One Hand Does Not Catch a Buffalo: 50 Years of Amazing Peace Corps Stories: Volume One: Africa

Africa is a complicated place, and the Peace Corps Volunteers who have worked in 43 African nations have seen it all: from public executions to public celebrations to life in a time of AIDS. This heartfelt collection is the first of its kind to chronicle 50 years of Peace Corps service. Stories range from poignant to hilarious, involve political intrigue and cultural missteps, illuminating the joys and agony of volunteering abroad and representing the United States in the process.

Sixty stories provide a broad overview and give readers a glimpse into the life and times of these brave volunteers, who each learned at least one new language and went to work in the villages and cities from Morocco to South Africa. They worked hard, too. But in these stories you will see that they also danced, faced death by elephant, and witnessed unbearably grim events. One is admired for her big butt,” another reminded that he had taught proper police procedure in a time of civil unrest. Saying I was there” is sometimes a bittersweet declaration.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Travelers' Tales
• Release date: May 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781609520472

Book preview

Why I Joined the Peace Corps

Robert Klein

Going, at first, was much more mysterious, much more romantic, than now it may seem!

It all had to do with the 1930s movie Beau Geste: brave young men, faced with incredibly complicated personal lives, joined the French Foreign Legion, making their way to remotest North Africa, there to become involved in legendary exploits. This image sustained me as I settled into being a junior high school teacher in New York City in the late 1950s. When I had to deal with an impossible class or wanted to untangle from a romantic involvement, I would think to myself, They can’t do this to me; I’ll go and join the French Foreign Legion! By 1961, I had carried the fantasy out only so far as to grow a beard. In dim light, at a distance of thirty to forty feet, I did look mysterious.

That it was a different era is illustrated by what happened after I first attempted that goatee, over the summer vacation in 1960. It was the first day of class and my students, amidst a lot of giggling, good-naturedly commented about the change in my appearance:

Hey, Mr. Klein, are you a beatnik?

I think that’s cool. Tell the principal to grow one too.

Are they going to let you keep that thing?

I was pleased; I liked the beard and intended to keep it. Before reporting to school that September, being the Union representative in my building, I had checked Board regulations. They stated that teachers must be neatly attired (men wore jackets and ties, women skirts or dresses) and well groomed. But it did not say anything about beards.

Then I heard a rapid knocking at the classroom door. The principal waved me out of the classroom. I stepped into the hall.

You can’t teach wearing a beard! he said.

He wore horn-rimmed glasses, had a scholarly and distant look, and was, at all times—except this one—calm and cerebral. His receding hairline emphasized his shiny forehead and his quizzical eyes; it made him look like a cross between Adlai Stevenson and Woody Allen. In ordinary conversations, he seemed to be reading from prepared remarks. But now he was apoplectic. I tried to respond quietly.

Sir, I feel that I’m properly dressed and my students seem to like the change.

But it isn’t right; it will upset the class. How can you teach like that?

Certainly if my appearance causes a noisy classroom, I would immediately shave off the beard. But that doesn’t seem to be the case, does it? May I return to my class?

He turned and slowly walked down the hall.

So began my fifth year of teaching. Along with it were pressures toward responsible domesticity. My mom and pop kept saying, You’re old enough to get married now; you’re thirty-two. Come home next weekend and meet Maxine. Her folks think you are wonderful. She’s such a nice girl.

In my head, I was hearing the drums of the Legion.

My first attempt to answer those drums did not turn out well. I applied for a Fulbright Teaching Fellowship at a secondary school in Northern Rhodesia. With an M.A. in History from the University of Chicago and five years teaching experience, on paper I was a highly qualified candidate. Within weeks of applying, I was called for an interview at Columbia University.

I had done nothing to prepare for the interview.

The first question was: Why do you want to teach in Rhodesia?

Although it was mid-February, I immediately began to feel cold sweat uncomfortably tickling my armpits and, in a panic, realized that these interviewers might not be impressed with my Beau Geste story.

