Monthly Archives: August 2013

Beau Soir


August 22nd  was Claude Debussy’s 151st birthday. To mark this, a fellow member, Riz Ramadhan, shared a recording, his performance of Debussy’s classic, “Beau Soir,” (arr for piano and violin by Jascha Heifetz). Beau Soir translates as “beautiful night” and Claude Debussy composed this little piece while still a student, based on a poem by his friend, Paul Bourget. The original poem is in French, but here’s a translation, courtesy of Wikipedia*.

When streams turn pink in the setting sun,

And a slight shudder rushes through the wheat fields,

A plea for happiness seems to rise out of all things

And it climbs up towards the troubled heart.

A plea to relish the charm of life

While there is youth and the evening is fair,

For we pass away, as the wave passes:

The wave to the sea, we to the grave.

This is one of my favorite classical music “small pieces” out there—it’s romantic, sensual, memorable. It slips into my mind, my heart, and stays put all day long.

And now, regarding Riz Ramadhan’s recording. What I find so extraordinary about his performance, his sensitive interpretation, is that Riz, who lives in Indonesia, included a caveat when he posted his recording at, feeling unsure of calling himself a “real” violinist, due to the fact that he is self-taught and considers his playing, as a result, to be amateurish. “It’s very sad that I must bury deeply my dream of becoming a professional musician,” he laments.

Well. When I watched his performance on the recording, my jaw dropped. My heart soared. It was exquisitely rendered. Not without a flaw or two, but far more important than technical perfection was the heart, the intention of the music he captured. He closed his commentary with, “I just want to share my little recording, my never-noticed hard work & struggle as a self-taught. Hope you like it.”

So, my dear readers. Give it a look—for me, for him, for yourself. Listen, and tell me afterward if this music didn’t steal your heart. Read the poem again, and give the recording a second watch. I found it utterly hypnotizing, addictive. http:// I have a recording of violin virtuoso Kyung Wha Chung performing this piece, from her “Con Amore” CD. It gets played a whole lot. Here is a YouTube link to a later performance by her. http:// Indeed, it’s lovely and assured, as you would expect. But, I have to say, having heard Ramadhan’s personal story, the humble skill and sensitivity he applies to not just his performance but to the recording itself, makes it my favorite of the two. Further, in his short film—really it can be called that, so nicely done in black and white, professional titles and such—there were a few cuts to scenery of Paris-by-night. Well. You readers know my relationship with Paris, right? Only my favorite city in the world, and almost two months since my own visit there, I’m still missing it, dreaming of it. So. If there’d been any doubt, the Paris-by-night scenes clinched it for Ramadhan. Bravo, Riz Ramadhan and Claude Debussy. And thank you. Your music has touched my soul.

PS: here is a link to Riz Ramadhan’s original posting, where I had the nerve to post, in comments, “No offense, but is this really you playing here?” and happily, no offense was taken and he assured me that yes, it was really him playing.

PPS: If you enjoyed “Beau Soir,” check out my post on Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” and give the piece a listen. The two music pieces  are deliciously similar yet intriguingly different. Both are unforgettable.

* Wikipedia offers three translations from French to English; I opted for the one that best reflected the mood of the piece, which is not the literal translation of the French.

Grown-Ups at the Barre


There is a wonderful blog called Grown-Ups at the Barre and when I saw it, I instantly fell in love with the concept, the collaborative effort and different points of views from various contributors. (Not to mention it’s a fun name with a great-looking graphic on the home page.) They have allowed me to chime in, as well, and I used the opportunity to ponder the following question:  what sends grown-ups to the barre? Or the music stand, the easel, the stage?

I’m in a ballet class that has mixed levels, mixed ages, and I like the mix a lot. I do wonder about my middle-aged adult comrades there. Did their youthful selves harbor an extraordinary dream, an artistic impulse, way back when? Feelings and illusions that were, perhaps, crushed by life’s realities in adulthood, and yet are now renewed?

