Unfortunately, there is no foolproof way of answering the question.  As my friend Joey has often pointed out on this site, the Peace Corps has done a dreadful job of evaluating itself as an institution, as well as the work of its tens of thousands of volunteers.  Still, we can make some educated guesses based on a few hard facts and, of more importance, on anecdotal evidence from the past half century.  (Remember, just because it is anecdotal does not mean it is worthless.)  Several years ago I made an effort to do such an assessment and concluded - wearing my rose-colored glasses, some will say - that indeed the effort has been worthwhile, and the country can take comfort in knowing that its money, time, and talent have been well spent.

The greatest differences the Peace Corps experience has made are in the lives of those who participated in it and, by extension, in the life of the country to which they returned.  Virtually all volunteers (92% in an early survey) said that the Peace Corps influence on their lives has been profound.  Their concept of the world and their place in it has been changed permanently for the better.  Whatever level of provincialism they began with has been replaced by recognition that we are all in this together.  

What makes this so important for the United States - rather than just for the individuals involved - is the combined impact returned volunteers have had on the collective character of American society.  The important role former volunteers play in international affairs is well known.  USAID, the State Department, almost all NGOs, and many international philanthropic organizations - all have former Peace Corps folks on their staffs.  In 1986 the head of USAID said, “Five hundred former volunteers, me included, are on our roster.”  In 1990 the heads of all the American agencies in Nepal were former volunteers.  Two months ago in one of my blog contributions I highlighted two wonderful organizations currently ‘making a difference.’  Both were founded and are now led by former volunteers.  Surely, this situation continues. 

Beyond the international arena one can see the influence of former volunteers throughout society.  Former volunteers are serving in the Senate and House; many others are on congressional staffs; still more are in local and state governments.  Others are in every conceivable walk of life and they are often central to the lives of their communities.  Can there be even one school system in the entire country that has no former volunteer teachers, staff, and administrators?  What little research we have suggests that these folks not only are contributing members of society, but they also bring the wider world to their home places, places that otherwise might never give a thought to what lies beyond the border.  America is different - better I would say - for the presence of nearly 200,000 returned volunteers. 

 To suggest that Peace Corps bestowed its greatest gifts on those who served and the country that supported them is not a criticism, nor is it meant to lessen the contributions made to the people of the third world.  It simply reflects a universal truth in the Peace Corps: “We received more than we gave.” 

 Another arena in which volunteers clearly ‘made a difference’ is in the way people of the Third World think about Americans.  One of my favorite stories has to do with a volunteer couple stranded by floodwaters in a remote part of Malaysia while on vacation.  When a local man learned that they were Peace Corps volunteers he smiled and said, in effect, “I owe you!”  Ten years earlier he had benefited from the presence of a volunteer and was eager to repay his debt, which he did.  The Peace Corps has softened the image many have of Americans and their sometimes rough-shod ways.  Recently while in Costa Rica I asked one of our rainforest guides if he knew of the Peace Corps.  He said “Of course” and I swear he was warmer and more open upon learning that I, too, had a Peace Corps connection.  I expect that the 50^th anniversary celebration will have more than one head of state, many more ranking government officials from present and former host countries, and countless English-as-a-second-language speakers publicly (and privately) thanking Peace Corps for ‘making a difference’ in their lives.  

 The toughest arena in which to judge the Peace Corps contribution is in economic and social development.  The Peace Corps is a very small part of that apparatus.  Nobody knows how to sum up the individual experiences of tens of thousands of volunteers, let alone find the data that might assist in that project.   

 Yet I contend that there is sufficient evidence to credit Peace Corps with two important contributions at the macro level.  First, the Peace Corps has altered the theoretical underpinnings of development by emphasizing the absolute need to bring beneficial change to people where they live.  All of the hydro dams, the steel mills, the world-class hospitals are meaningless if they do not lead to better lives for the people.  There have been others involved in promoting this understanding of development - Schumacher’s Small is Beautiful, and Dr. James Yen’s insistence on development that is ’simple, economical, practical, and duplicable’ come to mind - but the Peace Corps took these ideas to the whole world.  