Well, I really enjoy teaching…um…um.

Do you have any special interest in or knowledge of Rhodesia?

I could find it on a map, but I felt that this was not the kind of answer that they were looking for.

No, I am interested in a new challenge and would like to teach overseas.

Are you at all familiar with Northern Rhodesia’s current status?

Uh…no…uh.

Can you name the major colonial powers in Africa and discuss their influence?

Uh…England! No, the British; uh…Great Britain.

Yes?

Silence and then, trying to be helpful, the African professor: Of course, you’ve heard of Timbuktu.

Of course, I had. Mom always used to tell me that if I didn’t do my share of the household chores, she’d run away to Timbuktu. I didn’t think that was the reference the Professor had in mind. The interview ended shortly thereafter, and the Fulbright Fellows lost a good, though ill-informed, prospect to the Peace Corps.

Much of my motivation to join the Peace Corps actually came from my experiences when I served in the U.S. Army in Korea from 1952 to 1954. Having completed my master’s degree in History, I was drafted. Within six months, I was assigned as Company Clerk in a Forward Ordnance Depot about ten miles behind the front lines in Korea. I worked with First Sergeant Burl Grant, a black man who had worked his way up through the ranks during this period when the armed forces were being integrated, a process that was far from complete in 1953. Sergeant Grant dealt with the world through brown, deep-set eyes full of life, but sometimes cold and unblinking. They seemed flecked with fire when he dealt with diehard racists in our company. He would never raise his voice, but his eyes signaled the anger and contempt he felt. That, and his rank, forced men to accept and follow his orders.

We shared a tent and, in the evenings, listening to jazz and be-bop (Errol Garner, Shorty Rogers, Dizzy Gillespie). I’d look at Grant, and his eyes would now be soft and mellow.

Our own houseboy was Yoo Yung Shik, whom we called Pak. He was fifteen with black hair and eyes, broad-faced, and with a very expressive mouth. In anger or in joy, his lips always parted broadly into a smile, giving him a pleasant appearance. When he was upset, the smile would freeze into a grimace, but when he was happy it would be accompanied by a slight giggle. Pak came from a small farming community in central Korea that had been fought through several times. He had attached himself to a U.S. Army unit as a means of survival. When we paid him, he would take off to his village, buying whatever he could with the MPC [military payment certificates] that we all, Koreans and Americans, used as currency.

Grant and I treated Pak decently, and he became a friend, taking us to his village to meet some of his family. This kind of relationship was discouraged officially and scorned by many of the Americans in the company who could only deal with the Koreans by thinking of them as gooks and treating them as inferiors.

About six months after I had arrived in Korea, Pak came to me one day in the orderly room tent where I worked. For the first time since I had known him, his face was dark and somber. I even noticed tears in his eyes. He told me about what had been happening in the company mess hall.

Our mess hall was typically American with a superabundance of whatever ill-prepared food we were being served. There were no shortages, and much food was wasted. Sergeant Grant had started the practice of allowing the local-hire Koreans to either eat or take home the surplus of prepared food from each meal. The Mess Sergeant, Pak told us one day, had become verbally and physically abusive to the Koreans as he reluctantly gave them the table surplus. He had even gone so far, now, as to throw the food into the trash cans before allowing the Koreans to take any. Grant stormed out of the orderly room to find the Mess Sergeant. I was not witness to their encounter, but Pak happily reported to me within a few days that all was "Dai jobi" [O.K.] in the mess hall.

Pak said that he and some of the other houseboys wanted to learn to speak and read English; knowing that I was approachable, they wanted me to be their teacher. As Company Clerk I did have a lot of free time, which I could devote to teaching rather than drinking at the enlisted men’s club. With no training or preparation other than the fact that I had used the language for twenty-five years of my life, I became a teacher of English. It felt good to be doing something creative, rather than pushing mounds of meaningless forms and reports through my typewriter or spending vapid hours at the club, sharing alcohol-fueled inanities with my fellow drinkers. I also found that I enjoyed being a teacher. When I finished my military service in 1954 and could find no want ads in The New York Times for Historians, I changed careers and became a teacher of Social Studies.

