All the world's staged
Amongst our ragamuffin group of tired and bloated Peace Corps volunteers, there were two young men who epitomized the term “dude.” Either they hardlined the spirit of Jeff Spicoli or they decided that the best way to make it through 27 months in Africa was to pine for the raddest ocean barrels off the coast of Cote d’Ivoire. Either way, these two were the walking, talking, hocking personification of surfer bros. This identity found its way cemented into the minds of the other members of our Stage class one morning when all of a sudden one of the Hang Ten Twins screamed in horror from his chair:
“AUUUUUGGGGHHH…HOLLLLLLYYYYY SHIT!!!”
We all whipped our heads in our befouled compatriot’s direction, only to witness the horrific ascent of the largest of large wasps hovering above this man, blood dripping from its inch-long stinger. I may have exaggerated my memory of the sound this heinous insect’s wings made, but it sounded like an invasion of aerial paramilitary guerrillas. Instantly, several people came to our injured comrade’s aid, tearing off his blood-soaked t-shirt to gain access to the wound to clean it. Needless to say, that morning’s language instruction on the art of speaking Bambara immediately ceased. We distributed ourselves to our respective huts, collecting our thoughts on what we just witnessed, or completely forgetting it ever happened — who knows, whatever helped us to continue to chip away at the glacial shock from our new surroundings.
Our next communal gathering took place over the afternoon meal (lunch to you Westerners — but, here, it happened irregularly somewhere between Noon and 3pm), where we all assembled under the largest tented area, with its rows and rows of long fiberglass picnic tables. A rousing cheer of celebration fanned the thick air as our wounded hero wobbled in from the infirmary, arm in a sling, smiling his oh-so-more-than-it-should-ever-be cool grin. I remember this meal in particular as it was bookmarked by the freak experience of the wasp sting, but also because this was the first repast where absolutely no hint of Western food existed. Up until this point, we could count on hotdogs, macaroni and cheese, even french fries — all levels of comfort foods to help us acclimate to a world and culture that we didn’t belong to (I never thought I’d consider any of that junk comforting, but it did its job). No more. From here on out, all meals would consist of West African staples, spices and textures. I honestly welcomed this, intellectually, but I sensed a brewing discomfort deep inside of me that would get an even longer steep as the events of the next few days unfolded.
I ate, just not happily. For what did I feed myself, then, I would ask. To thrive? To survive? Did I look on our hosts with compassion or suspicion? Did I trust my own government to have my best interests at heart, or by now, did I dissolve the delusions that I managed not to be a diplomatic pawn in a larger, stewing geopolitical fricassee?
If I felt the deep pain of a stinger stabbing me in the back, who would be at the other end?