MASSAPOAG

I began the 1988-1989 academic year at the University of the Ivory Coast, determined to prove that failure to select me for the summer 1988 trip of the International Camp Counselors Program (ICCP) had been a mistake. The previous year, I had attended an interview to participate in this cultural exchange program sponsored by the United States government, and I was confident that I would be on the roster. However, when the results were posted one week later, I had to labor hard to hold my tears back; I couldn’t see my name anywhere on the list. To prepare myself for that year’s interview and the final exams of the bachelor’s degree, which in the French system punctuated three years of college study, I became a bookworm. Had you known me then, you probably would have thought I was working on a Ph.D. dissertation. But anyway, here I was, gearing up for a second ICCP interview.

Locally, the ICCP interviews were conducted by Professor Retord, a professor of English at the University of the Ivory Coast. Even though he was of French origin, this phonetics and jazz specialist spoke English without an accent, which, at the time, sounded very American. Maybe it still does, who knows. When I finished the interview that afternoon of February 1989, I knew I had done well. Some of the selection criteria were to speak English well, to be able to work long hours, to be sociable and to be prepared to participate in cultural activities since the ICCP’s principal goal was to foster cultural awareness. I thought I met all those requirements, but the experience of the previous year had taught me not to be overly confident. So for a time, I decided to forget about the interview to focus on my exams. When the interview results were posted around April that year, I realized that I was on the waiting list, but rather than being disappointed, I remained optimistic that I would eventually be part of the final selection. One afternoon of June 1989, I was sitting in a classroom taking my final exams when Professor Retord appeared at the door. After briefly conferring with the proctor, he waved for me to see him at the door. I got up and walked to the door, wondering why he had to come and bother me, knowing I was taking an important exam. “How’ you doing with your exam?” he began. “Well, I guess I’m doing fine. I haven’t encountered any real serious problem so far.”

“That’s good to hear. You think you’ll make the honor roll again this year? I heard about your results last year, you know”

“Oh, well…I don’t know, maybe. Any good news about the trip?” I replied, sensing that he was up to something.

“Why, yes. That’s exactly why I’m here. I decided to include you in the final selection, but…”

“Yes! Yes!” I exclaimed, raising my fist in a sign of victory. “Oh, I’m sorry. Were you going to say something?” I said, realizing that I had cut him off.

“Well, not really…just that you need to pay your 150,000 CFA Francs ¹contribution by tomorrow.”

Without taking time to think, I replied “Ok” and went back to my seat to finish my exam. No sooner had I picked up my pen than I remembered I didn’t have the money. Indeed, even though I was getting a scholarship from the Ivorian government, it would take the combined checks of my last month of school and the three summer checks to

have the money required for the trip. Besides, I wouldn’t be paid until Friday, which was three days away. Soon my concentration shifted from my exam to the trip:

Where will I get the money? I wish he’d told me earlier. With no money and nobody to turn to for help…oh, no! Now, if I tell him I don’t have the money, he’ll probably select another person. Well, I have no other choice. I have to tell him the truth. Yes, I will tell him and let the chips fall where they may.

The next morning I decided to stop by Professor Retord’s office to explain the bind I was in. As I approached his office, my heart began pounding so fast and loud for an instant I thought I was hearing drumbeats from the art college half a mile away. Summoning up all my courage, I climbed the two flights of stairs leading up to Professor Retord’s office and knocked on the door. “Come in!” came a voice from inside. I opened the door and stepped in. “So, how much you’re giving me today?” “Well, I…I… don’t have the money now, but I promise to pay…,” I stuttered. “Come on, relax! We’re not going to leave you here!” He chuckled. “I know you’re getting your vacation scholarship sometime Friday, right?” “Right!” “Ok, you’re just going to have to make your full payment as soon as you get your money.”

I was so happy I don’t remember saying thank you as I stumbled out of the office. On Friday I made my payment as agreed upon and the following week, on June 19, 1989, I was on a New York-bound airplane.