Korea and Pak and that Mess Sergeant (and Beau Geste) were on my mind as I went to the post office on Broadway and 68th Street in Manhattan to pick up a Peace Corps Questionnaire in April 1961. I remember filling it out. It included a lengthy list of personal and professional skills to be checked on a scale from highly skilled to unskilled. With five years’ experience, I hoped to become a Peace Corps teacher, but I wasn’t sure of what Peace Corps was looking for (they weren’t either). I pondered how best to mark:

Milk a cow.

Drive a tractor.

Service an automobile transmission.

Use a welding torch to repair equipment.

Where, I thought to myself, were the items I was totally confident about? Such as:

Interpret a New York City Subway map.

Control a class of 8th grade students on Friday afternoon.

"Read the Sunday edition of The New York Times."

Even though I wasn’t ready to announce to the world that I was joining the Legion, I went ahead with it and mailed the form to Washington. In responding to the item in the questionnaire that asked, Why do you want to serve with the Peace Corps? I had written the following:

My experience as a teacher in New York City and in the Army in Korea both convince me that it is important to reach out to people. We Americans are a privileged people and too many of us go overseas and become ‘Ugly Americans,’ arrogant and insensitive. I would like to teach in another country because I am an experienced teacher and I would like to live in another country so I can learn more about it.

On June 24th I was accepted to train to become a Peace Corps Volunteer teacher in Ghana.

Robert Klein served in Ghana from 1961-63. He retired in 1994 after careers as a teacher and a supervisor in special education. For the past several years he has been involved in developing the RPCV Archival Project in cooperation with the Kennedy Library. He lives in Tucson, Arizona.

There at the Beginning

Tom Katus, George Johnson, Alex Veech, and L. Gilbert Griffis

The first Peace Corps Volunteers were guinea pigs as well as tough young Americans.

Julius Nyerere, Leader of the Tanganyika African National Union (TANU) and pending first Prime Minister and later President of Tanzania, was the first Head of State to request the Peace Corps in April 1961. Following Neyerere’s request, Sargent Shriver, Franklin Williams, and Ed Bayley, Public Relations Officer, visited eleven countries in twenty-six days beginning April 22nd.

According to the biography Sarge: The Life and Times of Sargent Shriver, Shriver...stayed up all night on the flight from New York, playing cards and drinking gin martinis with Thurgood Marshall who happened to be on the same plane. Their first stop in Ghana resulted in a commitment from President Kwame Nkrumah to be the second Head of State to request the Peace Corps providing, you get them here by August?

Williams, a former NAACP lawyer and protégé of Marshall’s, had gone to college with Nkrumah at Lincoln University in Pennsylvania. Williams was the first African American executive hired by Shriver. He was former California Assistant Attorney General, later to become Ambassador to Ghana and still later, my boss as President of the Phelps Stokes Fund. I was commissioned by Williams to conduct a Self-Study of the Phelps Stokes Fund—so I got to learn much of the behind-the-scenes history.

All three—Marshall, Nkrumah, and Williams—had large and frequently clashing egos. Franklin was upper-class Harlem, and Kwame was a poor African student who worked in the Lincoln University cafeteria. Kwame resented Franklin’s airs and initially refused him when President Johnson nominated Williams as Ambassador to Ghana. Nkrumah told Johnson, as the first African Head of State, he deserved the best top-flight ambassador. However, Nkrumah relented when Johnson told him that Williams, the first African American ambassador to be assigned to an African nation, had to be better qualified than the white boys. (Ralph Bunche was already a U.S. ambassador assigned to the U.N.)

Williams was ambassador when Nkrumah was deposed by the CIA. As a consequence many Ghanaians and other African heads of state turned on Williams. A close friend of Williams and a fellow ambassador later confided in me that CIA had set up Williams and he was unaware of the coup until after it had occurred.

