There were no Calgon moments in Liberia.

If you have no idea what a "Calgon moment" is, you are seriously too young and have missed out on a vintage commercial where a hassled woman pleads for soothing bubbles to take away the stress in her life, if only for the length of a bubble bath.  There certainly was stress, but there was no place for a bubble bath in my backyard.  This little zinc enclosure was the only place I had to bathe.  And, I judged my days by how many bucket baths I took.  It was very normal to take a couple in one day.  On really hot days, I sometimes took three or four baths just to cool down.  A really hot day required five trips inside the enclosure.  That didn't often happen, but it did on occasion.  I even remember some nights when it was so hot my skin would actually sting.  I had to take another bucket bath to cool down and then pray I'd fall asleep before the stinging started up again.

You may already think that this would be simply unbearable.  But, let me tell you just a little more about my experience.  There was no electricity.  That meant no fans, certainly no air-conditioning, no refrigeration, no ice and no television.  However, in my neighborhood, watching the white man was a huge form of entertainment.  There was no concept of privacy.  When I lounged around in bed reading, neighbors peeked in the windows to see.  If I sat on my front porch with a grapefruit in hand, hungry little children came over to watch me eat.  I don't know about you, but my parents always told me to eat my vegetables because starving kids in Africa didn't have enough to eat.  At those moments, I always offered them my fried okra (which I still will not eat).  However, on my porch in Zwedru, I didn't want to share my grapefruit.   I usually did though. 

Now, remember the entertainment role I had in the neighborhood and then consider taking a bucket bath.  Yes, neighbors also came out of their homes to watch as the white man took a bath.  I learned to lather up, wave, and continue lathering.  One time, as a visiting guest took a bath, one of the little neighborhood kids wandered into the zinc enclosure.  None of them dared do that to me, which was just fine by me.  But, this guest inspired no fear, I guess.  When she saw the toddler, she squealed, "Oh, you're a mess!" and she gave him a bucket bath, too.

There is one other way to take a bucket bath.  In this photo, my friend Joshua's son, Kevin, demonstrated how it was done at his home.  I know that I never looked that cute when I took mine. 

As long as I'm talking about all things bathroom, I should tell you about my outhouse.  I'm convinced it was the worst one in the entire country.  All my friends agreed.  Anyone who had to use it once made sure they went to the bathroom before coming to my home for their second visit. 

My outhouse was a two-seater with individual stalls.  One stall was unlocked and open for the entire community.  Like I said, there appeared to be no concept of privacy where I lived.  People I didn't know were in my yard and outhouse at any and all hours of the day.

My side of the outhouse was locked, but the "luxury" stopped there.  I never shut the door completely when I entered my stall.  And, I always kept my left hand firmly grasped upon the door jam.  I did that because I was never completely certain the floor would support me once I sat down.  This little bit of preparation, hopefully, would prevent a seriously unthinkable and so "stinkable" fall into muck worse than the swamp beyond my backyard.  That catastrophe never happened, but it was always in the back of my mind and the forefront of my nightmares.

 
And, there's more.  In the rainy season, any visitor in my outhouse had to "dump and jump".  The water level was so high during that time of the year that there was a back splash.  During the rains, and the rest of the year, the outhouse was also filled with cockroaches.  They were mutant, jumbo, African cockroaches -- honestly, there were thousands of them lurking in the deep -- and they could pinch you where you never want a cockroach to pinch you.  Like I said, it was the country's worst outhouse.  Possibly, the world's worst!

Those outhouse moments were long ago, but this week I have been reminded about the kind of stress that Africa uniquely brings.  I've not taken a "Calgon moment" yet, but perhaps one is due.  Currently, I'm in the process of getting my visa for the trip to Liberia.  My passport was sent to the Liberian embassy in Washington D.C. two weeks ago.  It's supposed to take a week.  I had plenty of time, or so I thought.  No visa has been issued yet, and I'm scheduled to leave in around 24 hours.  The US embassy in Liberia has asked for the State Department to intervene.  I personally don't see how I can have my passport in my hands before I'm scheduled to go to the airport.*  Fortunately for me, I lived in Africa for six years.  None of this comes as a surprise.  If the flight needs to be rescheduled, then, that's what will have to happen.  It'll all work out. 

In the mean time, I've had to have a lot of emails and a phone call or two with people in Washington D.C. and Liberia.  During one conversation, I was informed that there are people in Zwedru who remember me and anticipate my arrival.  That was the best possible kind of news.  After 14 years of civil war and then Ebola, I didn't know if anyone I knew was still living in the area or even alive.  Obviously, some one (or more than one) is waiting for me.  I have a short list of six people whom I especially hope to locate.  And then, I was given a name.  Dorbor.  That's my friend Joshua, the father of baby Kevin.  One of the six!

Forget stress!  Forget tickets!  Forget cockroaches, outhouses and bucket baths!  Forget the Liberian embassy and visas!  Hey, you can even forget Calgon!  I'm on my way back home to Zwedru (eventually) and at least one of my friends is waiting for me.

