As I type this, some of my photos are being uploaded to my Picasa page, which can be found here.
The pictures are pretty much all from training, but in the next few days I will also upload some pictures I've taken in the last month at site. If you read this post right after I've written, check back again for the photos a little later, because they will probably take a few hours to finish uploading.
So far it's been a great weekend in Conakry - parties with expats, embassy workers, and french people. Lots of good food and drink for which I've not had to pay. Beautiful sunsets over the ocean. Air conditioning. Talking to lots of friends and family. Meeting interesting new people. I'll detail all of it over the next few days.
One thing that's been interesting, though, has been talking to my new friend, Daniel Harman. He is staying at my friend Rob's apartment for a few days, resting from his cycling trip. He's come all the way from London, intends to bike all the way to Cape Town, and then return back through Egypt to Europe. So far he's been at it for nearly six months. Very cool guy, and he's keeping a website.
It looks like his travels will have him coming back into Guinea from Sierra Leone by way of Faranah, so there's a chance I may bike down to Faranah and ride with him for a little bit! I'll keep you posted on that - maybe with some good stories come Thanksgiving.
Okay, enjoy the photos, and there'll be more soon!
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Friday, October 31, 2008
New Posts!
Hey Everybody! I'm back in Conakry for an extended weekend. It looks like I'll be here until Wednesday morning, when I'll catch the free PAM flight to Kissidougou and taxi home from there.
I have so much to tell you, which I'll try to put on here through the course of the weekend. Hopefully I'll even be able to upload all of my pictures to Picasa!
In the meantime, below are posted three entries I typed up at site (the one from the 16th is my favorite). Please excuse typos and such - I only had so much battery to work with and for now don't feel like going back to edit all of it!
I hope you enjoy the posts and pictures, and there will be much more to come over the next few days. Since I'll be in town, please call if you'd like to chat; I have a new number - 011-224-66-51-86-03.
Much love,
Hunter
I have so much to tell you, which I'll try to put on here through the course of the weekend. Hopefully I'll even be able to upload all of my pictures to Picasa!
In the meantime, below are posted three entries I typed up at site (the one from the 16th is my favorite). Please excuse typos and such - I only had so much battery to work with and for now don't feel like going back to edit all of it!
I hope you enjoy the posts and pictures, and there will be much more to come over the next few days. Since I'll be in town, please call if you'd like to chat; I have a new number - 011-224-66-51-86-03.
Much love,
Hunter
Le 16 Octobre 2008
You can’t buy anything for a buck anymore… remember those old commercials? Well, maybe it’s true, but in Guinea, two bucks will buy you more than you could ever dream. Two bucks, which converts to roughly 10,000 Guinean francs, can buy 20 cucumbers, 50 bananas, or even 150 grapefruit. Or, in the case of travel, it’ll get you about 30 miles in a bush taxi.
Oh! but you’re buying so much more than just a ride in a taxi. On a good day, those two dollars will also ensure you make at least a dozen new friends, in the form of other passengers. It also means you’ll probably get to spend an extra two or three hours at the taxi gare people watching or head shopping, the Guinean answer to QVC – instead of actually having to stand up and walk around, you just sit there while women and children solicit you with anything from clothes to food to radio-flashlights from the piles on their heads. And, just in case you were worried you’d be making it to your destination too early, your two dollars guarantees at least one layover of 30 minutes or more in a village of the driver’s choice.
In an effort of frugality, I generally forego these steals of deals by riding my bike to and from Faranah, a 60-mile round trip journey which takes about two hours each way. In other words, biking is about twice as fast as taking a taxi, once you consider the amount of time waiting for the taxi to fill with passengers and all the stops made along the way. This past weekend, though, I wanted to buy eggs, enough of them that I didn’t trust the suspension on my bike enough to keep them from breaking over 30 miles of the local paving. So, I broke down and decided to shell out my two bucks for the taxi.
Sunday morning, I arrived at the Faranah taxi gare around 8am, ready to get back to my site after an impromptu overnight in “the city.” Finding the right taxi was easy; the first guy I asked was headed in my direction. Unfortunately, I was the first passenger to arrive, so we’d have to wait for more to show up before it would be economically feasible for him to leave. That wasn’t a problem, as I still had to find eggs and some hinges for the screen doors I’d commissioned to be made for my hut, so I set off in search of the goods.
About thirty minutes later, I arrived back at the taxi, eggs and hinges in hand, along with some cheese and a knock-off Caprisun (they’re Capri-Sonne here) for the road. After thirty minutes, I was still the only passenger, so I left to find a snack. I felt like I’d discovered the City of Gold when I stumbled upon a guy on a side street operating a frozen yogurt machine. It may have only been 9:30 in the morning, but my motto is, “When you find ice cream in Africa, you buy it!” Not one to go against my own motto, I bought some, happily eating the frozen deliciousness as I made my way back to the taxi, again.
11:30 rolled around and there I sat, now accompanied by two older women waiting for the same taxi. I’d already finished the book I’d brought with me and had spent the last of my money on the ice cream, so all I could do was sit and wait patiently. Finally, around noon, another taxi pulled up and we were told to get in. I took the front seat, as always – apparently Africans think Americans smell really bad because of the dairy in our diet, so they try to sit as far from us as possible. As a result I always get the front to myself (I’m not complaining..). The two women took the back, all three of us wondering where the other four or five passengers were – surely we wouldn’t leave with such an empty car?? When I asked the driver, he explained he didn’t need the extra passengers’ fare because we’d be picking up some beef to transport along the way. Okay, I’ve seen taxis with slabs of meat strapped to the top a hundred times before. No big deal.
Well, when we pulled into the village with the beef 20 minutes later, I realized the “beef” was, in fact, still alive. The driver fully intended to place what must have amounted to 1000 pounds of live steer directly into the trunk of his 1970 Peugot sedan. Instructed to wait in the shade, I watched as 9 men tied and attempted to hoist the beast into the car. After their second failure, I left my roost to give them a hand – I wanted to get home at some point (I also thought hands-on experience would add some validity to this story). With both of my hands placed firmly under its rump – thank goodness for travel hand sanitizer – we finally managed to get the job done.
Cow in place, the driver remarked that there was still some space in between its legs. As everybody knows, the best way to fill an empty space is with two live, bleating sheep. As much as they protested against their predicament, I really didn’t have much sympathy for them. After all, they weren’t hog-tied and were certainly much more comfortable than the cow who hadn’t as much as mooed since the beginning of his quandary.
Having exhausted the requisite hour stowing the animals, we continued on towards our destination, the rest of the trip seeming slightly pedestrian in comparison, in spite of the fact that at one point there were 10 people packed into the car (drivers will pick up anyone, so long as they have a few francs to spare), and the six or seven near-death experiences we all shared as we blindly passed cargo trucks around dangerous bends. So, you see, one really can do quite a bit with two bucks here, so long as you’re not in a hurry and you don’t mind dealing with all the “bull” that comes with riding in a bush taxi.
Oh! but you’re buying so much more than just a ride in a taxi. On a good day, those two dollars will also ensure you make at least a dozen new friends, in the form of other passengers. It also means you’ll probably get to spend an extra two or three hours at the taxi gare people watching or head shopping, the Guinean answer to QVC – instead of actually having to stand up and walk around, you just sit there while women and children solicit you with anything from clothes to food to radio-flashlights from the piles on their heads. And, just in case you were worried you’d be making it to your destination too early, your two dollars guarantees at least one layover of 30 minutes or more in a village of the driver’s choice.
In an effort of frugality, I generally forego these steals of deals by riding my bike to and from Faranah, a 60-mile round trip journey which takes about two hours each way. In other words, biking is about twice as fast as taking a taxi, once you consider the amount of time waiting for the taxi to fill with passengers and all the stops made along the way. This past weekend, though, I wanted to buy eggs, enough of them that I didn’t trust the suspension on my bike enough to keep them from breaking over 30 miles of the local paving. So, I broke down and decided to shell out my two bucks for the taxi.
Sunday morning, I arrived at the Faranah taxi gare around 8am, ready to get back to my site after an impromptu overnight in “the city.” Finding the right taxi was easy; the first guy I asked was headed in my direction. Unfortunately, I was the first passenger to arrive, so we’d have to wait for more to show up before it would be economically feasible for him to leave. That wasn’t a problem, as I still had to find eggs and some hinges for the screen doors I’d commissioned to be made for my hut, so I set off in search of the goods.
