Mary E. Trimble

From: Tubob: Two Years in West Africa with the Peace Corps

One of our big goals while serving with the Peace Corps in The Gambia was to visit Niokolo Koba National Park in Senegal. We were able to take the 3-day trip with two other couples, US AID people who had a vehicle at their disposal.

The drive getting to the park was long, hot and dusty. After some viewing, we were ready to call it a day and make the next day our main viewing day.

Camping was allowed only in designated areas and we found the camps spartan but adequate. On our first night, the riverside camp had a round grass-roof hut and a cooking hut with a bench. The hut nicely held four people so Bruce and I elected to pitch our borrowed tent outside.

After getting that hot work done, we couldn’t wait to cool off in the river. The six of us rushed into the river and gave a collective sigh of relief. I heard yelling and looked up to see the park ranger frantically waving for us to get out. “What? Get out? We just got here!”

We didn’t want to get into trouble, so we reluctantly climbed out of the river and up the bank, not yet really cooled off. Once he saw us safely out of the water, he pointed upriver. There, we saw a family of hippos, their tiny ears and eyes reflecting red showing just above the surface of the water. Oops. Guess it was the wrong time of day to be cooling off in the river.

As we climbed into our tent later that night, I said to my husband Bruce, “I don’t suppose this little tent is much protection from those hippos.”

“There isn’t room for two more in the hut.”

“I suppose we could set the tent up in the cooking hut.”

“Forget it. I don’t have the steam.” With that, he fell sound asleep.

Oh, well, I thought, and immediately drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, we saw dozens of big, flat hippo footprints leading from the river through the campground. Those huge animals had walked within two feet of our little tent, leaving footprints the size of turkey platters.

Uganda: Helen Keller Would Be Proud

Posted on April 15, 2013 by Mary

(Photo by Roy Lesher)

Helen Keller overcame the adversity of being blind and deaf and became one of the America’s leading humanitarians. In 1925 Ms. Keller spoke at Lions Club International Convention at Cedar Point, Ohio. She concluded:

“The opportunity I bring to you, Lions, is this: To foster and sponsor the work of the American Foundation for the Blind. Will you not help me hasten the day when there shall be no preventable blindness; no little deaf, blind child untaught; no blind man or woman unaided? I appeal to you Lions, you who have your sight, your hearing, you who are strong and brave and kind. Will you not constitute yourselves Knights of the Blind in this crusade against darkness?”

For more than 85 years, the Lions Club has carried out Helen Keller’s plea. Recently, Roy Lesher of Camano Island and an active member of Stanwood, WA Lions Club, joined a team from the Seattle chapter of the Volunteer Optometry Services to Humanity (VOSH) on a 5-day mission trip to Uganda, Africa. Lesher has also trekked to Mexico with Lion/VOSH teams.

For many years, the Lions Club has collected eyeglasses in store receptacles, both prescription and over-the-counter, The eyeglasses are turned over to VOSH who then cleans, adjusts and runs them through a lensometer to be rated for strength.

On the recent mission trip to Uganda, the 15-member team, lead by Dr. Willow Thompson, took with them about 14,000 pairs of glasses. Setting up a clinic in Kapchowa District on the eastern border of Uganda, the team saw about 2,200 patients and fitted 1,300 pairs of glasses to those who otherwise would not have the benefit of corrected vision. Patients with other eye problems were referred to specialists for treatment.

On a typical day, 300 to 400 people wait to be seen, so great is the need. The team examines patients, tests vision, and fits them with glasses, giving people from developing countries the gift of vision.

The primary mission of VOSH is to facilitate the provision of vision care worldwide to people who can neither afford nor obtain such care. The Lions Club, also an international organization, is dedicated to serving their communities, meet humanitarian needs, encourage peace and promote international understanding. In the spirit of Helen Keller’s challenge and in partnering with VOSH, the Lions Club has enabled thousands to have the benefit of eyeglasses.

Roy Lesher extends his gratitude to readers in the Stanwood Camano area for their faithful contribution of eyeglasses. The next time you need a pair of glasses or sunglasses, consider donating your old pair to the Lions. You’ll often find a receptacle near a grocery store’s pharmacy or next to the checkout, also at Camano and Stanwood senior centers and libraries. If you don’t see a receptacle, ask a clerk, or call your area Lions Club and ask where to find the closest drop-off. The recycled glasses may enable someone to earn a living for their family, or make it possible for a child to attend school.