* Oh me of little faith.  There were about eight people in an email loop that circled around Washington D.C. this week.  They moved heaven, earth and the Liberian Embassy.  My passport with that elusive visa arrived at my doorstep at 8:25 this evening.  I'll be able to sleep well tonight and head on out to Africa as planned in the morning.  Go back and read my previous blog if you need to know about good kharma.

I don't really know much about kharma.  I've never studied it.  Usually, it just reminds me of Maude from "All in the Family" when she'd say, "God'll get you for that!"  So, my main understanding of kharma is that if you sow enough bad seeds, one of these days the Universe is going to turn around and bite you where you don't want to be bitten.  Nobody wants to be bitten, there or anywhere!

However, I must say, that isn't always so bad when you see the right person getting bit exactly where it is deserved.  I know a nasty little Welshman.  He'll remain nameless and you don't need to know the story.  But, when he finally got his comeuppance with Kharma, seriously, there was rejoicing in several countries on multiple continents.

I wasn't raised on kharma.  I had a much bigger dose of the "Golden Rule" in my life.  Regardless of what you believe, I think it's just a whole lot better to sow goodness and kindness.  The world is greatly in need of all of this it can get.  And, I personally think that teachers do a lot of this kind of sowing.  And if the Universe ever comes around with a comeuppance of kindness for teachers, I've found that it takes its good old time in doing so.  But, it does happen on occasion.

I guess the school and location should remain nameless, but I once was a new teacher in a school and my class was stacked with the worst behavior problems I'd ever experienced.  Every day I went home feeling like a total failure.  I didn't know how to handle the situation.  It was perhaps the longest nine months of my life.  I was so busy with the trouble-makers that I never felt I gave sufficient time to the rest of the class that needed my attention.  I did the best I could, but I didn't last long at that school.  I never forgot that sense of failure.

I held on to it for seven years.

Now, I know that I'm not that hard to locate on the Internet.  But, I never expected Adrian to contact me so many years after fifth grade.  He was one of the quiet children that I didn't feel got enough of my time.  However, his school district had the wonderful policy of allowing a high school graduate to receive the diploma from their favorite teacher.  Adrian wanted me to give him his diploma.  I couldn't believe it.  I had no idea I connected with him like that, but Adrian had received some goodness and kindness that he never forgot.  It hit me hard realizing how much influence a teacher really has on students. 

Unfortunately, I lived in Africa at the time.  I would have come back to America if I could, but Adrian's graduation was the same week my art students were showing their work at the National Art Museum in Lusaka, Zambia.  As the art teacher, I sort of had to be there.  So, I had lunch in the summer with Adrian and three of my other students.  Both Matt and Mike were graduating the following year.  And, they asked me to give them their diplomas.  I made sure there was no scheduling conflict and I came back to America for the weekend.  I never got over jet lag before it was time to go back to Africa, but it was probably the highlight of my teaching career.

Matt currently works overseas.  I had lunch with him before he moved to Europe.  I said, "I'm going to have to take partial blame for you making this move."  Matt fired back, "Are you kidding me?  This is all your fault."  I smiled about my influence.  I'm not so sure his mother did.

Like I said, and as you already know, I'm not so hard to find online.  A few of my former students have found me over the years.  Facebook has helped more to locate me.  Each one who searches for me is special.  When I posted that I was going to return to Liberia, I heard from Bryant.  I've not seen him since he was ten, but I know he has grown into a fine adult.  And, he's a teacher out there sowing his own goodness and kindness.

Bryant asked how he could help.  What could he and the students in his Justice and Diversity League do?  Like I said, he's doing his part to help shape the future in a positive way.  It wasn't hard at all for me to give him a suggestion.  One of my favorite things to do with my neighbor kids during the Peace Corps was make chocolate no-bake cookies.  (If you look closely at the photo, you'll appreciate your kitchen a whole lot more.  We used a "coal pot" and hot coals to heat up the cookies.  Actually, that's how everything was cooked across Liberia.  I even baked a cake over coals!  The boy who is seated holds a woven fan that was used to fan the flames to get the cooking started.)

In Zwedru, the only "candy" I ever saw was similar to Hall's eucalyptus cough drops.  That is not candy!  I don't even like them when I have a sore throat and need them.  And, it was so hot in Liberia that when you unwrapped the drop, it was partially melted and entirely sticky.  So, in comparison, chocolate no-bake cookies were a taste of heaven in your mouth. 

As I leave for Africa, I have cocoa powder from Bryant's league and a recipe to make more chocolate no-bake cookies.  I also have a photo of these students to share with the African children I'll meet on this adventure.  I'll sow some cheer, some kindness and more than a few calories as I tell the children about these students in America who wanted to do something special for them. 

Kharma, I'm ready for you to do wonderful things for one certain Justice and Diversity League.

The cobblestone streets of old town Tallinn, Estonia, are a delight to stroll and photograph.  Buildings look like they are right out of the Middle Ages.  Even the staff at local restaurants, bars and souvenir shops dress in traditional clothing.  It added so much ambiance to my mural experience.  And, my favorite Estonian was Sohvi.
 