About thirty minutes later, I arrived back at the taxi, eggs and hinges in hand, along with some cheese and a knock-off Caprisun (they’re Capri-Sonne here) for the road. After thirty minutes, I was still the only passenger, so I left to find a snack. I felt like I’d discovered the City of Gold when I stumbled upon a guy on a side street operating a frozen yogurt machine. It may have only been 9:30 in the morning, but my motto is, “When you find ice cream in Africa, you buy it!” Not one to go against my own motto, I bought some, happily eating the frozen deliciousness as I made my way back to the taxi, again.
11:30 rolled around and there I sat, now accompanied by two older women waiting for the same taxi. I’d already finished the book I’d brought with me and had spent the last of my money on the ice cream, so all I could do was sit and wait patiently. Finally, around noon, another taxi pulled up and we were told to get in. I took the front seat, as always – apparently Africans think Americans smell really bad because of the dairy in our diet, so they try to sit as far from us as possible. As a result I always get the front to myself (I’m not complaining..). The two women took the back, all three of us wondering where the other four or five passengers were – surely we wouldn’t leave with such an empty car?? When I asked the driver, he explained he didn’t need the extra passengers’ fare because we’d be picking up some beef to transport along the way. Okay, I’ve seen taxis with slabs of meat strapped to the top a hundred times before. No big deal.
Well, when we pulled into the village with the beef 20 minutes later, I realized the “beef” was, in fact, still alive. The driver fully intended to place what must have amounted to 1000 pounds of live steer directly into the trunk of his 1970 Peugot sedan. Instructed to wait in the shade, I watched as 9 men tied and attempted to hoist the beast into the car. After their second failure, I left my roost to give them a hand – I wanted to get home at some point (I also thought hands-on experience would add some validity to this story). With both of my hands placed firmly under its rump – thank goodness for travel hand sanitizer – we finally managed to get the job done.
Cow in place, the driver remarked that there was still some space in between its legs. As everybody knows, the best way to fill an empty space is with two live, bleating sheep. As much as they protested against their predicament, I really didn’t have much sympathy for them. After all, they weren’t hog-tied and were certainly much more comfortable than the cow who hadn’t as much as mooed since the beginning of his quandary.
Having exhausted the requisite hour stowing the animals, we continued on towards our destination, the rest of the trip seeming slightly pedestrian in comparison, in spite of the fact that at one point there were 10 people packed into the car (drivers will pick up anyone, so long as they have a few francs to spare), and the six or seven near-death experiences we all shared as we blindly passed cargo trucks around dangerous bends. So, you see, one really can do quite a bit with two bucks here, so long as you’re not in a hurry and you don’t mind dealing with all the “bull” that comes with riding in a bush taxi.
Le 10 Octobre 2008
Thunderstorms – at once both the most mesmerizing and the most terrifying spectacles I’ve beheld in Africa. They come at you like a tiger pounces as you turn your cart into the cereal aisle at the supermarket – quickly, ferociously, and most unexpectedly. Clouds black, winds howling, the storm is upon you before you can say, “Man! I’ve never had a storm come upon me this fast! Is it for REAL?”
The other day, shortly after lunch, the sun was shining brightly, fit to bake the earth and any American crazy enough to be here. So, I went into my backyard to set out my solar charger. Leaning over to set it on the ground, I was pushed violently from behind. As I turned around to confront my assaulter, I found nothing; nothing but about 90 miles an hour of wind! The sky turned black, though it wasn’t dotted with the stars and radiant moon which usually accompany such darkness.
Why was it so dark? Maybe it was much later than I’d thought – I’d just finished my regular lunch of bread, fruit, and peanuts, so it could only be about 1:30, right? Then again, I eat the same thing for dinner (and breakfast, too, for that matter), so maybe the hours were all beginning to melt together on me like a Dali painting. I went back into the hut to fetch my watch and verify that I was either a) an incredible keeper of time and the darkness was actually a harbinger of an enormous storm to come, or b) still on American time after three months in Africa.
In the time it took to find my watch, I heard “Bang! Pow! Crash! Pour! Whoosh! Krack!” – all at once. I emerged from my hut to stunning blue skies, two shattered trees clinging to my fence in final attempts to remain vertical, and about a foot of rain as far as the eye could see. Such is the way of storms in Guinea.
Okay, so that was a bit of an embellishment. But that’s what it seems like to me every time I wake up, only fifteen minutes after going to sleep under starry skies, to the sounds and vibrations of a freight train driving straight through my hut.
You see, in Forecariah, I relished the moments when storms raged and I could sit back and enjoy it, pulling the covers a little closer to ward off the breeze. In Forecariah, though, I was protected by a solid roof, concrete walls, and a door free of cracks and holes for fit mice and lizards to seek refuge.
Things are a little different in a mud hut. You wake up to the howling of the gale force wind and the pummeling rain, wondering how much longer it will be before the grass roof gives up the ghost. It’s obvious at least some of the roof already bought a non-refundable, one-way ticket to the neighbor’s yard, as evidenced by the numerous leaks and muddy pools covering the floor of the hut. That’s probably the only drawback to living in a mud hut (cough cough) – when the roof springs a leak, it doesn’t come in the form of rain, but a nice, dark mud. Delicious.
Each time I wake up to a storm, I get out of bed to inspect the damage and make sure everything that needs covering is covered. Assured that nothing will be ruined with the current leaks, I climb back under my mosquito net to settle in and wait for the storm to run its course. This way I can monitor any new leaks in case the rain gets even worse.
The other night, I climbed back into bed only to find a nice, fat mouse had nestled his way under my pillow while I had been making my inspections. As I went to the door to shoo him out, his lizard friend was trying to make an entrance of his own through the gap between the door and the floor. No such luck, my man! Turns out brooms can sweep more than just dirt..
Back in bed, I relax as the pounding of the rain slackens. The thunder, though – man alive! Once the rain has been gone for a while you begin to wonder if that’s actually thunder you feel pulsing through your veins or if maybe rebel invaders have launched a blitzkrieg on the village; although, I doubt any rebel invaders possess any firepower to rival this cacophony.
Growing up in the countryside, my sisters and I used to like riding out the big storms in the comfort of our basement. I remember being petrified by the powerful thunderclaps. Erin and Hilary would comfort me by saying it was just God up in Heaven, bowling. Well, when you’re living in a mud hut in Africa, God doesn’t bowl – he drives a dump truck through a nitroglycerin plant… or something like that; ask Ryan, he knows the quote.
The other day, shortly after lunch, the sun was shining brightly, fit to bake the earth and any American crazy enough to be here. So, I went into my backyard to set out my solar charger. Leaning over to set it on the ground, I was pushed violently from behind. As I turned around to confront my assaulter, I found nothing; nothing but about 90 miles an hour of wind! The sky turned black, though it wasn’t dotted with the stars and radiant moon which usually accompany such darkness.
Why was it so dark? Maybe it was much later than I’d thought – I’d just finished my regular lunch of bread, fruit, and peanuts, so it could only be about 1:30, right? Then again, I eat the same thing for dinner (and breakfast, too, for that matter), so maybe the hours were all beginning to melt together on me like a Dali painting. I went back into the hut to fetch my watch and verify that I was either a) an incredible keeper of time and the darkness was actually a harbinger of an enormous storm to come, or b) still on American time after three months in Africa.
In the time it took to find my watch, I heard “Bang! Pow! Crash! Pour! Whoosh! Krack!” – all at once. I emerged from my hut to stunning blue skies, two shattered trees clinging to my fence in final attempts to remain vertical, and about a foot of rain as far as the eye could see. Such is the way of storms in Guinea.
Okay, so that was a bit of an embellishment. But that’s what it seems like to me every time I wake up, only fifteen minutes after going to sleep under starry skies, to the sounds and vibrations of a freight train driving straight through my hut.
You see, in Forecariah, I relished the moments when storms raged and I could sit back and enjoy it, pulling the covers a little closer to ward off the breeze. In Forecariah, though, I was protected by a solid roof, concrete walls, and a door free of cracks and holes for fit mice and lizards to seek refuge.
Things are a little different in a mud hut. You wake up to the howling of the gale force wind and the pummeling rain, wondering how much longer it will be before the grass roof gives up the ghost. It’s obvious at least some of the roof already bought a non-refundable, one-way ticket to the neighbor’s yard, as evidenced by the numerous leaks and muddy pools covering the floor of the hut. That’s probably the only drawback to living in a mud hut (cough cough) – when the roof springs a leak, it doesn’t come in the form of rain, but a nice, dark mud. Delicious.
