June-August, 1962: Training for Sierra Leone
In June of 1962 I was accepted into a Peace Corps group entitled Sierra Leone Project 11. I had never heard of the country, and going by the name, looked for it on a map of Latin America. When that failed, I soon learned that Sierra Leone was a recently-independent former British Colony in West Africa. I left for New Paltz, New York, where the preparation training was to take place at SUNY-New Paltz.
I arrived on June 18th. Looking back on my year in the Peace Corps, I am reminded of Teddy Roosevelt’s letter to his friend Henry Cabot Lodge that spoke of his crowded hour charging up San Juan Hill. It changed Roosevelt’s life. Nobody was going to shoot at me in West Africa, but the experience would be with me for the rest of my life.
My fellow Peace Corps volunteers were by and large liberal arts majors, most of them recent college graduates and four years younger than me. I had already taught history for three years in Portland, Maine. We were all going to teach in Sierra Leone’s secondary schools. This group of young people was easy to get along with, and I made many friends.
Training included several hours daily in the classroom, sometimes six or seven, followed by organized physical activity in the late afternoon. With one or two exceptions, the trainees knew almost nothing of West Africa, and the coordinators of the project knew little about Sierra Leone, although Dr. George Bond, our Project Coordinator, was a cultured and kind gentleman. African Studies was a new subject for American curriculum at that time. Other members of the project were helpful and generous in their support.
Memories of that summer will live in my conscious thoughts for the rest of my life. My experience jogging with my friend Stella Ann Ferguson was such an event. Stella was an African-American from Savannah, Georgia, and was an excellent athlete. I can remember on one occasion the entire group was on one of Coach Miller’s long hikes in the beautiful countryside of New York. Stella and I found ourselves out in front of the volunteers and, at Stella’s suggestion, we began to jog. It was a very hot and humid day. We ran about two miles and came to a very rich and ornate hotel. A man was washing down the driveway, and Stella asked if we could have a drink out of the hose. The expression on the man’s face turned ugly, and he told us to leave the hotel’s property. I said, “Stella – let’s go.” We continued to run down the road for another two miles until we got back to the university. Stella was a wonderful person that I enjoyed talking with about sports, the Peace Corps, America, and many other subjects during our three months of training at New Paltz University.
I now realized how evil and pervasive racism was in my own country. This was 1962, and there were no civil rights laws protecting African Americans from such attitudes and terrible injustice. It was an episode that I would never forget.
February 1, 1963: Journey to Pujehun
Yesterday, with English friends Jill Byrant and Ron Oliver, and Najar, a Lebanese friend, Bob Rawson, my Peace Corps housemate, and I went on a journey to Pujehun. Pujehun lies about 100 miles south of Bo. We were going to visit Marvin Hanson and Tony and Maureen Russell, fellow Peace Corps volunteers from our group.
One of the unique experiences of our trip was crossing the Sewa River. There was no bridge; instead, vehicles had to cross on a hand-propelled ferry. Ropes and pulleys extended across the river. Ron Oliver drove his truck onto the flat boat, and African workers pulled the boat across the river by sliding a slotted wooden block with a long wooden handle onto the cable and then tugging against it. We arrived on the other side of the river without any problems.
It was the dry season, and the road to Pujehun seemed long and dusty. The dust and thick green jungle seemed to envelop Ron’s truck. I was struck with how different the environment was from the pine and spruce trees of Maine, and I suddenly longed to see them again.
We finally arrived safe and sound at the small village of Pujehun. It was good to see Tony, Maureen, and Marvin, who were Peace Corps teachers at the Catholic secondary school for boys there, St. Paul’s. Tony and I had many conversations about our respective homes. He was from Huntington, West Virginia, and I always enjoyed hearing about his home state, which seemed so different from Maine. Marvin was from Waupaca, Wisconsin, and was a great fan of the Green Bay Packers.
Marvin, Maureen, and I were all Catholics, and on this visit Marvin introduced me to one of the most interesting characters I had the pleasure of meeting in Sierra Leone, Father Fitzgerald. He was an Irish priest who ran the mission school in Pujehun for his Holy Ghost order. Father Fitzgerald, who had been an All-European rugby player, had broad shoulders, an athletic build., and a commanding presence. I was told that he was strict on discipline. He reminded me of the Portland, Maine, Irish cops that I knew so well. I went to a Baptism in the Pujehun church, where Father Fitzgerald administered the sacrament, and that remains a clear and vivid memory for me.
