Bernard and I relaxing on his couch after a hectic day in the office.Personal identity is a curious thing. To get to the very crux of the matter, I suppose I should ask myself, “What do I identify with on a personal level?”—It’s a tough question.
Both conscious and unconscious, my identity has been one winding highway, with myriad coincidences, circumstances, and coffee breaks along the way. Books, people, places… everything, for better or worse, affects me at least a little bit.
Some forces lure me in more than others. Take South Dakota for example. People oft-times mistake my affection for Dakota as hyperbole, as if I will suddenly break character and bust a gut laughing. But I carry on, unwavering against all opposition depicting rocky Colorado or fair California with an air of superiority.
Living out of state (and out of country), I’ve had to scrap and claw to have
friend’s surrender that South Dakota is no sham: It really does have all the Great Faces and Great Places it claims. Naturally, the further I venture, the less likely friends will possess a sound knowledge of South Dakota. Togo is a long ways from home.
With fellow volunteers however, expectations soar. Lamentably, they often are dashed with the confirmation of a misinformed, uneducated population concerning Dakota. Over the past century, some malign infection has spread throughout the intercontinental U.S., causing a chronic illness whose symptoms include, but are not limited to, asking if the Black Hills are in North or South Dakota. Go ahead and unleash the “Yo Mama…” jokes if you’re hurling such insults.
Of course, some leniency is granted to Togolese. Chances are if a person has finished high school, he vaguely remembers his American Geography (much like I vaguely remember sophomore World Geography) and affirms learning of Dakota, pronounced with a staccato on each syllable, “Da-Ko-Ta.” Can I really put the bar at the same level for Togolese as my fellow countrymen? If you answered yes to this question, tell me the five (not fifty) regions of Togo and you are free to pass. Personally, I believe it’s irrational to adhere to such thoughts.
Enter Bernard Hien. Katrina and I met Bernard in Dapaong while meeting a government official, originally from our area but now posted in Lome. He had brought several associates along for an Arbor Day Celebration. One such individual, a United Nations official from Burkina Faso, spoke English.
“Ahh…Where are you from?
“Oh…we’re from America.”
“Yes…I know, but what state are you from?”
“Da-ko-ta. South Da-ko-ta.”
A small pause ensued. His brow crinkled in disbelief.
“You’ve got to be kidding me man!”
“Huh?”
“I went to school in South Dakota!”
“Huh?”
“Yeah man, I went to school in Brookings!”
At this point, my lips protruded and my brow crinkled (also in disbelief). My eyes were suspecting. This, the same Brookings of Nick’s Hamburgers, Wal-Mart, and the Jack Rabbits? Seemed suspicious. After thirty seconds, it was clear this man bore the truth.
Needless to say, we formed a bond. Irresistible forces pulled us together. His orientation with Dakota was impeccable. I often wished I could offer him pheasant stew or fresh sweet corn (bought from a pick-up trailer) as a sign of gratitude. During our few months of friendship, ironically, it has been Bernard—not me—who has raised the bar.
The first such instance occurred when I began my normal decree on the greatness of the World’s Only Corn Palace.
“Oh yeah man, I saw Jeffrey Sachs there.” Mr. Sachs, the world renowned economist who has dedicated his career to closing the gap between the winners and losers of global capitalism.
What have I seen at the Corn Palace apart from 1992 AAU state wrestling tournament ages 6-12? Bernard 1, Trace 0.
The second instance occurred when discussing an Ethiopian restaurant in Sioux Falls. I couldn’t remember its location. He informed me it was on Benson Ave.
In little time, this familiarity has become commonplace, although, admittedly, my gaiety when hearing such accounts, has yet to cease. There is one story, which I will proceed to detail, that is above and beyond the rest. Everyone has their “small world” story. Well, this is mine. I neither want nor expect to find another.
The evening started at an outdoor restaurant. I must say, I was a bit surprised rolling up to the joint. Seemed a little run-down for a man working at the United Nations, but he assured us they had the best guinea foul in town (guinea foul is the only animal that was first domesticated in Africa before being exported elsewhere. I’d say it has the appearance of a turkey, the size of a chicken, and a squawk more damning to the ears than both). As I first sunk my teeth into the delectable thigh, I knew Bernard’s decision was indeed calculated. He knew this place would resonate with two Dakotans. Bernard is keen like that.