Allow me to share an excerpt from my article:

“We grown-ups at the barre all fall into one of a few categories. There are those like myself, who danced when we were younger, stopped for a while, and understood, only later, that we needed to return. Others of us are there because we didn’t do it when we were younger, due to circumstances beyond our control, even though we’d longed to. Then there is a third category, those who never even considered doing it in their youth, due to other obligations, or body type, or gender, and now, in this more evolved, actualized adult state, we realize that no one is going to stop us, or harshly judge us, or point and snicker. A powerful understanding kicks in: as an adult in a recreational ballet class, anything goes. Anything. How liberating.”

I’m not an adult beginner in ballet. And yet, I am an adult beginner on the violin. (I sense I will always think of myself as a beginner on the violin, seven years into the game. It’s that difficult for me.) And I, therefore, now want to pose the same question to adults who play the violin, either after a long hiatus or, like myself, are commencing the practice as adults. Or adults who have taken up tap class. Or water color. Or ceramics. Or parasailing. Or belly dancing. Or… well, you get the idea. Adults who are embracing surprising new opportunities.


What drives us, we crazy adults, who’ve decided we’re not going to let age and stereotypes dictate what we will or won’t do, particularly in artistic endeavors? I’m sure everyone’s got their own story. I’d love to hear each and every one of them.

And in the meantime, I hope you’ll consider checking out the rest of my story:

And here — because I know you’re click-on-link hungry and want to click more, more, more — are my violin-flavored musings on the very same subject, posted over at . Others are sharing their stories there, as well, which is always great fun to read. Come join us there!

© 2013 Terez Rose



CA Mertes (2 of 3)

Family. Even the word is fraught with so much baggage, such different meaning for every last person. Responsibility. Love. Resentment. Siblings. Parents. Loss. More love. Good memories. Bad memories. The concept of family is daunting to me on so many levels, most of which revolve around the fact that I’m a bit of a lone wolf. I love being alone; I always have. It nourishes me, replenishes me. I grew up, however, as one of eight kids. Nine, if you count John Francis, who died as an infant, but only my mother counted him in all the time and she, too, is dead now, so there you have it. There are eight of us kids here now, and my dad, who, thankfully, has defied his genetic odds and is still with us in his late ‘80’s.

Family: this thing I, too, created with my husband, well aware that my instincts to spend large chunks of time alone were going to have to go un-fed if we decided to have a child of our own. We did. And they did. But in return, I have this, my own family.

I hosted my family—the big mob and not my own little trio—for a week this summer. To celebrate my fiftieth year, to celebrate our togetherness. My lone wolf tendencies aside, we are a close-knit family, and these things are important in so many ways.

It was a crazy week, half the time here at my home in the Santa Cruz Mountains, new visitors arriving each night, until the group grew too big and we all migrated to a big vacation rental home along the coast, north of San Francisco. The days, chaotic and social, relaxed but not, flew. I’m back in my own home again, now, slowly getting myself and the house back into working shape, and even though my brain is spinning, and I haven’t been able to process it all—it will be weeks before all of it settles and finds a place in my memory banks—I feel like I need to honor the event somehow, here on my blog. But it’s like tiptoeing into a lion’s den, terrified of what I might unearth, emotionally. Family: is there anything that draws you closer to the child you once were, the vulnerabilities you’ve worked hard as an adult to shield? Anything that rips at your heart more efficiently, exposing both your beauty and your ugliness? No one can press my buttons like family can. No one is closer to me in my world, except my husband and son, and while they are “family,” they are not that other family, my core family, the group of people that word has conjures up, since my earliest memory.