—Tom Katus

As I remember it, Tanganyika went into training at Texas Western on a Saturday, Ghana went into training on a Sunday, and Colombia went into training on a Monday. So, really, there were three groups that can claim to be first. Our group got the first Peace Corps Volunteer Numbers. Jake Feldman from our group, now a professor of civil engineering at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo, is Peace Corps #001. I’m #014.

Ghana didn’t have to do the Puerto Rican training program (lucky them), so they got to Ghana first. Every once in a while, I see a picture of their group getting off the plane in Accra, captioned as the nation’s first Peace Corps group. More power to them, although I will continue to tell my relatives that I was in the first Peace Corps group.

—George Johnson

Despite Nyerere being the first head of state to request Peace Corps, Tanganyika would not achieve independence until December 9, 1961. It would have been embarrassing to have Peace Corps serving under Colonial rule. Thus, we were placed in a holding pattern. After seven or eight weeks of training at Texas Western College and the Rose Garden meeting, we were sent for four weeks to Arecibo, Puerto Rico, to open Peace Corps’ Outward Bound Training Camp. The camp was run by Bill Coffin, civil rights activist with Martin Luther King and former OSS (CIA predecessor) officer, and ably assisted by Freddie Fuller, former head of commando training for the Brits during World War II.

—Tom Katus

Tom says that our training director in Puerto Rico was Bill Coffin, ably assisted by Freddie Fuller. Rather than able, I would describe the direction given the group by the Coffin-Fuller duo as a combination of prep school rah-rah, sophomoric anti-Communism (a reaction to a novel called The Ugly American, very current at that time, which held that the Communists were winning the battle for hearts and minds in the Third World because they spoke the local languages flawlessly, ate the local foods, and never got malaria or dysentery), and something which Jerry Green (the NBC producer of our one-hour Peace Corps special) once described as muscular Christianity.

The muscular Christianity was Bill Coffin’s special addition to the program. He used to call the group together for three-minute oral prayers, which included references to Christ our Lord and Master, despite the fact that there were several Jews and at least one atheist in our group. (Guess who the atheist was.)

The Arecibo program was equal parts both silly and objectionable. Nobody could argue that it wasn’t a complete waste of time. It was certainly the low point of my Peace Corps experience, and my vocal objections to it nearly got me fired from the Peace Corps before I started.

Coffin recommended to headquarters that I be fired at the end of the Arecibo training program because I was the kind of guy who, if ordered to hold a machine gun position to the death in order to save the others in my platoon, would eventually break and run. He was probably right, but other higher-ups who knew me at the El Paso training saved my neck. Maybe they appreciated my intangibles, as Eddie Stanky would have said.

I have since struck up a better relationship with Bill Coffin and continue to admire him a lot. Maybe we’ve both grown older, and maybe I at least have gotten a little bit wiser and more tolerant (not less atheistic, however). Thank goodness I never got the chance to test my machine gun resolve. All I was ever called upon to do was quietly build a road in far southern Tanganyika.

All that having been said, I did want the record to reflect this dissent to Tom’s opinion about the Arecibo training. No one should hark back to it as something to be remembered fondly or repeated. It’s best chalked up as one of the Peace Corps’ many youthful errors, one which it has hopefully grown out of.

—George Johnson

It is good that George has finally explained for me his animus toward the Arecibo experience. This was all lost on naive old me. I thought the training in Puerto Rico was very easy, mostly boring, just part of the adventure I’d opened myself to, and all in all rather silly. My main recollections of training there were playing volleyball, drinking raw sugar cane rum with McPhee in a field on our overnight test, seeing the most magnificent sunset I’d ever seen, and learning that the rifles issued to the geologists for fighting off lions had been confiscated because the State Department was afraid we’d appear to Cuba as an armed group just off their shore at the very time our relations with Cuba were on the run up to the Bay of Pigs. The objections to Coffin weren’t even on my radar, and I have only the vaguest impression of the man. Actually I have no impression, on second thought, he’s just a name I recognize. Looking back, the time we spent in Arecibo was sufficiently forgettable that it is essentially gone from memory. I recall training at Texas Western and Tengeru much more vividly.