 Second, the Peace Corps has provided the formative experience for many of the professionals and experts currently working in the field of economic and social development.  Based on some very elementary research I did among volunteers who served in the Philippines, and projecting the results for the rest of the Peace Corps universe, something like ten thousand former volunteers are now in that broadly-defined field.  As a head of USAID once said, “[the Peace Corps approach] has dramatically affected the way development . . . has been reformulated.”

 Beyond that are the tens of thousands of individual stories - once housed in the Peace Corps library - of the hogs that went to market at 6 months, instead of 2 years; of the galvanized roofs that replace thatched roots when a vegetable marketing program succeeded; of the feeding center that restored vitality to a barrio’s youngsters; of the double-cropping permitted when USAID, Peace Corps, and local rural banks cooperated to bring small loans to subsistence farmers; and of the impact fish ponds can have on a community.  (For this last, I recommend Tidwell’s The Ponds of Kalambayi.)

 Has the Peace Corps made a difference?  I answer with a resounding ‘yes’ on three levels:  the individual, the national, and the world at large.  Long may it continue.

 As I recently learned, that is a mistake.

 It has been more than thirty years since I was last in the Philippines; hell, it’s been twenty years since I was south of Kentucky.  The memory of actually living in the tropics had long ago drifted off to some deep recess in my brain, or perhaps been transformed by those rose-colored glasses I seem to put on when I recall my Peace Corps years.  All of that changed when my wife and I spent 2+ weeks in Costa Rica in December.

 Costa Rica, which still has a Peace Corps presence, lies about 9.5 degrees north of the equator so it is well within the tropics.  In fact it has about the same latitude as does the Philippines.  I was astonished to realize just how much I had forgotten about the challenges of living in a tropical setting, although I will admit that there are some blessings.  That last bit is probably due to the fact that Kentucky is now experiencing single-digit temperature readings.

 The first and worst thing (at least for me) about living in the tropics is that one is never dry.  The slightest exertion starts the sweat flowing; and hiking up a mountain, as we did, turns it into a river.  We swear that hanging clothes in a closet is like putting them in a steam room.  I know it will sound a bit dotty but we were surprised to discover that it rains in the rainforest.  (Duh!)  This meant wearing rain gear which doubled and tripled the amount of sweating going on.  All of this made me remember the volunteer couple in the Philippines who wrote home complaining about the combination of a serious moisture-caused heat rash on their bottoms and a job that required frequent long motorcycle rides. One could almost envy the folks who chose the desert for a winter break.

 I don’t know why but it seems impossible to have good roads in the tropics.  Often they are not paved and the constant humidity and rain cause uncountable potholes and frequent landslides that slow or stop all traffic.  That is probably why the people waiting at rural bus stops along the road looked as if they had been there for hours and were prepared for still more waiting.  To make matters worse - or perhaps more interesting - we had to share what road there was with people walking in the middle of it, riding

One must share the road.

bicycles, or even the occasional herd of cows.  In the Philippines volunteers would often set aside an entire day to shop in a nearby town because there was no such thing as a reliable bus schedule and Costa Rica probably demands the same. 

 Driving along roads in rural Costa Rica quickly reminds one of the immense fertility of the tropics.  Again, I had totally forgotten that fence building can be done very simply:  place a row of newly-cut branches from any kind of tree into the ground where you want the fence and sit back and wait.  Before long those bare branches will sprout new growth and in time you will have a fine hedgerow, compliments of the heat, humidity, and fertile soil.  We were told that one can virtually watch the bamboo grow from one hour to the next and the same applies to papayas.  No wonder Big Pharma continues to send their scientists to the tropics to search for what seems to be a never ending batch of promising discoveries.

