Instead of training to be a teacher, I was sent to Mange to learn how to instruct native farmers in improving the yield of their rice crop. The irony was not lost on me. Here I was, a kid from Suburban Long Island, trying to convince native farmers that I knew more than they did. After two months of being trained by a team of agriculturists from Taiwan, I was sent further north to Kambia, only about twenty miles from Mange. There I was introduced by my predecessor, Jay, to the farmers he had been working with for the previous two years. Due to my upbringing in an alcoholic home, I had very little self-confidence. I spent most of the first eight months there reading or visiting my colleagues in other towns. In Kambia, I mostly kept to myself. There were a few other Americans there, mostly teachers. I socialized with them frequently, but accomplished very little in the way of work. In the backyard of my house, there was another, smaller house. In it lived a couple with some small children. They were all under the age of five. They were adorable, delightful, joyous children. Their parents barely had any worldly possessions, but this did not diminish the joy these children felt about life. This was amazing to me. Here I was, impoverished by American standards but considered wealthy in Africa, feeling emotionally deprived because of my miserable family situation, and these children were happy and had loving parents.
Jerry LaPre writes: The Children of Sierra Leone
The Children of Sierra Leone
Contributed by: Jerry LaPre on 4/21/2008
Four months after the death of my mother in 1971, I went to Sierra Leone, West Africa to serve as a Peace Corps agricultural volunteer. The children there taught me that you didn't have to be rich to be happy. This story precedes the one called The Boys of St. Mary's. The next story to be posted will follow the one titled Sherri.
The Children of Sierra Leone
Upon arrival in Sierra Leone, I was sent to the town of Mange in the Northern Province. I had unwisely quit college in the middle of my senior year, so, without a degree, I was not allowed to teach.
I was also still grieving over the death of my mother, who had died four months before I left for Africa to serve in the Peace Corps. My father was locked in the throes of his alcoholism when I left, and I honestly thought he would die while I was gone.
Instead of training to be a teacher, I was sent to Mange to learn how to instruct native farmers in improving the yield of their rice crop. The irony was not lost on me. Here I was, a kid from Suburban Long Island, trying to convince native farmers that I knew more than they did.
After two months of being trained by a team of agriculturists from Taiwan, I was sent further north to Kambia, only about twenty miles from Mange. There I was introduced by my predecessor, Jay, to the farmers he had been working with for the previous two years.
Due to my upbringing in an alcoholic home, I had very little self-confidence. I spent most of the first eight months there reading or visiting my colleagues in other towns. In Kambia, I mostly kept to myself. There were a few other Americans there, mostly teachers. I socialized with them frequently, but accomplished very little in the way of work.
In the backyard of my house, there was another, smaller house. In it lived a couple with some small children. They were all under the age of five. They were adorable, delightful, joyous children. Their parents barely had any worldly possessions, but this did not diminish the joy these children felt about life. This was amazing to me. Here I was, impoverished by American standards but considered wealthy in Africa, feeling emotionally deprived because of my miserable family situation, and these children were happy and had loving parents.
Another very happy child was Hassan, the ten-year old houseboy of two British friends, Jeff and Alastair. I never once saw that child without a smile on his face. He could cheer you up just by looking at him. Hassan would run down the street pushing a bicycle tire rim with a stick shouting with joyous glee.
All over Kambia, in fact throughout the entire country of Sierra Leone, I was constantly running into children who had a zest for life. They were, literally, happy to be alive.
More than twenty years later, that wonderful country was torn apart by a bloody civil war over who was going to control the lucrative diamond industry, which was located in the Eastern Province of the country. When I read about this tragic war, I often thought of the beautiful children there and prayed the war did not diminish their zest for life.
I eventually overcame my initial reticence about living in an exotic locale, and accomplished a few worthwhile projects throughout Kambia District. The most notable one was starting a chicken hatchery so the local townspeople could have fresh eggs.
African children taught me that you didn't need money or possessions to make you happy. All you needed was a loving family to know how much you were worth. I was soon to be in for the surprise of my life upon returning home.
African Postscript
When I returned from Sierra Leone, in September, 1973, I was shocked to find that my father had been sober since April of that year. After receiving a letter from me in which I said that maybe we could get a place together when I returned from Sierra Leone, he checked himself intothe detoxification ward at a hospital and dried out. He never drank another drop of alcohol for the remaining 28 years of his life. We were also able to repair our relationship which had been decimated by the ravages of alcoholism.
After a trip to Arizona and Ohio from October-December, 1973, I returned to the University of Massachusetts in January, 1974 and earned my degree in sociology that August.
Long Island was economically depressed at that time and I found no work until April, 1975. I survived on money I had saved from the Peace Corps and caddying. I finally was hired as a counselor in the boys' home where my friend Scouty worked.