Each time I wake up to a storm, I get out of bed to inspect the damage and make sure everything that needs covering is covered. Assured that nothing will be ruined with the current leaks, I climb back under my mosquito net to settle in and wait for the storm to run its course. This way I can monitor any new leaks in case the rain gets even worse.
The other night, I climbed back into bed only to find a nice, fat mouse had nestled his way under my pillow while I had been making my inspections. As I went to the door to shoo him out, his lizard friend was trying to make an entrance of his own through the gap between the door and the floor. No such luck, my man! Turns out brooms can sweep more than just dirt..
Back in bed, I relax as the pounding of the rain slackens. The thunder, though – man alive! Once the rain has been gone for a while you begin to wonder if that’s actually thunder you feel pulsing through your veins or if maybe rebel invaders have launched a blitzkrieg on the village; although, I doubt any rebel invaders possess any firepower to rival this cacophony.
Growing up in the countryside, my sisters and I used to like riding out the big storms in the comfort of our basement. I remember being petrified by the powerful thunderclaps. Erin and Hilary would comfort me by saying it was just God up in Heaven, bowling. Well, when you’re living in a mud hut in Africa, God doesn’t bowl – he drives a dump truck through a nitroglycerin plant… or something like that; ask Ryan, he knows the quote.
Le 30 Septembre 2008
(Warning! this post is super long and is about the last days in Forecariah, Affectation in Conakry, and the first few days at site. Save this for a day when you're really bored and don't mind reading lots of really poor writing!)
And so the adventure begins! Yesterday (Monday), around 11am, I waved goodbye to Ben and Alison, the last volunteers I will see for at least a month, maybe even two or three. You read about volunteers wanting to run after the Peace Corps truck, yelling “Wait! I’m not ready!” In no way was that the case for me; I’ve been ready for this moment for what seems like years. Although my French isn’t quite where I’d like it to be, and my Susu, Yalunke, and Malinke are virtually non-existant, the language barrier does not scare me – hell, I’ve been living lost in translation for three months already, haven’t I? And the prospect of teaching does not scare me, either; the three weeks of practice school took care of that. The only other factor that seems like it may play a role in the “Wait, come back!” scenario must be loneliness. This is something one must take into great consideration even when applying to the Peace Corps. All of us know how lonely this life will be, but I’ve decided to take these last few months to focus on the positive aspects of this loneliness, on how productive I can be over the course of the next two years, of how much I can improve myself.
No, I wasn’t afraid when that truck pulled away, but I won’t deny that the farewell was indeed bittersweet. To reflect on this, I’m going to flash back to my last few days in Forecariah and the ensuing weekend spent in Conakry for affectation.
Going back to Tuesday of last week, I find myself returning to the Doumbwaya’s house for the last time. On this night, the quarter is blessed with electricity, which means the small living room is filled with thirty people, all trying to get a view of the Susu movie playing on a television akin to the I stayed up late watching in my college dorm room. The room is filled with the smell of people have put in an honest day’s work every day of their life, but have never stopped to put on deodorant on any one of those days. Cigarette smoke wafts through the air as babies cry and cell phones ring.
I could easily walk right through this crowd and go straight to my room, as I do most other nights, but on this night I took my seat right next to Nba, the pride in his eyes telling me I’d made the right move. Never mind the fact that I couldn’t understand a moment of the Susu film, the important thing was that I was there, sharing it with them.
As we sat there, I couldn’t help but worry about what I’d wear at the closing ceremony the next morning (you know, because I’m such a diva!). The previous week, Nba came into my room accompanied by the tailor to take my measurements for what they told me would be a boubou to wear to the final ceremony. Trusting this outfit would be ready in time, I’d already packed up the rest of my clothes and sent them off in one of the Peace Corps trucks. At this point, the only clothes I had to wear were the shorts and t-shirt I was currently sporting. As much as I like shorts and t-shirts, this outfit hardly seemed appropriate for giving my farewell speech the next day.
Dieu merci, the tailor arrived Chez Doumbwaya at about 10:15 pm, just as I was about to give up hope and go to bed. Upon seeing my new boubou, I couldn’t help but fall in love with it! It was classy, yet, to steal a line from America’s favorite family restaurant, unrefined. Wearing the boubou made me feel about a foot taller and as though I could carry myself as a true Guinean. The film crowd proved an admirable audience for my fashion show as I paraded about in my new attire, clapping and hooting as I stopped to do a turn here, a little dance step there. Suffice to say, everyone was happy and, boubou in tow, I was able to sleep easy.
Wednesday morning, I awoke with a good three hours to spare before the ceremony began. After my final bucket bath in Forecariah, I donned my new outfit and sat down to do some writing. On my way home the day before, I had stopped to take some photos of my favorite café and of Aissatou, the 12 year old girl who runs the place with her father. As I snapped the photos, a man came up and introduced himself as Makslope, a travelling singer/dancer from Liberia who was in Forecariah to perform at the end of Ramadan. He explained that, being from Liberia, a country colonized by America, he was also American and he and I were, in fact, brothers. According to him, this meant we must exchange gifts so as to always remember one another. Although I agreed, saying I’d bring his present the next day, I thought he was just trying to get me to give him money from my bottomless American pocket. Naturally, I was a surprised when he immediately changed the direction of the conversation and asked that I take a picture of him jumping over the motorcycle which had been standing next to us. I obliged and wound up with a pretty decent souvenir of Makslope, which he then explained was his gift to me. As we parted for the evening, he expressed his regret in my impending departure, wishing that we had more time to discuss our ideas, to talk about changes that needed to be made in the world.
This brings me back to Wednesday morning, where I sat at my desk writing – my gift to Makslope. I wrote three pages on the status of women in West Africa, about how few girls make it to high school and even fewer to university. I wrote about the people who ask me every day for money and the people who ask how to become rich like me and why Americans are so much better off than Guineans. While there are many answers to these questions (one may even wish to argue that, although Americans have more money, they aren’t necessarily happier than Guineans..), I chose to address the issue of women in society. Imagine trying to tackle some sort of task, but only being able to use half of your intellect to do so – you would never finish. Isn’t a society where only half of the population is contributing basically the same thing?
Please don’t think I’m trying to cast a negative shadow on the men of Guinea. Although, at first glance, this may seem to be a society driven by male chauvinists, the women are just as much to blame, that is to say if anybody is really “to blame”. Generation after generation of this lifestyle has made it the cultural norm – one doesn’t see the women fighting or complaining about the fact that they must stay home from school to do the cooking and cleaning while the boys go to class and get their education. In order for a real change to occur, there has to be some sort of great cultural shift, and such was my charge to Makslope. I explained that, as a travelling performer, he had the opportunity to reach the right audiences and to spread the right messages. This may not be the sort of gift he was hoping for, but I was happy with it, and he we very happy when I handed it to him as we drove off, telling me he loved me and he would never forget me. That said, everything I wrote could be totally wrong and I really hope that, 10 years from now, I don’t find out I was the catalyst to the greatest cultural meltdown in West Africa!
With my writing finished, I went outside to meet my homonym, the person for whom I was given the name Ablo. It turns out he’s an old neighbor of the Doumbwayas who is now studying at the university in Conakry. I took this as a compliment because it meant I’d been named after one of the smartest people they knew. To my surprise, he presented me with yet another outfit – a complet from the Forest Region. After taking several pictures with him, the Doumbwayas, and my friend Sekouba, we set off for the Maison de la Jeunesse, where the farewell ceremony was to be held.
We all sat – wait, did I say sat? what I meant to say was we all melted in the Maison for the next two hours awaiting the Peace Corps director from Conakry and the local dignitaries. Perhaps melted is a strong word, but I’m sure we all lost five or ten pounds as we sat in what amounted to a 95 degree barn, dressed to the 9’s in our boubous, complets, and fancy African hats. In spite of the heat, everyone looked magnificent – Joe looked ready to take over the world in his tall maroon outfit and matching mouchoir; John’s family had set him up with a fancy gold lace-lined outfit, complete with close-toed Guinean sandals; Tiffany, in her indigo complet from the Fouta Region, had a wonderful radiance about her.
At long last, the country director arrived and we were able to get started. Apparently, on their way out of Conakry, a riot had erupted, resulting in police-fired teargas. Needless to say, the Peace Corps truck was forced to turn around and take a different route.
As a whole, this ceremony was not terribly different from the opening ceremony, save for a few things:
1) This time, PCT’s gave 4 speeches, instead of just the one given in French by Valentin at the opening ceremony. Rachel gave the Pular speech, Tiffany the Susu speech, Carolina the Malinke speech, and I ended it with the French speech.
