cord. having a truck here is sometimes not so free-ing as you would think, especially when you're sharing with another volunteer and you're preety much stuck in your village, due to the nature of the work, and the fact that in a very real sense, the quality and quantity of work depends on you! Construction-freeest, and most chained down, of Peace Corps jobs.

Oh, I found out why I haven't been getting mail. Due to the elections here, slated for sometime in the future (Nov. 17 at the moment, but who knows) there is a postal strike. I wonder if you're going to get this letter before January! At the moment, no one knows how long, or even if, the strike will continue. This merely adds to the fucked up quality of this place. Already, due jointly to the elections, and the fact that the govt promised raises and wouldn't deliver, the teachers are on strike, too, so there's no school 'til.... There are two teaching volunteers in Bitam (our closest town) who are at the mother of all loose ends. They have nothing to do except read and wait. Doesn't sound too bad to me actually, but I'll bet the days just DRAG. All in all though, it's preety cool to experience the true 3rd-world political process. Unbelievably, it's even more of a farce than U.S. campaigning! Keep you updated as the shit nears the fan.

Just made a break-through! Pasta is now officially a pet! She let me give her a scratch behind the ears then lay down on her side and let me rub her belly. Didn't even try to bite... much. Life's so much cooler when ya got a animal pal. By the way, say hi to Jack and Scooter, and Jill (that's your folks cat, right?)

Just dropped a fizzy vitiamin-c alka-seltzery thing in a cup of water. Boy, I treat myself on Sundays!

Found a tape recently that a volunteer left behind when he/she left. TAD-INHALER! Listening to it right now. Ees good, yes? Yes. Power chord city! Only wish it was "4-Way Santa" so I could blast "Help Me, Jack Pepsi" on my headphones as I careen off what fucked-uppedly passes for the road here.

We're going to be a BAD-ASS rallying team by the time I get back. Start a rally-of-the-future fund when you can, and I'll chunk in some of my re-adjustment allowance. The road here is a 17 km. to Bitam, and it's abounding with steep ass hills which hook to the left or right, sluices where the road is merely a series of fast running gullies, several places you gotta ford in the rain, and no less than 6 almost non-existant plank bridges. Oh yeah, the road surface is loose clay. Ever felt wet clay? You should see the 'occasion' or bush-taxi, drivers burn down these roads. Nuts they are, and drunk, too. If I can get up to half their speed and stay on the road, we'll WIN rallies! Running off these roads is not good, because with all the rain we get, the shoulders are drainage trenches, about 3x3 feet, which run like rivers during a good downpoor. My wheels got stuck in a rut/gully on a downhill about a week and a half ago, and it sent the truck into one of these trenches in a micro-second, and me into the steering wheel (fortunately not through the windshield) Almost jerked my shoulder out of joint. I have repsect for these roads.

I'm being a porch monkey right now. Waiting for J.J. to get back from Bitam so we can go to lumch at Moyen Mba's house. He's one of our school building team; an odd little guy, strong as an ox, with a certifiable look in his eyes. He's from Equatorial Guinea, so he speaks no french. I think he's a pygmy from all the evidence. He's good folk though, as strange as he is.

Oct 13, 1996    Just got back from our meal with Moyen Mba. Had a wonderful time. True Gabonese experience. When we arrived, an hour late, we were met by the chief of the village, an old one-eyed guy who reeks of classic Fang history: warrior, leader, cannibal. He told us Mba was at the river having a bath, and set us down in his salon. After a couple shots of Spanish Brandy, Mba showed up (there were already about 10 people in and about the house, and several kids looking on). Everyone watched, and talked while we ate our meal: apparently they'd eaten earlier. We had a marvelous lunch of manioc, rat meat, papaya and bananas, washed down with the ever present room-temperature Regab beer. Before you cringe too much, rats here live in the jungle, not the sewer. They're also much bigger and have a good bit of meat on 'em. Besides, the sauce was tasty. MoyenMba insisted we take the remaining bananas and a large ripe papaya home with us. We in turn gave him two cartons of Spanish wine (wine here comes in juice boxes; 1 litre capacity) and gave the chief a can of Nescage, mostly cuz we can't stand it ourselves. All was smiles and mercis all around. It's good to exercise diplomacy and get fed in the process! Times are sure to get harder at some point, and there will be misunderstandings, but I can't see, at least right now, becoming as jaded or as unhappy as I've seen some of the other volunteers here. Most people here genuinely want to be friendly, have an experience with the boy from America, just as we want to have experiences with people here. I'm beginning to see how much a matter of perspective it all really is. Yes, the Gabonese ask for a lot, sometimes inappropriately, but give them half a chance, and they give twice that! Against all my previous inclinations, I am going to try my utmost to see things in their positive aspect, and enjoy the moment I am in, rather than being maudlin about the past, or impatient for the future. I truly believe it is the only way to survive this experience, and become better for it, rather than bitter.