As Ron, Jill, Najar, Bob and I left Pujehun, I felt the difficulty of this little Christian outpost surviving in a very hostile environment. I found myself hoping that Father Fitzgerald would go on forever, and that my friends Marvin, Bob, Tony, and Maureen would return home safely to America.
March 11, 1963: The Road to Bo
To alleviate the boredom of everyday life in Bo, I had secured a ride to Freetown. Freetown was the capital of Sierra Leone and was located on the sea coast. It had terrible poverty and, for the majority of Africans, wretched living conditions. Freetown does have one of the most beautiful beaches in the world and a hotel called the Paramount, which served western food.
My short stay in Freetown was very enjoyable. I went swimming on the beautiful beaches, went to the movies, and ate out at a famous Freetown restaurant. Then the day of reckoning arrived. My total resources were eighteen shillings, and I was due back in Bo the next day to teach school.
It was called to my attention by an English friend of mine that African truck drivers, usually referred to as lorry drivers, left for Bo each day. My friend warned me that the trip to Bo in an African lorry was a ghastly experience. He further emphasized the unique cultural benefits I might acquire from such an odyssey. Thus began an adventure that I would vividly remember and from which I would learn a great deal about Sierra Leone.
I arrived at the Lorry Park in Freetown at 8:00 am and had to wait until 10:00 am to obtain a ride. A Temne driver finally came along. (The lorry drivers were all Africans.) About a dozen Africans and I crowded in a small truck. I could have sat in the front but did not because an old African woman was sitting there and I would have felt guilty doing so. The driver turned out to be a bully and a thug. He stopped at every village to pick up more people. Many passengers objected to this violation of their agreement for direct passage to Bo without stopping at several villages along the way, but the driver shouted down all objections. I thought it best, being the only American in the lorry, to keep my own council. Some of the passengers said I should demand to sit in front with the driver, but I preferred to sit in the back. The company of my fellow travelers seemed pleasant compared with the swaggering, profane lorry driver. More and more people got into the lorry. The trip seemed endless. The distant horizon looked like a rolling sea of green jungle. The road was dusty and the weather was extremely hot. My fellow passengers and I had no water to quench our thirst on this long trip.
The whiteness of my skin, even though I was tanned from the tropical sun, was a constant reminder of my unique situation. My traveling companions had skin as black as ebony, and I was not to see a white face from dawn to dusk. The lorry left Freetown in early morning and arrived in Bo as the twilight was rapidly fading. The Sierra Leoneans spoke in their native language, although two or three of the passengers could speak a few words of English. Most of my fellow riders were of the Mende ethnic group. Unlike Joseph Conrad’s story “Heart of Darkness,” I felt that there was more good will toward a white stranger the further I distanced myself from the Sierra Leone cities.
As the lorry rambled its way inland, we were stopped on several occasions on the outskirts of villages by African policemen. The Sierra Leone police demanded ‘dash.’ This was a bribe from all trucks to pass their respective stations, and was a manifestation of the rampart corruption prevalent in Sierra Leone. Each policeman made comments about the white man riding in the back of the lorry. Several policemen asked me to get into the front seat with the driver. I refused. I shared the feelings of my fellow passengers toward the driver.
At one of the many villages where we stopped, a beautiful black woman got into the lorry with a baby. She took her blouse off and nursed her baby. Puritan New England was strongly rooted in my character, and my face turned into a red blush.
The lorry was driven endlessly along the road to Bo. My attention was caught by a pretty little black girl, about eight years old. Her face had an expression of stoical acceptance of her fate. After several hours of intermittent eye contact, she finally smiled at me. It made me feel good. The flies and the dust from the road now seemed easier to bear. (The month of March in Sierra Leone is hot and has no rain.)
One woman had a rooster she was taking to her village. Unfortunately, the rooster got loose a number of times and inflicted minor damage to several long-suffering passengers, including me.
The lorry stopped at a village overlooking a beautiful little stream. The major attraction was an African gambler engaged in his profession. My fellow companions, although sore and tired, gathered around to watch the game. The gambler was cheating. The cards that he placed on the ground with great ceremony were marked. I recognized this immediately. In my boyhood experience, playing cards with my older brothers conditioned me to the tricks of the trade. My brothers marked cards for fun, but this gambler was taking money from unsuspecting villagers. The gambler proclaimed, in an obsequious manner, that his next game’s winnings would go to me. The marked card this time was an ace. The gambler won the game. I refused to take the money and told the gambler that he was a cheat. A loud cheer instantly arose from the Africans in this little village as well as my fellow passengers. The gambler had lost his chance to cheat the villagers out of what little money they had.