We enjoyed our guinea foul and cold beers on that lazy, summer barbeque evening. It was all so familiar, so comfortable. I half-expected to hear the twang of Hank Williams begin on a jukebox. The night drifted on pleasantly.
Somewhere along the line, we got to talking about differential treatment towards us here in Togo. Katrina then questioned if he ever encountered similar circumstances while in Dakota. He scoffed.
“Are you kidding man?”
So maybe Dakotans aren’t a perfect batch.
“Yeah man, when I was in the Badlands doing my thesis, I tried renting an apartment in Wall—”
“Hold the phone. You were in the Badlands doing your thesis?”
“Yeah man, I study the bobcats. I go around, you know, I…I shoot them with the tranquilizer darts. Record their weights. Track their paths…”
I shot Kat a grin. A sparkle of merriment shone in her eye.
“…Me? I caught eleven all by myself. A year later, my professor in Brookings does the same thing, but this time with a partner. You know how many they caught? Six. Ha!
Anyway, yeah, I tried renting an apartment in Wall, you know, home to Wall Drug. I call on the phone and they say, ‘Where you from?’ They hear the accent, you know? Hoo!
I tell them I am a university student. They don’t believe me. So you know what I had to do? I rented a hotel room at the Comfort Inn for two and a half months. Ug man!”
We expressed our sympathies. As luck would have it, Katrina also had a humorous account concerning Wall and strangers. She shared the ditty.
First, a side note on Wall Drug. Wall Drug is both a blessing and a curse. It is found in western South Dakota, just north of Badlands National Park along Interstate 90. During the Great Depression, Ted Hustead and his wife Dorothy decided to vigorously advertise free ice water to parched travelers passing through. Noting an increase in customers, they moved to five cent coffee. Then an ice creamery. Tourists soon took delight in the somewhat ludicrous campaign and began posting signs themselves.
If you ever travel to the South Pole, you might find this “Wall Drug: 9333 miles. Free Ice Water”. True story, the billboards are everywhere. Nowadays, Wall Drug has grown into a beast, one as wild as the buffalo that once tromped its prairies. In peak tourist season, it dispenses 40,000 cups of complementary ice water each day. Tourists flock from all over the world to see firsthand this supposed treasure.
The sobering truth, however, is that Wall has no qualities that set it apart from the rest of western South Dakota. Wall Drug, quite literally, is no more than a string of gift shops representing imaginary glory. But moving on.
Her parents, Tim and Kay, a few years back were making the trek across Dakota and stopped in for lunch. Two waitresses, however, were quite noticeably out of place. Tim, never one to shy away from small talk, made a few inquiries. Their account is as follows.
They were Russian. As best friends, the idea of traveling to the land of liberty for a summer took hold in their bosoms. When looking for jobs on the internet, they found the “World Famous Wall Drug”. Maybe they had seen a sign near St. Petersburg, “Almost there! Only 3980 miles to Wall Drug!” They were hired as waitresses at the local diner.
Needless to say, there was an obvious disconnect between the Wall they anticipated and the Wall that awaited them. At least, I would have to assume, given New York and Miami were their first choices. While Kat and I pondered if the Russian gals had had a tough time being outsiders, Bernard offered his analysis.
“Oh yeah, the Russian waitresses, yeah, yeah yeah, I knew them. Great girls! Yeah, they were disappointed at first. But you know what? They made a lot of money during the summer. They traveled for the last month. They actually came back the next summer and did the same thing. Hoo!”
As I said, everyone has their small world story. This is mine. Eating guinea foul in Lome with a Burkinabe while being filled in on the whereabouts of two Russian waitresses who worked at a diner in Wall, South Dakota.
For a guy who enjoys a good Dakota discourse now and again, pulling my weight has never posed a problem. But this is it, the fat lady has song. I’m in a bout in which I can’t possibly hope to triumph. Not against this oracle of all things Dakota.
