07 September 2003Books
Souvenirs de Nancy

Souvenirs de Nancy
I'm fascinated by the lives led by other Peace Corps volunteers around the world. I scour the Internet, reading web logs, journals and all sorts of info about PCVs. I've read most of the stories in the officially published Peace Corps books, like, "The Great Adventure", but they are all some damn positive, they don't seem real.

When I came across Souvenirs de Nancy in the PC bookcase, I knew immediately I found a little gem of a book. It's a very sad story about a volunteer, Nancy Coutu who was raped and murdered in Madagascar the mid 1990s. The book contains both entries from her journal and letters that she wrote home to friends, family and her World Wise Schools Class.

It almost feels voyeuristic to read through the personal thoughts of a deceased Peace Corps volunteer. If it were me, I don't think I'd want anyone combing through my journals after my death. But the writing is so insightful and Nancy is so full of life that you almost forget the tragedy that is waiting for you at the book's end and instead you are carried along on her journey of discovery about herself and the culture of her small village in Madagascar.

Nancy's experience is both so similar and incredibly foreign. All Peace Corps volunteers around the world share a few common experiences despite the incredible range of countries where they live and work the perform. All suffered through the application. All were probably surprised at the opulence of the hotel chosen for the Staging event that takes place in the 2 to 3 days before departare. All go through training in country in language and cuture. All cope with the coming and going of other volunteers. All get dropped off at their site and start to fend for themselves and make a new life.

Nancy's life in Madagascar is so diametrically opposed to mine. No electricity. No runnung water. No amenities at all. Very distant from the closest town. Her village is even

"I'm helping the village where I live in with stuff like rebuilding the school and hospital that got hit by cylcones last year, and planting trees and vegetables. The village is called Bereketa, which means "Big Cactus", and it's 47km from the nearest town, which I bike to every other week for flour and sugar and to see other volunteers. (The bike ride takes about 5 hours, s the road is all dirt.) There is no electricity or running water in the village and the houses are mud huts with thatched roofs. Mine is an extravagant three-room hut, which is actually huge here. We go down to the river to get water, and see at night with kerosene lamps. We grow rice and vegetables by the river for our food. This is my life for two years. No English spoken here whatsoever." (November 10, 1995)

Posted by andrew at September 7, 2003 05:55 AM


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