The New Year started and I celebrated with a group of Peace Corps Volunteers in the town of Man, Ivory Coast. Our Ivorian guide, in hot pink and lime green suspenders, took us to a waterfall for the afternoon. Perhaps I should have taken it as a warning, but atop the algae covered rocks at the brink of the waterfall, I nearly slipped over the edge. It's one of the many times in my life that my guardian angel stepped forward to save me.
I have seriously overworked my guardian angel. And, this vacation through the Ivory Coast, Burkina Faso and Mali was no exception. I became part of Peace Corps legend in Liberia after this trip. Nobody could believe anyone survived. Most likely, you will agree.
After the New Year celebrations, most of the volunteers returned to Liberia while three of us headed into our adventure. Usually the first day of vacations aren't too eventful. However, we were easily impressed. After a year in Liberia, it was incredible to be in an air conditioned bus, with assigned numbered seats, a stereo and a VCR. We hadn't been on such nice public transportation the whole time we'd been in Africa. We were set to enjoy a scenic view and a peaceful ride.
After an hour or so, I snuggled down in my seat to take a nap. I'll never know exactly what happened, but it took place just before Daloa. All of a sudden I was thrown around in my seat and then showered by two waves of liquid and shattered glass. For some reason, our bus crossed over into the other lane, hit and oncoming truck that carried bottles of soft drinks and beer, ran down a steep embankment, and plowed through a briar patch into a grove of trees. When we finally came to a stop, the first thing I remember was Amanda screaming, "Am I bleeding?" She didn't wait for an answer. Amanda climbed over a dozen seats and several people to escape out the back of the bus before it exploded. (She'd seen too many movie explosions.)
We were lucky to be alive. Most people were uninjured except for those seated near the driver, which is where we should have been seated as the first three passengers on the bus. However, because we were a group of three, they seated us together in the first section with three seats. We were two rows away from the driver, but I never saw him after the wreck. I never learned what happened to him but there was a huge tree where he had been seated. A ten foot section of the bus was ripped off the driver's side. The woman sitting in front of me was thrown out of the bus and into the trees. Her arms looked broken. There was someone dead on the road. There could have been more.
Debbie and I climbed out our shattered window to locate the missing Amanda. She was frantic -- a safe distance away from the bus. Her glasses were missing. Glasses? As soon as she said that, I realized that mine were missing, too. I went back into the bus to find them. Amanda's were broken in the stampede out of the bus. I found one lens. One a second trip I found the other. Mine were nowhere. I searched around the wreck. Nothing. I made a third check in the bus and found them -- unbroken -- where the driver's feet should have been.
As the only foreigners at the scene (and the only victims covered with shattered glass and beer), we stuck out in the crowd. Some people invited us to their village where we cleaned up and ate before finding a bus on to Daloa. We stopped at the Catholic mission to see if we might be able to stay there the night. They said they were too busy helping victims of a bus accident. When we explained that we were on that bus, they found a place for us to stay.
Obviously, it was a few days before we could think of anything else to talk about. We almost cancelled the vacation and returned to Liberia, but we knew no more disasters could possibly beat this one.
We were sure.
We were fools.
The mosque in Trechville Continuing on to Abidjan, we toured the very old African part of the city called Treichville. There was a mosque that we were not permitted to enter. Too bad, because I think we needed to pray for a safe vacation. After the time in Treichville, we headed back to the main part of the shopping district called the Plateau. A big bridge separated these two areas. The guidebook said that it should be avoided at night, but we were there in the middle of the afternoon. On the pedestrians' exit ramp from the bridge were sidewalk vendors. There were café tables with colorful umbrellas. There were also two rogues (the Liberian term for lowlife ne'er-do-wells) who ran up from behind us and tried to steal the girls' backpacks.
I saw Amanda running, screaming at the top of her lungs, as a man chased her. It was like a scene from a horror movie. The man held his arm high in the air as he raced after her, a knife in his grasp. Well, my heart almost stopped and then I started to call for help -- in English -- which doesn't do a whole lot of good in a French speaking country. When I gathered my wits, I knew it was up to me to rise to the occasion and be a hero to save my friends. I ran over to Debbie. She struggled with her backpack but managed to pull it away from the thief by the time I got there. Defeated, the thief ran off empty handed.
I saw Amanda running, screaming at the top of her lungs, as a man chased her. It was like a scene from a horror movie. The man held his arm high in the air as he raced after her, a knife in his grasp. Well, my heart almost stopped and then I started to call for help -- in English -- which doesn't do a whole lot of good in a French speaking country. When I gathered my wits, I knew it was up to me to rise to the occasion and be a hero to save my friends. I ran over to Debbie. She struggled with her backpack but managed to pull it away from the thief by the time I got there. Defeated, the thief ran off empty handed.
Enduring dust and yet another of the police checkpoints along the way Since Debbie was okay, I had to locate Amanda. I ran down the bridge not having a clue what I'd do when I found her. I just continued running, running, running. Then, I saw her at the end of the exit ramp struggling to keep her purse away from the thief. I continued running and did the only thing I knew to do. I took a flying leap into the air -- like Superman -- and tackled him. We all three tumbled to the ground. By the time I got to my feet, the thief was twenty feet away and running but Amanda was nowhere to be seen. Although she'd fought long and hard to protect her belongings, as soon as she was knocked over, she "knew" she was about to die. So, she left everything and ran. Well, she possessed the clarity of mind to grab her new pair of glasses before saving her neck.
