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I lived in an African village, though not in the prototypical mud hut, as did some of my fellow PCVs. I inhabited a functionary's home, with concrete, not dirt floors, and a prestigious tin roof. I taught high school in the same overcrowded classrooms using the same limited materials, teaching the same insane number of hours as my Central African colleagues, but I never really got to know them beyond a handshake an a polyglot greeting.

Instead of collaborating with them about teaching methodologies and appropriate technology, I spent my time trying to grade and record the hundreds of pages of bad English that always seemed to be piled around my house a reminder of all that I still had to do. I was always the visiting foreigner treated politely, representing something that I didn't understand. I was the stranger kept at arm's length, allowed to teach class and live in the village. I was regarded as a rich, young American whose time was limited, but whose gullibility was without parameters.

My attitude upon arriving in the CAR was one of nave arrogance. I came with outstretched arms, saying: "Here I am! I am young. I'm educated. I want to help."

The Africans, more sophisticated than I expected, answered: "Give me your watch."

"But I came to live and work with you," I protested, unstrapping my Timex. "I am here because I care."

"Then why don't you spend your life with us?" They asked. "Two years is a very small piece of time." They were right, of course.

Even after living in my community for a year, I would attract stares whenever I walked to the market to buy supplies, stepped into a bar to drink a warm beer, or otherwise left the sanctity of my teacher's quarters on lycee grounds. Little children would follow me down the dirt roads pointing, laughing and singing, "Munju, Munju" the Sango world for white man.

Beggars and lepers came to my door, eyes averted, pink stubs pleading for a spare pata' the CAR's smallest coin. Houseboys and vendors came seeking more than the going rate (which still amounted to very little); villagers and students stepped out of my way to let me pass, and just about everyone called me patron' or French for boss.

By the time I had learned the language, and had begun to understand the culture well enough to become effective at my job, it was time to return home. The overly optimistic expectations and the inevitable sense of subsequent frustration that made my stint go slowly would also make my readjustment to American society

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