I walk across the potholed intersection and on towards the capital building. The magnificent yellow building reflects the palm trees, the traffic, and the ships in the lagoon in the glass face of the several-storied structure. As I walk past it I can see the rear of the building. The yellow paint is pealing and large streaks and patches of brown dirtiness deface the magnificence.
To my right is a small store with a large pavilion containing several pool tables. The usual assortment of men lingers outside. The open dirt capital parking lot to my left sits mostly empty. A trash dumpster and some heavy equipment waiting to pave the road all rest on the lot. Nothing else is there.
Further up the road is the hospital. It consists of several long buildings with lots of hot rooms. The hospital lacks medicine and other supplies. Each used room is full of relatives keeping the invalid company. Three of my students have seen a parent die in a room such as these.
The road next to the hospital stinks. Green sludge fills the depression along the side of the road. A family of pigs route around in the muck made by the putrid water. I can see black smoke coming out of the kitchen chimney. A diesel truck waits by the loading dock to empty a load of food.
The next opening in the wall surrounding the hospital is the chapel. Always there are brown-skinned people waiting on the porch. Often a canopy is set up with food under it. Today there is no canopy, but I hear someone yell my name. I look over at the gathered people, but no face jumps out at me. A hand waves so I wave back. It must be one of my students. Maybe I will hear something more tomorrow at school.
The road turns after the hospital. A car going too fast around the blind corner startles me, but he never comes close to me. A couple boys play basketball in a driveway on my right. Many more play in the distance to my left. They go to Co-op school and play on their court. Some younger girls are playing with a volleyball in the dirt road in front of me. They hit the ball my direction and laugh. They are like any other girls anywhere else in the world.
At this point in my journey, I always get assailed by little children running wild in the streets. The older little girls watch out for the very little children. Today is no exception. The mob runs out to give me five and shake my hand. Some of the kids are students in the SDA elementary school, but many are not. All they know is that I am a strange white person in the brown land that does not speak their language.
I pass on from the crowd and continue on around the back of Co-op school. They are still working at improving the buildings and covering the lunch area. They do not have a gymnasium. The second floor of the school building blew away a couple years ago when Typhoon Pako hit. It still has a temporary roof covering the first floor. The school is staffed by Peace Corp workers from the United States. Their teachers live in little tin shacks that look very much like the normal house in the area. They have to be very hot.
With the ocean on my right, I pass through the space between the wall around SDA School and the sea wall. I am home. A green succulent-type ivy plant covers the broken coral rocks that make up the yard. Real grass is sparse. It was killed long ago. As I go up the steps to my apartment, one of the ever-present elementary students yells hello. Yes this is friendly home.
Sometimes I think of how much my country and cultures has to give these poor people who always seem a little dirty even when they are clean. But then I think of how much my country has already given. Now the people here are mixed up with no idea of what is theirs and what is imported. The younger ones have been taught to want the things from America, yet they do not understand the consequences. America has taken the peaceful sharing culture and is replacing it with what is here now.
Richard Wright Copyright 2001