—Alex Veech

Bingo!!

I thought my reference to Freddie Fuller’s able assisting might generate some fire. George ably demonstrates why he remains our chief iconoclast.

I believe the vast majority of us would agree with George’s view—though some of us ex-military and young jocks for a while got off on the camp’s challenge to our masochism. I remember Jerry Parson (JP), ex-paratrooper that he was, jumping onto the Tarzan rope, grasping it firmly, graciously gliding high above the ground, sailing into the cargo net and scrambling over the top. PC always encouraged the press to be present to boost the PC image. Little did they know that one of the Puerto Rican news photographers was stringing for Cuba. The next day, in the Cuban press appears my future sidekick swinging into the net, with the caption: Peace Corps Prepares for Next Invasion of Cuba.

The cocky green kid from the Dakotas followed JP, grabbed the Tarzan rope and started to swing toward the net. My grip slipped and my matako scraped along the entire ground, leaving me ingloriously at the base of the net with considerable road rash, and I still had to scramble to the top. If the Cuban photographer had colored film, he would have found my face as red as my ass.

As you may recall, the Able Fuller had one set of clothes, a net shirt and shorts he washed every night and jumped back into at 5 a.m., complete with drill sergeant whistle to jolt us out of our soggy sleep—it rained continuously in the Arecibo forest. We groggily ran down wet rocky paths in the dark. This nonsense continued until ex-paratrooper Jerry severely sprained his ankle—or was it a hairline fracture?

While I couldn’t give a damn one way or the other about the prayers—I thought they were silent—but maybe that was after George’s initial protest. I do know Coffin threatened to remove George. My recall was that many of us admired our self-appointed leader and threatened to go down with him.

George’s moment of silence or prayer protest, together with the engineers’ Bridge on the River Kwai were symbolic of the group’s tweaking PC’s nose. I recall that Shriver visited us late in training to reassure us that our beloved George would indeed remain in the Corps and admired the engineer’s bridge.

Despite the Mickey Mouse nature of the training, like the Combat Engineering training I had taken straight out of high school, I did enjoy the rappelling from cliffs and dams. One day, I was anchoring Bob Milhous at the top of a cliff as he was rappelling below. He lost his footing and was spinning in the air. The rope temporarily burned around my back and Bob’s dead weight nearly pulled this 155-pound kid off the cliff. Fortunately for both Bob and yours truly, the anchoring technique worked.

In spite of personally enjoying some aspects of Arecibo’s physical fitness routine and the four-day live-in with community families, I agree with George that it was totally irrelevant to our service in Tanganyika. I think PC just needed something to delay our entrance into Colonial Tanganyika and we were the guinea pigs.

Arecibo continued as an aspect of Peace Corps Latin American training for a number of years. Jerry Parson, Rodgers Stewart, Gil Griffis and I later used the community live-ins as an aspect of our Volunteer Training Specialists Inc. (VTSI) training of other PCVs for Kenya, Ghana, Malawi, and Swaziland. We even trained Talking Head Chris Matthews for the first Swaziland project in Louisiana—including a two-week live-in with small-scale Black American farmers. Rednecks harassed our farmer partners and trainees by cutting pickup cookies on their homesteads and firing shotguns to scare us all.

—Tom Katus

Tom and George certainly have better memories than do I re: the names of some of the characters who managed our fate in Arecibo. My memories of the training in Arecibo and examples of what they included are:

Terrifying: The event planned for the next day when I was to be tossed into the swimming pool with hands and feet tied behind my back, with the objective of learning how to overcome fear and adversity. And not drown.

Really Annoying: When the event was called off due to rain, and after I had spent the entire previous night mentally preparing myself for the challenge.

Pointless: Shaving with cold water.