Fly-Day in The Gambia

Posted on April 1, 2013 by Mary

From: TUBOB: Two Years in West Africa with the Peace Corps

There were always flies. We never got used to them, but in Africa flies are a fact of life. Over the two years we served with the Peace Corps, I spoke to many an African while a fly ran along the rim of an eye and the person barely flinched. We never acquired that acceptance.

When my husband Bruce and I drank anything out of a bottle, we automatically kept our hand over the opening to keep out flies. Woven straw fans were as much for batting away flies and mosquitoes as for stirring up a breeze.

But the day we forever after called “fly-day” was unbelievably awful. It happened on a Sunday and we were home all day. Conditions must have been just right, or just wrong, to create the “perfect storm” of flies. Our screened, thatched-roof hut remained relatively fly free, other than those that sneaked in when we entered, but we could control those few. On that day, the small mud-brick house where we cooked was another story. Flies and other flying critters could enter through the gap between the wall and corrugated tin roof. Flies were on every surface. There must have been three hundred flies on the overhead electrical wire that reached between the kitchen and the dining/living room, where we ate breakfast. We couldn’t bring a bite of food to our mouths without flies landing on it. In the old days we might have thrown out the food, but you’d starve if you did that every time a fly landed on your food in Africa. But this day that scenario was magnified a thousand times.

A video of us would have revealed people who appeared to have delusions with arm waving, hands suddenly going to our ears, nose and eyes. It was a nightmare.

“Whose idea was this?” Bruce asked, using Newsweek as a fly swatter, nailing three at one time.

I laughed. “Not mine! I think coming here was your idea.”

As soon as we could after eating breakfast we retreated to our hut, to spend the day hiding out, reading, and writing letters.

We had to brace ourselves to leave the hut to prepare meals. We worked like a well-oiled team, swatting and carrying on, then making a dash for the hut with our prepared food.
Fly-day lasted only the one day, to be followed by lots of flies, but not at that level.

Making Lists Isn’t Always the Answer

Posted on March 18, 2013 by Mary

From Tubob: Two Years in Africa with the Peace Corps

Worker preparing to be lowered into a well site.

My husband Bruce’s job with the UN well-digging unit continued to be one frustration after another. He described it as “running a business on promises.” Getting supplies in a timely fashion was challenging. Many trips downriver could have been avoided if the upriver crew could have depended on routine supplies, such as motor oil, fuel and spark plugs. As it happened, they had been unable to change oil in the vehicles for some time because they couldn’t get enough oil to perform this task. They could only top up the oil when it was desperately needed. The disregard for vehicle maintenance grated on Bruce.

Sometimes equipment would go into the bush, only to break down and have to be rescued. Bruce knew many of these breakdowns could have been avoided with consistent maintenance. It was expensive for yet another vehicle to go into the bush to rescue the first, change a tire because there was no spare, take fuel which should have been filled before they left. The wasted time and resources slowed down the operation and raised expenses.

To help alleviate needless trips, Bruce made an itemized list of things that needed to be checked off before the Land Rovers and trucks left for the bush. Bruce instructed the lead mechanic to check off the items on the list as they were performed.

__ Tires checked
__ Spare tire checked
__ Radiator Level Checked
__ Oil changed, if needed (see schedule)
__ Check battery
__ Check brakes

A truck was about to depart and Karafa, the head mechanic, handed the to-do list to Bruce, with all items dutifully checked.

Bruce looked over the form. “Karafa, you’ve checked off ‘Oil Changed.’”

“Yes.”

“But we’re out of oil.”

“Yes.”

“How could you check this off then, if we don’t have oil?”

“We must check this off before truck can go to bush.”

“But you couldn’t change the oil.”

And on it went. Bruce then realized that Karafa, as well as most of the other men at the shop, couldn’t read nor write. Yet Karafa managed to maintain a fleet of trucks under very difficult conditions. Until you’re faced with situations like this, it’s hard to realize the advantages of education that we take for granted.