2) Although the DJ was back, this time he wasn’t playing the same lively dance music. Rather, he was playing much more subdued, almost mournful, Muslim music. I imagine this was die to the ceremony falling during Ramadan, which also probably explains why there wasn’t any dancing this time.
3) There was no feast following the ceremony, which was most definitely due to Ramadan and the associated fasting.
I was really excited about giving the speech. Although I’d like to say people voted for me to give it, that would be far from the truth. Basically, I wanted to give it and nobody else did, so it was mine. It probably sounds silly that this would be something I’d want so badly, but I’ve never really given a speech before. Sure, I’ve played my violin and viola in front of large audiences before, and I’ve read at church and things like that, but I’d never really had the chance to present my own thoughts and words to a group like this. With Valentin’s help I put together my speech, of which I’d hoped to post a video. Unfortunately, you can’t really hear anything I’m saying in the video because the sound system left a bit to be desired. For those of you who are interested, here’s the speech I gave (it’s short and simple, but I like to think it’s also kind of sweet :) ):
De la part de tous les stagiaires, je voudrais vous remercier pour votre hospitalite, votre gentillesse, et votre patience. Quand nous sommes arrives ici en Juillet, il y avait vingt-cinq stagiaire. Aujourd’hui, nous partons avec le meme groupe de vingt-cinq stagiaires. Ceci est, sans doutes, grace a votre hospitalite et votre gentillesse.
Pendant ces trois mois, vous nous avez appris comment vivre comme les Guineens. Vous nous avez aide apprendre le francais. Vous nous avez prepare les plats Guineens, comme le riz et sauce, et vous nous avez meme montre comment s’habiller comme les Guineens, par exemple comment nous sommes habille aujourd’hui.
Ce que vous nous avez appris sera, sans doutes, indisposable pendant les deux prochaines annees. Par exemple, pour trois semaines, nous avons enseignes vos enfants, mais en realite, en enseignant nous avons appris comment devenir de meilleurs professeurs.
Tous les moments n’etaient pas faciles, mais vous nous avez aide a surmonter les moments difficiles comme nous etions malades ou comme nos familles nous manqeouns.
Je me souvendrai toujours de mes trois mois passé a Forecariah. Cette ville est benie d’une beaute naturelle exemple par ses montagnes ou sa riviere. J’espere que le Corps de la Paix continue a envoyer de future generation de volontaires pourqu’ils puissant beneficier de cette ville comme nous l’avons puis.
Maintenant que nous allons franchir un nouveau palier en quittant Forecariah nous nous sentions prêt, grace a vous, de commencer notre aventure en Guinee pour les deux prochaines annees. Merci encore pour tout que vous avez fait et nous esperons vous revoir dans le futur. Merci a touse.
Or, in English:
On behalf of all the trainees, I would like to thank you for your hospitality, your kindness, and your patience. When we arrived here in July, there were 25 trainees. Today, we leave with that same group of 25 trainees. This is, without doubt, thanks to your hospitality and your kindness.
During these three months, you have taught us how to live like Guineans. You helped us learn French; you cooked us Guinean food, like the rice and sauce; and you showed us how to dress like Guineans, for example, how we’re dressed today.
That which you taught us will be, without doubt, indispensible during the next two years. For example, for three weeks we taught your children, but in reality, in teaching we were learning to become better teachers.
All the moments were not easy, but you helped us to overcome those difficult times when we were sick or when we missed our families.
I will always remember my three months spent in Forecariah. This town is blessed with a natural beauty exemplified by its mountains and its river. I hope that the Peace Corps will continue to send future generations of volunteers here so they can benefit from this town the way we were able to.
Now that we are going to cross over to a new stage in leaving Forecariah, we will be ready, thanks to you, to begin our adventure in Guinea for the next two years. Thanks again for all that you did and we hope to see you again in the future! Thank you, everyone.
Surely you can imagine everyone standing up, clapping before I had even finished, the men giving each other high-fives, the women in tears of joy and sadness. Well, that’s how I like to remember it.. although that really wasn’t the case, because, due to the sound system and my inability to hold the microphone the perfect distance from my mouth, I don’t think anyone understood a word I said. Oh well – at least they didn’t boo!
And for all those people in Forecariah right now, sipping your cappuccinos as you browse my blog at the internet café on Main Street, or to my neighbors, the Toures, who are probably reading this via wifi on their laptop as they watch the Georgia Tech football team pummel Georgia on their wall-mounted flat screen – now you finally know what I was trying to say that day as I gave my speech at the closing ceremony!
That, of course, was just a joke. Everyone knows Guineans really don’t care much for American football.
With the speech and ceremony over, it was finally time to say goodbye to our families. Just how do you say goodbye to the people who raised you from a drooling toddler, through that awkward teenage phase, and into full-grown, Guinean adults? Honestly, I still don’t have the answer. I would have liked to have given them all hugs, but I’d read somewhere that Africans don’t give hugs at departures – that means you won’t be coming back.
Things were easy enough with Nga – she lagged behind and just sat on the ground in the shade; she had been fairly sick the last few days (although I later heard she had gone through the same symptoms with the three previous trainees). I walked over, took her hand, and thanked her many times in Susu. I finished with my favorite Susu phrase, “n bara sewa,” which means, “I’m happy,” smiled, and returned to the others.
My heart was at once broken and warmed when I walked back and saw Nba close to tears. It was obvious they didn’t know how to say goodbye, either. It’s so strange that, three months ago, I was experiencing some of the unhappiest moments of my life, most of which I attributed to this family, but there I was at the end of training, a changed person, at one of the happiest moments of my life, and it was all thanks to these same people. It’s safe to say I’ve developed an admiration and love for this family as though I really was one of their own, and I will never forget it.
Not knowing what to say and not wanting to prolong the farewell, I thanked them again, told them I would miss them but would return again someday, shook hands, and left. When I turned back around a few seconds later, they had already disappeared through the crowd of well-wishing families and other trainees. In a way, this farewell was almost harder on me than when I left my real family behind at Bluegrass Airport in July; I managed not to cry either time (hey, I’m a man. I save my crying for those first nights alone in a foreign country for two years, or when I’m curled up on the floor vomiting with malaria…), but this time around I couldn’t deny the fact that I may never see the Doumbwayas again.
No matter what happens, I know my mom, Tom, Erin, and Hilary will always be there; I know, God willing, that I’ll see them many, many more times over the years. The Doumbwayas, though – that’s a different matter. Peace Corps could get evacuated again or I could get sick and sent home, never to see them again. Another possibility is that one of them could get sick or hurt – Mama and Torres are still at ages where they are very vulnerable to diseases like malaria and pneumonia. Heck, two days before we left, a boy from the high school was struck by a car and killed in the market just up the street. I know this all sounds morbid, pessimistic, and maybe just a little scary, but now you also have a better idea of what it’s like to say goodbye to people you love in Africa.
(And as for our safety here, we’re always the first ones pulled off the street by a helpful petit when an approaching vehicle is still 100m distant)
To wrap up on the Doumbwayas, I’ll miss them while I’m here at site, but I know I haven’t heard the last of them, either. Nba called me three days in a row in Conakry, just to check up on me, to say hi, just like a parent should. :)
I often think back to the summer before my senior year of high school, probably one of the greatest summers ever. It started with a week of all-male mock legislation at the American Legion run Boys’ State. Okay, so it doesn’t sound great, but my friends and I had a blast getting under the skin of the super serious, I-want-to-win-the-scholarship-to-Boys’-Nation kids by trying to enact laws like the requirement to rotate your tires every day – boy, did that one grind some gears! Then, I got to spend a month at the Governor’s School for the Arts, where I played my viola all day with some great musicians and spent the rest of the time living, learning, and creating with other, like-minded artists – not a bad way to spend a month, no matter how old you are. One of my fondest memories of that summer, though, comes from the two week backpacking trip in the southern Rockies with my scout troop right after the arts school finished.
On this particular day we had a 12-mile hike, up and down several ridges, ending in what was affectionately known as “the seven switchbacks from Hell”. The campsite for the night was Apache Springs, and we soon found out that up by the springs we could set up an authentic Indian sweat lodge. After building a giant fire and heating up the rocks, we stripped down to our underwear and crawled through the tiny opening into the animal hide covered dome. Pouring water over the hot rocks to make it steam and feel even hotter, we timed ourselves to see how long we could last, how tough we all were. About twenty minutes later, the five of us burst out of the lodge, dumping buckets of ice cold spring water over our heads. It was, easily, the most refreshing moment of my life.
