Casey’s Essay

PERSONAL STATEMENT

It’s 102 degrees, we’re barreling down a dusty dirt road in West Africa, and I really have to pee.

I’m three weeks into a four-week church mission to build a water sustainability project in Sierra Leone, and most of the other Westerners have fallen like flies due to heat exhaustion. The only reason I haven’t is that I’ve been chugging water like a madwoman. Fun fact: when you do that, you have to pee every 12 seconds.

So here I am, in the backseat of a beat-up Land Cruiser with four different wheels, driving over bumpy backroads to the nearby town of Mogbeva, to pick up some irrigation supplies. I gently remind our driver that I really need to make a pit stop at the next available opportunity, but it’s clear there’s nothing around but flat desert in every direction. And this being a Muslim country, girls aren’t supposed to squat down on the side of the road like livestock. They must maintain a sense of modesty and decorum. We hit another pothole, and I press my legs together, praying I don’t spring a leak.

The last thing I want to do out here is make a scene, offend the locals, and end up on the nightly news back home: “Dumb girl from Maine ruins diplomatic mission. Story at 10.” Part of my reason for coming here was to help the young girls of the local village; our water dam will relieve them of the burden of daily treks to far-off watering holes, so they can return to school to pursue an education. But I’ve also come here to prove to everyone—including myself—that I’m not just some sheltered girl from Maine, that I can actually tough it out with the best of them. All evidence to the contrary.

We turn around a rocky bend, and I’m filled with hope that I can use the natural landmark as a makeshift latrine. But as we turn the corner, we see another parked car being held up by four men armed with machetes. Our driver slams the brakes. The men turn and see us, shout at us in Krio not to move, and start rushing toward us. I scream. Our driver throws the truck in reverse, desperately trying to outrun the men, who are now charging at us, waving machetes in the air. The old Land Cruiser lurches back and forth over potholes, barely making headway.

When the men get close enough to see the white in my eyes, our driver throws the truck back into forward, and charges at the men, so they have to jump off the road to avoid getting crushed. We fly down the road past the other stranded vehicle—a gut-wrenching decision with no easy answers.

A few miles off, when it’s clear we’re out of immediate danger, our driver pulls off the side of the road to let us catch our breath. A stream of police cars suddenly whizzes past us towards the scene of the crime, perhaps tipped off by someone else. Suddenly remembering, the driver turns to me and asks if I’d like to use that big road sign over there. I look down, then look away… mortified. My khaki shorts are soaked through. “Nah, I’m good,” I say, my voice trembling. Then I steel myself and this time I mean it: “I’m good.” We get our supplies. We finish the dam.

Back in the States, I sometimes still freak out over the big stress-du-jour. My confidence wavers, staggers, fizzles. But then I think back to my time in West Africa— to the water dam, to the girls who now go to school, to those men with machetes—and I think to myself: “Nah, I’m good.” And I mean it.