Frederica de Mille

Peace Corps bride

CHAPTER ONE

Dinner at an excellent French restaurant is a pleasant surprise anytime. In Africa, it is doubly so. Yet, in spite of certain preconceptions of mud-and waddle huts and savage natives which honestly do still exist in the interior there are any number of surprisingly good French restaurants to be found in the mostly modern capitals of territories formerly under the suzerainty of the French Colonial Administration. In Dakar the capital of Senegal, and a city with a number of first-class restaurants three of the most outstanding are.. Croix du Sud, Hotel N'Gor, and Chez Marie-Louise. It was in the latter that young Doug and Penny Glasser sat waiting for their evening's dinner companion, Howard and Carol North.

"Well, darling?" the young husband smiled, exhibiting a row of even white teeth. "Have you made up your mind yet?"

"Gee, Doug," Penny responded, "I can't decide everything sounds so scrumptious!" Doug smiled indulgently. "Maybe we should wait for the Norths," he offered.

Penny wrinkled her nose and brightened. "Not on your life, Doug! Besides, they said for us to go ahead and order since they're liable to be a while at Major M'Bonu's office."

Doug laughed openly, then fell into his fair-to-middlin' Humphrey Bogart imitation. "Okay, kid, I get the picture." He dropped back into his own voice. "You want to ask a waiter what's good?"

Penny nodded in the affirmative, then blushed when her incorrigible tease of a husband snapped his finger and shouted a very touristy, "Garcon!"

Immediately, an impeccably liveried waiter with a face as black as night appeared at their table. "Is monsieur ready to order now?" he asked in flawless French.

"What do you recommend?" Doug followed in a broken facsimile of the same language.

"Our chef is an artist with langouste."

"Langouste?" Penny parroted. "What's that, Doug?"

"I think it's crayfish, honey."

"Oh, good, Doug! Let's have that!"

Doug nodded at the waiter.

"And the wine, monsieur?"

"Something light, white and dry."

"Excellent, monsieur…Muscadet? Soave, perhaps…?"

"Soave, I think. A full liter-we're expecting company."

As the African waiter shuffled off in the direction of the, kitchen, Penny turned to her husband and dimpled. "Gee, Doug," she whispered, "I had no idea you knew anything about wines!"

"All the better to snow you with, my dear," he Bogarted.

"You mean-"

"I mean, I don't know Soave from Shinola!"

Penny stared straight-faced at her handsome young husband for a long moment, then broke into a peal of infectious laughter. God, how she loved that smiling dark-haired boy…!

They had been married nearly six months now, having "tied the Freudian knot," as Doug called it, the day following their graduation.. from Montana State in June. Within these same few months, they had applied to, been accepted by, and trained for a Peace Corps assignment in Africa. Since both Penny and Doug had Bachelor of Arts degrees in anthropology, the choice had been a natural one. Indeed, when they'd met in the spring of their junior year, it was during a seminar on African art and music. In the relatively short period of time that had passed since that eventful day, the happy-go-lucky boy, who at twenty-three was two years Penny's senior, had become her whole life. And she, his.

Doug himself now caught up in his young wife's happy laughter, studied the lovely face across the table from him. He never tired of looking at Penny at her refined, delicately formed features, the perky upturned nose with its smattering of pale freckles across the bridge, the well-spaced sky-blue eyes. Her fine, nut-brown hair fell freely like long cascading silk, from a simple center part. Her firm, melonous breasts rode high and proud the smooth upper slopes deliciously naked above the daringly low-cut black crepe cocktail dress she'd purchased just that morning at a chic little shop in the lobby of their hotel. In her haste to get on with the "missionary" nature of their business, Penny hadn't even thought to bring a formal dress along, just a few flimsy cotton things and several shorts and halter ensembles for the hotter months. Nonetheless, her husband thought proudly, Penny's the kind of girl who'd look good in a potato sack!

"Hi! Mind if we join you?"

The intruding voice belonged to Carol North.

"Oh, hi, Carol," piped Penny. "We just ordered. Why don't you guys sit down?" -

Dinner proceeded rapidly and smoothly. It was a curious and instantaneous friendship that grew between the four young Americans, one born more of common interests and background rather than longevity. Howard and Carol North, only slightly older than Doug and Penny themselves, had met their young replacements just that morning at the airport. At ten that same evening, the Glassers would be seeing the Norths off for their return flight to the States, following an eighteen-month stint as instructors at the Corps-sponsored Mgoro Technical School.