The atmosphere back in the lorry was now very friendly. Most of the Mende people in the lorry did not speak English. We didn’t need language to exchange friendship and laughter.
The lorry began to empty as we approached Bo. The woman with the rooster, the little girl with the stoical face, and the beautiful black woman with the baby got off at little villages near Bo. The lorry arrived in Bo as the sun was going down.
I paid the driver the agreed-upon 15 shillings, but he demanded more money. As I began to walk back to my quarters, this bully and thug shouted at me and threatened to attack me. Suddenly a crowd of black faces surrounded me, seeming more curious than threatening. I raised my fist and gave every indication of a willingness to fight. My Irish temper was rapidly gaining ascendancy. The bully swiftly disappeared into the crowd.
I made my way to my living quarters in Bo. The day had been hot, thirsty, and long. The numerous policemen who had to be bribed by the lorry driver left me with a bad impression of authority in Sierra Leone. The gambler and the lorry driver certainly were people to avoid.
Suddenly, I remembered the smile on the little girl’s face and the joy on the faces of the faces of the Mende people in the little village when the gambler was exposed. The beautiful black Mende woman with the baby would forever be part of my reminiscences of Africa.
I have often wondered what became of my fellow travelers on the road to Bo. Have they survived and prospered in that very harsh environment? I do fervently hope and pray that they not only survive, but prevail in their struggles for a better life.
December, 1962: Night Walk with Dave Frame and Anne Burdick
An American, working in Bo, borrowed a car and talked Anne Burdick, Dave Frame, and myself into going to Freetown with him for the weekend. The capital city was 165 miles from Bo. We left Bo with high hopes and expectations. The beaches in Freetown were beautiful and the soothing salt water reminded me of Old Orchard Beach in Maine.
Driving on the unpaved roads of Sierra Leone is dangerous at best of times. Sometimes a daring game of chance is played by African truck drivers. They drive at each other to see which driver will lose courage first and go into the ditch.
About halfway into our journey our car broke down with an overheated radiator. The time we spent in the little Mende village, waiting for the engine to cool off, was an experience that I will never forget. It characterized, for me, the two cultures trying to understand one another. We were going to Freetown to swim in the ocean at the Freetown Beach, take in a movie, and eat in a restaurant, to relieve the boredom of everyday living in Bo. The Mende villagers had no money to do such things. While time seemed to stand still for us, the villagers adapted to the intense heat by staying in their huts during the afternoon, out of the oppressive midday sun.
We finally got back on the road to Freetown. Darkness came upon us suddenly, as it does in the tropics. While our American companion was still speeding and driving recklessly, we slid off the road into the ditch. We were stuck in a West African road at night. The darkness was all encompassing. We certainly felt like a circle of black night had enveloped us.
Anne Burdick, Dave Frame, and I decided to walk to a Peace Corps house in the next large village, about 10 miles away. The walk through the night was a unique adventure. We followed the dirt road and passed several small villages made up of 10 to 20 thatched-roof huts. Sometimes we heard the Mende language being spoken by the people in their huts as we walked through their tiny villages. Occasionally people would come out and stare at us. They probably wondered why we were wandering through the night. The feeling was a little frightening and mysterious. Dave, Anne, and I were a long way from home. Americans, used to electric lights, have a tough time understanding the reality of night in a third world country, where you literally cannot see the hand in front of you.
We made the distance to the Peace Corps house where a fellow Peace Corps volunteer treated us to peanut butter and bread. The food tasted like nectar and ambrosia from the Gods. It had been a long day without food and water. He then gave us a ride back to rescue the American who was alone, still stuck in the mud in his borrowed car.
I could not have had better company in my walk through the African night than Dave and Anne. They both were cheerful and determined to walk through a very black African night to seek help. Dave was from Northfield, Minnesota, and was a champion collegiate wrestler. He was my roommate in Bo and a close friend. Anne was from Pasadena, California, and had played tennis, golf, volleyball, and softball. I knew Dave and I were in good shape but our walk that night made me realize that Anne was a fine athlete and determined to walk the distance necessary to get help. She matched Dave and myself, stride for stride. I will always remember my two friends who walked with me that night.
