FLOP! FLOP! FLOP! FLOP! I cringed at the sound of a flat tire in Middle of Nowhere, Utah. The last sign I passed announced “next services 100 miles“ while the recommended mileage for the doughnut is 50. Apparently, the manufacturers never stranded themselves on a little-used highway in the American desert. Traveling between the Rez and the Great Salt Lake for a conference on indigenous health, one expected nothing but arid landscape. The doughnut switched out; I hoped for the best. Must secure shelter before the daily dust storm arrives. Being caught in one once was enough.
After a couple of hours, I arrived at the “services.” The modest building had two pumps, a tiny office and a repair bay. It looked deserted, or maybe haunted. Cutting the engine, I ventured out to investigate. This was May with moderate temps and not the blistering heat of summer. Spring was the dusty season, and wind broke the stillness. Sage brush blew by me as I peeked into a window. No one. At the end of the porch, I noticed a small metal box mounted on a post. “Press for service.”
I pressed the button and waited, pressed again. At last, a voice. “Yea.” Sounded annoyed. Had I disturbed his video game?
“I need a flat repaired.” A moment passed before he replied.
“Okay. Be there in a few.” Click.
Be here from where? I peered around the structure and noticed in the distance a cigar shape—a mobile home. A truck threw up sand as it traveled to my location. Slam went the squeaky door and a tall, thin, youngish male emerged dressed for herding cattle. Maybe he had livestock out here. Saw herds on my travels but none were visible now.
“Where’s yer tire?” Well, nice to meet you, too. The hatch opened, he removed the deflated Goodyear and examined it.
“I think I can repair it. If not, I don’t stock many tires here and none for yer foreign car. You’d have to drive to town.”
“And how far is that?” I quizzed.
“Bout another hour.” Wonderful, I thought. The wind whirled dislodging dust. Off to the west I saw ominous giant clouds, but it’s not rain. The mass of sand would be upon us soon. I am stranded here until the storm passes if he fixes the tire or not. Let’s hope there’s an indoor bathroom.
Instructing me to take a seat in the office, the mechanic opened the bay doors and moved my car inside. Over the building’s door was the name of this establishment, Cal’s. Paint peeled off the concrete block and the one window was not quite opaque with grime. Decals for automotive products stuck to the inside glass. Upon entering, the odor of burnt coffee assaulted my nose. Someone left the coffee maker on turning the liquid to tar. That smell slapped my mind back 30 years to the middle of Africa. Walking the dusty or muddy streets there, I watched women with their cast iron skillets trying to roast coffee beans but burning them instead. One whiff launched me to the past. My body had left Africa but Africa had never left me.
My reverie was broken when the mechanic opened the door. The tire could be repaired. What a relief. “I’ll need 20 minutes or so to fix it. By then the storm’ll be here. Better make yerself comfortable and sit tight.” He re-entered the bay and lowered the doors to keep out the approaching dust. Close to the mechanic, I tried to be cordial by chatting. “How long have you lived here? Is this your shop? Is Cal related to you?” Though most of his responses were little more than grunts, I learned his name was, Pete. With conversation improbable, I retreated to the uncomfortable room.
The furniture consisted of a well-worn desk and metal chair with ripped Naugahyde its stuffing showing. I sat in it anyway. What to do? Cell reception was iffy, Pete informed. “If ya stand in the right place and hold yer tongue the right way ya might get a signal.” That eliminated any social media or texts to friends. The stack of magazines on a corner table offered possible distraction. Titles consisted of Guns and Ammo, Truck World, Outdoors and, to my amazement, Time. That won’t make me go brain dead.
The destructive capacity of an Indian Ocean cyclone made the cover. The usual distressing topics I found in the index—a dysfunctional congress, opioid epidemic, disappearing polar ice, etc. My eyes fell on an item that jolted me—the tragedy taking place in the African country where I had served so many decades ago. A horror story. The people whose health I improved were now in life-threatening circumstances or dead. The goals reached, the things accomplished undone. In Africa, I learned fast that saving the world was much more complicated than I expected.
My service training included warnings of physical ailments I might experience but I suffered through several surprises. Trainers prepared me for amoebic parasites, malaria, viruses, filariasis, other tropical diseases and even the bot fly eggs laid in my underwear. But, no one told me there were butterfly parts that flew on the air, would touch me and leave a giant rash that looked like a burn; or that little chiggers would nest in my toe and hobble me. Also, avoided in our training were the political forces at work that would hamper the progress I intended to make. All these challenges I endured only to have my work erased. What was it all for?