Evolution has made the lowly filaria fly superintelligent and very survival prone. They can hover out of sight or reach for eaons, until you cease to pay attention, then they land and start feeding. most times, if you slap one early, he might fall, twitch a couple of times, then pick himself up and be off before you have a chance to stomp his ass. The only time you can consistently kill them is when they're nearly finished feeding, at which time you leave a bloody palm-print from the half pint he's just taken out of you. This is why every week, religiously, we take three pills, guaranteed to make you queasy and sick feeling, but also the only thing keeping us from developing firarin worms. Heartworm, they call it in animals. Ah, but I fell close to my critters now.

Oh hey now, what am I bitching about? I've got it preety damn good here. Afternoons off, books to read, coca-cola at my elbow (albeit a warm one). J.J. and I are great room-mates. lots of respect both ways, + it almost halfs the food bills. Things are decidedly different, but they certainly aren't bad. I can't wait to get the chance to write one of those letters that suckers like me read before we came. I got my solar shower finally set up right and took an orgasmic, luxurious HOT shower this afternoon, while my piggy tried to chomp the backs of my calves. Ah, but the world smells better when you're clean.

When I was moving out of Doug's house, after all the ruckus, I found a slingshot behind his bed. Two things Gabonese village kids do WELL is build little wooden trucks, and slingshots. The trucks they make with the soft, balsa wood like core of the palm trees tha folks make hooch out of. They see Peace Corps trucks and occasions all the time, and their little (about a foot long) models are super detailed, with gauges, stick shifts, roll bars, innertube rubber suspension, the works. They walk around pushing them with these long sticks stuck in a sucket behind the cab, and terminating in a steering wheel for the kid. They make 'em like this all over Gabon! I've seen them as far south as Tchibanga and as far north as, well, here. Slingshots are made with the same innertube rubber and look just like their American cousins. Wicked things they are. Excuse me, I'm gonna shoot mine a little before dark.

Food coping mechanisms - Part 1. Reeses peanut butter cups. Remember those old ads where the guy eating peanut butter collides with the other guy eating chocolate? Same principal. We can get milk chocolate bars from Cameroon in Bitam , and we have Moroccan peanut butter. Voila! Right now I'm making garlic toast in the oven without a rack. Don't have one. Do have empty metal cans though. balance is tricky, but it works gangbusters. Weevils. Can't keep 'em out of the flour or the rice, so... them boogers sure are high in protein, and that satisfying crunch!

9/14/96  Whew! Just finished humping 56 bags of cement (50 kg a piece) into the magasin. The truck arrived today and we were down to 1 and a half bags! It also brought Jildas, who was a homologue (Gabonese counterpart) candidate during stage. THE snottiest, most full of himself candidate. In lieu of canning him, Libreville has given him to us (JOY!) for a three month trial period, to see if he mellows at all when there isn't crazy stage stuff happening all around. I know I have. It rained hard today, and soaked a bunch of those bags, so a couple of times we'd hoist 'em up on our shoulders, and they'd explode all over us! This necessitated a full fledged trip to the river before it rained again and we hardened into little white lawn jockeys, or Leroys as I've heard 'em called.

Made Lentil and rice soup for lunch, and had a avocado and itongas for dinner tonight. Definitely NOT starving here! Itongas are dark purple egg shaped fruits/vegetables. They look a little like small egg plants. You soak 'em for about ten minutes in water you get to boiling and turn off. They've got a big pit, so you just bite through the skin and scrape/suck the meat off it. Both J.J. and I have trouble deciding the words to describe their taste or texture, but it could be sort of like pumpkin pie texture, but a sour, almost dill-like flavor. An acquired taste, but boy, they're good! They go great with beer! Maybe we can market em!

January 9, 1997 Greetings from the edge of the known world. I am not exaggerating. People here pop up like startled prairie dogs when they hear a car, which so far in my first three days has been twice; once when I got dropped off (terror!), and today when my independent Gabonese partner, Johnis, arrived.