 The jungle - am I supposed to avoid that word and use ‘rainforest’ instead? - is scary to say the least.  It is never sunny.  It’s always noisy but one can never see what’s making the noise.  Hear a hidden howler monkey sound off (as we did) and I guarantee you will leap a foot in the air.  And, the variety of flora is beyond belief.  We were told that there are hundreds of orchid species, fern varieties beyond count, and trees that reach far up into the sky.  Wander off the path into the unknown and it’s ‘Adiōs!’

 When midday comes things go very quiet.  What do you mean he won’t be back until 2:30?  The urgency that drives northerners to pack too much into the day is sensibly toned down and people head for home for a brief respite.  Mañana is quite soon enough in a tropical setting.  The only folks who ignore the midday sun (other than mad dogs, Englishmen and tourists like us) are the hoards of children who delight in using the roads as their playground, despite the occasional vehicle coming their way.  More that just the flora seems to be fertile in the tropics.

 Wounds heal slower in the tropics, I’m sure.  Mary suffered a bad cut to her leg when she stumbled on some slippery rocks at the bottom of a deep ravine.  The doctor in a nearby town did a fine job putting things right but for the next ten days the wound looked ugly, continued to seep fluids, and refused to get better.  All of this changed when we returned to a temperate climate, and we have stopped thinking about things like gangrene, infections, and another ER visit.  I think just about all volunteers can tell a tale of the infection, rash, ailment, whatever that just wouldn’t go away.  And that probably explains why the Peace Corps medical folks always stress ‘prevention,’ not ‘cure.’

 Now, to be sure, there are some mighty nice things that come with the tropics.  Each morning began with some of the world’s finest coffee (Costa Rica produces the best there is) and a big fruit plate.  One morning Mary counted ten different kinds of fresh fruits on the plate.  You can’t do that in Kentucky during December, or at any other time of the year, come to think of it.  Sunrises and sunsets can be magnificent!  Flora and fauna are varied, abundant, and eye-catching.  Even the rough roads have a positive side: we were forced to slow down (10 MPH was often about right) and could fully enjoy the remarkable scenery all around us.

 Would we recommend that others go to Costa Rica - or other tropical destinations?  Absolutely!  But we would remind them that the tropics can be tough!  The medical handbook we gave each volunteer in the Philippines during the 1970s began with the phrase “forewarned is forearmed” and then went on to warn against more health hazards than most of us had ever imagined.  We would take the same approach with prospective tropical travelers today as we enthusiastically sent them on their way south.

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.

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.

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.

However, two of my colleagues from those years have accomplished, and continue to accomplish, remarkable feats that go well beyond what most of us could even think about, let alone do. Joe and Pat Richter, volunteers in the Philippines during the seventies, and Phil and Lynn Lilienthal, Ethiopia volunteers during the sixties and staff members in the Philippines and Thailand during the seventies, are engaged in international activities that draw admiration and support from literally thousands of people around the world.

I’ll save the Lilienthals’ Global Camps Africa for my next posting and today concentrate on the Richters’ FARMS International.

For over 45 years FARMS International, a faith-based program out of Knife River, Minnesota, has provided initial leadership, funding, and ongoing support to an ever growing list of countries to help the poor out of poverty while preserving their individual dignity and avoiding dependence. FARMS works through often-struggling Christian churches to provide seed money to members with small business aspirations, but no capital. Some projects and their outcomes in Rwanda are described in a pdf document that can be downloaded using Adobe Acrobat.

Typically, FARMS loans a small amount of money, often less than two hundred dollars, to finance the purchase of a piece of equipment, some inventory, an animal, some seed and fertilizer, and the like to begin a small business. FARMS relies on local church leadership to select the recipients and to provide ongoing program support.  The repaid loans, the rate of which approaches 100%, are then recycled, and the process begins anew.

The amazing thing is that the big, important development agencies in recent years have discovered the magic of ‘micro’ loans. FARMS has been doing it for decades!

Pat and Joe joined FARMS when it was little more than an idea and have played major roles in its development over the years from that initial embryonic stage to having a dynamic presence in twelve countries, the Philippines, appropriately, being one of them. Joe is the Executive Director of FARMS International and Pat handles administrative matters. Having following him and his work for a number of years leads me to think that he has probably logged more miles in the developing world that most of us have taken breaths.

