TRAVELS IN AFRICA: Cape to Cairo, 1960

At a time when few Americans had any consciousness of Africa, Donanne Ralston was living the life of an American diplomat’s daughter in South Africa.  Here’s her account of what that was like:

We were living in Port Elizabeth in the Union of South Africa, a busy Indian Ocean port on Algoa Bay.  My dad Don Ralston was the American Consul.  We had been in P.E. for almost two years, my mom Tommyanne (Tom) helping him succeed.

Now it seemed that everything was about to change. There was talk that my dad would be transferred, possibly to Johannesburg, possibly to the Foreign Service Inspection Corps in Washington.   The Nationalist Party government was about to take the country out of the British Commonwealth and proclaim it a republic.  The armed opposition to apartheid was just getting organized.

And I was about to be eighteen.

Before that happened, our family of three would travel the length of the continent, from Cape to Cairo and into Europe beyond.  We would go on the embassy’s military attaché plane as it flew to Europe for its periodic overhaul.  The aircraft was a C-47 (or DC-3 in civilian lingo) that sat on runways with its nose in the air and its tail close to the ground.  You entered near the back and walked uphill towards the cockpit.  We three and the captain’s wife were to be the only civilians on board.

Naturally, we were looking forward to this month-long adventure.  For a short while my dad would escape his official duties; in his absence the Vice Consul would mind the store.  My mom would have a change of pace from constant hostessing and helping good causes in the community.  And for a time I would leave the between-studies social whirl in which I found myself.   These sacrifices we were all willing to make!

The trip was to be a last vacation together before something momentous happened in my life. In a few short months I would leave for college in the States.   And the trip was a reward of sorts to each of us for doing our jobs well.

The consulate had various responsibilities.  It compiled reports on the local economy to aid US businesses in evaluating investment opportunities.   It acted as a resource for Americans abroad: issued passports and visas, registered births, witnessed marriages and even made itself available to settle disputes between US seamen and masters.  It tracked the coming and going of US ships. As the “official American presence,” my dad represented America: attended local functions, gave talks to businessmen’s organizations in towns throughout the Eastern Cape, did occasional reporting on local politics and reached out to resident Americans, of whom about 200 were locally employed by such companies as Ford, General Motors and Coca Cola.

The fifth largest city in the Union, Port Elizabeth welcomed almost 200,000 visitors a year.  Half arrived by land, half by sea.  They came to enjoy the wide white sand beaches or visit the Snake Park and that favorite of mine, Addo Elephant Park.  (There at sunset you could watch pygmy elephants come down the hill to eat oranges.  One of them had lost most of its trunk but managed deftly to lift the oranges by holding them between snout and foot.)  Other attractions included yachting, surfing, camping, game fishing and golfing at one of the numerous courses, complete with watching out for puff adders in the rough.  When the visitors were Americans – and there were about 500 a year – my dad’s job was to help them out of whatever difficulties in which they managed to entangle themselves.

My mother’s “job” was to be the Consulate’s official hostess, a task to which she brought delightful creativity.  She was a “can do” lady, a hostess-extraordinaire.  Three days after our arrival in P.E., for example, she gave her first official party.  “We had to cut short our landing in Cape Town,” she wrote home in a letter,  “and rush up to P.E.  Our dishes and silverware were unpacked on Tuesday and we fed fifty people Thursday for dinner for the inspectors [from the State Department].”  Of course it helped that the lovely, spacious two-story Cape Dutch consular residence at 49 Park Drive was furnished and awaiting our immediate occupancy.

Two Xhosas comprised Tom’s staff: Elsie who helped in the kitchen and Douglas who did the house cleaning and gardening.  In adjusting to a new set of local customs, Tom discovered that neither staff member would look at her when receiving instructions.  Nor would Elsie, when busy at the kitchen counter, turn toward her when my mom came in.  (It was a tradition in their society that to look your employer in the eye was to show a lack of respect.)

Running the house meant involvement in the staff member’s lives.  My folks returned one evening to discover that a boyfriend lurking about the poorly lit driveway had stabbed Elsie.  My mom rushed Elsie to the hospital, stayed with her in the emergency room and adjusted her work schedule, for a time assuming much of it herself.  One upshot of this event was that the State Department authorized the installation of lighting along the driveway.

