How it All Began, April 1996

“Africa,” she said.

“Africa,” I said.

“Yes, Africa.”

“You’re sure you don’t have anything available in Latin America?” I asked. I had spent five years learning Spanish and wanted to go where I could quickly become fluent in the language.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Right now we’re sending to Eastern Europe, the Asian Pacific Islands, and Africa.”

“OK,” I said. “Send me to Africa.”

I hung up the phone. Sitting on the tired beige carpet of the Ocean Beach bungalow I shared with a friend, I contemplated what the Peace Corps recruiter had said. Going to Africa would be an adventure I never thought possible. I pictured something from an Indiana Jones movie, what I now know to be the dunes of the northern part of the continent, and wondered if I would get to ride a camel or live in a tent. I wondered how far I would be from civilization and pictured myself in the middle of nowhere. I rather liked the idea. I thought it might make me tough.

I recalled the stories I had heard from returned volunteers who had served in cold countries, countries that bordered Eastern Europe and Asia, countries with snowy mountain regions and habits like drinking warm mare’s milk and animal blood, countries whose names ended in -stan. No way, I thought. At least I am going somewhere warm.

Being chosen to serve in the U.S. Peace Corps takes a fair amount of tenacity. To begin with, you must already have a minimum of a 4-year degree or extensive experience in a skill or trade. Then the application process requires pages of forms to fill out, responses to essay questions, a health screening, a background check, a health card packed with immunizations, and a personal interview. Driving from San Diego to the recruitment office in Los Angeles felt, to my 21-year-old self, like a feat all of its own. Once accepted, you await an assignment. You do not get to pick where you will serve, but you may accept or decline what is offered. If you decline, you wait until another assignment is available, which could be weeks or months.

After accepting that I would be assigned to Africa, I waited to hear which country.

A week or two passed, and she called back.

“French-speaking Africa,” she said.

“French?” I squawked, trying hard not to sound ungrateful. If I went to a country where I had to learn both the official language—the tongue of the colonizers—as well as the indigenous language...well, that just sounded overwhelmingly difficult. “Like, the Congo? I would have to teach in French? I don’t know. Can I get back to you?”

I don’t recall what she said at that point, but she called back later and offered me an English-teaching position in Zimbabwe.

Zimbabwe.

Formerly Rhodesia. Colonized by Great Britain. Zimbabwe had gained independence in 1980 after more than a decade of bloody civil war. Once it threw off Britain, the two largest people groups, the Shona and the Ndebele, wrestled for power. By 1996, the country was pretty peaceful and had spent more than 15 years under the leadership of President Robert Mugabe, who was Shona. The stability, on the surface anyway, allowed the region to prosper. By the time I arrived, Zimbabwe appeared to be a place where democracy had a fighting chance.

All that, I would eventually learn. All of that would also eventually change, starting in the years I was there.

But I didn’t know any of this when I accepted the assignment. So when I hung up the phone, trembling with excitement, I looked to my bookshelf and shuffled around until I found a world atlas. I had no idea where Zimbabwe was on the continent. I scanned: Ethiopia, Liberia, Cameroon, Uganda, Tanzania, and then found it, smack in the middle of Southern Africa. Landlocked. A country the size of California, but shaped more like Texas. Bordered by Mozambique, South Africa, Botswana, and Zambia.

I squealed or shouted or something, though no one was around to hear me. And then I called my mom.

*excerpt from forthcoming book*