Summer Magic

I was slumped up against several tons of luggage piled high in black military duffels like so many body bags testifying, the result of some great catastrophe. It was my second time to London in as many summers, and if I’d had known it would be my last for at least eight years I probably would have been out enjoying the experience. As it was, however, I had spent the lion’s share of my time in London this time around loading, unloading and transporting the several tons of luggage two teams of 20 people required for almost three months in Africa. Needing to rest my jet lagged legs, I crumpled down next to the wall of rough textured Teen Missions International duffels to be refreshed by the company of one Maryka Lier. A red-haired befreckled girl from Andover, Mass, she was everything one would hope a red-haired befreckled girl from Andover, Mass could be. I assume she read Dickens, listened to Radiohead and ate stew at least once a month during the winter months while somehow managing to make loose-knit sweaters fashionable. Expertly tight-roping the razor of wit and cruelty with an encyclopedic knowledge of movie quotes, Maryka had been delightful company for the first two weeks of our acquaintance and would prove to be increasingly excellent as our stint in Madagascar unfolded.

There had been some discussion about how to pronounce Maryka’s name before she had made her way from comfortable suburban Andover deep into the Florida jungle to join the rest of Teen Missions International Team 99007 to Mahajanga, MADACASCAR for our two week training course near Cape Canaveral. Armed with now-battered rosters with small grey-scale photos, the few early assemblers ventured guesses. “Mary Kay, definitely,” started Sarah, seated on a ten gallon laundry detergent bucket. “Mareeka?” ventured Grace. “I betcha it’s something like ‘Charles,’” I responded, lounging in a wheelbarrow. When Maryka showed up, she had set us all strait: It was pronounced ‘muh – `rahy – kuh.’ That afternoon in London, another guy from another place took a crack at it. I don’t remember his name; he was on the other team traveling with us from Orlando to Johannesburg. They were heading to Zimbabwe to ride dirt bikes for Jesus in black leather jackets; we were headed for Mahajanga to build a school in purple hardhats. Like I said, I have no clue what his name was now, but we’ll call him ‘Rosco.’ It seems to fit with my recollection of the man.

A rangy, bow-legged kid from Anywhere, Georgia, Rosco was just Maryka’s type. “Howdy,” he drawled out impossibly long as he almost gracefully splayed his legs out in front of himself, dropped down next to Maryka and cocked his camouflage John Deer hat back on his head.

“Hey,” she responded, raising her eyebrows in a passable imitation of interest.

“What’s yer name?” he continued, seemingly unperturbed by the general lack of reciprocity so far in the conversation.

“My name?” she said, and I could feel her skating the razor’s edge. She chose grace. “My name’s Maryka. What’s yours?”

“Oh, I’m jus’ Rosco,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Muh r-eye kuh,” he strung each drawled syllable out to its extremity, a kid with their first piece of salt water taffy. “Say, Muh-reye-kuh . . . yer red hair sure is perty.” This just keeps getting better I thought to myself as Maryka swallowed a snigger in my direction. “It reminds me of that Anne of Green Gables girl, ya know?”

“Oh,” said Maryka, and pursed her lips ever so slightly. “Thanks, Rosco.”

And then the three of us just sat there in awkward silence for what seemed like hours until Maryka got up and muttered something about how nice it was to make Rosco’s acquaintance and how she was sure they’d run into each other soon. Things continued on like that on our team for another three or four weeks; awkward approaches at flirting, coy ripostes and the gamut of stereotypical teenage intersexual transactions until something magical happened under the Mahajanga mango groves. For the first time in my life, for about six weeks, I stopped seeing people and started experiencing people. Mike and Simon and Tom became as beautiful to me as Bronwyn, Brandt and Debbie. There was no male, nor female. We were all Greeks and one another's slaves. It didn’t last for long, and it didn’t happen for everyone, but it happened for me and at 17 years of age it was a mystical experience to commune with the selves and not the personas.