She worked at a very central restaurant that I passed several times a day.  Not only could she recommend something good to eat, but she was a wealth of local information.  One morning I searched for a newspaper with an article about my mural project.  I looked in vain around the main train station.  I thought it made sense to go where there were commuters.  When I mentioned this to Sohvi, she said that was the most dangerous place in the whole country.  And, that was my experience as three or four very aggressive homeless people came after me for some money.  Sohvi sent me in a much safer direction and I found the paper I needed.
 
Sohvi was beautiful.  She was exactly the type of person I like to photograph for my portraits.  But, I didn't take a single picture of her.  I traveled with another person who had all the right kind of photographic equipment but lacked an artist's eye.  He took so many photos of Sohvi, that I was simply too embarrassed to ask for one. 
 
However, on my last day in Tallinn, Sohvi asked if I would send her some of the photos that I took of her.  I told her, in order to do that, I'd have to take her picture.  She chose to give me a smile and the last photo I took in Estonia was the best.                             

You probably already know all about the squeaky wheel and its grease.  I used to live by that mantra.  But, it's been my experience that just as often, the squeaky wheel doesn't get any grease.  It gets replaced.  And, I can tell you first-hand that getting replaced is not so much fun.  So, over the course of my life, I've changed and I don't really squeak all that much.

But, back in my Peace Corps days, I squeaked.  And, I'm still completely convinced that it was entirely justified.

In my first year in Liberia, I was supposed to supervise five schools that were implementing a program sponsored by the U.S. Agency for International Development.  The problem was, I was absolutely and completely convinced that the program was stupid.  Another word that starts with "s" comes to mind, but right now I'm going to stick with stupid.  Now usually, I'm the kind of person who snickers in the back of the room whispering clever, sarcastic remarks.  My friends enjoy the comments, but the people who need to hear my words of wisdom never, ever do.  However, this project was so stupid that I just couldn't sit back and mutter.  I told everyone there was to tell at Peace Corps, US AID and the Liberian Ministry of Education how I felt.

It didn't make me a very popular Peace Corps Volunteer.

I imagine I need to explain myself here.  In all my years since Peace Corps, I've never found anyone who disagrees with me.  Don't be the first.  So, here's the way it worked.  The whole goal was to come up with a program that was incompetent teacher proof.  Why not come up with a way to train the teachers to be competent?  That was never discussed.  In grades one, two and three, the teachers had a script to read to their students from a booklet.  It didn't matter if the teacher or the students understood the text.  As long as the words were read, and then repeated in unison by the class, everyone proceeded on to the next page.  As bad as that was, grades four, five and six were even worse.  Teachers were considered too incompetent to even present the information.  Students worked in groups of five or six.  Each table had a different subject.  For two days kids at one table studied math while other tables studied English, history and any other subject.  I know that students in Ohio who can read, are somewhat motivated and attend school on a regular basis would never learn anything in this environment.  Nobody wants the same subject all day long for two days!  And, I've never personally witnessed a group of students teach themselves without the guidance of their teacher. 

So, I squeaked.

Now, I never heard if there was actually a meeting about me.  But, I'm 99.99% sure that there had to be a discussion.  It was decided that I wasn't going to be in the same program during my second year.  But, what to do with this squeaker?  Send me home?  I imagine that was one option considered.  Fortunately, miraculously, they came up with an alternative project that I couldn't refuse.  And, I honestly believe that I wouldn't have been allowed not to accept it.

Liberian schools didn't have adequate school libraries.  They might have second-hand books from the States, but none of them were culturally relevant.  My job was to collect Liberian folktales.  It was an amazing opportunity and just a perfect fit for me.

The job wasn't as easy as you might expect.  Many people didn't want to share stories because they were certain I was really just going to publish them for myself and get rich.  I heard lots of stories from people that just rambled on and on and still further on with no real plot line.  It was even worse if the story teller had too much palm wine, the local brew of choice.  I edited and changed things at will to give the stories a beginning, a plot and a conclusion.

In the end of the year, I compiled my stories and turned them over to the Ministry of Education.  I never got any kind of feedback about my work.  And, two weeks after I left the country, the civil war started that ripped Liberia apart.  I'm sure everything I wrote was lost.

But, I kept a copy for myself.

I posted three of my favorite folktales on my website.  Occasionally, I hear from readers - even Liberians - who enjoy the read.  That always makes my day.

TWENTY-FIVE YEARS LATER, an interesting email came my way.  It was from a woman working at an NGO in Liberia.  Her project was with libraries throughout the country and it included creating reading materials.  She wanted to know if she could use my three folktales.  Not only could she use them, but I had a collection of fifty stories to pass along to her. It took a long while for those stories to find their way into the hands of Liberian readers.  But, it is extremely satisfying to know that something I did so long ago in Africa will still have a positive impact with young readers today.

Like I said at the start, I don't squeak so much these days.  When necessary I still snicker in the back of the room with my friends.  But, I am forever grateful that I was a squeaky wheel while I was in the Peace Corps.