Arriving back in Conakry was kind of like that; except, instead of twenty minutes, we were in that sweat lodge for two months. Stepping through that door to the volunteer house was such a wonderful sensation, and I still can’t really put my finger on why.
My first explanation would be immediate access to air conditioning, television, and the internet, but that wasn’t it. I’m not a big TV junkie and I’ve got a bunch of shows and movies on my iPod anyways; air conditioning is nice, but after a few months you get used to the sweating and stickiness; and the internet – well, I don’t really get that many e-mails anymore and I only have enough good material to be able to post on this sucker every once a month or so, anyway.
No, that great feeling when I crossed the threshold was not a result of material products. I guess it must have has something to do with a freedom associated with the visit. The last time we visited the Peace Corps compound in Conakry was during our first few days in the country, when PCV’s and staff held our hands everywhere we went. Then, over the next eleven weeks in Forecariah, we always had classes to attend, classes to teach, and homework to do or grade. When we had spare time, we had to report our every move to our families. For the first time in almost three months, we were able to do what we wanted, when we wanted, without the stress of languages, passing the cross-culture exam, or simply fretting over what our families would feed us next.
For me, getting to spend time with the other G-16ers without those stresses was like getting to know them all over again, in a good way. Towards the end of our time in Forecariah, I was getting tired of always hanging out in the same places, for the same limited periods of time, always talking about the classes of that day or the next. For once, we were able to shed those restrictive shackles and just be ourselves. I got chances to really get to know some people I really hadn’t “met” during training, and the friendships I already had only became stronger.
On Thursday morning, we piled into the Peace Corps bus and made our way en ville to get some money from the bank and subsequently spend it all, gorging ourselves on “American” food. Peace Corps had already deposited our move-in allowance and the next three months’ living allowance, resulting in a whopping 4.3 million francs; we’d finally struck it rich! I withdrew three million, not sure of the next time I’d be in Conakry and wanting to make sure I had enough for the next few months. Since Guineans don’t have any bills larger than ten thousand francs, this resulted in quite a few bills, enough to need a backpack, but not so many that I wasn’t able to refute the lyrics of the great V.I.C./Soulja Boy song “Get Silly”, where they say “but forget a rubber band, cuz you can’t put a rubber band around a milli-ann!” Sorry Soulja Boy, but you CAN put a rubber band around a milli-ann!
With our money stowed safely away in our bags, a group of us made our way over to La Gondole, where I filled up on a large, fried egg (what the..?) pizza and a chocolate-banana milkshake. While it wasn’t a bad lunch, I’m not sure it was worth the 60 mille I had to fork over at the end. The cravings for American food, while they’re certainly still there, aren’t at the forefront of my mind anymore, which I suppose is actually quite a good thing, n’est-ce pas?
After leaving the restaurant, the plan was to go to the Leb store (run by Lebanese people) to pick up food and cooking supplies to take to site. The local authorities, however, had a different plan for us. When we got to the corner where we were going to turn towards the store, a police officer stepped in my path and saluted me. Confused, I half-saluted him and said “bonjour” as I tried to move around him. Staring me down with a look of incredulity, he stuck his arm out across my chest and demanded everyone’s documents. We obliged, passing over our Peace Corps ID cards and our cartes d’experts – our official Guinean documentation of our work here in the country. He claimed this wasn’t good enough, asking why we weren’t giving him our passports. We explained that our passports were held in the safe at the Peace Corps compound, resulting in him marching of down the street, taking our IDs with him and barking for us to follow.
I’m sure everybody has seen the movie or read the book where the unsuspecting foreigner falls prey to the crooked cop and winds up locked away in a dark prison cell for years, forgotten. Well, I wasn’t about to be that guy! I took about ten stops before I stopped, letting the police officer disappear into the crowd of people down the street; it would be much easier to get myself a new Peace Corps ID than get myself out of the back of some locked, windowless van… but just then our hero arrived in the form of Sam, the chief of the Peace Corps motor pool. We explained the problem and he immediately chased down the police officer, eventually returning with our IDs and an explanation. Apparently, security has been raised in Conakry such that all foreigners must now constantly prove they have not illegally entered the country. Why a bunch of Americans would try to sneak into Guinea, I don’t know.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully – olive oil, baking soda, and popcorn kernels were bought at the Leb store, then the afternoon was spent watching “Out of Africa” with Conor, Luke and Tiffany. The movie was alright, but I won’t be in a hurry to watch it again; it was quite slow-moving, and if I really want to re-watch a Robert Redford movie, it would probably be “The Sting.”
Friday – the day to which we’d all been looking forward for months, the day we could finally shed that nasty title of “trainee” and toast one another as “volunteers”! The swearing-in ceremony was held at the U.S. embassy, and oh! how good it felt to be back on U.S. soil, in a sense. The swearing-in ceremony was similar to the farewell ceremony in that four volunteers gave speeches, along with the some speeches by the Peace Corps administration. It differed in the fact that some more important Guinean officials spoke, the ambassador spoke, and, of course, at the end of THIS ceremony, we were all volunteers.
Understandably, we were all a bit disappointed when we’d been told there would be no food following the ceremony – it would be rude to eat in front of the fasting Guineans. So, you can imagine our delight when the last speech ended and we turned around to find tables of delicious finger foods and pastries. Not only were we on American soil, but we were eating bologna, mini-pizzas, cake, and drinking soda – can you get any more patriotic than that?
Dan, the Peace Corps country director, and his wife, Julia, had planned a pool party and barbeque for us at their house starting at four. Seeing as we had a few hours between our time at the embassy and the impending bash, we couldn’t think of a better way to get ready than with a few cold beverages, so a group of us headed down to the beach bar, my first visit since July. Showing up to the beach on a Friday (the Muslim holy day) during Ramadan was like landing on the moon – it was completely empty. Well, empty of people; there was still plenty of trash to go around! Needless to say, we had the bar to ourselves.
A few beverages later, the time was right to dive into the pool party. had one thing on my mind – swimming in that cool, clear water!
No, I wasn’t afraid when that truck pulled away, but I won’t deny that the farewell was indeed bittersweet. To reflect on this, I’m going to flash back to my last few days in Forecariah and the ensuing weekend spent in Conakry for affectation.
Going back to Tuesday of last week, I find myself returning to the Doumbwaya’s house for the last time. On this night, the quarter is blessed with electricity, which means the small living room is filled with thirty people, all trying to get a view of the Susu movie playing on a television akin to the I stayed up late watching in my college dorm room. The room is filled with the smell of people have put in an honest day’s work every day of their life, but have never stopped to put on deodorant on any one of those days. Cigarette smoke wafts through the air as babies cry and cell phones ring.
I could easily walk right through this crowd and go straight to my room, as I do most other nights, but on this night I took my seat right next to Nba, the pride in his eyes telling me I’d made the right move. Never mind the fact that I couldn’t understand a moment of the Susu film, the important thing was that I was there, sharing it with them.
As we sat there, I couldn’t help but worry about what I’d wear at the closing ceremony the next morning (you know, because I’m such a diva!). The previous week, Nba came into my room accompanied by the tailor to take my measurements for what they told me would be a boubou to wear to the final ceremony. Trusting this outfit would be ready in time, I’d already packed up the rest of my clothes and sent them off in one of the Peace Corps trucks. At this point, the only clothes I had to wear were the shorts and t-shirt I was currently sporting. As much as I like shorts and t-shirts, this outfit hardly seemed appropriate for giving my farewell speech the next day.
Dieu merci, the tailor arrived Chez Doumbwaya at about 10:15 pm, just as I was about to give up hope and go to bed. Upon seeing my new boubou, I couldn’t help but fall in love with it! It was classy, yet, to steal a line from America’s favorite family restaurant, unrefined. Wearing the boubou made me feel about a foot taller and as though I could carry myself as a true Guinean. The film crowd proved an admirable audience for my fashion show as I paraded about in my new attire, clapping and hooting as I stopped to do a turn here, a little dance step there. Suffice to say, everyone was happy and, boubou in tow, I was able to sleep easy.