I remember a woman ran up to me and said in French, "You have a lot of courage!" I really didn't know what she was talking about. But, later, I learned that thieves in Abidjan did not hesitate to slice up or kill anyone who resisted them -- including Superman. It was one of the most dangerous cities in Africa. It's probably best I didn't know it at the time.
Debbie arrived by my side, picking up Amanda's scattered possessions. We watched as the other pedestrians chased after the thief. They threw anything they could find at him, including park benches. He didn't stay around. A thief who is caught can get into serious trouble in West Africa. One of my friends in Liberia had her house broken into. When the thief was caught, as punishment, his foot was chopped off with a machete. That Ivorian rogue didn't have any desire to remain with us and lose a body part. We had no desire to stay in Abidjan either.
There were no more major disasters, but it was only day three of the vacation. I knew the experience deserved a song, which I finished in Mali as our vehicle was stuck in a partially dried river bed somewhere between Mopti and Dogan land. But, you have to know a few more details of the trip to fully understand the lyrics. "PCV" means Peace Corps Volunteer. One day, as we strolled in a park in downtown Abidjan, we heard a crashing sound and stopped. Then, just in front of us, a huge palm branch crashed to the ground at our feet. Later, as we continued from the Ivory Coast on to Bobo Dioulasso in Burkina Faso, we had eighteen - count 'em - eighteen police checkpoints along the way. Mostly I just shut my eyes and tried to endure the heat, delays and the dusty Harmattan winds that blew across West Africa from December to February. Amanda saw no humor in the situation, but in one pickup taxi, a sleazy guy from Togo asked me how much I would sell her as his new bride.
Now the song should make sense.
Harmattan All the While (to the tune of Gilligan's Isle)
Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale that could make you cuss,
That started in the town of Man aboard this lousy bus.
Our fate wasn't all in our command, our sanity unsure.
Three PCV's set out one day for a three country tour.
The travels started getting rough. Our great big bus was crushed!
If not for the luck here of our fearless few, the story could be hushed.
The trip was more than we bargained for as we crossed every mile.
In Abidjan, the rogues had knives,
The Bobo road, eighteen stops,
Attacking palms,
And if you please, a Togolese sleaze,
Harmattan all the while!
Now this is a tale of our PCV's. They've been gone for ever since!
Through Ouaga, Mopti, Dogon land, some people think they're dense.
No roads and no mosquito nets! Not a single luxury!
If this is a vacation, I'd sure hate misery.
Sojourns like this can be a test. You'll die if you can't smile,
With PCV's in Africa, Harmattan all the while!
Even if you don't know the tune or can't sing a lick, certainly you'll understand why I was a Peace Corps legend in Liberia.
I remember a woman ran up to me and said in French, "You have a lot of courage!" I really didn't know what she was talking about. But, later, I learned that thieves in Abidjan did not hesitate to slice up or kill anyone who resisted them -- including Superman. It was one of the most dangerous cities in Africa. It's probably best I didn't know it at the time.
Debbie arrived by my side, picking up Amanda's scattered possessions. We watched as the other pedestrians chased after the thief. They threw anything they could find at him, including park benches. He didn't stay around. A thief who is caught can get into serious trouble in West Africa. One of my friends in Liberia had her house broken into. When the thief was caught, as punishment, his foot was chopped off with a machete. That Ivorian rogue didn't have any desire to remain with us and lose a body part. We had no desire to stay in Abidjan either.
There were no more major disasters, but it was only day three of the vacation. I knew the experience deserved a song, which I finished in Mali as our vehicle was stuck in a partially dried river bed somewhere between Mopti and Dogan land. But, you have to know a few more details of the trip to fully understand the lyrics. "PCV" means Peace Corps Volunteer. One day, as we strolled in a park in downtown Abidjan, we heard a crashing sound and stopped. Then, just in front of us, a huge palm branch crashed to the ground at our feet. Later, as we continued from the Ivory Coast on to Bobo Dioulasso in Burkina Faso, we had eighteen - count 'em - eighteen police checkpoints along the way. Mostly I just shut my eyes and tried to endure the heat, delays and the dusty Harmattan winds that blew across West Africa from December to February. Amanda saw no humor in the situation, but in one pickup taxi, a sleazy guy from Togo asked me how much I would sell her as his new bride.
Now the song should make sense.
Harmattan All the While (to the tune of Gilligan's Isle)
Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale that could make you cuss,
That started in the town of Man aboard this lousy bus.
Our fate wasn't all in our command, our sanity unsure.
Three PCV's set out one day for a three country tour.
The travels started getting rough. Our great big bus was crushed!
If not for the luck here of our fearless few, the story could be hushed.
The trip was more than we bargained for as we crossed every mile.
In Abidjan, the rogues had knives,
The Bobo road, eighteen stops,
Attacking palms,
And if you please, a Togolese sleaze,
Harmattan all the while!
Now this is a tale of our PCV's. They've been gone for ever since!
Through Ouaga, Mopti, Dogon land, some people think they're dense.
No roads and no mosquito nets! Not a single luxury!
If this is a vacation, I'd sure hate misery.
Sojourns like this can be a test. You'll die if you can't smile,
With PCV's in Africa, Harmattan all the while!
Even if you don't know the tune or can't sing a lick, certainly you'll understand why I was a Peace Corps legend in Liberia.
Villagers along the Bobo road at one of the eighteen police checkpoints
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