Of Dubious Value: The early morning runs in the woods. The afternoon hike on a trail along which we were individually dropped off to spend the night by ourselves. I remember it being very dark and rather boring, especially after my jungle hammock fell and I had to sleep on the ground. I remember being surprised that some of the guys found the experience to be very frightening.

Of Some Value But a Lot of Fun: Learning to rappel.

Really Neat: The three-day, two-night hike through the Puerto Rican countryside. Taking the old USAF truck with the leaky muffler (The Rolling Gas Chamber) down to a local beach to swim and canoe. Visiting the dam below our campsite, especially now that it is the site of the SETI project. The great meals. The library. The group discussions

Something to Pass the Time: Bill Coffin’s daily homilies were of little bother in that I was at that time a born-again Southern Baptist and was used to sermons.

Overall, I remember wondering what was the point of the entire program, but having had a good time participating in it.

—L. Gilbert Griffis

Tom Katus was South Dakota’s first Peace Corps Volunteer, serving in Tanganyika (now Tanzania) from 1961-63. After graduating from the Colorado School of Mines and serving in the National Guard, he volunteered as a surveyor, building roads in what was that country’s first year of independence. He went on to found Volunteer Training Specialists, Inc. (VTSI), a private company that trained over 2,000 PCVs. He has served as a South Dakota Legislator and is now that state’s Treasurer.

George Johnson, PCV #14, served in the first group in Tanganyika.

Alex Veech, who served in Mtwarra, Tanzania from 1961-63, was able to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro during his time abroad.

L. Gilbert Griffis also served in Tanzania from 1961-63.

Editor’s note: RPCVs of good will often disagree on who the first Volunteers were. We take no side in this debate, leaving those who served in Colombia, Ghana, and Tanganyika (Tanzania) to their own interpretations of history.

Learning to Speak

Tom Weller

Sometimes triage on the subject tongue is the only way to learn a language.

During the first days of in-country training, the new Volunteers took oral French exams. One by one we sat under a baobab tree with the head language trainers, all of whom were Chadian, and did our best to carry on conversations in French. I spent most of my conversation trying to explain, using hand gestures and three-word sentences, why I liked using the drive-through at fast food restaurants. How I got on this topic I don’t remember. Perhaps I was asked what I liked to do on the weekends. Or perhaps I had been asked what I liked to eat, and when I groped for food words all I managed to conjure up was the image of Madame Doering, my tenth grade French teacher. Perhaps I saw her horned-rimmed glasses hanging from the chain around her neck, swaying and bumping against her chest as she floated around the room, pointing at objects, rattling through a series of nouns: "Le bureau, the desk, le bureau. La fenêtre, the window, la fenêtre." Yes, good, the window, go with that, I might have thought.

After all of the new Volunteers had been interviewed and scored, the trainers divided us into small groups, five or six people, to begin our language classes. Some of my compatriots arrived in Chad already conjugating French verbs, mentally sifting through lists of French adjectives in a flash, understanding when to use the subjunctive as instinctually as understanding when to exhale. These people took classes together.

I sat in a class with four virtual mutes. We would arrange our chairs in a half circle around a blackboard resting on an easel in the center of a boukarou, a type of round hut that dotted the training center’s grounds like giant mushrooms. Our French teacher, a woman named Nemerci, would always jounce into class bedecked in one of her traditional Chadian dresses: several layers of vibrant wrap-around skirts circling her legs, intricate gold embroidery surrounding her plunging neckline, short sleeves that poofed up like pastries rising off her shoulders. She would stop next to the chalkboard, her wide hips shimmying slightly as if some faint music tempted her to dance. Then she would chime, "Bonjour."

We mutes all liked bonjour; bonjour made sense. We’d almost shout over one another demonstrating our comprehension. "Bonjour, bonjour," we’d all squawk back like a nest of baby birds exercising their chirps.