Wednesday morning, I awoke with a good three hours to spare before the ceremony began. After my final bucket bath in Forecariah, I donned my new outfit and sat down to do some writing. On my way home the day before, I had stopped to take some photos of my favorite café and of Aissatou, the 12 year old girl who runs the place with her father. As I snapped the photos, a man came up and introduced himself as Makslope, a travelling singer/dancer from Liberia who was in Forecariah to perform at the end of Ramadan. He explained that, being from Liberia, a country colonized by America, he was also American and he and I were, in fact, brothers. According to him, this meant we must exchange gifts so as to always remember one another. Although I agreed, saying I’d bring his present the next day, I thought he was just trying to get me to give him money from my bottomless American pocket. Naturally, I was a surprised when he immediately changed the direction of the conversation and asked that I take a picture of him jumping over the motorcycle which had been standing next to us. I obliged and wound up with a pretty decent souvenir of Makslope, which he then explained was his gift to me. As we parted for the evening, he expressed his regret in my impending departure, wishing that we had more time to discuss our ideas, to talk about changes that needed to be made in the world.
This brings me back to Wednesday morning, where I sat at my desk writing – my gift to Makslope. I wrote three pages on the status of women in West Africa, about how few girls make it to high school and even fewer to university. I wrote about the people who ask me every day for money and the people who ask how to become rich like me and why Americans are so much better off than Guineans. While there are many answers to these questions (one may even wish to argue that, although Americans have more money, they aren’t necessarily happier than Guineans..), I chose to address the issue of women in society. Imagine trying to tackle some sort of task, but only being able to use half of your intellect to do so – you would never finish. Isn’t a society where only half of the population is contributing basically the same thing?
Please don’t think I’m trying to cast a negative shadow on the men of Guinea. Although, at first glance, this may seem to be a society driven by male chauvinists, the women are just as much to blame, that is to say if anybody is really “to blame”. Generation after generation of this lifestyle has made it the cultural norm – one doesn’t see the women fighting or complaining about the fact that they must stay home from school to do the cooking and cleaning while the boys go to class and get their education. In order for a real change to occur, there has to be some sort of great cultural shift, and such was my charge to Makslope. I explained that, as a travelling performer, he had the opportunity to reach the right audiences and to spread the right messages. This may not be the sort of gift he was hoping for, but I was happy with it, and he we very happy when I handed it to him as we drove off, telling me he loved me and he would never forget me. That said, everything I wrote could be totally wrong and I really hope that, 10 years from now, I don’t find out I was the catalyst to the greatest cultural meltdown in West Africa!
With my writing finished, I went outside to meet my homonym, the person for whom I was given the name Ablo. It turns out he’s an old neighbor of the Doumbwayas who is now studying at the university in Conakry. I took this as a compliment because it meant I’d been named after one of the smartest people they knew. To my surprise, he presented me with yet another outfit – a complet from the Forest Region. After taking several pictures with him, the Doumbwayas, and my friend Sekouba, we set off for the Maison de la Jeunesse, where the farewell ceremony was to be held.
We all sat – wait, did I say sat? what I meant to say was we all melted in the Maison for the next two hours awaiting the Peace Corps director from Conakry and the local dignitaries. Perhaps melted is a strong word, but I’m sure we all lost five or ten pounds as we sat in what amounted to a 95 degree barn, dressed to the 9’s in our boubous, complets, and fancy African hats. In spite of the heat, everyone looked magnificent – Joe looked ready to take over the world in his tall maroon outfit and matching mouchoir; John’s family had set him up with a fancy gold lace-lined outfit, complete with close-toed Guinean sandals; Tiffany, in her indigo complet from the Fouta Region, had a wonderful radiance about her.
At long last, the country director arrived and we were able to get started. Apparently, on their way out of Conakry, a riot had erupted, resulting in police-fired teargas. Needless to say, the Peace Corps truck was forced to turn around and take a different route.
As a whole, this ceremony was not terribly different from the opening ceremony, save for a few things:
1) This time, PCT’s gave 4 speeches, instead of just the one given in French by Valentin at the opening ceremony. Rachel gave the Pular speech, Tiffany the Susu speech, Carolina the Malinke speech, and I ended it with the French speech.
2) Although the DJ was back, this time he wasn’t playing the same lively dance music. Rather, he was playing much more subdued, almost mournful, Muslim music. I imagine this was die to the ceremony falling during Ramadan, which also probably explains why there wasn’t any dancing this time.
3) There was no feast following the ceremony, which was most definitely due to Ramadan and the associated fasting.
I was really excited about giving the speech. Although I’d like to say people voted for me to give it, that would be far from the truth. Basically, I wanted to give it and nobody else did, so it was mine. It probably sounds silly that this would be something I’d want so badly, but I’ve never really given a speech before. Sure, I’ve played my violin and viola in front of large audiences before, and I’ve read at church and things like that, but I’d never really had the chance to present my own thoughts and words to a group like this. With Valentin’s help I put together my speech, of which I’d hoped to post a video. Unfortunately, you can’t really hear anything I’m saying in the video because the sound system left a bit to be desired. For those of you who are interested, here’s the speech I gave (it’s short and simple, but I like to think it’s also kind of sweet :) ):
De la part de tous les stagiaires, je voudrais vous remercier pour votre hospitalite, votre gentillesse, et votre patience. Quand nous sommes arrives ici en Juillet, il y avait vingt-cinq stagiaire. Aujourd’hui, nous partons avec le meme groupe de vingt-cinq stagiaires. Ceci est, sans doutes, grace a votre hospitalite et votre gentillesse.
Pendant ces trois mois, vous nous avez appris comment vivre comme les Guineens. Vous nous avez aide apprendre le francais. Vous nous avez prepare les plats Guineens, comme le riz et sauce, et vous nous avez meme montre comment s’habiller comme les Guineens, par exemple comment nous sommes habille aujourd’hui.
Ce que vous nous avez appris sera, sans doutes, indisposable pendant les deux prochaines annees. Par exemple, pour trois semaines, nous avons enseignes vos enfants, mais en realite, en enseignant nous avons appris comment devenir de meilleurs professeurs.
Tous les moments n’etaient pas faciles, mais vous nous avez aide a surmonter les moments difficiles comme nous etions malades ou comme nos familles nous manqeouns.
Je me souvendrai toujours de mes trois mois passé a Forecariah. Cette ville est benie d’une beaute naturelle exemple par ses montagnes ou sa riviere. J’espere que le Corps de la Paix continue a envoyer de future generation de volontaires pourqu’ils puissant beneficier de cette ville comme nous l’avons puis.
Maintenant que nous allons franchir un nouveau palier en quittant Forecariah nous nous sentions prêt, grace a vous, de commencer notre aventure en Guinee pour les deux prochaines annees. Merci encore pour tout que vous avez fait et nous esperons vous revoir dans le futur. Merci a touse.
Or, in English:
On behalf of all the trainees, I would like to thank you for your hospitality, your kindness, and your patience. When we arrived here in July, there were 25 trainees. Today, we leave with that same group of 25 trainees. This is, without doubt, thanks to your hospitality and your kindness.
During these three months, you have taught us how to live like Guineans. You helped us learn French; you cooked us Guinean food, like the rice and sauce; and you showed us how to dress like Guineans, for example, how we’re dressed today.
That which you taught us will be, without doubt, indispensible during the next two years. For example, for three weeks we taught your children, but in reality, in teaching we were learning to become better teachers.
All the moments were not easy, but you helped us to overcome those difficult times when we were sick or when we missed our families.
I will always remember my three months spent in Forecariah. This town is blessed with a natural beauty exemplified by its mountains and its river. I hope that the Peace Corps will continue to send future generations of volunteers here so they can benefit from this town the way we were able to.
Now that we are going to cross over to a new stage in leaving Forecariah, we will be ready, thanks to you, to begin our adventure in Guinea for the next two years. Thanks again for all that you did and we hope to see you again in the future! Thank you, everyone.
Surely you can imagine everyone standing up, clapping before I had even finished, the men giving each other high-fives, the women in tears of joy and sadness. Well, that’s how I like to remember it.. although that really wasn’t the case, because, due to the sound system and my inability to hold the microphone the perfect distance from my mouth, I don’t think anyone understood a word I said. Oh well – at least they didn’t boo!
And for all those people in Forecariah right now, sipping your cappuccinos as you browse my blog at the internet café on Main Street, or to my neighbors, the Toures, who are probably reading this via wifi on their laptop as they watch the Georgia Tech football team pummel Georgia on their wall-mounted flat screen – now you finally know what I was trying to say that day as I gave my speech at the closing ceremony!
That, of course, was just a joke. Everyone knows Guineans really don’t care much for American football.
With the speech and ceremony over, it was finally time to say goodbye to our families. Just how do you say goodbye to the people who raised you from a drooling toddler, through that awkward teenage phase, and into full-grown, Guinean adults? Honestly, I still don’t have the answer. I would have liked to have given them all hugs, but I’d read somewhere that Africans don’t give hugs at departures – that means you won’t be coming back.