CA Mertes (1 of 3)

I’m not here to write a travelogue. Those are boring as hell to read. I’m not here to write a sweet piece on “what my family means to me.” And yet, I feel tears hovering dangerously close as I write, and that makes me wonder, hmm, just what wants to come out there? Whatever it is, it will likely require Kleenex and quiet, nurturing space, and now is hardly that time. My son is here, still sleeping, still on summer vacation this week, which means he will wake  at any moment and burst into my day with his needs and demands and cajoling and “I love you”s and a tiny form of the chaos of family reunion week will resume. And thank goodness for that, really. Because as much as I crave peace, silence, solitude, there was no feeling lonelier than that final morning, having waved the last car of people goodbye. You know the feeling; I’m sure you’ve been there. You mouth “goodbye!” and wave, and wave, long after they’ve stopped looking behind them and are now moving forward with purpose. Your ears ring with so much conversation and your body trembles with spent energy. You’re bone tired and you just want some peace. You walk back into the house, footsteps slower now, and look around. Emptiness greets you, the silence of a big, six-room vacation rental that had been overflowing with sound and people for days and now, suddenly, it’s too empty, too quiet.


It caught me by surprise, a fierce tug of emotion, a sense of loss, of loneliness. I wasn’t in that house all alone; my son was in a downstairs room and my husband was a block away, in our second unit. (I’m telling you, it was a big group.) But there is an undeniable sadness, even for a lone wolf such as myself, in observing a room that was crowded, full of people you love, and now is empty. I will see them all again, even though it might be a year before that happens. I can only pray that my father’s relatively good physical health continues and that he stays around on this earth a lot longer, even as his aching bones and joints protest. My family and I will be together again. And the irony is, when the time comes, I’ll wince at the noise, back away, go seek out a quiet corner, and gripe about family.

Ah, families. They are such a big part of your life. Whether you run from that or embrace it, they are there, in your heart, in your mind, as eternal as the ocean.



PS: if you are saying to yourself, wow, that’s a nice house, and what a view (and BTW, credit for the scenery photos here goes to the property owners, Tracy Freedman and/or Nick Robins), you are RIGHT. And much as I hate to trumpet too loudly about sharing a good thing, for fear that good thing will become too popular and I won’t be able to snag it again the next time I want to, this is a rental worth trumpeting about. You can check out details here:

PPS: Missing from the family photo above are two of my sisters. You were there with us in spirit, sisters! And missing is my husband, because he was the one to take the photo. Thank you, Classical Spouse – you’re a sport!

Classical Girl’s Black Ivory Soul


Ten years ago it was African music and not classical, that had me so infatuated. It was African dance and not ballet. I know, right? Doesn’t make much sense in light of my current music and dance obsession. But I’d started writing my first novel, loosely set on some of my own experiences as a Peace Corps Volunteer, and the writing project had utterly consumed me. It was one of those novels that all but wrote itself, certainly the first draft. A wild, wild experience, much like living in Africa itself.

The story is set in the late 1980’s. Fiona is the story’s narrator. She’s in her early 20’s, a lifelong ballet dancer, having finished up college, instructed by Dad to “get a job—a real one, not just dancing.”  A bitter conflict with her sister galvanizes her to get as far away as she can.

Provincial Gabon, in Central Africa, is far indeed.

Here’s the opening chapter of the novel. Let me know if you enjoy it, because now the question floating around in my mind, like the mind of every writer with a handful of shelved novels, is, “Should I self-publish it? “  It’s not a decision I plan to rush. But for the time being, it’s nice to air out Black Ivory Soul once again, take a peek at it all, and what better place to post the opening chapter than my blog? So thank you, reader, for humoring me!

[Admin’s update in January 2015. Decision made and announced here: My “Africa” novel, newly titled, A Dancer’s Guide to Africa, will be published in late 2018, the third novel to be published by Classical Girl Press.