It is beautiful here. Aside from Pride Rock, it looks just like the setting for the 'Lion King'. Long expanses of savannah, broken by groves of trees and taller grasses, and ringed with tall hills covered with forest.

The Local language is Bapanu, which I know absolutely none of. Actually, if I think hard, I can sometimes respond to "Meramboue'", or Good Day, by saying "Aadedjuwah." Twice I've fucked up and said Alajuwan, as in Akim Alajuwan, the basketball player. Maybe he's from around here. When people speak to me, it's in what french they know, but when they speak to one another, it's Bapunu. Makes casual conversation somewhat of a trick.

So here I am, in a village, in the south, just like I wanted. Of course there's still no money, no materials, no way to work except for clearing brush, and I've got the added advantage of having no other english (or good french, for that matter) speaker for a 150-200k walk! Scared? Yup. Sure am. At least I'm a little hopeful about this, and the folks here seem ready to work, hospitable (I have no kitchen, so I've been fed morning and night by the chef's sister, and tonight by Johnis' wife) and I have yet to put a lock on my door!

Johnis came with his wife, his brother and his wife, and four kids between them. All of them speak Bapanu, too. I feel decidedly the freak here.

Remember the Peter Gabriel song "Wallflower"? "Six by six, from wall to wall, shutters on the window, no light at all." Well, I think of that song far too often in my new pad. I'm getting scared to try anything new! Just when you think it couldn't get any worse... my room, a 9x12 lean-to built on the side of a house, and formerly home to several cases of beer and a sizeable crop of mushrooms, is not exactly up to code. Where the thatch roof has not rotted through, termites have eaten the wood hollow, so much so I first thought it was bamboo, and even the dew runs through, and turns my dirt floor into black mud, and all my stuff into mildew gardens. I look at it as incentive to get one of these damn teacher's houses knocked up, if I have to pay for cement myself!! Ironic, that the villagers are willing and happy to work 'cadeau', or free, to build the house, before we assemble the paid team for the school, but now it's the damn Peace Corps who won't cooperate! I'm going to make a bare-bones request list for them, and hope ardently they respond. If not, I've got someplace to go for a little vacation! Oh yeah, one last thing about my room. I can't stand up straight in it! And that's at the tall end. I remembered that when I stood up just now and CRACK! Ouch!

1-10-97  Had the meeting today with the villagers about where to locate the school even though we already have a site and have no plans to move it. Now I feel decidedly the freak verbally, too.

There is a little French spoken here, but any and all business conducted is in Bapanu. The entire meeting, save my introduction, was the local patois, and voices were raised, tempers flared that are still smoldering, and I have no idea why. My partner, Johnis, is Bapanu also but his translation to me was somewhat grudging. Fuck it. If it works it works. Nah... That's not true. I really want things to work out! I'm so jealous of Kat, because she seems to be enjoying her post. She's got a nice house, with running water, and a big salon, plus she is in the same town, and close by, our mutual friend Michelle. Shit. I just can't get used to this loneliness! I'm tired of being a freak (in Africa). What I'm doing is the hardest of hard-core Peace Corps, and I always try for the hardest stuff, whether at the Grand Canyon, or going "Thai Hot" in restaurants. Guess I got what I wished for. It's such a bitch though, not being able to share, save in letters, what's going on with me, my feelings and observations. Worst of all, I am utterly unable to crack a joke here! Sure I get laughs, but ones you cause inadvertently don't count.

Just got back from working clearing the site. If we get some money, materials, I believe things are going to start happening. When we work together we can get past the language thing. You'll be getting this letter probably sometime late January, early February. Bet it's cold there.

Whew. This is Africa. Temperature fluctuates about 10 degrees during the year. This is the dry season, when it's not so hot. I'm not looking forward to March. I'm gonna roast.

I like when we can actually work. Cuts through the bullshit, y'know? We've got to get some materials here. Re-read your letters from Thanksgiving/Xmas a little while ago, but first, a quick lesson on African, or at least Bamba Mambian, etiquette. Just got fed again. When offered my choice of antelope bits, I chose the best looking stuff in the bowl. Under normal circumstances, I would resign myself to a lesser piece, so as to not hog the good stuff, but last night I did that at Johnis' house (he's got a family, so he gets a house!), and I ended up with the lower jaw of a porcupine on my plate. The bits of brain were tender, but the rest was kind of stringy. MORAL: If you can't recognize it, and there's something else better looking in the plate, leave it for the joker who cooked it!