"Better eat hearty, kids," Howard offered comraderly. "Once you get to Mgoro, you'll be lucky if you can think up an appropriate excuse to get into Dakar every two months." He shoved a forkful of langouste into his mouth and chewed reflectively. "La Pierre he's the headmaster runs a tight village."

Carol wrinkled her nose and seconded, "I'll say! That old French fart is so decrepit he creaks when he walks!"

"Oh, he's not so bad, really," Howard countered, reaching for the wine. "If you do a good job.. and by that I mean, just teach and not talk liberal politics.. he'll do all right by you."

"As long as you don't ask for many trips to town," Carol said. "01 La Pierre's a real worry wart."

Penny, following closely, cleared her throat. "Oh?"

Howard took a long sip of Soave and swallowed. "Rotten stuff, this!" he said. I'll sure be glad to get my hands on some good ol American Ripple!"

"Why does whoever you said" Penny pressed.

"La Pierre?" Carol supplied.

"Yes. Why does he worry?"

The Norths stared at one another for a second, then Carol nodded for Howard to continue the explanation.

"Well," Howard began. "You're aware of the war going on in Guine-Bissau Portuguese Guinea?"

Doug and Penny nodded in the, affirmative. He continued, "Farim that's a Portuguese stronghold is only a few kilometers from Mgoro, across the border " -

"But," Doug interrupted, "I thought with Salazar's bunch out of power, things were going to cool down!"

"Yes, yes.. Independence and all that.. Well, it's not all that simple…Tribal rivalries, renegade troops, you know the ticket."

"Y-You make it sound like a miniature Congo!" Carol protested. "You're scaring them half to death!"

"Am I?" Howard continued. "Well, I didn't mean it like that…It's pretty small-scale stuff, really."

"How small?" Penny queried concernedly.

"Just a bunch of renegades," Carol explained. "Some of the rebels on the Northern Front had a falling out with Cabral a year or so ago, and they've kind of set up shop for themselves."

"There's been a few rapes and one killing or two on the wrong side of the border," Howard added hastily.

Penny gave out a startled gasp, and Doug quickly covered her hand with his own and squeezed it for reassurance. He cleared his throat with a sip of wine. "Where does Mgoro fit into all this?" he questioned.

Howard dabbed the last vestiges of crayfish from his lips with the corner of his napkin, then fumbled for a cigarette. "Mgoro village takes its name from the Mgoro tribe. But, of course, you already know that"

"We should," Penny interjected, "we just spent several weeks studying the Mgoro language!"

"Well, like I was saying, the Mgoro are sort of domesticated cousins of the Djambulu. And, well, the Djambulu are pretty bad news."

"Goon."

Howard lit his cigarette and let the smoke spiral toward the ceiling. There were several European couples scattered around the restaurant and he nodded pleasantly at one of them. He seemed to be enjoying keeping Doug and Penny in suspense. Finally, he sighed, "The Senegalese government doesn't even mess with the Djambulu. The Djambulu are on both sides of the border, though the former colonial powers had precious little regard for ethnic boundaries when they carved this damned continent up and these renegades Carol mentioned are mostly Djambulu from the Guinea side of the family."

Doug started to refill the wine glasses. "You haven't lost us so far," he said.

Howard went on, "Thanks to American aid, the Portuguese have been well supplied with napalm. When things get too hot down south if you'll pardon the pun the poor bastards cross over the border and spend a little time with their Yankee cousins."

Penny was the first to respond, with an audible, "Wow!"

Carol, smiling, reassured her with, "Don't worry about it, hon, as long as you stick pretty close to Mgoro village, you'll be okay."

"Yeah, that's right," added Howard.

A minute or two of silence passed as the foursome polished off the remainder of the langouste. Finally, Carol said, "Actually, the biggest surprise you're apt to encounter is the nudity…naked breasts are de rigueur you expect them. But "

"But, the Mgoro consider it unhealthy to leave the penis covered," added Howard. -

Doug managed a wan smile. Penny stared red-faced at her empty plate.