                                                BLACK IVORY SOUL [working title] – a novel


Chapter One – Welcome to Africa

The first thing I noticed was the AK-47, cradled in the arms of the Gabonese military checkpoint guard. That, and the fact that the man looked angry. He sprang to attention as our dust-caked van rolled to a stop, clutching the rifle close, arms at rigid angles. A steel bar, supported by two rusting oil drums, looking like a makeshift ballet barre, stretched across the unpaved road, preventing us from passing without his permission. Since my arrival in Gabon forty-eight hours prior, I’d discovered military checkpoints were common in Africa. At the first one, outside the Gabonese capital of Libreville, the guard had waved us through without rising from his seat. At the second, a soldier was sleeping in a chair tipped against a cinder-block building. Only the noise of our honking had awakened him. But this third official took his job seriously.

Inside the Peace Corps van, I glanced around to see if anyone else noticed the danger we were in. No one was looking. Animated chatter filled the overheated van. “Um, excuse me?” I called out over the din, my voice abnormally high. “Someone with a big gun is heading toward us.” This elicited a few raised heads. The two second-year Volunteers in the van glanced through the smudged window before returning to their conversations. Carmen, an education trainee like myself, leaned over me to peer out.

“Whoa—check it out,” she said. Her eyes shone.

Her fascination shouldn’t have surprised me. Although she was petite and pink-cheeked, her multiple piercings, spiky hair, heavy eyeliner and combat boots probably saved her from ever being referred to as cute. Back home, my ballet dancer friends and I would have given her a wide berth. Here, she’d become my close friend. Together we watched the soldier draw closer. His eyes glowed with a fanatic’s fervor, as if he were drunk on his own power. Or maybe just drunk. The authorities here, I was learning, bore little resemblance to the clean-cut police officers back in Omaha who patrolled the suburban neighborhoods, stopping me in my dented Ford Pinto to inquire whether I was aware of how fast I’d been driving. That world seemed very far away.

Our van driver, a wiry Gabonese man, slipped out, waving a fistful of papers at the soldier. The two began a heated discussion. A moment later, the soldier relaxed his grip on the rifle. Once he’d accepted two packs of cigarettes from our driver, he became downright amiable. He slung an arm over our driver’s shoulder and the two of them walked off. “Buddies, just like that,” Carmen muttered.

Another uniformed guard crunched over to our van. “Descendez, descendez,” he called out in a bored voice. The Volunteers in the van rose, grumbling and stretching.

“What’s happening?” another trainee asked.

This wasn’t part of the plan, and that made me nervous. We were supposed to arrive at our training site in Lambaréné by mid-afternoon. We’d already stopped once for a flat tire and another time for a steamy, bug-infested half-hour, the reason never made clear. No one else seemed bothered by all these delays. I could only fret and grumble to myself as we shuffled out of the Peace Corps van into the staggering humidity, squinting at the equatorial sunlight. Away from the city, deep inside the country’s interior, the whine of insects was a noisy symphony of clicks, buzzes and drones. Jungly trees crowded the landscape, broken only by the red dirt road and clearing. A group of children, wearing an assortment of ragged thrift-store castoffs, shrieked at our sudden appearance and ran from us. The rifle-toting soldier and our driver had disappeared. “But what’s the delay?” I quavered, trudging behind the others over to a mud and wattle shack set up next to the checkpoint station. “How long will we be here?”

“Who knows?” a Volunteer named Rich replied. “Long enough to have a Regab.” He entered the shack and we followed like ducks. In the dim room, lit by sunlight filtering through cracks, Rich pointed to a table where our driver was sitting, animated in conversation with the guard. Both now clutched wine-sized green bottles of beer. Regab.


“There’s malaria, of course,” Rich was telling us after we’d grouped around a back table, armed with our own tepid Regabs. “Then filaria, hepatitis, typhoid….” He ticked off the diseases on his fingers, undistracted by the whispers and giggles of the children who’d returned. Through gaps in the wall, I could see them outside: a half-dozen pairs of dark eyes watching our every move.

“Don’t forget giardia,” a woman sitting next to me on the bench sang out. “Purple burps and green farts,” she added for explanation.