Reveling in her work, Tom wrote home, “As you know we live a most normal everyday life except for the amount of entertaining.”  [A normal week usually included several gatherings: perhaps thirty guests at a morning coffee for members of local volunteer organizations, luncheon for visiting VIPs, and dinner often for three dozen.]  “Amazingly enough we had no guests all last week and went out to various and sundry cocktails and suppers and enjoyed ourselves very much. We have guests invited for this Thursday again – still an entirely new group – so we’re getting back into the routine.  We automatically serve Hawaiian Ham to everyone who is here for the first time.  Then I don’t have to keep track so much.”

Tom’s parties were famous.  Designed to help people become acquainted, they encouraged members of P.E.’s Afrikaner political structure to socialize happily with folks from the English-speaking opposition, people who probably never socialized except at US Consulate functions.  According to a local newspaper report, “competitions and pencil games were a feature of a party given by the newly appointed American Consul and Mrs. Ralston in their Park Drive home.  Before the buffet supper guests had to guess what was written on the cards pinned to their backs and then find their appropriate dinner partner — Marine and Drive, Algoa and Bay, for instance.”

Known too for her menus, Tom made excellent use of recipes acquired when we lived in India and Greece.  After dinner was The Game – forerunner of today’s Pictionary – a great equalizer and FUN-raiser.  Guests divided into two teams, one in the dining room, another in the living room.  In a race against time a member from each team would try to sketch what was on the slip of paper drawn from a hat filled with offerings from the other team.  (I recall such choices as Birth of a Nation and the Theory of Relativity.)  As soon as teammates guessed correctly, the “artist” raced to the entry hall to sit in an armchair.  Occasionally both contestants dashed for the chair at the same moment, adding to the merriment.

Tom always had everyone pose for group photos as a means of “bringing people together.”  Once there was no film in the camera.  She feigned taking the picture and because everyone was talking, no one knew the difference.  Tommy and Don also had a clever and unusual guest book.  Often I would be in charge of taking it around.  The columns were: name, address, place of birth, birth day (not year), favorite meat, favorite sweet, hobby.  All useful information for future gatherings!

On the Fourth of July my parents hosted an extravaganza for all resident Americans (with Canadians and the mayor and mayoress thrown in).  Held in several areas of our huge garden, the event included balloon races and croquet, badminton and three-legged races as well as hot dogs and baked beans with all the trimmings, an ice cream cart and a humungous plastic container (brand new trash can!) filled with popcorn.  And my dad played a festive tape recording of patriotic songs.

Besides helping out at parties (which I loved!) and subbing at my dad’s office (a good experience) when secretaries were away, I also had a job – though it was never presented to me in that way.  My job was to represent the family well and to be unofficially the town’s “official American teenager” (and the only full-time one).  A little unexpectedly I found myself a minor personality, occasionally mentioned in the papers.

When the headmistress admitted me as the first American to attend The Collegiate School for Girls, she warned that “politics and religion” were not discussed on campus.  This was fine with me.  I did not yet have political opinions.  We purchased the uniform: hat, clunky shoes, blazer, shirt, jumper (three inches above the knee when kneeling).  As I was getting on my bike one day after school my first week, the science teacher hollered at me.  And so I learned that hat-wearing was not optional.  When she realized I was “the American,” she softened.  We had a get-acquainted chat while I donned the hat and prepared to cycle off.

The Collegiate girls were very welcoming and I quickly made friends.  We began each day in the meeting room/gym.  There the headmistress spoke and led responsive readings in our psalm books followed by the Lord’s Prayer.  We passed quietly through the halls monitored by upper class prefects, sat at “old fashion” lidded desks with inkwells, stood quietly when the teachers entered, did a lot of memorizing and of course looked forward to holidays. The boarders went home and the day students enjoyed lovely parties where there were BOYS from Grey, our brother school:  beach parties and dances, braivleis barbecues and dances, house parties, garden parties and dances.  One favorite dance was the compelling “kwela” with its captivating pennywhistle accompaniment.   One wonderful night the African maids came out of the kitchen and danced with us!

For finishing touches after a year at Collegiate, I enrolled in a technical school, studying bookkeeping, shorthand and poetry.  Tom arranged for me to take “real” sewing lessons from an American friend and gave me opportunities to do some cooking.

