One Hand Does Not Catch a Buffalo

by Aaron Barlow

  It was on these pathways that I first heard the phrase, “nous sommes ensemble.” On my way to the market I crossed paths with a man coming back from that direction. We stopped, shook hands and commenced the usual greeting custom of asking a variety of questions to find out how the other person is doing. How are you, how is your health, how is work, how are your fields, how is your house and family, how are your goats and cattle, how is the heat; all the while still shaking hands. He finished by stating nous sommes ensemble and went on his way.

  It took me awhile to register what was just said to me, nous sommes ensemble—we are together. What did he mean by that? Are we together in spirit, in work, in life? That was the first time we met, and I did not work with him (at least not yet). Why did he assume we were together? It was normal to stop and say hello if our paths crossed; and if I saw him again, I was sure we would repeat the multiple question greeting custom, but I was uncertain if I would end with we are together.

  As it turns out, this was (and still is) a very common phrase in Cameroon. Heard often between passersby on the street, from guests and hosts at a party, or at the end of a long day’s work; generally speaking, it means “see you later” or “see you soon.” However, this simple phrase has many other meanings as well. It suggests our work together is not finished and we will meet again soon to complete it. It means you are my brother or sister, a part of my family, even if we do not share a blood relation we will always be part of the same community. It also means I am here for you; so if you need help, just ask.

  A simple statement that literally means we are together, we are not alone. This phrase, these three little words, taught me a lot about humanity and togetherness. Despite our myriad differences as human beings, we do share certain emotions, actions, and behaviors. We are independent as individuals, but there are universals which we collectively share.

  The grandmother in America who spoils her grandkids with sweet treats is no different than la grandmère in Cameroon who gives afternoon snacks made with peanut butter to her grandchildren. Mothers and fathers in America feel proud when their children do well in school, just as parents in Africa do. Girls in America shop for hours for the right outfit to wear to a school dance or on a date, to impress the boy they have a crush on. Girls in a small African village get dressed-up in their best clothes on market day to impress the young men who will be there.

  The death of a child or loved one is no different for the subsistence farmer who makes $200 a year or for the family in a developed country that has an annual salary 200 times that amount. Despite the different circumstances, we share these experiences because we share the same world. We have this commonality of being human, which brings us closer together.

  We are human—language, race, ethnicity, geographic location, and religion should not divide us. As humans, our dreams, frustrations, successes, happiness, and sorrow bond us together. This idea is probably shared by many cultures worldwide, but in Cameroon we say it out loud. Nous sommes ensemble. We are together.

  Anna Russo served in Cameroon from 2000-2002 (Sahel Agroforestry). She moved to Rwanda in 2008 after finishing an M.A. in International Development at the University of Denver. Currently living in Kigali, she manages community development projects for a U.S.-based coffee company which not only buys coffee from Rwanda but also invests in the social well-being of the farmers and their families.

  The Sweetest Gift

  Jayne Bielecki

  The little things do often become the sweetest.

  I went into Peace Corps thinking I would be helping the neediest people in the world. It made me proud to think that I was sacrificing two years of my life for others. Not everyone can forgo their comfortable lifestyle or live such an uncertain life in an unknown land. I was positive I would teach the locals something, improve their lives, and begin the process of saving the world. The Peace Corps warned us about thinking too idealistically, but I knew I was different. I had known for years that I wanted to be a nurse and serve as a Peace Corps Volunteer in an African country.

  This was my calling.

  It was early on in my Peace Corps service, and I was in the throes of cultural shock. Some days it was all I could do to talk myself into going out in public. Today was a good day, though. I was ready to deal with the staring eyes and inescapable barrage of conversation I met with whenever I ventured into the society of Cape Verde.

  My Peace Corps post was on Maio, a round, sun-baked pancake of an island in the Cape Verde Archipelago approximately 600 kilometers off the west coast of Africa. The islands are volcanic in nature, and known for their consistent weather and beaches, which came in either black or white sand. Maio, although one of the smallest islands, was outlined in beach and had the reputation for the loveliest in the entire country. Wealthy people came from all over to enjoy them. Although some money came in through domestic tourism, Maio was also the poorest and least developed of the islands.

  I lived in the lower area of the village of Calheta, called the Baxona, near the beach. It consisted of two strips of brightly painted homes sharing one wall with their neighbor. This shared wall decreased the cost of construction and labor. The houses were one room, two at the most, and all made of cinder block and cement. Between the colorful homes, a cobblestone street ran from north to south and faded into the white sand beach at the south end. On the north end was the chafaris, a tan brick structure about eight feet tall with one small spigot. Women came once a week with their twenty-two-gallon pails to receive potable water from the chafaris attendant, the most powerful women in the village. On a water day, energy levels ran high. The street would be noisy and bustling with exuberant children and chattering women carrying water on their heads. Today, a non-water day, the small street was quiet and empty.