“These are diseases a person might get here?” I asked.

“Hell, these are diseases the Volunteers have right now,” Rich replied.

“You’re telling me someone’s walking around with malaria?”

“That would be me,” he stated with obvious pride.

I scrutinized him. Tangled blond curls framed his gaunt, stubbled face, but there he sat across from me in a poncho-like shirt with wild swirls of color, swigging his Regab and chuckling as if having malaria were great fun.

“Aren’t you, like, supposed to be delirious and burning with fever?” Carmen asked.

He shrugged. “The fever and chills come and go. I feel like shit right now, but hey, might as well drink and have a reason to feel that way.”

I stared at him, uneasy. “I thought taking Aralen kept us from getting malaria.”

“Theoretically, yes. But it’s chloroquine-based and the mosquitoes are becoming chloroquine-resistant.” He wagged a finger at all the trainees. “You’re not safe from anything here.” At his pronouncement, the contents of my stomach—an earlier lunch of mystery meat in fiery sauce over rice—leapt around.

“Oh, now don’t go scaring them,” the purple-burps woman told Rich, her pale, shiny face earnest. “It’s been years since a Volunteer in Gabon has died, and it’s usually from car accidents anyway. Aside from intestinal parasites and skin fungi, I’ve never gotten sick. If it weren’t for the stares that make you feel like a circus freak, and problem students in the classroom, life here would be a breeze. Well,” she added after a moment’s reflection, “except for those packages from home that keep getting torn into at the post office and arriving to me empty. Oh, and the loneliness, of course. That’s a killer. But hey, there’s Regab.” She raised her bottle and paused to regard it with something akin to reverence.

“Have you talked to Christophe about the post office business?” Rich asked before tipping his own beer back.

“No. Think I should?”

“Definitely. He might know someone there.”

“This guy, Christophe,” Carmen said, “I heard someone mention his name in Libreville. Is he Peace Corps staff?”

“Only as a Gabonese trainer for you English teachers. But his father’s the Gabonese Minister of Tourism, so he knows a lot of people.”

Regab, I decided, wasn’t bad—exotic and heavier than Coors Light and packed with alcohol. It began to soothe my jangled nerves, numb my over-stimulated brain. Sitting in a dark shack in the sultry Central African interior almost became the grand adventure it was supposed to be. Pinging foreign music blared from a battery-operated cassette player. Two chickens crooned and wove their way around our ankles, pecking at the dirt floor. Inconceivable to think that only five days prior, I was in Washington, D.C. with the other nineteen Peace Corps Gabon trainees, beginning preparation for our two-year assignment.

The delay extended into another twenty-four ounce beer. Apparently our driver didn’t have all the correct papers qualifying him to drive a group of us in the Peace Corps van. Bill Curtis, the Peace Corps Gabon country director, also en route to the Lambaréné training, could solve the problem with a signature. When he showed up. I drank more Regab and pressed the bottle to my sweaty face. Carmen fanned herself with her Welcome to Gabon! leaflet. “I need to use a bathroom,” I mumbled. “Where do you suppose it is?”

“Got me.” She shrugged and grinned. “I think you need to go ask those friendly guys at the checkpoint next door.”

Instead I asked the bar owner, in careful textbook French, the next time she brought beers to our table. “Là-bas,” she told me, pursing her lips in the direction of the back door. Over there. “Follow the path,” she added in French.

“Want company?” Carmen asked.

“No thanks.” I teetered through the bar and stumbled outside where the bright, dry-season haze momentarily blinded me. The Regab, heat and jet lag had made me queasy and disoriented as well. A minute later, however, I found the path and started down it.