Finally, twelve hours after we departed from the Aéroport Félix Houphouet Boigny in Abidjan, Ivory Coast, we landed at JFK Airport in New York City where a young lady and a young man, in khaki shorts and black tee-shirts with ICCP printed across their chests, picked me up. The ride from JFK Airport to the 42nd Street YMCA in their dark blue Ford van was rather quiet after the initial excitement of meeting for the first time. At the YMCA, I shared a room with another counselor, a young man from the Ivory Coast who had gotten there earlier and was to leave the next day. After his departure, I spent Sunday on my own before going to my camp in Massachusetts.

On Monday morning Russ Gormley, one of the local ICCP directors, drove me to JFK Airport where I boarded a small airplane for Boston. The flight seemed extremely short, probably because I had just spent twelve hours on the plane from Abidjan. No sooner had I begun to get comfortable than we were in Boston. I got off and walked to the baggage claim, hoping to find a familiar face. Since I was wearing a black YMCA tee shirt with ICCP on the front, it was easy for my “welcoming committee” to spot me. As soon as I grabbed my suitcase, a young lady with an olive green polo shirt with her hair tied in a ponytail approached me and introduced herself. Her name was Kay Murray, she said. She asked me if I was a camp counselor. When I told her that I was, she addressed me directly by my first name and soon we were off to camp.

We drove to camp in Kay Murray’s car and throughout the trip to Camp Massapoag in Dunstable, Massachusetts she did most of the talking. At camp she introduced me to a group of young men and women who had been playing a game I didn’t know then. One person would throw a hard ball while another, standing at a distance, would swing a sort of club as if to hit the ball. After the club wielder had hit the ball, everybody would begin running in a circle. I stood there, totally mystified, trying to figure out what they were doing. Later, I learned that the name of the game was baseball! I stayed with that group for a good part of the afternoon, enjoying their barbecue hamburgers and hot dogs and soda, until it was time for us to leave. I jumped in the car beside Kay and we drove back the way we had come, or so it seemed to me, until we came to an imposing building with the inscription “Cambridge Y.” Kay checked me in and bade me good night. I spent a few nights at the Cambridge YMCA before moving to Burton Corner at the nearby Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT). Back then, I did not realize that that was one of the most respected institutions of higher education throughout the modern world, even though the place looked like a five-star hotel complex with its verdant well-trimmed grass and flowers. Nevertheless, I made good use of its sporting facilities and the relative luxury of its residence. Indeed, compared to my modest University of Ivory Coast residence room, this was the Waldorf Astoria! From here, I would walk to the YMCA every morning for about two months to meet the campers in a large gym, and from there we would drive to camp in two long yellow school buses. Camp Massapoag was a day camp located about an hour and a half from the Cambridge Y. It was surrounded by tall birch trees with log cabins whose windows were bordered with mosquito screens. The lake, a splendid stretch of clear water where, on a sunny day you could see the polished rocks and white sand on the bottom, lay to the west of the camp. On a typical afternoon the docks teemed with colorful swimming trunks and bikinis all made brighter by the parching summer sun. At times, the beholder’s attention would be broken by the lifeguards’ whistles, ordering some camper to behave or simply for a buddy count. Across from the Massapoag side, sat a sort of resort where customers could rent sailboats and drift on the lake at leisure. The way the boats moved on the water reminded me of Venice as it is usually pictured with its houses above the water and the boats circulating among them.

Massapoag was a camp for eight to fifteen-year-old boys and girls. My duty as a counselor was to take the children to their various stations or workshops during the day and to help the specialists supervise them. Activities included arts and crafts, dancing, and various sports. In the morning before the beginning of our activities, we would go to the flagpole to raise the flags and sing patriotic songs. In the afternoon, before leaving camp, we practiced the reverse routine and sang the closing song, “Day Is Done.” Throughout that summer, two flags adorned the camp flagpole: the Star-Spangled Banner and the orange, white and green flag of the Ivory Coast as a way to acknowledge my presence. I found this to be an extraordinary token of honor, and I will forever be grateful on behalf of my country, the more so as I was the only Ivorian in the camp.

