Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

128 ◆ Crab Orchard Review
Terez Rose
Lambaréné is one of Gabon’s main cities, a large inland island
that bisects the Ogooué River. The smell of waterlogged foliage battles
with the diesel fumes of rumbling trucks and overripe odors from the
market, a noisy place choked with people, dust, chickens and produce.
Upon descending from the beer truck with rubbery legs, Kate heads
to the meeting spot that Carmen proposed: a restaurant-bar, located
in a bright blue house on the periphery of the marketplace. She walks
hesitantly toward the bar and then spies Carmen, a welcoming smile
on her face, arms open to embrace Kate. Home. Or close enough.
They have three months of teaching adventures to catch up on.
They find seats in the yard under the protection of a giant coconut palm.
Inside the house, pots clang in dinner preparation. Outside, a goat
snuffles through nearby weeds. The afternoon light is growing soft, the
golden rays mingled with wood smoke that curls up from neighborhood
cooking fires. The smell is sweet and comforting.
They toast each other with cold beers and laugh over the way the
months in Africa have tempered the idealism they’d arrived in the country
with, six months earlier. If it wasn’t the heat and staggering humidity,
they agreed, it was the feeling of always being an object of curiosity. Kate,
a ballet dancer back home, complains how the kids will follow her every
move, checking out her purchases in the store, tagging behind her to her
house and peering into her shuttered windows every time she plays her
classical music and tries to stretch. People stop her in town to ask if they
can touch her long, wavy blonde hair; they gawk at her pale blue eyes.
Carmen complains about the language challenges, the cultural gaffes.
They lower their voices to discuss the spooky mysticism that hovers over
daily life like an invisible fog; the way the drums played at gatherings
seem to embody the secrets of Africa they have yet to learn.
“How’s teaching going for you?” Carmen tips her beer back to
catch the last drops.
Kate sighs. “Getting tougher—the kids are growing restless. And
then I had this weird occurrence just last week.”
“What?”
“You got any problem students?”
“Of course. No class is complete without the little angels.”
“Well, this one student was getting too disruptive, so I marched
down the aisle and in a loud voice asked him in English if he was too
busy to listen to me. And the students just went wild.”
“Busy,” Carmen repeats. “Oh no, you didn’t.” She squeezes her
eyes shut. “Oh no. Oh no. I know what’s coming next.”