"A bead belt and a pair of leather sandals, and they're ready to go to market," continued Carol, with a sip of wine. Then, "Now get ready for this one, kiddies. Mgoro is no nudist colony an erection is considered to be the biggest compliment a Mgoro boy can pay to any woman he encounters!"

A wry smile spread across Howard's face. "And the Mgoro are noted for their big compliments!"

Penny nearly spewed a mouthful of wine on the table. Doug calmed her with a timorous, "Easy, baby. You're an anth major, remember? Unshockable?"

Howard looked at his watch. "Carol, it's after eight," he said. "We'd better get moving if we're going to catch that plane."

Doug started to offer to see them off, but Howard held up his hand in protest. "Thanks, anyway, kids. If I were you, I'd trot right back to my hotel room and get some sleep…believe me, you're going to need it."

"The road to Mgoro is paved with boulders!" quipped Carol.

CHAPTER TWO

They took them to Mgoro in a Land-Rover Doug and Penny, with Major Marcel M'Bonu, the Mgoro District Political Officer, driving. They had planned to leave the following morning, as it was a considerable drive to Mgoro Village, but the Norths at the bequest of Headmaster La Pierre-had supplied the new arrivals with a long shopping list of things that were presently in short supply at the school. Indeed, they had spent the better part of the cool, morning hours the best time of the day for travel scrounging the waterfront warehouses of Dakar for such items as nails, rope, string, soap, a washbasin, several wooden buckets, a hammer, paint and brushes, various cases of canned meats and vegetables, and many tins of paraffin oil, since there was no electricity in the village but for that produced by a small generator at the school itself, and none at all for cooking or lighting. It wasn't until early afternoon that they managed to get away, and by that time both Doug and Penny were ready to collapse from sheer exhaustion.

In addition to Major M'Bonu, they were accompanied by four regular soldiers of the Senegalese army who were armed to the toenails with submachine guns, a bazooka, and a small flame-thrower. Major M'Bonu, seemingly, did not like to take unnecessary risks. Indeed, as the Glassers later discovered, the accompanying troops were no more nor less than his personal bodyguard; the only reason he hadn't brought a full detachment of regulars along is because he had heard that there would be an entire regiment of the Senegalese Militia in convoy along the route.. in case he needed assistance. But, in any case, the threat of unprovoked attack seemed almost surreal in contrast to the tooth-shattering reality of the "road".

Just a few very few kilometers southeast of Dakar, the simple tarmac highway returned virtually to nature. And each time a wheel slammed into a pothole or a cabbage-size rock, the young couple could hear the bouncing troops in back emit a united curse, alternately in French or in one of several tribal languages. Doug estimated, conservatively, that he had learned at least fourteen different words for "Fuck!" that day. Carol North, it seemed, had not exaggerated about the condition of the road.

Still, once the party got underway, young Doug and Penny Glasser found themselves getting caught up in the adventurous spirit of things. The low southern mountains began to rise up to their right, while in scattered clearings in the forest to the left grew occasional stands of cotton or peanuts. Sometimes they would see a man in one of the tiny fields, invariably white-haired and stooped, holding a makeshift wooden hoe and wearing only a pair of tattered khaki shorts on his withered black frame. Again invariably, he would stop his work and look up at the Land Rover as they passed, staring silently, becoming smaller and smaller in the distance. To the Glassers it was all very picturesque. To Major M'Bonu it was just a pain in the ass a capitalist plot to keep him away from the comfort and, more importantly, safety of his Dakar office.

The harried little African Major kept glancing down at his watch every few minutes, shaking his head and muttering, "We're going to be late as hell!" He did it with such frequency that Penny was tempted, on those occasions she found reason to address him, to change his title from Major to March Hare, after the time-pressed rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. Doug, talking up a blue streak, could have cared less what time they got to Mgoro, the welcoming "party" Headmaster La Pierre normally planned for new arrivals, notwithstanding.

Occasionally, they drove past clusters of little huts flanking the impossible road on either side. There would be ten or fifteen of them together, with walls of yellowish lateritic mud, and roofs of palm thatching or, infrequently, corrugated and rusting iron. Sometimes, they could see smoke seeping through the roofs, which more than likely meant that there was cooking going on inside. Often, too, there would be a few old men sitting in front of the huts, wearing only a wrap-around sheet or a loin-cloth. They'd wave to them as they passed, and sometimes they would slowly lift their arms to wave back, but mostly they just stared off into the bush without making a motion.