  My current home was a generous donation made by a successful carpenter. It was the largest house in the entire village, with two bedrooms, a living room, a small kitchen, a bathroom, and a quintal with stairs to the roof. The inside was painted in yellows and blues, the floor tiled in golden brown. I also had the luxury of a built-in cement washing board and a clothesline. The roof had a large room on it for a generator and an unused tank for water.

  The average Cape Verdean family on Maio lived with five to seven people in a house the size of my living room and kitchen combined.

  As I left the security of my huge sky-blue house with yellow trim, I closed the white metal gate and made my way up the path to the main village. It zigged and zagged around rocks scattered throughout the tan-grey, lunar landscape. It would be a ten-minute stroll in the dead space between the two sections of the village. I enjoyed this part of the walk the most. I looked out to my left and followed the turquoise sky and the green-blue ocean until they touched at the distant horizon.

  Enfameira! Enfameira! I looked up to see two young fishermen making their way to the beach. They waved excitedly and I waved back. Then three school-aged children came running toward me. They stopped abruptly before we met on the path, and then began to walk respectfully past me. They had big smiles on their faces and each greeted me as we passed. Bom dia! Bom dia! Bom dia! Smiling, I replied in kind.

  I could hear the funana playing clearly on a radio and voices in animated conversation. I began my inner monologue—a pep talk of sorts. I was heading in. I cautioned myself about being over confident. I reminded myself that culture shock was an out-of-control emotional roller coaster, so low expectations were imperative to success. I knew I could anticipate a lot of talking and gawking at the strange, skinny, white creature plodding into town. Some days I dreaded this, but not today. Things were going well.

  I stepped off the path and onto the cobblestone street of the central square. People smiled and greeted me while they stared wide-eyed and unabashed. A woman I didn’t know stopped her sweeping of leaf-littered cobblestones to talk to me. She was my height with a muscular build. She wore a sleeveless shirt, no bra,
and a knee-length black skirt with a scarf covering her hair. It was typical Cape Verdean dress for rural Maio.

  I made an earnest effort to listen and understand what she said, but my concentration quickly withered. I let myself become distracted by a couple of boys playing nearby as she continued with her one-sided conversation at a rapid pace.

  After a moment, one of the boys walked over to us. He stared at me, cautiously inching closer and then backing away. I imagined how brave he must feel for being so close to the pale stranger. I imagined how he would tell this story to his family and friends. Everyone would wait in suspense to hear about the strange white woman. Yes, how brave he was. I smiled at the thought.

  He smiled back. Our eyes met, and we held each other’s gaze for a moment. He couldn’t have been more than three years old. He was skinny and naked. His big, dark brown eyes were framed in long eyelashes and a shaved head. He sucked on a piece of candy and had developed a black ring of dirt around his mouth. His nose ran with thick green snot that he wiped away with the backs of his hands. His hands were covered in streaks of black snotty mud. Slowly, he reached one of them out toward me.

  He opened his hand wide. Inside, a beautiful bright gold wrapper now glimmered in the sun. I hesitated, mesmerized by its loveliness. Thinking I hadn’t understood, he thrust his hand forward and nodded his head at me to take his last piece of candy. I delicately reached out to take his gift. I opened the wrapper and put the treat in my mouth. I smiled, worked to control my shaky voice, and thanked him. He smiled huge and stood next to me. We stood there together, smacking on our pieces of hard candy and enjoying it. I looked at him again, holding back my tears. “Obrigada,” I said once more, wanting to make sure he understood how much his generosity meant to me. Then I quickly said goodbye.

  As I walked away I stumbled on the crooked cobblestones, overcome with emotion. A child with almost nothing has given me his last piece of candy. Words cannot describe how unworthy I felt to receive such a sweet gift.

  My mind reeled as I tried to comprehend what had just happened. I had spent money on meaningless key chains and pens to present the locals as souvenirs of my stay. I was already living in a monstrosity of a house with indoor plumbing that no one else in the village could afford. It all seemed worthless and ridiculous compared to his generosity. I had been so sure I would leave the villagers with a better existence. I had some strange notion that sacrificing my great American life for two whole years would be the greatest thing I ever did.

  And it was. Not for my original reasons, but because I was shown the true meaning of kindness and unselfishness. In the end I received the sweetest gift, and I carry it with me everywhere I go.

  Jayne Bielecki worked as a water sanitation and health care volunteer in Cape Verde for two years, 1995-97. After returning to the U.S. and readjusting to life with too many toilet paper options, she earned her master’s degree and took a teaching position at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire. She lives with her husband, two dogs, and a variety of cats on an old homestead in western Wisconsin, appropriately dubbed the Funny Farm.

  The Conference

  Marcy L. Spaulding

  When nothing goes right, it’s hard to remain positive and energetic.

  An ka musomaninw ka bolokoli dabila!

  Bolokoli be tooro lase muso ka keneya ma.

  (Let’s stop the excision of young girls!

  Excision is harmful to women’s health.)

