Summer Near Brazzaville

Stephen P. Sewall '64 went to the ex-French West Africa this summer on Crossroads Africa.

THE ten Congolese students who were to be our hosts throughout our stay met us at the Brazzaville airport. The first days passed quickly; we were treated to government sponsored receptions and tours, and Africans and Americans talked together endlessly.

But when we settled down to work a week later at a small youth center in the bush country, we began to experience difficulties tourists and passers-by never face--difficulties which, in their own way helped to make Crossroads Africa a rewarding experience.

Working together there in the bush country we seemed to have little to talk about. It surprised me that the Congolese didn't question us about America, but my own questions ceased their steady flow as I became increasingly leary of offending my hosts. We held discussions every second week in which the students of one country proposed a topic for general discussion. But these were characterized by a lack of enthusiasm. Clearly the Congolese did not want to talk politics--they were particularly reluctant to discuss their government's fragile political set up--but no other topic seemed to interest them either.

In our mutual love of music, however, we found a common bond. We formed barbershop quartets, rock 'n' roll groups, and negro gospel choirs. For riding in the backs of trucks we found the best songs were lively Congolese chants which brought the villagers dancing out of their houses as we drove by.

Nevertheless, our problems persisted. The work was hard, the food simple, the language a strain, and the diarrhea a bother. And other problems were more subtle. It was some time before the Americans realized that their quicker response to the dinner bell was grouping them at the table, and the English and French tables for language practice which resulted met with only temporary success.

We often played soccer and volleyball, but some Americans began to complain that we didn't come all the way to Africa for that. Or did we?

CROSSROADS does not send Americans to Africa, some insisted, to reform, to criticize, or to change, but rather to allow Americans to live with and to get to know some young Africans. Anything more than that, the argument continues would reflect the very condescention Crossroads tries to avoid.

The more ambitious members of the group argued that they would not enjoy (or remain passively involved in) a fruitless association with young Americans who did little but play tennis and watch movies, and that they felt no obligations to treat the Africans any differently.

I was disappointed that the Congolese never took the initiative in searching for ways to unite the groups. Their reluctance to do so put the Americans in a very delicate position, for while we had no right to force our hosts into activities, we didn't want the gradual separation to continue.

Three weeks before leaving Mouyondzi we started classes in modern dance, art, and language. At about the same time we decided to write a history of the town, and our research for this project enabled us to meet anyone in the town, and to hear several fascinating recollections of life in Mouyondzi before the French penetration. Happily by this time several American boys had paired off with Congolese girls, a coincidence which effected increased trust and confidence on a group level.

Our attempt to assess the summer in the final two discussion groups was at once rewarding and disappointing: disappointing when some of the Congolese asked us again why we had come to their country--was it to build a youth center?--and rewarding when we reflected that after our graceless prodding, our six weeks of living together had enabled them to tell us what they thought of Crossroads Africa.

And, too, the sturdy, inconspicuous building we had built together will remain for some time--with no strings attached.