Most of us can’t aspire to be doing the work the Richters do, but we can support them in theirs. Please think about joining me in doing so by googling FARMS International and following the directions.

So, a day or two after all of the other participants left Chiang-Mai, Mary and I flew from Chiang-Mai to Vientiane, the capital of Laos.  Laos at that time was enjoying one of its rare moments of peace - really a truce in its civil war, as it soon turned out, not a real peace - and we wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to visit.  We were surprised to discover that Vientiane retained a very distinct French colonial atmosphere even some years after the French had been forced out of their former Asian colonies.  The restaurants were great, the wine not too bad, and the city orderly and manageable.  Vientiane turned out to be a fine place to visit except for one thing: we were looking for adventure and there was none to be had in this cosmopolitan city.

Some folks we met told us about a town in the far north of the country called Louangprabang that had become a favorite destination for the hoards of ‘world travelers’ then circling the globe.  The term ‘world traveler’ was the polite name given to the vagabonds produced by the turmoil of the 1960s who were bringing ‘drugs, sex and rock ‘n roll’ to the unsuspecting citizens of many third-world countries where the living was cheap and anti-drug laws non-existent or very forgiving.  We learned that Louangprabang was the traditional home of the Laotian royal family and a place where old ways continued to be honored, meaning no French influence.  The town sat on a quiet stretch of the Mekong River and was the stepping off point for some truly remarkable one-day trips to nearby points of interest.  A week in Luoangprabang was just what we needed.

Early one morning we joined a motley collection of other folks and boarded an old DC-3 flown by Laotian Airlines to make the short trip to the former capital.  One of our fellow travelers was an attractive young woman who had made the trip several times.  She helped us plan our stay and was full of good suggestions, many of which we followed in the days to come.  In the midst of talking with us she made an offhand comment concerning the local outdoor market - a ‘must-see’ place in her opinion - to the effect that the law was so loosely applied in Louangprabang that market vendors openly sold marijuana to one and all.

Now, to people under the age of thirty during the 1970s such a comment would have been immediately recognized as information of the most important kind.  It would have been stored safely away and acted upon as soon as they reached the market.  We were the products of an earlier generation and, in fact, quite against the use of marijuana or any other kind of drug.  (Of course it was a matter of common knowledge among our kind that gin, wine, and beer were not drugs to be confused with those other ‘controlled substances.’)   Little did we know that the devil, himself, had arranged to teach us a couple of lessons.

As we thought about this exotic market we began to see a risk free opportunity to sample this new craze among the young.  Surely, we told ourselves, we would be better able to teach our children about the dangers of marijuana if we had some first hand experience on which to base our certain-to-be-wise counsel.  And, how could we understand the younger generation if we could not ’speak’ its language.  Within a couple of days we had made the decision to ’sacrifice’ ourselves in the interest of the greater good.

All Asian markets are large, nearly chaotic, dusty (or damp in the rainy season), filled with goods for which we outsiders have no names and places of immense fascination for those who can conquer their unease in such a foreign environment.  After a bit of looking we found the marijuana sellers section of the market.  As is the custom sellers of like goods tend to concentrate in the same location and here we found row after row of neatly rolled and stacked individual ‘joints,’ although we could not really say ‘joint’ with anything like the authority someone half our age would have.  Nevertheless, using universally understood non-verbal symbols of communication I managed to buy six of the most expensive of the items on sale.  (This was no time for economizing; nothing but the best for our educational experiment.)

We walked to the nearby banks of the slow moving Mekong River, found a bench with a fine water view, and settled down.  Mary had decided to ’stand watch’ during the first event so I proceeded to light up.  I inhaled carefully and not too deeply at first.  This proved to be a good thing because the smoke was pretty harsh.  But I was no wimp!  I took deeper and deeper drags waiting for the magic moment when the promised ‘high’ would descend.  Minutes passed.  I took more drags.  Nothing happened, except I got a bit dizzy from the unaccustomed smoke in my lungs.  Then I remembered hearing that often first time users get no ‘kick’ because they are too tense.  OK, we’ll try again this evening, I said to Mary.