But class would get difficult. Nemerci would lean in toward us, her head pivoting slowly so she could look each one of us in the eye. I’d watch her dark lips undulate, narrow and thicken as her tongue pushed syllables out of her mouth, linking one sound to the next to the next until she had constructed a complete French sentence. Often, Nemerci would pause, straighten her back, raise one finger in the air and instruct us to "Écoutez." I quickly recognized that écoutez was a command to listen closely, a prompt I didn’t need. Nemerci couldn’t have stopped me from listening closely. I craved the ability to understand and control the French language. Unlike much of my formal education, the benefits of my Peace Corps French classes were obvious and immediate. Any word or phrase learned might illuminate some tiny corner of my new life and allow my own voice to develop.

After écoutez, Nemerci would lean toward the class again and repeat the exact same syllables, building the same sentence in the same measured, careful way. All of us mutes would nod to the rhythm of the growing chain of syllables. I’d rub my chin with my thumb and forefinger, stroking the beard I’d started to grow, a gesture meant to look thoughtful. Yes, so there it is, indeed. A sentence. How interesting. But the slight shuffle of our feet in the sand under our ladder-back chairs betrayed growing tension, for we all knew that, after Nemerci had laid the sentence in our laps twice, it would be our turn. We would be expected to do something with it.

Sometimes, after giving us the sentence a second time, Nemerci would straighten up, give the command, "Répétez," and point at an unlucky mute. I was not a good repeater. I always listened intently to Nemerci, let her syllables float up my auditory canal. I tried to clear a spot in my brain where the melodious French sounds could sink in and become my own. But something terrible happened to those sounds when forced to travel from my brain to my lips. My syllables moved slowly. Clearly, whatever they had gone through on their trip between my brain and my mouth had exhausted them. Where Nemerci’s syllables floated and glided, mine herked and jerked, as if their trip had made them paranoid or punch drunk or both. My syllables became shape-shifting tricksters. I recognized the moment they escaped my lips that they didn’t flow the way that Nemerci’s did. Still, as I listened to the sounds of my words, the shy, muffled h; the wild, rolling r, they seemed spot-on to me, the kinds of sounds that must hover in the air over outdoor cafés in Paris. But, by the time they reached Nemerci, they must have transformed themselves into something very different. As I spoke, Nemerci would twist up her face as if she were listening to me pound away at the keyboard of a piano while wearing boxing gloves.

Other times, instead of repeating, class members would have to respond to Nemerci’s sentence with a sentence of their own creation. Nemerci would stand before us and say something like "Comment tu t’appelle? Comment tu t’appelle?" Even without vocabulary we could always tell when Nemerci expected an answer. When she pronounced the final word of a question, her voice would suddenly jump an octave, as if she had been poked with something sharp, and she would raise her eyebrows until they nearly crawled under her headscarf. When she finished speaking, she would cock her head to the side and point an ear toward our group as if anxious to capture the brilliant sounds about to erupt from us. Then she would point.

The first mute called upon faced special challenges. I had to go through Nemerci’s questions word by word, skimming through my sparse French vocabulary, hoping to find the alchemy that would transform the French words into English words. Some transformed easily. Comment for example, became how as soon as it entered my consciousness. Comment I retained from high school. I had heard Madame Doering speak it a thousand times. I also recalled comment easily because I liked the word, admired its versatility. In addition to starting questions, in casual conversation comment could become a sentence all by itself. Stretch out the middle o sound, raise the pitch of your voice slightly as you bit off the silent t clinging to its end and it became cooommen, an expression of surprise and awe, a kind of Chadian equivalent of holy cow. Just as quickly, I could transform tu into you. Pronouns were almost impossible not to learn. They forced themselves into nearly every communication, buzzing through the air of the training center like swarms of gnats.

How and you provided an entryway into Nemerci’s sentence, but the bulk of the hard work of making meaning still remained. Anything might follow how and you. How are you feeling today? How would you like your eggs? How far are you from home? How do you plan to survive in Chad without understanding French? The most important elements of Nemerci’s questions always lay at the end, and these most important elements tended to be the most cryptic, for example t’appelle.