Dodging Longhorns in The Gambia

Posted on March 4, 2013 by Mary

From: TUBOB: Two Years in West Africa with the Peace Corps

After work one day I walked to the farmers’ market with a long list of items we needed. Heading home, I tried not to think about the heat and the heavy pack on my back. Instead I planned our Easter dinner. Absorbed in my thoughts, I trudged along the winding path. Suddenly I stopped in my tracks. A large herd, maybe fifty head or so of longhorn cattle, grazed on the scrub grass, completely blocking the path.

To turn around and go back to take the road home would add at least a mile to my walk, not appealing in that heat. I looked around for a Fula herdsman, but didn’t see him, though I was sure a herd this size wouldn’t be here on its own. Most cattle, especially this many, were owned by the Serahule tribe, but herded by a Fula tribesman. Well, I’d just take my chances. I walked down the dusty path, talking softly so I wouldn’t startle them.

“Hi, guys,” I murmured. “I’m just going to slide right by you here.” I kept watching out for those long horns, hoping one wouldn’t stick me. Almost as worrisome was being swished by a shitty tail.

“Okay, here I am, just step aside.” I kept my voice low key, almost a whisper. A few of the cows mooed at me, some sort of grunted. None were alarmed, though they rolled their huge eyes at me. A few stepped out of my way; others let me step around them. Flies from the cattle landed on me, but I concentrated on not waving them off, trying not to make sudden moves. Churned-up dust settled on my shoulders and hair. I walked perhaps a quarter of a mile through the scattered herd before reaching the other side of them.

At one point along the path, a small hill rose on one side. From the hill I heard, “Abete ata bake, Mariama!” Well done, Mariama!

I looked up and saw the herdsman sitting in the shade. He waved. I waved back. The poor guy probably had held his breath the whole time I wove my way through the cattle, expecting to have to pry me off one of those long horns.

For weeks afterward, I heard about that incident. Word spread like locusts in a maize field. Woman couldn’t imagine why I would do such a thing. Men thought I was probably just ignorant of what could have happened to me. I kept telling everyone who questioned me that it was just too hot to turn around and go home the long way.

The Gambia: The Art of Carrying Water on Your Head

Posted on February 11, 2013 by Mary

From: TUBOB: Two Years in West Africa with the Peace Corps

I marveled that people in The Gambia always looked so clean. Although they might get dirty digging wells or working in the rice fields, or performing any number of physical chores, they bathed and changed clothes frequently. Men often wore spotless, long white kaftans when they went to mosque or on business. Impressive, since all washing was done by hand.

Traditionally, women and girls hauled the water. To pump water at our UN well, one climbed steps to a platform above the well that stood perhaps three feet from the ground. When I arrived at the pump with my two buckets, they often urged me to go ahead of them. I usually refused, saying I would wait my turn. One day I watched two girls, perhaps sisters, chatting while they filled their containers with water. The older girl, probably about twelve, filled a laundry tub; the other, maybe eight years old, a large bucket. After the older girl filled her tub, she slid it aside to the edge of the platform while the younger girl filled her bucket.

With both containers full, the girls returned to the ground and together lifted the large tub onto the older girl’s head which had a circle of cloth on it to cushion the load. Then, with that heavy load on her head, the older one helped the younger girl heft the pail of water onto her head, never spilling a drop. Throughout the whole procedure they carried on a normal conversation, pausing only briefly to heft the containers, then walked back to their compound, still chatting, the heavy containers balanced on their heads, with perhaps one arm raised to steady it.

When Gambian girls are quite young, their mothers train them to carry basins of water. We watched the young girl in our compound, Jariettu, carry water in a shallow basin from the well to their hut. At first, she spilled much of the water, but after a few months, she was able to carry her load with confidence and without spilling a drop.

No wonder Gambians have such wonderful posture.

What Did That Drum Just Say?

Posted on January 28, 2013 by Mary

From: Tubob: Two Years in West Africa with the Peace Corps

Woman at traditional well

The UN well in front of our compound was a popular watering hole for all of Mansajang. Although the village proper did have a water spigot, it often didn’t work and when it did, people complained of the water’s taste. All day long, women and girls came to the UN well to fill their tubs and pails of water, carrying the heavy loads on their heads as they returned to their compounds.

