Peace Corps to Mercy Corps

Baptism of Alejandro, one of my 10 godchildren, in 2003. Photo: courtesy of Anthony Gromko

I recently returned to my Peace Corps community after having been lost at sea for the past six years. I floated along aimlessly after having escaped from captivity on a hijacked Russian cargo ship that was headed south from Ushuaia to Antarctica.

You see, it all started out as a post-Peace-Corps-service celebratory trip. In my almost permanent state of delirium, I drifted east around the world, zigzagging between the Tropic of Capricorn and the Antarctic Circle until I miraculously found myself washed up right where I had been six years prior as a Peace Corps volunteer: Bolivia.

Read more ▸

Me (left) and Apa with a plateful of freshly-baked bread. Photo: courtesy of Amy Spindler

Crouched next to the fire, I warm my hands as my Afghan neighbor fans smoke into the heavens. The moon illuminates the mountains, and then the valley swallows the light before it can reach us. Ramadan began last night with the new moon and we’re breaking our first daily fast. The old woman heats oil in the kazan and fries some flattened dough. The sweet, oily smell wafts through the cold air and our neighbor shoos it upward.

“We need to remind our ancestors of everything God gave them while on earth,” she tells me.

Whoa. I’m so far away from home. So far away from everything that’s familiar.

Read more ▸

Mrs. Nekou — my landlady and matron of the compound where I lived in Amegnran, Togo — and me in 1994. Photo: courtesy of Roger Burks

For 50 years now, there has been a defining moment in most every Peace Corps Volunteer’s time overseas, and it happens near the beginning: you’re left in your village, luggage at your feet, as a car drives off with a squeal of tires that signals the true beginning of your service.

You are suddenly on your own. What you do from there is, truly, all up to you.

For me, that moment came in April 1994 in the small village of Amegnran, Togo. The Peace Corps van dropped me off in front of the tiny cinder block-and-tin roof house where I would be living for the next two years. What came next for me was picking up my bags and walking into the adjacent compound to let my host family know I was there. I had only met them, briefly, once before.

Read more ▸

There are two key moments in my Peace Corps experience that I will never forget.

"Doudu. Doudu-ooo! I ye wuulii — naa nga taa, dookuwoo siita!!" (This loosely translates to "Doudu, Doudu! Wake up – let’s go, its time to work!!" Doudu was my Gambia name.) I was jarred from a deep sleep with someone pounding on my door, insisting I get up :

It was at that moment I knew I was just another member of the family.

My Gambian family. From left, back row: me, Banna Camara (daughter), Damang Camara (son), Njaani Ceesay (first wife), Seiku Camara (husband), Kaadi Ceesay (second wife), Ndem Camara (Kaadi’s son), Paulette Oetting (my mom, visiting from the States). Front row: Sainy Camara (daughter), Samba Camara (son), Lasaana Camara (son), Alahaji Camara (son). Photo: courtesy of Nate Oetting

Read more ▸

The best result of my Peace Corps experience are of the friends I made. I joined the Peace Corps twice; in the late 1970s, I was in Botswana, where I met my best friend, Anthony, another Peace Corps Volunteer. In the early 1990s I was in Malawi, where I met a volunteer named Shannon, who became my wife.

Shannon and I have remained extremely close to the Malawian family, the Munthalis, who hosted me during my two months' training in Blantyre. We have visited Malawi three times since returning to the States, and have spent the majority of this time with Denis Munthali and family. Denis has even come to visit us in Portland, and we expect him and his wife Bernadette to visit us again this fall.

Read more ▸

I was just taking a look at the poignant video that my colleague Cassandra Nelson made, and was caught by a phrase she uses in closing: “this season of sharing.” This time of year, we always hear about “the season of giving.” But sharing is quite a bit different, isn’t it?

To me, sharing means something you experience in the company of others — colleagues, family and friends. Giving implies a more time-limited action, like passing out presents or making a donation. Both can be incredibly generous.

But there is just something really different about sharing, you know? I’ve been thinking about it all morning, and remembered what I believe was my first season of sharing.

It was my first Christmas away from the United States. And it was the first Christmas that I didn’t unwrap a single present.

Read more ▸

Looking at the simple and inexpensive — yet powerful — ways to help on our Home page, I’m reminded how needlessly complicated humanitarian assistance can become.

One of my first experiences overseas forever changed the way I look at international development. I was 23 years old, fresh out of college and in my first week of Peace Corps service in the village of Amegnran, Togo. As I was trying to establish my work as an agroforester in the zone I’d been assigned, I kept hearing the same thing from a lot of people:

“You should go over to the village of Agomé Glozou. They have a big project going on there, but they need some help.”

Near the end of that first week, I got on my bike and headed 12 miles east from Amegnran toward the Mono River, Togo’s border with Benin. Upon reaching Agomé Glozou — a village famous for its elaborate pottery and herds of river-dwelling hippopotami — I was approached by a group of men that seemed as though they’d been expecting me. “Have you come to look at the project?” they asked with great anticipation.

I told them I had, and we all started walking along red clay paths lined with oil and coconut palm trees. We soon came to an earthen dike that separated the Mono River from acres of rice paddy. And then I saw the problem.

Read more ▸

A man does what he must to provide for his family. But in the small West African nation of Togo, it goes much deeper than that: each man is assigned a name based on the things he does, and is constantly judged by it.

When I began my service as Peace Corps Volunteer in the village of Amegnran more than 15 years ago, I quickly learned that the predominant ethnic group in the area — the Ouatchi — classified every man by his character, work ethic and worth to his neighbors. According to the Ouatchi, there are three kinds of men: Awoussi, Adjo and Abla.

Awoussi is least of the three, reserved for cowards, drunkards and layabouts. Adjo is a mostly-neutral title, given to those who work as they should and are valuable to their families, but do little to help or advance the community as a whole — almost all men in the village fall into this category including, when I first arrived, me.

And then there's Abla, the name of highest distinction and honor. Abla means leadership, ingenuity, great intellect or outstanding service to the community. It's rare to meet one of them — but, when you do, everyone makes it a point to address him by this title rather than his given name.

During my service, I met a man who started an Awoussi through no fault of his own. His name was Felix Njoku.

Felix Njoku with his three young sons in the farmer group's chicken coop during the summer of 1995. Photo: Roger Burks

Read more ▸