Things were easy enough with Nga – she lagged behind and just sat on the ground in the shade; she had been fairly sick the last few days (although I later heard she had gone through the same symptoms with the three previous trainees). I walked over, took her hand, and thanked her many times in Susu. I finished with my favorite Susu phrase, “n bara sewa,” which means, “I’m happy,” smiled, and returned to the others.
My heart was at once broken and warmed when I walked back and saw Nba close to tears. It was obvious they didn’t know how to say goodbye, either. It’s so strange that, three months ago, I was experiencing some of the unhappiest moments of my life, most of which I attributed to this family, but there I was at the end of training, a changed person, at one of the happiest moments of my life, and it was all thanks to these same people. It’s safe to say I’ve developed an admiration and love for this family as though I really was one of their own, and I will never forget it.
Not knowing what to say and not wanting to prolong the farewell, I thanked them again, told them I would miss them but would return again someday, shook hands, and left. When I turned back around a few seconds later, they had already disappeared through the crowd of well-wishing families and other trainees. In a way, this farewell was almost harder on me than when I left my real family behind at Bluegrass Airport in July; I managed not to cry either time (hey, I’m a man. I save my crying for those first nights alone in a foreign country for two years, or when I’m curled up on the floor vomiting with malaria…), but this time around I couldn’t deny the fact that I may never see the Doumbwayas again.
No matter what happens, I know my mom, Tom, Erin, and Hilary will always be there; I know, God willing, that I’ll see them many, many more times over the years. The Doumbwayas, though – that’s a different matter. Peace Corps could get evacuated again or I could get sick and sent home, never to see them again. Another possibility is that one of them could get sick or hurt – Mama and Torres are still at ages where they are very vulnerable to diseases like malaria and pneumonia. Heck, two days before we left, a boy from the high school was struck by a car and killed in the market just up the street. I know this all sounds morbid, pessimistic, and maybe just a little scary, but now you also have a better idea of what it’s like to say goodbye to people you love in Africa.
(And as for our safety here, we’re always the first ones pulled off the street by a helpful petit when an approaching vehicle is still 100m distant)
To wrap up on the Doumbwayas, I’ll miss them while I’m here at site, but I know I haven’t heard the last of them, either. Nba called me three days in a row in Conakry, just to check up on me, to say hi, just like a parent should. :)
I often think back to the summer before my senior year of high school, probably one of the greatest summers ever. It started with a week of all-male mock legislation at the American Legion run Boys’ State. Okay, so it doesn’t sound great, but my friends and I had a blast getting under the skin of the super serious, I-want-to-win-the-scholarship-to-Boys’-Nation kids by trying to enact laws like the requirement to rotate your tires every day – boy, did that one grind some gears! Then, I got to spend a month at the Governor’s School for the Arts, where I played my viola all day with some great musicians and spent the rest of the time living, learning, and creating with other, like-minded artists – not a bad way to spend a month, no matter how old you are. One of my fondest memories of that summer, though, comes from the two week backpacking trip in the southern Rockies with my scout troop right after the arts school finished.
On this particular day we had a 12-mile hike, up and down several ridges, ending in what was affectionately known as “the seven switchbacks from Hell”. The campsite for the night was Apache Springs, and we soon found out that up by the springs we could set up an authentic Indian sweat lodge. After building a giant fire and heating up the rocks, we stripped down to our underwear and crawled through the tiny opening into the animal hide covered dome. Pouring water over the hot rocks to make it steam and feel even hotter, we timed ourselves to see how long we could last, how tough we all were. About twenty minutes later, the five of us burst out of the lodge, dumping buckets of ice cold spring water over our heads. It was, easily, the most refreshing moment of my life.
Arriving back in Conakry was kind of like that; except, instead of twenty minutes, we were in that sweat lodge for two months. Stepping through that door to the volunteer house was such a wonderful sensation, and I still can’t really put my finger on why.
My first explanation would be immediate access to air conditioning, television, and the internet, but that wasn’t it. I’m not a big TV junkie and I’ve got a bunch of shows and movies on my iPod anyways; air conditioning is nice, but after a few months you get used to the sweating and stickiness; and the internet – well, I don’t really get that many e-mails anymore and I only have enough good material to be able to post on this sucker every once a month or so, anyway.
No, that great feeling when I crossed the threshold was not a result of material products. I guess it must have has something to do with a freedom associated with the visit. The last time we visited the Peace Corps compound in Conakry was during our first few days in the country, when PCV’s and staff held our hands everywhere we went. Then, over the next eleven weeks in Forecariah, we always had classes to attend, classes to teach, and homework to do or grade. When we had spare time, we had to report our every move to our families. For the first time in almost three months, we were able to do what we wanted, when we wanted, without the stress of languages, passing the cross-culture exam, or simply fretting over what our families would feed us next.
For me, getting to spend time with the other G-16ers without those stresses was like getting to know them all over again, in a good way. Towards the end of our time in Forecariah, I was getting tired of always hanging out in the same places, for the same limited periods of time, always talking about the classes of that day or the next. For once, we were able to shed those restrictive shackles and just be ourselves. I got chances to really get to know some people I really hadn’t “met” during training, and the friendships I already had only became stronger.
On Thursday morning, we piled into the Peace Corps bus and made our way en ville to get some money from the bank and subsequently spend it all, gorging ourselves on “American” food. Peace Corps had already deposited our move-in allowance and the next three months’ living allowance, resulting in a whopping 4.3 million francs; we’d finally struck it rich! I withdrew three million, not sure of the next time I’d be in Conakry and wanting to make sure I had enough for the next few months. Since Guineans don’t have any bills larger than ten thousand francs, this resulted in quite a few bills, enough to need a backpack, but not so many that I wasn’t able to refute the lyrics of the great V.I.C./Soulja Boy song “Get Silly”, where they say “but forget a rubber band, cuz you can’t put a rubber band around a milli-ann!” Sorry Soulja Boy, but you CAN put a rubber band around a milli-ann!
With our money stowed safely away in our bags, a group of us made our way over to La Gondole, where I filled up on a large, fried egg (what the..?) pizza and a chocolate-banana milkshake. While it wasn’t a bad lunch, I’m not sure it was worth the 60 mille I had to fork over at the end. The cravings for American food, while they’re certainly still there, aren’t at the forefront of my mind anymore, which I suppose is actually quite a good thing, n’est-ce pas?
After leaving the restaurant, the plan was to go to the Leb store (run by Lebanese people) to pick up food and cooking supplies to take to site. The local authorities, however, had a different plan for us. When we got to the corner where we were going to turn towards the store, a police officer stepped in my path and saluted me. Confused, I half-saluted him and said “bonjour” as I tried to move around him. Staring me down with a look of incredulity, he stuck his arm out across my chest and demanded everyone’s documents. We obliged, passing over our Peace Corps ID cards and our cartes d’experts – our official Guinean documentation of our work here in the country. He claimed this wasn’t good enough, asking why we weren’t giving him our passports. We explained that our passports were held in the safe at the Peace Corps compound, resulting in him marching of down the street, taking our IDs with him and barking for us to follow.
I’m sure everybody has seen the movie or read the book where the unsuspecting foreigner falls prey to the crooked cop and winds up locked away in a dark prison cell for years, forgotten. Well, I wasn’t about to be that guy! I took about ten stops before I stopped, letting the police officer disappear into the crowd of people down the street; it would be much easier to get myself a new Peace Corps ID than get myself out of the back of some locked, windowless van… but just then our hero arrived in the form of Sam, the chief of the Peace Corps motor pool. We explained the problem and he immediately chased down the police officer, eventually returning with our IDs and an explanation. Apparently, security has been raised in Conakry such that all foreigners must now constantly prove they have not illegally entered the country. Why a bunch of Americans would try to sneak into Guinea, I don’t know.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully – olive oil, baking soda, and popcorn kernels were bought at the Leb store, then the afternoon was spent watching “Out of Africa” with Conor, Luke and Tiffany. The movie was alright, but I won’t be in a hurry to watch it again; it was quite slow-moving, and if I really want to re-watch a Robert Redford movie, it would probably be “The Sting.”