The forest behind the checkpoint station appeared scraggly, disappointingly commonplace. The thin trees and spindly brush were like something I might have found in rural Nebraska. Only the flies were remarkable, for their sheer number and tenacity. Waving them away from my ears, nose and mouth, I wandered down the foot-worn path, in search of the latrine. The woods cleared, replaced by weedy scrub that rose on either side of the path, up to my waist. I began to wonder if my translation for là-bas as “over there” was way off. Because I’d gone pretty là-bas and I was nowhere. The marching cadence, however, relaxed me. In the past week, through the Peace Corps stateside training and transatlantic flight to Gabon, I’d rarely been alone. And I craved solitude the way I craved dance.

Dance. My ballet practice.

The thought made me stumble. To deflect my attention from the sadness that billowed up like a storm cloud, I focused on my sister, Alison. Alison and her boyfriend. Alison the queen. The rage kicked in, clearing my head, making me feel strong again.

Okay, so maybe the Peace Corps business had been a mistake. At least it had offered me an escape. Nine months ago, back in September, Dad had given me an ultimatum. I’d just commenced my fifth year of undergraduate studies—the cost of changing degree programs twice—performing with a local dance company, content to avoid thoughts of the future.

“Time to wrap it up, Fiona,” Dad told me. “Get that psychology degree—“

“—Sociology degree,” I corrected.

“Fine. Get your bachelor’s degree and go find work. A real job, not just dancing.”

Dutifully I dropped by the university placement center the next day, where I scanned the listings of job offers and recruiting interviews tacked up on the bulletin board. My heart sank further with each one I read. Actuary. Oscar Meyer sales rep. Claims adjuster. UPS supervisor. No, no and no. They all seemed to want to crush something unnamed and precious within my soul, that only dance brought me.

Then I spied a Peace Corps brochure. Teaching English in Africa sounded responsible and yet romantic. To placate Dad and my own anxiety over leaving dance, I started up the application process. The CARE commercials on television, after all, had always touched me, with their drama and beautiful background music. I visualized myself, noble and selfless, helping rid the world of poverty. Africa would be real life, a true adventure, yet something with soul.

The acceptance letter five months later, after a series of interviews, made me want to run the other way. Somehow my grand idea, viewed up close, had lost all its charm. I told my family about the letter, more for show than because I was going to do it. But while Mom and Dad congratulated me, I saw my two older siblings exchange glances.

“You’re still playing with that idea?” Russell, the eldest, a former Rhodes scholar, asked.

Alison, the family’s beauty queen—literally: she’d been Miss Nebraska four years earlier—didn’t speak at first. Her porcelain-smooth face creased in bemusement before she shook her head and began to chuckle. “Oh, Fiona,” was all she said.

I knew what that shake of the head meant. I’d seen it constantly through my bumpy, conflict-ridden adolescent and college years. It was the pained look you gave someone who’d just stepped in dog shit. This, on top of the most recent humiliation and grief she’d caused me. I had to get away from her. The Peace Corps was my ticket out.

“Yes, I’m still ‘playing’ with that idea.” I glared at them. “In fact, I’ve decided to accept.”

And so I did it. Except now I was stuck in Africa for two years, thanks to my sister—and, admittedly, my pride. But I was going to stick it out, even if it killed me. Which, evidently, it might.


It dawned on me that I’d walked for a long time without seeing the latrine. “Screw this,” I muttered. Stepping away from the path, I squatted down to pee. Then I turned around and headed back. But the return began to confuse me, ten minutes after the path forked. I stopped and looked around. Had that grove of banana trees been there before? After a another minute of walking, my heart began to pound against my ribs. I retraced my steps back to the fork and went the other way. It was worse—I recognized nothing. Ten minutes later, I turned around again. This time, I could find no fork, even after fifteen minutes of walking. Dizzy and nauseous, I began to trot, stumbling on a gnarled vine half-buried beneath the path. I followed the path until I came to a new fork. Had I taken this fork? The hazy equatorial sun, directly overhead, offered no directional clues.

Finally I stopped and sank to my haunches, covering my face with my hands, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. Alison and Russell would crack up—I hadn’t even lasted the first week.