That had been our life in South Africa.  Now it was May.  I had passed the Scholastic Aptitude Test sent from the States and after anxious waiting had been accepted to Principia, the college of my choice.  The Cape to Cairo trip would be a time for the three of us to be together before I left home.

So what was happening to Fred about this time?  He graduated from Principia College (to which Donanne was about to head off) in 1955, served two years in the army, first in Oklahoma, then at Ladd Air Force Base outside Fairbanks, Alaska.  His parents offered their children a three-month tour of Europe in autumn 1957 that included Gibraltar.  From there he looked across the straits at the mountains of Morocco, never dreaming that Africa would call him.  When Donanne was finishing her secondary education, Fred was working in Bell System public relations in both New York for Western Electric and in San Francisco for Pacific Telephone with an ever greater hankering to travel.

Next post: Donanne and her parents travel from the Cape of Good Hope to Cairo with stops in Nairobi, Khartoum, Wadi Halfa and Wheelus AFB, Libya.

TRAVELS IN AFRICA: Cape to Cairo, 1960, Part Two

At a time when few Americans had any consciousness of Africa, Donanne Ralston, then a teenaged diplomat’s daughter, took a trip from Cape to Cairo just before leaving for college.  Here’s her account:

I was about to be eighteen.

Before I started college, our family of three would travel the length of the continent, from Cape to Cairo and into Europe beyond.  We would go on the embassy’s military attaché plane as it flew to Europe for its periodic overhaul.  The aircraft was a C-47 (or DC-3 in civilian lingo) that sat on runways with its nose in the air and its tail close to the ground.  You entered near the back and walked uphill towards the cockpit.  We three and the captain’s wife were to be the only civilians on board.

Naturally, we were looking forward to this month-long adventure.  For a short while my dad would escape his official duties; in his absence the Vice Consul would mind the store.  My mom would have a change of pace from constant hostessing and helping good causes in the community.  And for a time I would leave the between-studies social whirl in which I found myself.   These sacrifices we were all willing to make!

The trip was to be a last vacation together before something momentous happened in my life. In a few short months I would leave for college in the States.   And the trip was a reward of sorts for each of us for doing our jobs well.

Now it was May.  I had passed the Scholastic Aptitude Test sent from the States and after anxious waiting had been accepted to Principia, the college of my choice.  The Cape to Cairo trip would be a time for the three of us to be together before I left home.

“Beginning to get excited now!  Taking too much fudge & English toffee & reading matter no doubt, but that’s part of the fun,” wrote my mom in her May 22nd letter to her folks in California.

We left from Johannesburg.  Our itinerary was a sort of aerial hopscotch through the English-speaking countries on Africa’s eastern side.  “[The C-47] has six seats and a nice couch so we can take turns resting. It has an electric quart [pot] we can warm up soup in so we’ll have acceptable lunches and breakfasts.”

My memories of the trip remain fresh.  In still colonial Nairobi acquaintances fetched us for dinner on the outskirts of town.  As we stepped out of the car, we were greeted by the family pet, Peter the cheetah!

I recall the softness of an African night in Entebbe, Uganda.  We stayed at a small hotel with open hallways on the shore of Lake Victoria.

My memory of Khartoum, Sudan?  Sand!  Sand everywhere!  We stayed in the attractive apartment of an embassy family on leave.  Sand came under the door; sand came under the windows.  When we dined alfresco on a rooftop, sand came in the bowls set out for soup.  In one graceful motion the waiters emptied them of sand, then ladled in the soup.

At Wadi Halfa on the Nile just south of the Sudan’s border with Egypt, several robed mechanics greeted the plane when we landed to refuel.  They carried jerrycans and wheeled onto the tarmac a storage tank of petrol.   Forming a line, they filled a jerrycan from the tank, passed the can from hand to hand and eventually lifted it to one of their number standing on the wing.  He poured the contents into the plane’s fuel tank.   They repeated this procedure until the tank was full.

For a week we flew the first half of each day, then landed and explored.  In the north, over-flying deserts, we departed as early as 3:30 a.m. to avoid convection currents in the heat of the day.

“… had a lovely smooth flight out of Khartoum after a day of bumps yesterday,” Tom wrote.  A good thing we were well supplied with fudge and English toffee to encourage the crew for, “the pilots say it’s a real physical output to hold this dear old 145 mph plane on course when we have few checkpoints and can go no higher than 13,000 feet.”