From high school French class I remembered t’appelle as an awkward-looking contraction. The apostrophe appeared much too early, jumping up out of nowhere at the beginning of the word like someone barging into a conversation, interrupting the beginning of a story. The construction of t’appelle struck me as tenuous and ugly. The word lacked balance, all the weight resting at the end. The t seemed like a kind of tumor growing off the front end of the word, disfiguring it, obscuring its meaning.

I developed a strategy for dealing with the unfamiliar and confusing elements of the language, letters blooming in unexpected places, slashes and dots perching atop letters. I ignored them. When confronted by t’appelle, I performed mental surgery on the word, cutting away what looked problematic and ugly, leaving me with a mutt of a sentence: How you appelle?

To transform a word like appelle into English, I first scoured the already converted words for clues. Even mundane words like how and you provided some help. While the meaning of appelle remained wide open, how and you hinted at the function of appelle. In order to form a coherent question, how and you needed the aid of a verb.

Once I could make an educated guess as to the part of speech a French word might be, I started looking for English cognates. The one redeeming quality all of us mutes recognized in the French language was that it is filled with English cognates, words that share common origins with English words. The cognates were like cousins of the English words I knew so well, cousins that had grown up in Europe and acquired exotic mannerisms and habits, but retained a familiar essence. The French taxi, stripped of its lilting pronunciation, became the earthy English taxi. Banane affected some sophistication, but so strongly resembled banana that their relationship could not go unnoticed.

The cognates usually revealed themselves right away or not at all. I’d let a word like appelle bang around in my head, try to visualize the word, investigate the letters that made it up, try to feel the sounds tripping across the bones of my inner ear, listening for the English heartbeat that I hoped pumped somewhere in the background. And when my search came up empty, I’d get desperate. Appelle. Appelle. It seemed to have a lot in common with apple. Could apple be a verb? Maybe. Maybe in agriculture circles one could apple something, maybe apple a new orchard. But would Nemerci ask me how I apple? Is this the kind of thing that would prove handy in a Chadian village? Did apples even exist in Chad? I had to admit that I had hit a dead end.

Once a cognate search proved fruitless, I had only rote memory to turn to. For years, I thought of the bits of high school French classes I retained the way that other people might think of the recalled flashes of car accidents. Infrequently, I’d dust off my memories and examine them, but only to cringe, to feel the chill run up my spine, to feel the muscles in my shoulders contract, to feel the wave of relief, like a sudden blast of cool air, when I reassured myself I would never have to sit through a Madame Doering lecture again.

For the most part, I was a quiet and pleasant high school student. I got along with most teachers, and though I found some classes to be misdirected or boring, I never found any of my teachers offensive. Except for Madame Doering. Every snap of her pointy-toed shoes against the tile floor, every word that came out of her puckered mouth plucked at my nerves. If she would have walked into class and announced, Instead of teaching today, I’m just going to run my fingernails up and down the blackboard for the next forty-five minutes, I would have been relieved. I can’t say exactly what bothered me so much, but her French accent, the way her voice became twittery and birdlike when she spoke, was part of the problem. And I hated the clucking she made in the back of her throat when students gave poor answers, the way she would slowly shake her head from side to side as if dumbfounded that children from northern Indiana spoke French badly.

But my irritation with her went deeper, deeper than I could understand. It seemed almost innate, a kind of allergic reaction. Pollen caused my eyes to burn and my nose to run. Madame Doering caused the muscles of my back and jaw to tense. But, sitting in a boukarou surrounded by Nemerci and my fellow mutes, all eyes on me, waiting for some response, I had no one else to turn to but Madame Doering.

Every chapter of my high school French textbook opened with a dialogue, a script presented under a crude cartoon drawing of teenagers. Madame Doering gave these dialogues the weight and import that the English teachers gave Hamlet and Huckleberry Finn. We’d spend days on every new dialogue. First Madame Doering would read them to us, walking around the classroom, using her one free hand to pantomime, as best she could, the action of the dialogue, the pitch of her voice rising or falling to indicate a change of character. Then the students would read the dialogue aloud, first all together, like a chorus of first graders recounting the