Eh… Ntang, wa ka ve?”

I dropped my hands and looked up. Like a mirage, a tiny, dusty African woman had appeared out of nowhere. She stood in front of me in bare feet, bent from the wicker basket load on her back. A twig poked out of her matted hair. She wore a sheet of fabric, the print faded with age, wrapped around her body like a bath towel. As I stood up, her face broke into a wide grin, revealing gaps from missing teeth. Her milky-brown eyes lit up in pleasure as she reached out with both hands to clasp mine in greeting.

Ntang, wa ka ve?” she repeated, pumping my hand. She smelled smoky.

“Uh … bonjour.” I pasted a bright smile on my face.

“Ah, madame.” She beamed at me. In French, I explained I was lost, and could she help me find the checkpoint station? She bobbed her head and cackled. It dawned on me that she didn’t understand French. I imitated an AK-47 with my arms, putting a fierce look on my face. She nodded and patted me. She began talking, a patter of incomprehensible language in a soothing, hypnotic voice. Her face was serious now, eyes riveted to mine as if this would make me understand her language better.

“I’m sorry,” I told the woman in English finally, my voice breaking. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying and I’m lost and I’m starting to freak out here. That stupid Regab…”

At this, her eyes lit up. “Regab, oye!”

“Regab, yes? Regab—to buy, to drink!” I mimed gulping down a big bottle, tossing my head back and making glugging actions. “Where—” I placed my hand over my eyes and with sweeping theatrical gestures, pretended to scope out the scenery, “—is Regab? With guns?”

This time she understood my rifle imitation. Taking me by the hand, she led me back the way I’d come. For a few minutes, the only sound was her bare feet slapping against the dirt and the hushed rustle of the grass and trees. Even the bugs seemed to be holding their breath.

We arrived at the fork. “Regab,” she said, and pointed to the right. I paused—I’d tried this way already. She sensed my hesitation and made a little “eh” noise and nudged me down the trail. After a few steps, I turned around.

“Please, mama, this isn’t the right…” I started.

No one was in sight. The woman had disappeared into the grasses as silently as she’d come. A chill crept over me, in spite of the sweat pouring down my back. She’d been there and now she wasn’t. But I had no time to ponder the woman’s disappearance. Pushing down my panic, I hurried past the unfamiliar areas, past the trees until I heard music and the sound of voices and laughter. The trail rounded a bend and suddenly I found the clearing, the two buildings, the Peace Corps van, which, in my absence, had become two, with trainees and Volunteers milling around.

Bill, the Peace Corps country director, a burly, vibrant man with a grey ponytail, had arrived. He stood waiting for me. “Well, there you are, Fiona. We were wondering what happened to you. You went down the wrong path, I think.”

“I don’t know where that latrine was they were talking about. I went forever and then got lost.”

He glanced over at an adjacent path. My eyes followed his down the path that was more obvious, better traveled, at the end of which stood a wooden outhouse.

“Oh.” I could think of nothing more clever to say.

As we crunched down the dirt to where the others were starting to board the vans, I caught sight of the checkpoint guard. “Peace Corpse, oye!” he called out to everyone as they boarded. A broad grin now covered his face. He waved his arms, benevolent as a mother seeing her first-grader off to school, the image marred only by the presence of the rifle in one hand.

It was all too weird. I slowed down and Bill glanced over at me.

“What’s wrong?”

It took me a moment to decipher my uneasy feeling. First, the rabid guard who was now our buddy. Then Malaria Rich and his stories. Getting lost. The old woman. My intestines began to grumble, in tandem with my pounding head. I didn’t know what I’d seen out there or how I’d gotten un-lost or what had happened. Gabon was feeling a little like The Twilight Zone. “It’s just that… things here don’t make sense,” I tried, and then shut up.

Bill’s face widened into a smile. He nodded.

“Welcome to Africa. You’ll be saying that a lot.”


To read Chapter 2 go here: