Late this afternoon I went to the liquor store and saw on the shelf a large bottle of Cointreau, the orange-flavored French liqueur, so I bought it, for Cointreau reminded me of Togo. ‘“What?’ you might say. I thought you served in Peace Corps in Togo!” I did, but that didn’t mean I was “goody two shoes.” Remember, the capital city, Lome, was a duty-free port, and I had friends who were French “Volunteers of Progress,” and being French, their director drove from Lome to Niamtougou once a month in a small truck not filled with building supplies or agricultural equipment, but with Camembert and Brie cheeses in coolers, with good French wines, and with French “digestifs” like Grand Marnier and Cointreau. I’d place my order with my friends, and up would come my “digestifs.”
Though rare in occasion, I enjoyed sitting on my wide porch on the crest of a hill in the cool of the evening (I’d become seasoned by then) and watch the sun set over the bao-bao trees and fields. Daydreaming about Amy Wilds, my Peace Corps love stationed in the Ivory Coast (we’d been in training together in Louisiana), I’d enjoy some Camembert and sip top-echelon George Dickel or Cointreau. I may have added a small ice cube or two to chill it below the 90-degree room temperature, but who cares? After a violent thunderstorm, it was nice to see a peaceful blue sky, with a white cloud or two scudding across the blue. I’m not saying that I felt like Noah, but such storms and rainbows connected me to him. We and others in history savored natural pleasures.
From time to time, a Peace Corps friend, Ron Phillips, visited me. While I was a day and a half travel from the capital, Ron, a philosophy major from the University of Virginia, was even more remote. Though stationed in a village a day’s journey from me, he was separated by streams that after downpours became impassable, there being no bridges, isolating Ron for weeks on end. Most villagers where he lived did not speak French but a language different from what we had learned in training, so he was indeed isolated, but he loved it, and villagers him. Loving philosophy, he had the time to think about the books he’d read in our Peace Corps trunk of books and was a pleasure to converse with.
To Ron, coming to market day in Niamtougou, held every five days, was like coming to the big city. In fact, the week was but five days, not seven, and named in the lingua franca after the town in which the market was held. As the photographs show, people from nearby villages came to town; women sold their diverse wares, ranging from cloth to food; cattle were slaughtered that morning so there was fresh meat; vegetables like carrots, bell peppers, and okra, were sold, along with dried fish, all of which one couldn’t get at the everyday market. Scores of people filled Niamtougou’s town center, which featured only one-story buildings around the open-air marketplace, with long, roofed shelters. Though Niamtougou had no restaurant, we did have Etienne’s, a small “boutique” (with no sign) in the town center where you could get chilled Biere Benin, the national bottled beer of Togo, or even a Coca-Cola, plus there chairs, tables, and electric ceiling fans, which served to keep the hot air moving.
Ron liked the bustle, had a good sense of humor, loved to tell and hear stories, and like me, loved to read. Plus we had both been lovers of Amy Wilds in training in Louisiana – first him, then me, though we didn’t talk about her. I continued to love her and in a way, still do. Still, Ron and I enjoyed one another. After I was drafted and sent to Vietnam, I have no idea what happened to him. I hope he knows I survived.
Anyway, from time to time he would visit. It was a pleasure for both of us to speak not French, but our native tongue, which was not only English, but in our native accents, for he too was from the South. I felt at home with him, as people from the same region do. Remember, this was in 1968. Cities were burning; Martin Luther King, Robert Kennedy, and George Wallace had been shot; the war was raging; peaceful movements had become violent. We could say things or ask questions that to others may seem outlandish, but to us by ourselves seemed natural.
Since I had a dependable income and was white and a Peace Corps Volunteer, I held, despite my wishes, an elite status according to village custom. I therefore had to employ a servant. A bright teen-ager, named Christophe, came around, who spoke excellent French and had a question-asking mind. Since custom required that I give employment to somebody and with me being a teacher at heart, I hired him. He was attentive and wanted to learn but had never cooked before. I had a few chickens around my house and asked Christophe in French to kill one and gut it, so I could fix it for supper. I thought that being a villager, he knew how. He didn’t object.
As Ron and I were watching the multi-colored sunset from the porch and enjoying the chilled Cointreau the French had brought me, I heard all this squawking out back. I thought it would pass, but it didn’t. I excused myself and went to see what was going on. There Christophe was, feathers all over my small back yard and a very mad and half-naked chicken, squawking to hell and back. He was picking the feathers off a live chicken. No wonder she was mad and in pain. With the knife I carried, I rendered the coup de grace, gave the dead chicken back to Christophe, who picked it, and I went back to the front porch and then broiled the fresh chicken for dinner, even if late.
By that time, the multi-colored sunset had been spectacular, and the full moon gave Ron and me light to dine by on the porch. The flies and mosquitoes were down by the stream and were not a bother. Using no light, we attracted no fluttering moths. My having company who spoke English was a pleasure. Ron and I finished one bottle of Cointreau and were working on our second. Or, was it our third?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
George W. McDaniel, PhD, is the President of McDaniel Consulting, LLC, a strategy firm that helps organizations use history to build bridges within itself and to its broader constituents. For 25 years, he served as the Executive Director of Drayton Hall, a historic site in Charleston, SC. A native of Atlanta, he earned a BA from Sewanee, a MAT (history) from Brown University, and PhD (history) from Duke. Interspersed through those years were travels to many places — Europe, Africa, Vietnam — where he saw peace and war and learned by experience about cultural differences and commonalities. For 40 years, he built a career working in education and history museums, beginning with the Smithsonian Institution, and earning awards at the local, state, and national levels.
“Building Bridges through History”
The company’s tagline is grounded in McDaniel’s personal beliefs and his professional experience. Services address site management, preservation, education, board development, fundraising, community outreach, and more.
Rather than using history to divide us, McDaniel helps organizations use history, especially local history, to enhance cross-cultural understanding and to support local museums, preservation, and education.
Turning Beliefs into Actions
Dr. McDaniel led volunteer efforts with Emanuel AME Church and historical organizations in Charleston to use historic preservation to enhance racial reconciliation and healing.
A frequent writer, speaker, and facilitator, reach him at gmcdaniel4444@gmail.com or through his website www.mcdanielconsulting.net.
Images courtesy of the author unless otherwise noted.
McDaniel Consulting LLC is a strategy firm that helps organizations use history to build bridges within itself and its broader constituents. 