I'm going into Tchibanga tomorrow (sunday) and I'll mail this while there. I'm allowed/behooved to make the 4 (give or take, depending if one of the 11 bridges I have to cross is down) journey into my provincial capital, to report to Libreville, get supplies, check mail/pay, and of course, visit with Americans.

Later - Did I mention that my roof leaks? Allow me to stress that point! The dry season is nearly over and by way of introduction, mama nature's treating all my stuff to a shower tonight! Water is coming in a regular stream in at least three large spots, so far as I can find with my lantern, and the chair I'm sitting on is heeling to the right as my dirt floor becomes mud. I'm happy here, I'm happy here, I'm happy here, I'm happy here, Ommmmmmm.... Geez! Give a guy a break! Tonight the termites chose to swarm as well, and my desk, my paper, and my dinner are covered with discarded wings, and the bodies of frantic dying, mindless bugs. Overhead a family of tarantulas takes advantage of their good fortune and feasts on the termites, while under my feet, a very exotic-looking frog takes a breather from the rain outside.

Perhaps I am happy.

Tchibanga. I'm an alien here, too. Seems all the other volunteers are constantly zipping about; visiting, partying, staying in the bop! I came in this afternoon, with Johnis and our truck bed of villagers and various barrels, jugs, sacks and boxes of stuff, and I felt like I was coming home; like I'd be welcomed as, if not a prodigal son, at least a long-lost friend. Instead I felt like Robinson Carusoe, after a long experience of solitude and introspection, returning to the bustle and superficiality of Europe. Gossip, hangovers, dinner with friends, were all discussed, but I had no place in them. Will it be that I have to give up this world to slip into the one I've pledged to serve? What then? Where do I turn to alleviate my lonliness? Who will understand? I've got hopes, but as I sit in this, a Peace Corps volunteer's house, with electricity, running water, soft furniture and painted walls, and know that this is not.... Fuck this, I'm bringing myself down again. I just want camaraderie!

The three construction volunteers down here are a clique; a roving party. They are from the same stage group and stick together like glue. FUCK! Why won't it come together? I'm so tired of not belonging. The more I'm alone, the more I think, the more I think the less I am like those who remain always in the company of their peers. It's an escape, I know. A groups sticks together, party, talk nonsense (which would bore me to tears) say nothing of worth, just so they don't have to face only themselves, and what lurks in their minds, alone. And here I am trying to find ways to keep my mind from thoughts of escape, and having to deal with my own fears and weaknesses, all by myself, everyday. We're all doing the same job, so why do we have such different experiences? Ah, I had such a good time that time with Kat. We talked so freely, about people, books, the regular stuff, but also real stuff that was on our minds. It was serious, in that we had to recognize a mutual respect in order to lay bare matters below the surface, but it was light, and easy, and fun. We laughed so much. Now I'm afraid that it won't come again. It's so hard to come in, even to Tchibanga, and our experiences are so different, that next time I see her where we can really talk, we may no longer have that same connection. That's the risk with any two people, I know, but I have so few HERE to turn to for real soul-sharing (for want of a less new-age term) that it worries me..

Here's a theory; Mefloquine, our native anti-malarial medicine, is behind a lot of my emotional problems here. I've talked to several volunteers, and found that mood swings, exhaustion due to the inability to attain sufficiently deep sleep, irritability, all because, or due in part, to mefloquine! Talk about making a hard job harder! Anyway, last night my mood swung north again, and I had a good evening talking to Bill Buethel, who is my "regional co-ordinator", and with whom I discussed getting tools, etc, for starting up our chantier. If I can keep in perspective these dips into despair, and realize that they are artificial, maybe things will go a little smoother. Now if I could only make a plan, and have it come to fruition! Any plan! It sounds zen or something equally eastern, but to stay happy and sane here, you have to literally live without expectations. They will either not work out, or they will be born into reality horribly mutated. Think about how hard it is to achieve non-expectantness. Everything in life is flavored by hope, yearning, looking forward to; but here SO OFTEN this leads to disappointment. To be a successful simple volunteer, a person has to deny so many instincts, and thought patterns we've learned since childhood.