My mood darkened like the skies. Sand pelted the window, and the wind howled as my mind drifted back to a lifetime ago; when the U.S. was in an economic slump; when unemployment was high and government jobs looked stable; when Russia hadn’t emerged from the Soviet Union; when there were few Islamic extremists; and, when I was young and naïve to the ways of the world.
Our consultant from the Centers for Disease Control, Peggy Nevis, was in town and invited me to lunch curious about my staff education project. Boy, did I have an earful for her.
An upscale hotel with a European style restaurant was our destination. Though expensive by African standards, by Western ones it seemed moderate. I seldom got out to eat such a pricey meal so it was a treat and Peg’s expense account covered the cost.
Ms. Nevis traveled from country to country to check on programs so sampled a wide variety of cuisines. Now she was unsure of the choices on our menus.
“What do you suggest?” She lifted her glasses as she scanned the options.
“Do you care for fish?”
“I do. Is there something local listed?”
“There’s capitan. It’s a huge fish from the river. I’ve seen men fill a wheelbarrow with one catch and take it to the marché. Eleanor’s cook prepares it in a way that you don’t know it’s fish. It resembles steak.”
“So, your Technical Officer has a chef?”
“Toma has a knack for making anything palatable. A great skill to have around here.”
After ordering, we got down to business.
“So, tell me, how is the project working for you?”
“What a loaded question,” I warned.
“I know Rambiri isn’t the easiest person to get along with.”
“When I started my work with the ministry of health, I disliked him. The first thing out of his mouth when we met was, “Je n’aime pas les blancs.” But, after six months here, I understand his reasons and now I don’t like whites either. They come from the West, start a project, make a mess, and leave. The mess is for the locals to clean up. That’s why this city is cluttered with skeletons of abandoned projects. No, he’s not an obstacle to my contentment.”
“What is?”
“My feelings of inadequacy. I came here thinking the African cup of knowledge was empty, I could fill it and be on my way. Instead, I discovered that my cup of knowledge is empty not theirs. My book education never taught me how to use what I leaned. The people I work with have real world experience and are sharing it with me. A fragment of information I offer now and again.”
“Then you have a symbiotic relationship learning from each other.”
“That may be true but it appears they’re dragging me along because they have to. More could be accomplished efficiently without me as a ball and chain. I can’t teach them much they don’t already know so am I an asset to the health team?”
“Is your distress because of the layoffs?”
“Absolutely. It’s beyond my grasp why managers of this project lay off indigenous people who know what they’re doing and replace them with people who don’t.”
“You realize that the IMF forced debtor nations to cut back on civil servants.”
“I’m aware of that. Three of the health ministry team were laid off and replaced by a volunteer. In principle, she doesn’t get a salary but who, in reality, makes more on her stipend than the African team members made salary. I’m in an awkward position. There is understandable resentment especially when I’m so inept.”
“I’m sorry this happened.”
But why did it happen, I thought? There are skilled Africans unemployed and, I suspect, many of their jobs filled by expats whose governments foot the bill. How can the industrial nations expect the Developing World to develop if they’re denied jobs that give experience? I put that question to Peg.
“Peg, why is it against agency policy to hire capable Africans on a term of project basis? A big void in the health care system could be filled, if we did. It can’t be for lack of funds. With the money spent on me thousands of miles from my home, those three people could be rehired and more.”
The plates of food arrived just in time to interrupt the response I wanted. Silence until Peg order us a glass of white wine. Not wanting to appear greedy on a freebee, I hadn’t asked for wine. Her initiative removed my guilt.
“I thought you could use some wine. You ‘re to get a lesson in what we call development work. Better taste your fish. You may lose your appetite.”
I dug into my entrée with enthusiasm though I was bursting with curiosity. The wine came, and I sipped it lovingly until I could no longer stand the suspense.
“Okay. I promise my appetite won’t fade. What gives? Why won’t we hire Africans?”
“Please understand that no wealthy government helps the poorer countries on a long-term basis purely for altruistic reasons. Most things that are done have the donor county’s self-interest at heart. Any aid given has strings attached, a downside for the recipient and an upside for the donor. Governments give what they want to give which may not be what the recipient needs. Accepting help comes with an expectation. Generosity will be appreciated by giving the donor something it wants.”
“Such as voting with the US at the UN?” Peg nodded.