From Cairo my mom wrote to her sister: “Got carried away at the Muski [bazaar] buying silky looking Egyptian cottons, so guess you’ll have some interesting skirt material for Christmas.  The rooms here are lovely and air-conditioned.  Can see the pyramids over the Nile as I sit here.  Donanne got a cute camel in the bazaar about 20” high made of really soft, baby camel fur to take along to college.”  [I had the camel doll for 35 years!]  “She just got back from seeing the mummies at the museum.”

At Wheelus AFB, Libya, I remember the roar of planes taking off in the night with their afterburners kicking in.   The weather was warm.  In the officer’s mess we enjoyed a real American meal; the best thing of all was ice-cold apple juice!

We spent two weeks in Europe.  In a Paris restaurant I made my folks proud; my French conversation lessons paid off enough for me to order a meal.   We actually got what we hoped I’d ordered.  Then we and the plane headed south again.

We three Ralstons had always traveled well together and this trip was no exception.  When I was nine, half my lifetime ago, we’d struck out for two years in India.  Now, nine years and several countries later, I was about to head for college in the States, about to start a whole new chapter.

In what must be a tribute to this dear pair, I left the nest without a backward glance.  I knew they would always be there for me.  They knew when and how to let me go.  In a letter to my grandparents I confided, “Am very happy about Principia.  Will be sorry to leave South Africa, but then I’m always that way.”

As it happened, my folks made only one visit to the college – in late autumn of my freshman year.  My dad was then about to start his assignment with the inspection corps.  But our travel tradition continued.  One summer found us together in South America where my dad was inspecting embassies and consulates.  And the summer of my graduation I spent with them in their home in Cambodia.  But the trip from Cape to Cairo was one of our best adventures together.

And what was Fred doing at this time?  Working as a writer for Pacific Telephone Magazine in San Francisco during the day while spending most of his off-duty time prepping for the USIS section of the Foreign Service exam.  Part of the prep involved carefully reading each day’s copy of a newspaper with thorough and reliable international coverage, The Christian Science Monitor.  He took the written exam in Los Angeles and the oral in an old post office building in San Francisco (the worn status of which caused one of the examiners to ask, “Doesn’t this make you want to work for the government?”).  Having passed the tests, he was put on a list of prospective officers and wondered if he’d ever be invited to join the service.

Next post:  Fred takes a first visit to Coquilhatville in the Congo, a tiny toehold of civilization on the Congo River, where he’s assigned to establish an American Cultural Center.

For Donanne’s first post in this two-post series, please go to Archive.

TRAVELS IN AFRICA, Port Elizabeth, South Africa, 1959

Before sending Fred off to the remote Equateur, TIA will break chronology and offer bits from sixteen-year-old Donanne’s reports to her grandparents on her adventures in Port Elizabeth and her travels outside it. Donanne’s father Don Ralston was stationed there as the American Consul.

March 1, 1959

Dear Californians,

Am very pleased to have been invited to join the school swimming team so must practice every day for the upcoming gala over at the huge park pool.

I joined the Teenage Cultural Guild which meets every other Saturday and includes play readings, music appreciation and lectures of an educational sort. Quite a few of the area’s schools are represented. In September the Guild had a tea – we wore hats and gloves – where we presented to the Mayor a check for 100 pounds raised from a play we put on.

Our debate was fun: “Going steady is a disadvantage for a girl.” [Full disclosure: I went steady for about five months before leaving for South Africa. My friend kept after me and I finally agreed after he said I could keep the five dates I had already made with other guys, one to a ball at Annapolis, the others to senior proms.] For the debate I spoke in the affirmative. The other side brought up some reasonable arguments but for once I couldn’t agree. They said: ‘twas security, but I said: That comes from home during the teen years. They said: It’s nice to have a confidant. I argued: But a mother is a girl’s best friend AND confidant. And variety in dating makes for more responsible and well-rounded citizens. And so, we won 20-9, but I very sincerely doubt that we swayed anyone.

My school chums are getting excited about [Easter] vacation. One of the boarders invited me up to her sheep farm about 150 miles away during “the hols” [holidays], but as we are going hiking in the mountains at Hogsback, will have to take a raincheck. I’ll also be catching up on college reading and studying my French.