January 27, 1997 At the moment I'm in Moabi taking a small unofficial vacation. This started friday when Johnis and I had to come into Tchibanga to buy diesel fuel, before we stranded ourselves. There was a party I hoped to go to, and many people expected me to somehow attend, some 300 km north o' Tchibanga, celebrating Kevin Anglin's 31st (see, I'm not the oldest) birthday. In short, by many lucky coinkidinks, I made it up there, and had a blast. On the way back riding with Bill, my "regional co-ordinator", we met Aaron Fairchild, a former construction volunteer who has taken the office job in Libreville. He royally chewed my ass out about being out of province during a workday (monday), after he'd only left me on the chantier 3 weeks earlier, and blah blah blah yakkity shmackity.... I listened politely to his tirade, and when he finished I just grinned at him. "Are you gonna take my truck away?" I asked, in oh-so-much fear and loathing (not). "Oops, forgot... I don't have a truck." "Oh no, you're going to dock my pay, then, huh? Oh wait, I haven't BEEN paid since November!" "Gosh, does that mean you're gonna yell at me some more?" I basically told him I'd been busting my ass, the job is getting done, I'm having a little harmless fun, and I couldn't care less if I really wanted to what he had to say, especially in light of his own dubious track record. "Trust me", I said.

I still hit some pretty low, low spots, especially isolated in Bapuna-burg, but I'm concentrating on work, and keeping up my health, and making a long-awaited dream come true for a little village that doesn't get a lot of breaks. Besides, 7 months in, 20 months left. Not quite a third. I'm getting to go through "new-Post-shock-syndrome" yet again, and this time pretty intense, but it'll pass. I've got good people down here, too. Kat has, almost since the VERY beginning, been one of my best friends here. We're going to try to get together at least once a month, and that gives me a nice bite-sized chunk of time in which to look forward to seeing her. And cold beer. Regab with lime, not bad at all.

By the way, tell your buddy Bill Martin, late of Mauritania, that Tabitha is doing well, and although I haven't seen her for a while, we've written a few times. Also, I know two volunteers here in Gabon now who were in Mauritania serving up until a few months ago. They are a married couple - Andy Richardson and Lisa Thompson. Betcha he knows 'em. Tell him they're buddies of Mone, and also tell him hi, and not to worry about my weeping and wailing too much. Psychotropic effects of our anti-malarial medicine, Mefloquinine. Bad stuff. Agent orange, LSD 25, Gulf War Syndrome, Mefloquine. We take care of our boys overseas, yassuh!

Two people, one being Kat, said that I wear my heart on my sleeve, thus making myself "emotionally vulnerable". A lot of times I feel so tired of constantly trying to maintain a cheerful outlook, or at least facade, out in my village, that I don't have the strength to maintain the facade among people I care about, and promptly spill my guts, necessitating a complicated apology/retraction/explanation clean-up effort. It's slowly penetrating my thick head that this is not so good, as people jump back to avoid the splatter of spilled guts. It's better, I'm finding, when I can jump back myself, look at the situation as coldly as possible, and see what answers I can come up with. Even if it's only "I have 5 possible options here - A is this, B is that..." and figure out the advantages of each. That way I stand a better chance of weathering the buffeting it is giving me. In my friend Kevin's words, "This is NOT so bad." Granted, we were well fed and drunk at the time, but I took it to mean that things could be a lot worse. When I'm in the village, everyone seems so far away, so long ago, but when I'm with my friends, that life fades away just as quickly. I don't know how, but I'm going to try hard to bring my two universes closer together here, and me on a more even keel as a result.

Like it or not, emotions are pretty fragile things. I'm just trying to share a couple of ways I've been trying out to slow the roller-coaster, and keep myself on the up-and-up. Just remember that you are an American, and our motto is: Everything's my fault, nothing's my fault. Also remember that that is utter BULLSHIT, but it creeps into ever one of our little emotional, anti-logical dilemmas.

I hope maybe to talk to you again next month as we have a big conference in Libreville Feb 24-28.

So, you know by now that chaos, not Omar Bongo, rules this land. That's my new way of looking at stuff. I can't trust even my own opinion of events, people, etc... because my mind changes, and people ACT different, especially volunteers, from one moment to the next. I've been out of college too long. I'm totally out of step with the mindset of most other PCV's here. Tangent - that was a tangent. My point is, take what I say with a grain of salt, because it could be influenced by any number of things; drugs, isolation, hope, dogma, whether I just got laid, anything. CHAOS.... What a fucked-up concept. I'm so used to having some measure of control over my life, and the ability to make things happen, I'm not at all happy in a place where I have no say. But I won't quit either.

Last report.....