Because washing clothes has such a high demand for water, many women washed clothes right there at the well, then carried their clean wet clothes home to hang on their compound fencing. They used the local soap, OMA, made from peanut by-products. My husband Bruce became concerned about soap residue filtering through the soil into the well water.

He made a circle of rocks around the well a safe distance away and asked the women to wash clothes outside the circle and explained that this would keep the well water clean. It made more work for them, having to haul their heavy tubs farther from the water source, but they obliged him when he was there, and promptly went back to their former habits when he wasn’t. Bruce patiently reminded them with good natured banter. The problem, of course, was that the women didn’t understand they were jeopardizing their own water supply.

One evening a man from Mansajang called on us and asked Bruce to talk to the village about safe water. Probably, this particular man was sent because he could speak English. Apparently the village elders had gotten wind of a problem with the well and wanted everyone to understand. Delighted, Bruce accepted his invitation.

“What time should we be there?” I asked.

Surprised with the question, the fellow answered, “After evening prayers. You’ll hear the drum.” Gambians had a different sense of time than we did. Watches or even clocks were rare. Activities centered around Muslim call of prayers five times a day. When it was time, people, mostly men, stopped what they were doing, brought out their prayer mats, faced Mecca to the east, and prayed.

A word about the drums. Three basic types of drums are common in The Gambia: the rhythm drum, used for dancing; the ceremonial drum, used for more serious things such as funerals or other somber events; and the talking drum. The talking drum has a sort of “boink, boink” sound to it with varying pitches. People understand the talking drum, as they understand their language, whether it be Mandinka, Wolof, or any of the tribal languages. The talking drums provide tremendously efficient communication, especially in areas where there are no telephones

Knowing that we would hear the drum, we agreed to be at the village meeting place.
Sure enough, we heard the drum soon after we’d finished our dinner. We walked to the center of Mansajang, perhaps a half mile away. The meeting place, a raised platform under a giant baobob tree, was devoid of people. One lone person walked by. In Mandinka, I greeted the man, then said, “Where are the people?”

“The people aren’t here.” Such a typical response. I never got used to it. The man resumed his walk.

“But we heard the drum. We are here for the meeting,” I called after him.

He turned to look at me, shook his head and tsked. “The drum said there was no meeting.”

Apparently one of the village’s important people couldn’t attend so the meeting had been postponed.

Gambians found it hard to believe that we could understand, or “hear,” Mandinka, but we couldn’t “hear” the drums. I’m sure in their eyes we were so hopeless.

Writing TUBOB: A Dream Fulfilled

Posted on August 20, 2012 by Mary

Well, it’s about time. What I had fantasized about for so many years–writing about our two years in West Africa–has at last become a reality. What took me so long? I wonder that myself. I guess in my mind it was such an overwhelming experience, so personal and heart-felt, I wasn’t sure I could put it adequately into words.

For me, it’s easy to make up a story. I’ve done it since I was a little kid. My older sister taught me. I’d beg her to tell me a story and she finally said, “Mary, make up your own story. Think of something you’d like to hear or read, and tell yourself a story.” That first time, she gave me an opening sentence and I took off from there.

Along the way my need to tell stories became three novels, all contemporary western, all well received: Tenderfoot, McClellan’s Bluff, and Rosemount.

But to tell something that’s true, that represents our own heart-felt and hard-won experiences, is different. For some reason I couldn’t get past the idea that it wasn’t a “story,” it was true to life, sometimes painfully so.

Sure, I could write little snippets and I did write about a few experiences on my blog with favorable results and encouragement to write a book. But these were usually positive experiences, and our two years in Africa were not all positive. They were often grueling, discouraging, even scary. But are we glad we did it? Absolutely!

Finally, I decided I would have no peace until I at least tried to write the story about our Peace Corps experience in The Gambia. We had asked our families to save our letters to them. I couldn’t stand the duplication of effort to keep a journal and write home. This was before email, so all our letters were either hand written or typed (I had sacrificed space and weight to take a manual typewriter).

I sorted through all the letters written by both of us, putting them in date order. I began to see I needed to have some sort of index so that I could avoid volumes of data entry, so I created a computer index with various subjects: names, Bruce’s work, my work, animals, etc., and referred to a coded recipient and the date. Soon, I had 42 pages of categorized key words. And I had my inspiration. I relived those years, remembered the sweat and tears, and the joys. Despite the elapsed years, thanks to our letters home, I could recount details that would make the story real to readers.

