Sometimes when I went into town from my school to the Peace Corps office, I would stay the night at the Peace Corps hostel 9km outside of town, across from the training camp. Other times I would stay at the Technical college, which was just up a long hill from the center of town. There were advantages to each place.

The hostel was right next to a small river, in a beautiful pastoral setting. It had a big room with bunk beds, and a kitchen, and best of all, it had a bathtub. And a water heater. The tub was an old cast iron thing with feet, and it was deep and capacious. I could submerge myself up to my ears in clean hot water, soaking off the ingrained dirt from the trip, and reflect on the luxury of not having to stand in a small wash basin, and splash myself with muddy water hauled in a 25 liter jug on my head, from the river 7km down the road, like I had to do at my school. I could cook on an actual stove, with multiple burners, where I could boil water for spaghetti on one burner, while at the same time, make a pot of sauce on another burner, and they would both come out hot at the same time. The amazing miracles of civilization.

The Technical college was closer, I could just walk there from the office. It was run by a volunteer, and I could take my saws and chisels from my classroom, and sharpen them on the machines there. And buy supplies for my woodworking program. I had to sleep on the floor, but it was no harder than my bed at school. And there were always volunteers visiting there.

One weekend I had decided to stay at the technical college, and had hauled my pack, fully laden and heavy with 30 chisels, and 10 tenon saws, my usual stack of papers to be graded, and groceries I had bought at the market to put together dinner with whoever else showed up. I had settled in for a long day’s work running the sharpening machines and grading. The volunteer who ran the tools and supplies center at the college had told me that there was a beehive in his soffit, and later he wanted to use a smoker to calm the bees, and harvest part of the honeycomb. I had never seen that done, and told him that I would help.

That afternoon another volunteer showed up to stay there, and like all volunteers from remote sites, she had brought her dirty clothes in to wash in clean water. She washed, and I sharpened, and when she was done, she said, “I am going out back to hang my clothes to dry.” There was a clothesline behind the center. I kept sharpening for about 10 minutes, and it occurred to me that the beehive was in the soffit near the clothesline, and that I should go warn her about the bees. I walked out the front door, and behind the center, and as I turned the corner, I saw her laying on the ground, gasping.

I ran over to her and knelt down. She was trying to talk. “Bees. Pack. Kit.” she said. “Kit. Bees. In my pack.” She was having a hard time breathing. I realized that she had been stung by the bees, and wanted a kit from her pack. I ran inside, and grabbed her pack, and dumped it on the floor, and among her things, I saw an epi pen, so I grabbed it and ran back outside. She was red in the face, and barely able to take a breath in. I had never used an epi pen before, but I tore the cover off, and exposed the needle, and tried to gently push it into the side of her thigh. I hate to hurt people, and was just trying to get it to penetrate the skin. It wouldn’t go in. As I pushed, the skin just dimpled under the needle. Her breathing was getting really weak, and I was freaking out. I got mad at the needle, and pulled back, and just stabbed it into her thigh. The mechanism released, and shot the epinephrine into her thigh. I pulled the needle out, and looked at her face to see if I should do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation or something. I am not allergic to bee stings, and have been stung many times, so I didn’t know what to expect. Fortunately, pretty quick her breathing seemed to ease a bit, and I calmed down and looked around. A red dress was laying on the ground near her, and I realized that she had taken it out of the wash basket, and flapped it up and down preparatory to hanging it on the line, and the bees had seen it, and come down and stung her.

I picked her up and carried her inside. She was breathing normally, mostly, by then, and showing signs of becoming more animated. I sat and held her hand until she finally said, “I am ok. Thanks Sam.” And I went back outside, and picked up her dress and hung it on the line, and hung the rest of her wash while I was at it. Girl clothing is more complicated to hang on a line than boy clothing.

I went back inside, and the volunteer who ran the center had fixed her a cup of tea, and she was wrapped in a blanket, sitting up, drinking the tea. She smiled at me, and said, “Thanks for saving my life Sam.”

“My pleasure,” I said, “but don’t expect me to marry you.”

“Oh God, never that.” she said.

Later the volunteer and I went out, and put up a ladder, and he used a smoker to smoke the bees until they were flying around as if drunk, and we pried the soffit open, and harvested a big clump of honey dripping honeycomb. It was fascinating. For dinner that night, we made biscuits, and ate them slathered with fresh honey. Yum yum!

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