“So, to answer your question, we do not hire Africans because improving African employment is not the goal. We’re here to improve our own employment and gain influence.”
Shocked! Not by the fact but that she told the unadulterated truth without a spin. Another sip of wine gave me time to consider what I’d learned from my African friends and co-workers. The Neo – colonial governments perpetuate the pre-independence division of labor to protect their own jobs. Rich countries have not stopped exploiting the poorer ones. Should have figured that out long ago. Wake up, kiddo, and smell the coffee!
“Consider this, Lee. You know the unemployment rate is relatively high at home now with this recession. People want jobs. The U.S. employs support staff at home for each one of you in the field. Then there’s American staff in country. Multiply that by every donor government here and you’ll get an idea of the system’s extent.” She dug into her meal, munching away while the weight of her words settled on my mind. A light went on. I nibbled a few peas, not my favorite veggie, and thought aloud.
“The more the Africans do for themselves the less need for expats. Those expats in the field go back home to find work. That forces layoffs of field support personnel creating hundreds more unemployed. An uncomfortable position for Western politicians.”
“You’re catching on.”
“So, the private sector in the West needs to grow to take up the slack of any civil servant coming home,” I deduced.
Peg added, “And that much growth in today’s financial climate is doubtful.”
“So, the industrialized world has no intention of flooding her job market with veterans of African development. If indigenous people are not self-sufficient the better for expat employment. My State Department friends here live large with ritzy houses overlooking the river, servants, swimming pools, chauffeurs—a life style not affordable for them at home. Why would they want to risk the job that provides this luxury by training Africans?”
I swallowed the last of my wine. This conversation was enlightening and depressing at the same time. It could ruin an appetite. “So how can we change this Neo-colonial mentality?”
Peg took a deep breath. “It can’t be changed entirely since national interests will always be paramount. Improvement is possible though it won’t be easy. Development methods need to evolve and there are a growing number of us who want to push that evolution along. Some rebels work from inside the establishment and some from the outside. I am on the inside and not doing a job that an African can do.”
“I’m all for changing the system but where does that put me now?”
“That, my dear, young woman, is for you to wrestle with. How about another glass of wine?”
“Glass? How about a bottle?”
“Sounds good. Let’s get one and have my chauffer drive us to the hotel. If the generators are working, we might even have air conditioning.”
*********
After Africa, I swore never to work for a governmental agency again. It’s NGO for me. And Peggy? We lost touch. Did she alter the “system” enough to have a positive impact? If Neo-colonialism changed decades ago, would today’s mess exist? Or are there factors within the former colonies that conspire to suppress advancement? I’m sure the answer is complex. Still, day to day survival goes on.
“Why are you here?” Africans often asked me. It was illogical to them for someone to leave the safe and luxurious West to struggle alongside them. Striking obstacle after obstacle to do my job, I wondered myself. Then, one day I was riding our local transportation, when a woman and her daughter around seven sat beside me. While sitting my skirt raised above my knee, a culturally unacceptable occurrence. This sweet child pulled my clothing over my knees, smiled and held my hand to the next destination. I realized at once, I was there for her.
What happened to that precious girl? Did she survive to adulthood? Were her children demanded as child soldiers? Forced to marry extremists? Raped by the African UN security forces there to “protect” them? These human beings stagger from disaster to tragedy again and again. War, disease, drought, political intrigue is looming ready to destroy any progress they make. Yet, they endure—resilient as the diamonds buried under their feet.
“Ma’am.” Pete touched my shoulder. “The storm is over. You can go now.”
“Sorry. I was deep in thought. What do I owe you?” Though the fee seemed a bit much, I paid what he asked. One had no choice out here and Pete knew it.
The wind uprooted sagebrush and a few things blew over causing minimal damage. I can’t say the same for man-made storms.
Back on the road to the Great Salt Lake, I was still thinking of Africa. Anger rose in me. Why does humanity insist on devouring itself? Mitigating the carnage is a never-ending struggle. Decades ago I was angry and I’m still angry—feeling frustrated—running to stay in place. Minority health challenges even in wealthy countries can seem overwhelming. But educators of all races, religions and ethnicities push on—endure. To express love and compassion to even one person for an hour gives our lives meaning.
To learn more about sexual violence by UN Peacekeepers, please see the following link.
Please consider donating to the UN High Commission on Human Rights (OHCHR)
https://www.ohchr.org/EN/Pages/Home.aspx
Short Stories