Older campers usually approached me, even though I was normally assigned a cabin of eight-year-old American kids of all colors and hues. In retrospect, I think they must have been driven by curiosity at the novelty that I certainly represented because of my national origin, unusual accent and my bushy hair. Through our conversations, I realized how much emphasis we, in the Ivory Coast, place on learning about other countries and peoples. Indeed, our history and geography lessons take us literally around the world. We learn about the French Revolution, the two World Wars, the Corn Belt, the American electoral process, the various Chinese Dynasties, the Meiji Era in Japan, the Russian tsars and many other themes that apparently are of no direct interest to us. I was therefore shocked to discover that the campers I talked to knew so little about the rest of the world.

On many occasions, campers and counselors called me the “Ivory Coaster” instead of Ivorian, and on one occasion a ninth grader asked me, “Is your country in the Caribbean or something?” I couldn’t help laughing! However, later I began to ponder the meaning of participating in a cultural exchange program: I am supposed to be an international camp counselor. Yet nothing I do here really justifies this title. All I do is take the kids to various activities that they’re already familiar with. There’s nothing truly international about that. Now, these kids don’t know anything about my country or culture; am I not supposed to be here to help them discover other peoples and cultures? If I am truly international, I must prove it by sharing with them, what little I know about Africa, beginning with my own country. Why not try to immerse them into Ivorian culture on International Day. This is my true duty and the purpose of this program; I must play my part!

International Day finally came two weeks before the camp closed. On that particular day, counselors, individually or in pairs, were to present a country of their choice. Some brought food from various European and Oriental countries and dressed in their traditional garbs. The manner of presentation was at the discretion of each counselor. Some chose skits while others showed videos and commented on them. At noon, when the festivities were scheduled to begin, the gym, the theater of our little diversity celebration, teemed with campers and counselors in unusually fancy, and colorful garbs reminiscent of the Rio Carnival in Brazil!

When my turn came, I walked to the middle of the gym with my little crew of five, essentially campers from my cabin, clad in a traditional Kita cloth (also known as Kente in Ghana) and topped with a Baoulé chief’s hat to indicate that I was from that ethnic group. One of the campers in my cabin carried a sign with the head of an elephant, the emblem of the Ivory Coast. Two other campers walked behind him with the orange, white and green flag of my country while, flanked by two campers, I walked in with a sign that read Union, Discipline, Labor, the motto of the Republic of the Ivory Coast. I began my presentation with a few preliminary words about my country, followed by a question and answer session. The first question came from Joey:

“That was cool, ATM… (That was how he pronounced my name) but I was just wondering how you chose the name Ivory Coast.”

“Well, Joey, the Ivory Coast is known for its large elephant population. Now, as you may know, those humongous animals have tusks, which are made of ivory. So I guess that struck the first European colonists…you know what I’m driving at.” Another question came from a second camper who wanted to know the meaning of the Ivorian flag; I will call him Miles.

“Thank you Miles… ahm, in grade school teachers used to tell us that the orange was for the dry lands in the north of the country, that the white was for peace and that the green represented the rainforest of the south. So as you can see, those who chose the colors thought as hard as those who designed the Star Spangled Banner, don’t you think, folks?” Many more questions followed and everyone seemed to be having fun.

At the conclusion of my presentation, the audience was on their feet and the gym boomed with loud applause and shouts of appreciation. Then I invited those interested in my collection of African items to visit the cabin where they were displayed. Until we left camp people kept showing me their gratitude for sharing with them and for helping them understand some aspects of life in the Ivory Coast. Now I understood that they wanted to know about other cultures but couldn’t because of the education US system, and I was thankful that the education system of my country was more open to the study of the world beyond is geographic boundaries.

Shortly after International Day, camp was over and we had to say goodbye. I headed for New York City to take the bus to Saint Louis, Missouri where a group of counselors from various camps waited to begin a tour of the states.