Well, here we are back from Hogsback where we stayed in a super cabin 6,000 feet up with indoor plumbing and a fine view and waterfalls all around. It reminded me a tiny bit of the Sierras. I got rather a lot of flea bites, but that didn’t stop me from exploring the forests with the other American family that joined us. On the way to our vacation spot Daddy made an official visit to Fort Hare, a college for non-whites.

Donanne, ready for travel, outside the Consul's house

June 21, 1959 (winter in South Africa)

Hi! Last night’s dance was super. I wore my red lace dress with red crinoline, red shoes, and red ribbon in my hair around a small bun. Since Friday was the last day of school, many of the university students are back from Grahamstown for a month’s winter holiday and a few were there last night. Consequently I danced nine dances with boys other than my date, which was unusual, but I was very pleased.

I’m sure mommy has told you of our new 19 yr. old church organist. Abie is sweet and very serious. Last Wednesday at church he was playing one of (or rather practising) Bach’s fugues and I told him that I liked Bach, so he said he’d play it during collection on Sunday night and hoped I’d come. It didn’t work out for tonight, so I went this morning instead of going to Sunday School and he played it. Afterwards he told me he had decided not to play it at the morning service, but changed his mind when I walked in. It was a really lovely piece containing lots of runs, etc. and I thought it was very nice of him.

Tuesday, June 30, 1959

We have just returned from a wonderful 5-day jaunt into the nearby countryside and down the coast.

Our first stop was Plettenburg Bay, about 80 miles west from P.E. It is a beautiful spot, and we stayed at the hotel on Beacon Island with a view of the mountains in the pinky-gray sunset, surrounded by blue sea splashing against sharp rocks. As we watched, some men fishing from the rocks caught three rather good-sized fish in 15 minutes.

The next day, on to George and the lovely hotel set in formal gardens just outside of town, with two gorgeous peacocks strutting around. We had heard of the Shoe Box in this town from a friend, so natch, we went. I got the only shoes that fit me – one pair navy with an attractive slit down the side, the other beige – both quite the highest heels (stiletto) and very cute. It’s the first time in my life I’ve been able to get such good-looking shoes. Mommy got two pairs, too. Daddy got the car greased.

The next night was at Oudtshoorn, the town famous for its ostriches and the Cango Caves. These caverns are supposedly among the largest and most spectacular in the world. They were huge all right! We had a cute guide who spoke in both Afrikaans and English. There were some mighty big rooms (caverns) and tons of ups and downs. At the end of the main explored part is “the chimney” lying down, but you have to climb a steep ladder to get to the entrance hole, then it’s about 30 feet on your stomach (obviously no turning around) until you get into the Ice Palace, then on into the Devil’s Cavern, THEN turn around and slither out!! We three didn’t go. I would have, except I was (like a goon) wearing a dress. I did climb to the top of the ladder and look in, though, and man, what a place! The guide said that sometimes he and a couple of other boys take flashlites and a bit of food and go exploring from 7:00 p.m. to 3:00 a.m. since vast portions have still not been explored.

The next day was the ostrich farm. It was fascinating. Did you know that they live about 60 years, that they lay between 13-15 eggs each time, that the papa does the babysitting, that they take 42 days to hatch at a temperature of 98 degrees, that the shell is 1/8 inch thick and a 200 lb. man can stand on it without even scratching it, that the birds weigh between 200 and 300 lbs., that when an ostrich is mad you don’t have a fair chance because with one blow of his sharp toenail he can slit you from your guzzle to your zatch, that they have eyes that can see the full 360 degrees without budging, that the eyelashes are lovely, and that they are truly adorable creatures, and are not about to harm you unless of course you anger them? I sat on one but didn’t ride as there’s a special knack to falling off – or else! It was really loads of fun. Wish you could have been along!

Next post: Fred gets a taste of the Equateur, the region to which he’s being sent to open an American Cultural Center in Coquilhatville.

TRAVELS IN AFRICA: Donanne leaves for college

Port Elizabeth, South Africa, August, 1960

Goodbye, Port Elizabeth! I was off to college and the day of my departure from South Africa finally arrived! A sturdy steamer trunk was filled with most of what I’d need for school, including outfits I’d sewn from Vogue patterns, some out of Egyptian cotton purchased on the Cape to Cairo expedition I’d made several months earlier with my Foreign Service parents. Certain necessities, like a clock radio, boots, mittens and scarves I would shop for on arrival in the States. A handsome new four-piece red plaid luggage set – with matching hatbox[!] – stood waiting on the front stoep. A “secret admirer’s” fragrant corsage was pinned to the lapel of my fashionable new wool suit. (August was late winter in South Africa.)

