by Mani Skaria, PhD

In 1984, I had just completed my Ph.D. in Plant Pathology from Purdue University. A few weeks later, I found myself stepping off a plane in the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan—an ancient land under the wise and steady rule of His Majesty King Hussein. I had been selected as part of a USAID expert team, placed there through a U.S. State Department contract with Washington State University. Our mission: to support the Jordan Valley Agricultural Services Project.

I was young, full of energy, and freshly armed with academic knowledge. My specific responsibility was citrus improvement, and I was stationed at the Derela Agricultural Station in the Jordan Valley, a facility under the Jordanian Ministry of Agriculture. Although housed within the Ministry, we American scientists reported strictly to the USAID Chief of Party and the Washington State University project team.

Then, one day, everything changed with a single note.

The Minister of Agriculture had sent word—he wanted my help investigating a national problem. Jordan had imported seed potatoes from the Netherlands, a country known for its clean seed programs. But farmers who planted early began reporting that the seed tubers were rotting in the soil. The smell was foul, and the losses were extensive. The Minister, seeing “Plant Pathologist, USAID, America” next to my name, assumed I had the answers.

But I didn’t. I was not trained in potato diseases. And I was afraid—afraid of failing, of making a wrong call, of being blamed for something I didn’t understand. It wasn’t in my job description. I considered politely declining.

I even cracked a nervous joke, saying to my Jordanian colleagues, “The only thing I know about potatoes is eating French fries.” That remark was delivered to the Minister, who wasn’t amused. Through a translated message, he responded with words I will never forget:

“This is a kingdom. When a minister asks you to do something, you do it.”

That was a humbling moment. I quickly replied, “Yes, sir. On the double.”

Reluctantly, but with growing curiosity, I started asking simple questions.

I didn’t have access to high-end labs or advanced diagnostics for bacterial diseases like Erwinia, known to cause soft rot. I wasn’t a bacteriologist. But I did what I could with what I had. I obtained potato samples from different locations and shipments. I used my eyes, hands, nose, and blade. I looked at the surface, smelled the tubers, felt their firmness, and cut them open. Nothing looked abnormal. There were no signs of rot in the unplanted seed.

I tried culturing bacteria on media, but I didn’t get meaningful results. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have been able to properly identify what I was seeing without expert support from back home.

So I changed my approach. I stopped thinking like a plant pathologist trying to diagnose a textbook disease. I started thinking like a curious learner.

I asked:
When did the seed arrive?
Where was it stored?
When were the potatoes planted?
Who had the problem—and who didn’t?

That last question changed everything.

I discovered that only the farmers who planted very early—before the recommended planting window—had experienced the rotting. Those who planted later, following conventional wisdom, had zero issues. None. The correlation was striking.

I began studying the environmental conditions. The Jordan Valley sits well below sea level and can reach scorching temperatures—up to 45°C (113°F). But soil temperatures can go even higher. What I realized is that some of the early-planted tubers hadn’t rotted from infection. They had cooked in the soil. Essentially, we had “baked potatoes” underground. And as they decayed, they emitted the characteristic stench of soft rot.

It wasn’t a disease problem. It was a timing problem. A heat problem. A misalignment between the biology of the crop and the ambition of early harvest.

The irony? The Dutch seed was as clean as expected. The issue wasn’t the tubers—it was the planting calendar.

What looked like a complex scientific puzzle unraveled with basic questions. No advanced lab. No imported tests. Just attention, consistency, and humility.

This experience gave me one of the greatest lessons of my professional life:
Most complex problems can be solved by asking simple, focused questions—one layer at a time. Like peeling an onion.

I’ve carried this lesson with me ever since—into my years as a citrus pathologist, a university educator, a startup founder, and a business leader. Whether I’m in a laboratory or a boardroom, I remember that moment in the Jordan Valley. I remember the fear. I remember the baked potatoes. And I remember the blessing hidden in the challenge.

I am especially grateful to the Minister who pushed me beyond my comfort zone. He saw a potential in me that I hadn’t yet seen in myself. His reminder—“This is a kingdom. When a minister asks, you do it.”—wasn’t just about hierarchy. It was about responsibility. Service. Growth.

And to the young people who may one day face a problem that feels overwhelming:
Don’t panic. Don’t pretend.
Start small. Ask honest questions.
Peel back one layer at a time.
That’s how you solve a complex problem—and that’s how you grow into the person you’re meant to become.

This is my story. And it began in the heat of the Jordan Valley.

Quotes

“Any intelligent fool can make things bigger and more complex… It takes a touch of genius—and a lot of courage—to move in the opposite direction.”
— E.F. Schumacher

“A man’s career isn’t built on moments of certainty, but on the moments when he chose to ask, to learn, and to stay steady in the unknown. My real growth began when I stopped fearing what I didn’t know—and started peeling the layers of every challenge.”
— Dr. Mani Skaria

“We should face reality and our past mistakes in an honest, adult way. Boasting of glory does not make glory, and singing in the dark does not dispel fear.”
— His Majesty King Hussein of Jordan