vignettes

Nous Sommes Arrivés! 

First Days in the Peace Corps, Ivory Coast, West Africa, 1976

Volunteering in the Peace Corps when I was 23 years old sparked a mind-altering shift at my core that resonates to this day. Here’s a look back at my first impressions of Ivory Coast, the West African country I called “home” from 1976 to 1978.

journal entry 10 July + first letter to parents 12 July 1976

After a 10-hour flight from New York City, we burst into cheers as our plane touches the tarmac in Abidjan. We’ve arrived in Côte d’Ivoire, the country we’ll call "home" for the next two years! With 39 other Peace Corps trainees, I make it through customs without inspection, my giant parachute bag surprisingly intact. We climb onto two buses headed to the Lycée Sainte Marie. That’s where our first three weeks of training will unfold.

Abidjan had us at Bonjour. As if by magic, our drivers navigate the urban maze without the help of street signs. Their passengers sit transfixed. Pulled in every direction at once, our eyes are popping with first impressions of Africa's Black Paris. Endless cars vie for the right of way—Volkswagens dance cheek to cheek with Deux Chevaux (Citroën’s 2CV econocar), vans and trucks transport loads of locals, and bright little orange taxis zip through the melee. Herds of sheep join the traffic. Rivers of vibrantly dressed people go about their business on foot, overflowing sidewalks. Women carrying baskets on their heads and babies on their backs move majestically through the crowds. A lagoon shimmers beneath the modern skyline that towers above us. The vivid greens and multihued outbursts of massive trees and flowering vines frame the city's panoramic tableau vivant.

The catholic girls’ school sits in the French quarter known as Cocody, the Beverly Hills of this city. The campus offers the perfect setup for training: private rooms in dorms (boys/girls), a lounge, two dining rooms, and, of course, classrooms. There’s a swimming pool, too, that will soon come to our daily rescue. A market and small shops are within walking distance. Arriving around 2pm, we choose beds in small narrow rooms, each with spare furnishings: a sink with faucet, a small table and chair, two wall shelves, a bed with mosquito net, a window without a screen, and a teeny closet. Bedding is provided, so no need yet for the linens we brought from home. Communal showers (cold water only; invigorating!) and toilets are down the hall. My monster bag won’t fit in the closet, so I’ve left it outside my door as a wayfinding device.

Franco-African cuisine is served here, and breakfast is my favorite meal. The morning café au lait with tartines takes me back to Paris and my au pair days with a family of French anthropologists on Rue de Sèvres.

Training begins. We take classes in teaching English as a Foreign Language, French, and Djula, a local dialect. Lucky me! I’m almost fluent in French. I get to study West African literature instead of enduring boring grammar and vocabulary drills. We’ll stay here until mid-August, then move upcountry to Abengourou for two more weeks of practice teaching. After that, we swear in as official Peace Corps volunteers and travel to our assigned towns/schools. Lots of work ahead. We’re vaccinated and take anti-malaria tablets once a week. Recipient of close to 20 inoculations in total, I’m ready for anything that comes my way.

It rained last night for the first time since our arrival. The wind gave the signal, and the sky released a torrent of water. Midland [my hometown in Texas] would have been completely submerged by one storm like this!

Don’t worry about me, I write in the first aerogramme to my family. The Americans and locals working with us are wonderful, and all the volunteers are looking out for each other. 

Another Day, Another Protest, Barcelona, Spain 29 Feb 2012

Today's story unfolds two blocks from the center city flat where I'm spending the first three months of the new year.

On my way home from the flea market this afternoon, an ebullient group with banners and musical instruments crossed the intersection a few blocks away. I could see a policeman stationed on the street corner they passed. Apparently, the neighborhood had been closed to traffic for what I thought it was an approved public event.

Less than 5 minutes after I arrived on the grand avenue known as Passeig de Gracia, a group of young performers paraded by. A few wore Anonymous masks. I asked a couple of students what they were protesting. "The Government! Everything!" they replied cheerfully. 

Then, without warning, the sunny mood went dark. I felt a burst of movement around me and unknowingly turned toward a wave of students running mindlessly in my direction. They ran straight into me. My sunglasses were knocked off my face and I fell hard to the sidewalk.

Those that had given me a tumble slowed down enough to help me up and to a bench. One handed me a small towel, explaining, "You're bleeding." Yes, blood was streaming from my forehead. As a second wave crashed by, I crouched low on the bench. Stumbling to the nearest storefront, my left hand became my guide as I blindly followed the wall away from the crowd to the next street corner. I made my way slowly home, mind reeling. A generous neighbor walked with me to a clinic a mile away. There I was examined and received six stitches just above my right eyebrow.

Tonight, I watch the news on TV to find out exactly what madness had caught me unprepared. Indeed, student protests about government budget cuts to education had turned violent. Video footage from locations across the city showed students fleeing officers in riot gear who were charging into crowds with barrages of rubber bullets. In my own neighborhood, the police had moved to quell the protest soon after ski-masked provocateurs infiltrated the event. The troublemakers had broken into the Banco Popular across the street from where I'd been standing. Unseen to me, the very bank where I'd changed US Dollars into Euros this morning had been under siege this afternoon! 

Sirens have been wailing on and off, ever since.

Remembering my daughter's stories of her first days of study abroad in Paris during a teachers' strike in 2009—the picnics, the wine, the singing, and finally, the marching with an escort of sympathetic gendarmes...Not here. Not today.

Forgot to mention, my broken brow came with two black eyes. I'll need a new pair of shades.