John’s correspondent from Estonia, him with the 2000 condoms, sure knows how to make a fellow feel old!  Do the math, indeed!

However, the story also points out one of the most eye-popping of the changes which have taken place in the Peace Corps over its nearly 50 year of existence: The change in matters sexual. 

During the 1960s the Peace Corps, as John mentioned, prohibited cohabitation; refused to supply condoms, birth control pills, or other contraceptive devices; placed brothels off-limits; and announced that sexual indiscretion was a cause for instant dismissal.  (I can imagine that PC/W, satisfied that it had taken decisive action on a matter of grave concern, then returned to sweeping back the sea.)

 In the early 1970s there was still some residual adherence in the Peace Corps to the organization’s original sex/morality standards, especially among those Americans who had spent most of the previous decade beyond the borders of the United States, as had many ‘official’ Americans.  On one of his regular consultation trips to the Philippines from his headquarters in Bangkok, the Regional Peace Corps physician was asked by our rather straitlaced American ambassador what the Peace Corps’s major medical problem was.  When the physician replied, “Venereal disease,” the ambassador frowned and changed the subject.  But, for a large part, the Peace Corps was ready in 1971 to accept sexual conduct as a private matter - as long as it did not lead to public outrage - and to treat venereal disease as a medical matter, not a moral one. 

In many Peace Corps countries during the 70s (and, I’m guessing, still today) sexual outlets were readily available for male volunteers through normal romantic liaisons or, as in the Philippines, through commercialized sex that was widespread, inexpensive, and dangerous.  With some difficulty we made the transition from seeing sex as a moral issue to seeing it as a health issue, although it would be wrong to give the impression that the transition was easy for everyone.  

Some of us were pushed in that direction by the women of Group 53, who in November 1972 wrote me:  “After reading the [medical] handbook, hearing Dr. Agbayani, . . . and [knowing that] the men of the Peace Corps are provided with prophylactics and because this provides them with a measure of birth control protection in addition to protecting from venereal disease, . . . [we feel] that in the interest of equality for the sexes the needs of women in this area should also be considered. . . .  Therefore, we are requesting Peace Corps to provide some type of birth control measure for unmarried women.  Pills or the IUD are preferable.”  Although the use of the word ‘prophylatics’ sounds quaint to today’s ears, the letter landed with a thud.

When Dr. Agbayani made the mistake of addressing his conciliatory letter of reply to “the Girls of Group 53,” all hell broke loose.  He never did really understand why the use of the word girls caused so much trouble, but he was willing to accept it as some strange American quirk and make amends.  In the end, we apologized to the women of Group 53, established a no-questions-asked policy with respect to condoms, pills, and IUDs, and included women in the previously male-only lectures on the hazards of venereal disease.

One can debate the merits of any given change, but one cannot debate the fact that change happens.  And, nothing else in all of Peace Corps’ history shows how dramatic change can be as does the change in the ‘official’ attitude towards human sexuality.

Afghanistan has always been an exciting and mysterious place, but it was even more so in 1974 when my family and I learned the hard way about the difference between clearing immigration formalities at an international airport and at a ‘frontier’ outpost located on the far fringes of nowhere.

In July of that year the five of us — me, plus my wife Mary and three children aged 16, 15, and 12 — returned home to the United States from the Philippines following a three year stint with the Peace Corps there as country director.  As is often the case with Peace Corps folks we decided to take the long way home. That meant instead of taking the direct route east across the Pacific Ocean we headed west planning to go through central and southwestern Asia, Istanbul, Rome, Paris and London before flying the Atlantic to JFK.

Parenthetically, I might add that I have always thought volunteers having a borderline experience in the Peace Corps often stayed the course until COS in order to have the opportunity to ‘take the long way home.’  As some might remember, an early termination meant a ticket home by the shortest possible route.  Some volunteers, including my daughter, took as long as a year to finally make it back to the United States, and then only after parental pleas became too loud to ignore.

Anyway, back to the Searles family trip home.  Well into our itinerary, which by design was very flexible, I read about a local bus route that went from the exotic Pakistani city of Peshawar, along the same age-old route that had long been used by explorers, traders, and was now used by the ‘world travelers’ of the hippie age, to Kabul, the capital of Afghanistan. We quickly decided it was our kind of trip.

Early one morning we joined a busload of ordinary Pakistanis and Afghanis, their assorted children and packages for the seven hour trip through the Khyber Pass, the Kabul Gorge, and the desolate, arid wastes of the southwest Asian landscape. Our traveling companions were clearly curious about the strange family of five that shared their bus, but they were gracious and friendly. We had no doubt that this would be the high point of our extended trip back to the United States.

