I went for a beach jog today for the first time since I’ve been back.  I stopped to chat with two men who’d just come in from fishing, and with a flock of kids out crab-catching.  "Attention-oh, ca pique!", I said.  Look out for the claws!  Lucky for them I was there to remind them.  They were seconds away from falling victim to yet another freak piquing accident.  Sigh.  Anyhow, as I got close to Marguerite’s house, two tiny black bodies ran onto the sand and started flailing their arms and jumping up and down.  Genes are funny like that.   They weren’t imitating me, however.  They were jumping, clapping, smiling, and screaming "Ali! Ali!".  I smiled so hard that my jaw got sore again, but this time it was a poignant pain.  One of the emotional floods containing surprise, joy at existence, pain at the knowledge that we all C.O.S., sadness at the suspicion that some people will never experience something so wonderful, and a selfish elation that those children were honestly thrilled to see me, not so l’il, ole lumbering me.

Here’s where I get philosophical, so fasten your mental seatbelt.  I didn’t, which may explain the bump on my head.  Who knew?  Anyway, I’ve done a lot of soul-searching here in Gabon, as we peace Corps volunteers do.  I have a lot of questions.  Why do we have such a need to be told that we’re wonderful?  Why isn’t the knowledge enough, all by itself?  Why do we focus on our negative aspects and sweep the good points away with the dust-bunnies?

Why is a sunset so hard to explain?  Why does Pito wear tap shoes?  Why don’t I?  Why do I wish I’d gotten letters from those who haven’t written, even though they’re the people that I don’t need to hear from because our hearts already are bound by steel?  How close will anyone come to perfection?   Why do I recoil when I could be reaching out?  Will I ever find my Mr. Right?   Does he have a face?  Do I?  What in the sam-hell is the friggin’ meaning of life?  And what is that suspicious red bump on my face?  And the list goes on and on, similar to drunk papas with too much time and too much wine.   I’ll spare you, which gives me one up on the papas.

I have come up with an answer or two.  (You can take your seatbelt off; the turbulence is over.)  I’ve decided that tomatoes aren’t the only things that need watering to grow.  We need watering to grow too (metaphorically, at least).  I haven’t figured out why that is, but screw it.   I’ve also decided that Pito wears tap shoes because he likes them, and that I don’t because I don’t, and that’s fine.  The meaning of life is, of course, 42.  As for the red bump on my arm, well, it can stay so long as it doesn’t start itching.  Also, if it were to start demanding parmesan cheese, I’d be forced to bust out the hydrocortisone.  But that’s another story.   In closing, I’m just happy to discover that life can be something to escape to rather than from.  I’m still reading Sidney Sheldon, but it’s purely education.

In closing (I mean it this time) we all go through a lot of crap while we’re here.   It seems unhelpful to compare tales of woe without balancing them with tales of wow.  Without both of them, you wouldn’t feel the extremes of either.  I just wanted to share my most recent tale of wow.  Sorry to be so wordy.   That’s the news from Lake Woe-be-gone, and that’s Gabon, and me, in a coconut shell.

Alison Graham