Then there were the animals…the snort of an elephant, a lone giraffe grazing somewhere off in the distance, a family of gazelles bouncing across the road. And there were children…children standing on bird-thin legs with only a black cloth around their skinny little bodies covering them from shoulder to thigh. If they were standing near the highway, they could see how dirty the little waifs were, with mud caked all up and down their matchstick arms and legs. Or, sometimes they would see great scab-like sores and blotches on their faces. They would wave to them, and they would nudge each other and jump up and down, waving their arms and shrieking, "Djambo! Djambo!", laughing with enormous white teeth as the Land-Rover sprayed pebbles at their bare feet.

"We'll be in Mgoro country soon," Major M'Bonu laughed suddenly beneath his worried brow. "Then nobody will be wearing anything!"

It was already beginning to grow darker it darkens quickly in the tropics when they raced onto a strip of tarmac. On the left, there was a native market with swarms of Africans, while to the right, uphill on another street, stood a row of ragged wooden buildings. The Major pulled a sharp right on the uphill street, then braked to a dusty halt in front of a ramshackle building with the name, "Jungle Bar," emblazoned across the front in drippy red letters. It reminded Doug of an old western saloon.

"We'll stop here for a beer," explained the Major, conveniently forgetting the late hour.

"Why not!" Doug and Penny echoed in unison.

In all-too-short a time, they were back on the road, continuing along the same uphill road that the bar was on. The four soldiers in the back, in lighter spirits after beer and the brief respite of the tarmac, broke into a popular native song.. until the road changed back into granite again, just a little ways east of the town the Major called Liberte.

Farther on, with the mountains ahead of them turning heavy gray with the coming of night, they turned down yet another dirt road, so narrow that it more closely resembled a path. Banana trees grew on both sides, their thick green foliage reaching across the road to brush along the top and sides of the Land-Rover like the muted sounds of a drummer's brushes. The road was bumpy, rockier even than the main road. It was filled with potholes, and as they bounced slowly along they came across a large truck turned over on its side. Penny's heart turned an anxious flip. Had it been the work of the Djambulu renegades? she wondered.

The Major, too, appeared concerned as he inched slowly past. Then, seeing only large cartons strewn about and no bodies, he let out an anxious sigh of relief. Apparently, it had skidded into an oversize pothole when the road was wet and had gone over on its side.

A short distance further on the road forked again and they made another gear-gnashing right turn onto a "road" that was yet narrower than the last. There were huts on either side with people standing in front of them. "Mgoro," the little Major mumbled, but in the mounting darkness it was difficult to verify his statement. Then there was a sign that read, MGORO TECHNICAL SCHOOL 1 KILOMETER, and ahead a large stone arch that looked as though it would collapse at any given sneeze.

Major M'Bonu, in an impressive show of courage, drove beneath the arch, and there inside stood a group of Africans, a dozen or so, and they fell back into a semi-circle as the Land Rover came to a halt and its occupants stepped out. They were all wearing slacks and crisp new white shirts, and highly polished black shoes. A portly middle-aged man wearing thin-framed gold spectacles that looked somehow out of place against the grotesquely welted tribal markings that covered his black face, stepped forward and introduced himself as Monsieur Paul M'Jabu, the Assistant Headmaster. "We've been expecting you for hours," he explained with almost-fawning politeness. "Monsieur La Pierre has only just this minute returned to his house!"

While one of the Africans trotted off to fetch the Headmaster, Major M'Bonu made the appropriate apologies for their tardiness. In contrast to the spiffily-attired Africans, whom they learned were fellow teachers at the school, Doug, in a khaki bush suit, and Penny in a flimsy cotton short and halter ensemble, felt a little uncomfortable and out of place.

In a few minutes they were joined by Headmaster La Pierre. He was a wiry old Frenchman, somewhere in his late-sixties, who'd stayed on after I'independance. He was short and thin, with a bushy white moustache that hid a liver-spotted upper lip. "How do you do," he said in English. Then, in French, "Welcome to Senegal."