Peter and George with whom I’d spent many delightful hours walking on the beach, keeping track of Her Majesty’s frigates and submarines in port, had said their goodbyes. Tessa and Tiki, my two ballet dancer chums from school, had promised we’d reunite in London; they hoped to train for the Royal Ballet there. Deirdre, niece of the charming Austrian countess, had had me to tea in the sweet-smelling garden of their country home one last time. Suzie had gifted me a very small bear. It reminded us of the time homesick crewmembers from a Soviet ship had bought out P.E.’s entire supply of bears. And lastly Elsie the cook who’d been trained by Tommy to prepare a different hot breakfast each weekday, and cheerful Douglas who took care of house and garden chores, had said “totsiens“.

So, we three Ralstons flew off to Johannesburg where we’d spend a night before I headed to the States. In fact, we stayed an extra day because Pan Am’s four-engine Constellation was delayed. Somewhere en route an African walked across the runway as the plane taxied to take-off. An inquest would be held. A different aircraft finally arrived in South Africa.

I was looking forward to a treat. My folks had generously upgraded my ticket to include an overhead berth for the long multi-stop passage. My flight was finally called. I thanked Tommy and Don for being wonderful parents. Off I went to conquer, if not the world, at least four years of a liberal arts education.

Only years later did I learn that my smiling mom held back tears until after I’d ascended the stairs, waved, and disappeared inside the plane. I didn’t feel sad. I had a whole new experience to contemplate, and I was ready. For Foreign Service people moving on was normal, the pattern of our lives, though always before we had moved on together. My folks’ example was to expect good wherever we lived and to embrace change. We knew then that I’d see my parents shortly. They would return soon to the States for home leave before my dad was assigned either to Johannesburg at the ambassador’s request or to the State Department’s Inspection Corps.

At cruising altitude, after serving a tasty dinner, the flight crew prepared the overhead berths. I climbed eagerly into mine. But there was no good night’s sleep for me. Before leaving Africa, we landed every few hours – Léopoldville; Lagos; Roberts Field, Liberia; Dakar – and the ups and downs interfered with my sleep. Finally when we took off over the Atlantic, it was daylight. The berths were stashed away, and I curled up with a book.

Perhaps I also thought back to our safari in Kruger National Park. That was where a buffalo stampede shook the ground behind us; where Jeremy the teenager whose family’d spent twelve vacations there taught me how to identify lions at night with my nose! (They smelled like potato chips. Or was it French fries?) On that same trip we’d travelled on Kipling’s “great, grey-green, greasy Limpopo River” into Portuguese East Africa. There we witnessed a bullfight where the bull was allowed to survive. Then surely I dosed off.

At LaGuardia airport I had to phone a Canadian relative. I handed the cheery woman at the telephone/telegraph counter a $10 bill. She heard the flat tones of my South African accent, that my friend James (a goateed intellectual who came many Sunday afternoons for long discussions on our sun porch) had urged me to record. He said I would lose the accent in America (which I quickly did). The attendant placed coins before me. “We call this a nickel,” she informed me. “This is a dime.” I did not have the heart to tell her I was an American.

The “steady” I’d left behind in Maryland two years before was waiting at the airport. He drove me to his sister’s home. There I caught up on my sleep before we headed down the coast the next morning. Stopping for petrol [as I would have said] I was momentarily surprised that the black man who pumped the gas spoke not Afrikaans, but English – and with an American accent.

Back in Bethesda after a few days of seeing pals and shopping for boots and a thoroughly modern clock radio, my best friend Sue and I set off by train to Principia College in Illinois, she a sophomore, and I, a bit of a curiosity as the in-coming freshman from Africa. Some were disappointed to find that although from Africa, I was not an African.

My college career began with an academic bridge to my recent past. In Government 101 we were to prepare a report on our hometown city hall. I plunged into learning much more than I had known about official Port Elizabeth, not a simple pre-internet task. Fortunately, the parental pair I’d left behind arrived on campus just in time to assist me in the paper’s finishing touches. As it turned out, this was their only visit to the campus during my four years. It couldn’t have been more opportunely timed. My college career was successfully launched and for the time being Africa was in my past.