Damn!  The same thing happened that night in our hotel room.  My conclusion was that this marijuana stuff would never pose a commercial threat to those old standbys one bought at the local package store.

The next morning when we met a young fellow from the plane I described my experiences with marijuana.  “Let me see that stuff,” he said.  I handed my remaining four ‘joints’ to him.  After a quick look he said, having no regard for my being many years his senior, “You idiot.  That’s tobacco!”

How very different that is from the situation volunteers encountered during the 60s and 70s. Based on the ‘official’ visits I made as Regional Director and Deputy Director and the extended visit my family and I made on our way back from the Philippines ( like most Peace Corps folks we took the long way home) Afghanistan not only tested volunteers’ resolve and but it also rewarded them with an eye-opening and heart-warming experience.

For virtually all of the volunteers and staff this was their first encounter with a Muslim culture, let alone a very traditional one. And it was an encounter, unlike today, where few had ever given any serious thought to what being a Muslim might mean. Couple that with the rather dramatic changes that were occurring in American culture as the sixties progressed – think sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll – and the term ‘culture clash’ takes on a much more profound meaning.

Almost all of us were fooled by the ‘modernity’ of Kabul. Many men wore coats and ties, women were in the workforce and dressed as an American would expect, cars and trucks plied the roadways, alcoholic drinks could be found, hundreds of young WT’s – which stood for ‘world travelers’ – roamed the streets looking for readily available marijuana and stronger stuff if one wished, and electricity was in abundance. One could even keep up with fashion trends at the local markets where used American-made clothing was sold.

A provincial gathering spot; not a woman in sight

Of course all of that changed when we ventured beyond the city limits. Western dress disappeared; women were uniformly covered from head to foot, if they were seen at all; motorized transport was replaced by animal power; and those of us ‘from away’ learned to pay special attention to the ‘don’t drink the water, don’t eat the food’ advice we had been given by the old hands. One of the most memorable ‘tricks’ we learned was to start out each day with a large supply of the ubiquitous cucumbers, which could be peeled and eaten without worry as a source of water.  

In time what was so exotic in the beginning became ordinary. Volunteers soon learned to cherish the famed Afghani hospitality. Local friends could be counted on to help out when things got tough, communication became easier as language skills improved, and the recognition of similarities replaced the emphasis on differences. One day several of us were hiking along a path that paralleled a steep cliff in which there were several caves. We were startled to see that families made their homes in the caves. I couldn’t resist the thought, ‘How primitive.’ Then, while we exchanged smiles with a young mother holding her infant, the child began to cry. Without a moment’s hesitation the mother reached into her bodice, pulled out a plastic pacifier, and popped it into the baby’s mouth. Obviously ‘primitive’ was the wrong word.

Much of the Afghani landscape is austere, arid, even frightening. These days we often hear news people and commentators refer to it as being like a ‘moonscape,’ and that is fitting. On one of my trips to Afghanistan the American Embassy kindly provided an aging DC3 to ferry me about while visiting volunteer sites. On the way back to Kabul we ‘lost’ one of the plane’s two engines. Looking out the window I could see two things: a propeller holding shockingly still, and a pock-marked, mountainous terrain below. All I could think was “We’re going down into that wasteland never to be found again!” Not to worry. The pilot, knowing that DC3s can fly on one engine, had purposely cut off the silent engine when it overheated, and we landed safely. (I have always wondered if the Embassy provided the plane, as an embassy earlier had done in Africa, because it wanted a cover for an aerial mapping operation of an increasingly important part of the world.  Who knows?)

For a wonderful collection of memories of the Peace Corps in Afghanistan go to http://peacecorpsonline.org/messages/messages/2629/2016140.html and read Walter Blass’s account of his time there as Country Director. The stories are uniquely Afghani while simultaneously being typical Peace Corps narratives.