The supposed high point of our trip became the low point three hours later.  We had surrendered our Pakistani visas when we passed over the small river which marked the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan, not knowing that we would desperately need them again within minutes.  The officials at the small shed on the Afghani side of the river became very agitated when inspected our passports and saw no Afghani visas.  They did not seem to understand that they were to issue visas on the spot.

I reached for my trusty travel guide which was the source of my information.  Surely once they saw the printed word they would perform their duty and issue the visas.  It was then that I re-read the words “tourist visas are easily obtained at the international airport in Kabul.”  Suddenly, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I understood the obvious: “international airport” meant “international airport,” not some remote frontier post where American tourists were few and far between.

In the end I climbed atop the bus, retrieved our luggage, endured the puzzled looks of our erstwhile companions and with a distraught wife and three worried children began the long, lonely walk back across the bridge to Pakistan, a country we were no longer eligible to visit. We were stranded in what we thought was one of the most remote parts of the earth. We had no valid visas, no local money, no language capability, no friends who could help, and no prospects for deliverance other than a very long walk back to Peshawar.

Obviously, Dad, the great trip planner, had failed; and he and everyone else knew it.

My wife and I have very different recollections as to how we got out of this fix. I recall that after we walked back unchallenged into the small town on the Pakistani side of the river, I left the family in a secure place and went searching for assistance. When I saw a vehicle with a UNDP (United Nations Development Program) insignia on it I approached the occupants, who turned out to be Americans. Flashing my Peace Corps credentials and pointing to my forlorn family, I talked them into letting us accompany them when they drove back to Peshawar.

My wife remembers it differently. She says that I panicked after we crossed the bridge and was totally at a loss as to what to do. It was SHE who saw the UNDP vehicle, SHE who told me how to handle the situation, and SHE who saved the day. The children claim hardly to remember the incident and can not, or will not, help determine whose memory is correct.

Once back in Peshawar we called on the Afghani consulate, where my ‘Official’ passport received a very friendly reception from a ‘fellow’ civil servant and we quickly got proper visas and then booked a flight to Kabul.  (As government employees Peace Corps staff members are issued an ‘Official’ passport with its red cover - unlike the blue cover of regular passports or the black cover of ‘Diplomatic’ passports - and inevitably we were treated as kindred souls by civil servants from other countries whenever we encountered them.)

As things turned out we had a marvelous ten-day excursion through Afghanistan, one of the most ‘foreign,’ yet interesting, countries on earth. But that is another story.

Phil and Lynn Lilienthal were Peace Corps volunteers in Ethiopia during the sixties and staff members in Washington, the Philippines, and Thailand during the seventies. (OK, Lynn wasn’t strictly speaking a staff member but as any spouse of a staff member will tell you, they quickly become full partners in all of the joys — and the ‘otherwises’ — of the position.)

Following their Peace Corps service the Lilienthals had full and demanding lives: Phil in the law, Lynn in raising a family and founding a daycare center, and both of them in running one of the finest boys’ summer camps in Maine.

But always in the background was the desire to one day return to a life of service. About eight years ago the Lilienthals marshaled their Peace Corps experience, their camp management skills, their international travel and connections, and the host of admirers they had amassed over the years to start Global Camps Africa.

Camp Sizanani, one of Global Camps’ major activities, provides HIV/AIDS affected children with education, recreation, and life skills lessons all in a spirit of fun and camaraderie. Three to six 9-day residential camps are held each year, bringing together up to 300 children and 30–35 counselors. In just five years, more than 3,700 children have had been able to attend camp.

Another major activity is the Kids Clubs established in the campers’ hometowns that provide ongoing and year-round mentoring, tutoring and counseling, all designed to reinforce lessons learned at camp.

The children served by Global Camps Africa are poor, orphaned and abused, often with just the clothes on their backs. As a result of their Camp Sizanani and Kids Clubs experiences the youngsters not only have a wonderful time (perhaps for the first time in their lives) but also gain the confidence and knowledge they need to deal with the hand life has dealt them.

As I mentioned in my last post about Pat and Joe Richters efforts in FARMS International, most of us can’t aspire to do the kind of heroic work they and the Lilienthals are doing, and will continue to do as long as they receive the support needed from the rest of us. Go to the website of Global Camps Africa to read the accounts written by campers, to learn more about the work and how it is done, and to join me in giving generously to Global Camps Africa.