  —From a poster at the Conference on Excision, Kita

  Journal Entry: May 16, 2001, Bendougouba: Today I biked twenty-five kilometers to see what Malians have to say about female circumcision (or, excision, as it is called here, also known in the West as female genital mutilation, or FGM). Excision is deeply ingrained in Malian cultures in most parts of the country. There are various types, the most common being the removal of all or part of a girl’s clitoris. Some people claim it’s done for religious reasons (though Islamic teachings do not either condemn or condone the practice), some consider it a rite of passage for a girl coming into adulthood, some say its purpose is to make a girl “clean” and less promiscuous, and others just cite tradition. Sometimes the excision is performed on adolescent girls, sometimes on younger girls, and sometimes on infants.

  Oftentimes, excisions are performed under unsanitary conditions, and many girls may be excised at one time, using the same knife—putting them at high risk for HIV infection. Once excised, a girl can contract various infections and have difficulty in childbirth. And the excision itself can be psychologically traumatic. Practices are changing now, but the movement of Malians to educate each other about the dangers and consequences of excision is new, and the practice is still very widespread. While a few of the younger generation would like to abolish it, I’ve heard stories of grandmothers taking away their young granddaughters to be excised without their mothers’ knowledge. There is an old fear that a girl who is not excised will never have a husband; many still believe this.

  As an American, I feel shocked and horrified that such a practice could exist. For Malians, I know that the situation is much more complex. I’m always very interested to hear Malian points of view on the matter.

  A doctor at PLAN International told me about the conference on excision in Kita. Of course, it was scheduled just before and during my first big health committee training session. I really wanted to go. In our Peace Corps training, we had been told about the practice, but were told not to talk about it. It’s too sensitive an issue, and since the Malian Health Ministry—the organization with which I technically work—has not officially come out against it, we are not “officially” to discuss it. So I haven’t talked about it at all, not until recently.

  I decided it was something I would be very interested in discussing with Malians, but I would not be the one to bring it up. Until about two weeks ago, no one did bring it up. Finally, Fatima (Adama’s wife) did, then my friend Lassina and some of his friends. So I had a one-on-one conversation about it with a woman, and another with five young men. Fatima is certainly against it, but leaves it at that. Since both she and her husband are against it, her daughters are not excised. As for the men, I’m not so sure about what they thought. They, too, seemed to think it bad, but weren’t too clear about why. Traditions are hard to change, they said. I’m guessing people who are strongly for it are less likely to bring it up, at least with me.

  Due to the training session, I had almost missed the conference entirely. I returned from Kita to spend the day preparing for the health committee meeting. By nightfall, I hadn’t finished. Adama came back from the conference’s first day and I asked him about it. He told me about the pro-excision arguments of the very religious older men who were there, and it upset me incredibly. I had to hold back tears of frustration, which were due in part to the fact that I had missed something important to me, merely to prepare a meeting for a health committee that constantly has me tearing my hair out because people so rarely seem to take it seriously.

  I had even skipped out on possible vacation plans for this committee. I could be in Senegal now, sitting on the beach. I’m tired of making sacrifices for this committee. That’s part of what made me so angry yesterday—and why I had to go to Kita today. I had to do what was important to me. So I found a way to do it and still be responsible.

  I came home right after dinner last night to finish my preparations by the light of a kerosene lamp. I got up this morning at the crack of dawn and biked to Kita—in a skirt, blasting my “Road Trip” mix tape on my Walkman. Aside from the difficulty of riding in a skirt, the ride felt great, and it reminded me about passion and calling.

  If you’re really passionate about something, you often cast aside common sense. Common sense, for example, tells you that you need eight hours of sleep and that biking in 110-degree weather under a blazing sun is stupid. However, I needed to go to this conference, and I didn’t care if it
meant I had to stay up all night preparing for the meeting. Now I’m angry that my sense of responsibility is once again slapping me in the face. I would have very much liked to have stayed at the conference today, but instead I’m waiting here, once again, for people—anyone—to show up.

  More and more I’m beginning to understand why so many Peace Corps Volunteers become so jaded and disillusioned. We want to do something. But our good intentions too often bite us in the ass. We bust our butts, and money gets bouffed. We want villagers to take control of their own community’s health—but unless there’s a tangible and immediate incentive, it’s a low-priority affair. My daily life is spent just trying to understand, so that I can help. But people don’t care about trying to understand me—oh, no, they already know all about me. I’m a rich toubab from a country of streets paved with gold. I talk funny, I don’t understand anything, I can’t do anything, and it’s pretty damn funny to watch me dance. I’m considered to be extremely selfish because I don’t hand out money when I walk through the village. So what good am I? What use is a toubab if she doesn’t give things?

  If the approach of the Peace Corps—“Don’t hand out money, know the community, work toward sustainability”—is the only way development can work for the benefit of the people, then I am becoming more and more convinced that it’s not possible. Unless people can (1) open their minds; (2) recognize which behaviors and practices benefit the community and which harm it and alter their behavior accordingly; (3) think about the future and not just the present moment; and (4) recognize in themselves a power and a desire to make change, then development cannot happen. People here are poor; that’s a fact. But the influence of Western culture makes them feel poorer than they are, makes them want what they can’t have, thus making them feel powerless and helpless.