The Peace Corps program in Afghanistan was a good one. Like all programs it had its successes and its failures but on balance it did what the Peace Corps does best: it provided meaningful assistance to a country and people in need; it created goodwill among peoples of different cultures; and, it gave some Americans a life-changing experience from which they and the country that sent them abroad still benefit. I was genuinely troubled when I learned in 1978 that the program had been cancelled because of volunteer safety concerns. Surely, I thought, we – Peace Corps folks never stop using the word ‘we’ – could have stuck it out. Thirty-plus years of experience show how wrong I was, but still . . . ?

Today Afghanistan starts and ends every newscast. I wish I believed that some of the reporters had the deeper understanding of the country and its people that RPCVs have. I fear that they don’t. Maybe as a start we could help the radio and TV reporters learn how to pronounce ‘Kabul.’ We were taught to think of the word ‘cobble’ (as in ‘cobblestone’). Is that right? Let’s hear from some of the people who made PC/A a reality!

At the end of forty days the island was deep under water, crops had been ruined, paved roads had disolved into lumps of black sand (unpaved ones disappeared entirely), shanty towns had been washed away, much of the food supply had been damaged or lost, sanitation was demoted to the status of an unneeded luxury, outbreaks of disease threatened, and the government ground to a halt.  One day towards the end of the rain I started to walk the three miles from home to the Peace Corps office (my jeep had no roads to run on) and had to turn back when the water reached mid-thigh level and even I knew it was a dumb thing to attempt.

Then, just in time, the sun came out and a plane load of Peace Corps volunteers landed at newly re-functioning Manila International Airport.   They were supposed to break up into their respective groups and begin training.  But in this case it became a matter of first-things-first.  A large number of the new arrivals were gathered together into a make-shift group and assigned to a joint Filipino/American disaster relief program.  USAID, the American Army, the Filipino army and air force, and several NGOs cooperated in a massive relief effort that brought food, clothing, shelter, medical help, and a host of other supplies by helicopter,  truck, sea-going vessel, and any thing else that worked to barrios in outlying areas throughout Luzon.  The work was exhausting, dirty, seemingly endless, and even at times dangerous, but in the end disaster was averted, the volunteers went back to training, and the dry season began anew.

Not surprisingly, the volunteers who particiapated in this unplanned opportunity look back on it to this day as the most satisfying part of their Peace Corps work experience.

I would happily welcome anyone who participated in that exercise to share memories with us all.

His ‘miracle rice’ promised a far better future for the Philippines and the many other countries dependent upon rice as a food staple.  His secret was two-fold: develop a plant that could make maximum use of chemical fertilizer, pesticide, and water to produce a great quantity of grain, and - vitally important - a stalk that was strong enough to keep the massive head upright in the sun.

Peace Corps Volunteers learning to plant “miracle rice”

The Department of Agriculture in the Philippines readily accepted the Peace Corps’ offer of Volunteers to be trained as extension agents at the world famous Los Baños agricultural development station on the island of Luzon.  When they, and hundreds of Filipino associates, took the new techniques to the field the results were astonishing.  Yields doubled and tripled, double cropping became the norm, the worldwide famine predicted in the early 60s never happened.  Surely this was an accomplishment to be cherished and praised.

Yet, as Borlaug’s obituaries made clear, it wasn’t long before critics, especially from the developed world, began to condemn the use of chemicals because of environmental damage, and to lament the financial burdens placed on poor farmers who now had to buy the chemicals.  There was even the suggestion the whole thing was a plot by the chemical companies!  I have to wonder if those guys were ever missed a meal?

Fortunately wiser heads prevailed.  In the end Borlaug received the Nobel Peace Prize for his work, and, as current estimates suggest, several hundred million people did not starve to death.

I am told that the next generation of ‘miracle’ crops is in the laboratories now.  When they emerge, Peace Corps volunteers can help out once again.