It took me two months to go through and annotate all the stacks of letters. In January, 2012, I began to write my memoir and wrote straight through to May. Editing and proofing is another matter, but I enjoyed that part, too.

I had worried that I might offend some people we knew in Africa. In most instances, I use actual names for real people. But in a few cases, I have changed the names to avoid hurt feelings or embarrassment. In a couple of instances, in the interest of clarity, I have combined characters.

Bruce took hundreds of 35 mm pictures while in The Gambia. We had mounted the slides in trays and every once in awhile we viewed them or shared the pictures and stories with others. Once I could see an actual memoir in the making, we invested in the equipment necessary to convert the slides into digital form. Bruce spent countless hours selecting and editing the pictures so that we would have meaningful images for the beginning of each chapter. Bruce also designed the book’s cover, using his artistic talent to make a cover representative of the story.

So, finally, we have produced an honest recounting of our two years in The Gambia with the Peace Corps. I have made every effort to be objective, and to fairly and honestly tell the story of our time in a third-world country.

Perhaps I needed to wait 30 years so that I could be more objective. Surely, I have gained in wisdom and global awareness in that time. We have never been back to The Gambia, but I hear from people who have and they report not much has changed. Electricity does not reach many homes, people still haul water from a well, many of the struggles remain the same. Education is more available. With the Internet, Peace Corps volunteers now have better communication with family and friends back home. That would be a huge improvement and eliminate many of the anxieties we felt.

Some lessons I learned remain. You take the bad with the good. You live in the moment. And in the bad times, remember that “this too shall pass.”

TUBOB: Two Years in West Africa with the Peace Corps is available at local bookstores, Amazon.com, or through my website, www.MaryTrimbleBooks.com

Our Far Reaching Military

Posted on May 28, 2012 by Mary

We’re all familiar with American military training and the resulting expertise churned out. I hadn’t realized how far-reaching this training was until we were in a desperate situation in The Gambia, West Africa, while my husband and I were serving with the Peace Corps.

In the early morning hours of July 30, 1981, a group of political dissidents seized The Gambia’s only radio station, the airport and other key installations in an attempt to overthrow the government of President Alhaji Sir Dawda Jawara. We happened to be near the capitol city of Banjul at the time, rather than our home village 250 miles inland. We found ourselves stranded and in an unenviable position.

We crammed ourselves into a house with 116 other expatriates, mostly Americans, but also citizens of Germany, Sweden, India and others who sought safety and shelter. The battle raged around us for eight long days. Peace Corps and US AID personnel took leading positions in organizing the group. Bruce operated two radios, providing the only communications link between the Embasy in Banjul and the United States. The coup put us all in a precarious position and, although we remained officially neutral, our safety was not assured.

On the eighth day, we heard the whump, whump of helicopters landing on the nearby beach. In order to see this new threat, I stood on a chair to peek over a mattress we had put in front of a window for protection from flying glass.

Camouflaged African troops, all heavily armed, filed up the steep bank. They formed a circle around the house and began setting up their weapons. From my perch I described the scene to the others, wondering if this was good news or bad.

“Are they facing toward the house or away?” someone asked.

“They’re facing away.”

“Well, then, I’d say they’re protecting us.”

Two Englishmen accompanied the troops and we learned from them that these men were special forces from Senegal and were there at the request of President Jawara who was in England at the time attending the royal wedding of Prince Charles and Diana. The Gambia and Senegal, which surrounds The Gambia on three sides, had a long-standing agreement for military assistance.

After things calmed down, I ventured outside to talk to one of our protectors. I started to walk toward him, then realized we probably couldn’t converse because I spoke neither Wolof nor French, the national languages of Senegal. I turned to look for someone who could interpret for me, but to my surprise the soldier said, “May I help you, Ma’am?” in a perfect Southern drawl.

“Where are you from?,” I asked, thoroughly confused.

“Senegal, but I received my training at Fort Benning, Georgia.” He sounded like a true Georgia native.

So here they were, Special Forces from Senegal, trained at Fort Benning, Georgia, protecting American citizens in The Gambia. It’s a small, wonderful world.