Friday – the day to which we’d all been looking forward for months, the day we could finally shed that nasty title of “trainee” and toast one another as “volunteers”! The swearing-in ceremony was held at the U.S. embassy, and oh! how good it felt to be back on U.S. soil, in a sense. The swearing-in ceremony was similar to the farewell ceremony in that four volunteers gave speeches, along with the some speeches by the Peace Corps administration. It differed in the fact that some more important Guinean officials spoke, the ambassador spoke, and, of course, at the end of THIS ceremony, we were all volunteers.
Understandably, we were all a bit disappointed when we’d been told there would be no food following the ceremony – it would be rude to eat in front of the fasting Guineans. So, you can imagine our delight when the last speech ended and we turned around to find tables of delicious finger foods and pastries. Not only were we on American soil, but we were eating bologna, mini-pizzas, cake, and drinking soda – can you get any more patriotic than that?
Dan, the Peace Corps country director, and his wife, Julia, had planned a pool party and barbeque for us at their house starting at four. Seeing as we had a few hours between our time at the embassy and the impending bash, we couldn’t think of a better way to get ready than with a few cold beverages, so a group of us headed down to the beach bar, my first visit since July. Showing up to the beach on a Friday (the Muslim holy day) during Ramadan was like landing on the moon – it was completely empty. Well, empty of people; there was still plenty of trash to go around! Needless to say, we had the bar to ourselves.
A few beverages later, the time was right to dive into the pool party. had one thing on my mind – swimming in that cool, clear water!
The food was ready a few hours later and we enjoyed some of the most delicious, and I must add, bone-free, hamburgers I’ve ever had, along with beans, potato salad and some fantastic dirty rice. To top it all off, we had fruit salad and brownies! for dessert. Throughout the barbeque, various embassy staff dropped in to eat and say hello, including the ambassador herself, who had arrived at her post in Guinea only a few days before.
Towards the end of the night, I made my way up to the roof, where I could watch the storm roll in from the Atlantic. A nice breeze blowing in across the ocean kept things cool the lighting closed the distance between us. I must have been up there for about two hours, just watching. Every now and then somebody else would pop up and we’d talk for a bit. All in all, it was a pretty cool end to a marvelous day.
Saturday was a day meant for shopping and preparing for site. A large group of volunteers hustled off in the morning to fight the crowds (and pickpockets) en ville at Medina. I didn’t want to deal with the hassle of being with such a large group, and I figured I could probably find most of what I needed at the nearby Towya market, so I stayed behind. A few hours later, Conor, Valentin, Tiffany, and I decided to splurge on one last meal, so we deplaced a taxi (meaning we were the only occupants) to Le Damier – one of the nicest restaurants in Conakry. When I say nicest, don’t go conjuring up images of the Mayflower Hotel or the 1796 restaurant in Georgetown. Instead, imagine a quaint, clean, little French café. While the waiter was appropriately snooty, the food was appropriately good. I ordered a croquet madame, a slice of chicken/tomato pizza, and a cappuccino. My bill came out to 78 mille, only about 40 mille shy of what we’ve all decided will be our next great Conakry adventure – Le Damier’s Saturday buffet! I could talk about it now, just based on what I saw, but I think I’ll wait until I’ve actually had the chance to enjoy it and can do it justice – perhaps I’ll treat myself to the buffet for Christmas?
Later in the day, I made my way down to Towya and picked up a few of the essentials – bed sheets, pots, dishes and utensils, and some screen to make screen doors for my hut. The hard thing about buying stuff in Guinea is that you always have to haggle over the prices and, being Americans, we have to haggle that much more. Due to this, no matter how much I pay in the end, I always walk away with the suspicion that I’ve been ripped off. That said, I was very pleased to later find out that I’d paid less for my goods than everyone else.
With the shopping finished, Ashley, Tiffany, Valentin, and I walked down to the beach bar to join Ben and Luke, who had spent the entire day at the beach in lieu of shopping. As the sun began to set, the sand-soccer games began to thin out and once again we had the beach mostly to ourselves. The two hours we spent there that evening were some of the happiest, most euphoric hours I’ve had in country. I was in great company, watching the sun set over the ocean with islands off in the distance, the day before we all set off on our great adventures. It was like fitting that last piece into the jigsaw puzzle – everything was finally in its right place, and the picture it made was beautiful. Oh, and having a few beers didn’t hurt, either.
That night, we feasted on a pig Ian had killed and roasted, along with coleslaw, deviled eggs, and a crème brule to die for. Caron had organized a rooftop carnival involving twister, flip cup, and beer pong. Tiffany and I exercised total domination in beer pong, clinching the championship title… okay, let’s be honest – the last game was taking so long we had to declare it a tie and move on… Added on to the victory list was G-16’s triumph over G-15 in a best two-out-of-three flip cup challenge. What were the prizes? Bear beer! (See the picture above)
The perfect weekend in Conakry came to an abrupt end Sunday morning when Ben, Alison and I hugged everybody goodbye, climbed into the Land Cruiser, and left. While I will see a few other volunteers in the next month or two, it will be at least Christmas before I see the rest of them, which is what made my farewell to Ben and Alison so bittersweet on Monday. As ready as I had been to set off on my own when we left Forecariah, the time spent in Conakry reminded me of the good friends I’d made and how much I would miss them over the next few months. Of course, all you friends back home reading this shouldn’t feel bad – it was much harder leaving you guys! But I think you already knew that :)
So, that brings me (quasi-)up-to-date. After the Peace Corps truck pulled away, I got to work settling in. One of my first moves was to commission screen doors from the carpenter, who’s ‘shop’ is only about 100 meters from my hut. It’s Friday as I write (this entry started on Monday – little by little, a bird builds its nest, right?), and the doors aren’t ready yet; I’m hoping they’ll be waiting for me when I get back from Faranah tomorrow evening.
When we first pulled up to my hut Monday, there must have been about 50 people waiting to greet me. At first, I was really stressed – how would I be able to get anything done with all those people around?? Within an hour of the truck leaving, though, everyone else had also left, the crowd having lost interest pretty quickly. It’s been wonderful having the last few days carefree and to myself. I’ll wake up around 7:30, roll out of bed, step into my backyard (which is now enclosed and private), where I’ll relax into my hammock. There, I’ll pick up my book of the moment (I’m on my third already), read for an hour or so, and doze back off. I’ll typically only sleep 20 or 30 minutes at a time in the hammock, but there have certainly been a few afternoons when I’ve put away a good hour or two…
At some point, around 9 or 10, I’ll pull myself out of the hammock and take off for a run or bike ride. I’ve not run terribly far yet – only six miles yesterday – I’ll have to get up a lot earlier for the distance runs, because by 9 am it’s already terrifically hot and humid, and there’s not beaucoup de shade on my road. I was curious as to how the locals would react to my running and was pleased with the result: although there were a few puzzled looks, there were plenty more smiles and cheers.
On Wednesday, I took off on my bike to Laya, a village about ten miles distant which I passed through on that 26 mile tour de force during site visit. When I passed through last time, a young man walked with me for a bit, explaining Laya had a tree where you could go for cell phone reception, so I thought I’d see if it was true. When I arrived, a petit named Haround, maybe around 14 or 15 years old, and three of his friends took me to the tree. I stood under the tree, staring at my phone, waiting for a signal, oh, and feeling just a little silly, too – the signal never came. When Harouna saw this, he said there was one other spot, pointing to the top of a large hill off in the distance. It seemed a long way, but I’d already come ten miles, and what else was I going to do? Go home and take another nap?
So we went. Halfway up the hill, he told me I’d have to leave my bike, and I could see way – from there on, the trail was barely visible through the jungle dense with trees and 8-foot tall grass. Although it wasn’t far, it wasn’t the easiest of hikes. The view from the top, signal or not, made the whole trip worthwhile. You could see the entire village of Laya laid out in the distance and then for miles past it. Unfortunately, I didn’t have my camera – but now that gives you a reason to tune back into my next post!
So, aside from reading, napping, exercising, and writing endlessly in my journal, what else am I doing? Becoming bien integre, of course! On Tuesday, I spent a few hours walking around with the principal of my school, Monsieur Camara. Our first stop was the market, which is only held on Tuesdays. Wanting some fruit, I was shocked to find out how expensive it was.. or, should I say.. inexpensive! I bought twelve grapefruit for 800 francs (about 16 cents), 11 oranges for 1200 frances (about 24 cents) and 10 bananas for 2000 francs (about 40 cents). In all, I bought more fruit than I could carry for less than a dollar. You can bet your bottom dollar that I used that last 20 cents to buy a bag!
Afterwards, we went about the village, greeting all the local big-men. The imam presented me with two mille to buy myself kola nuts as the customary welcome gift, as did the president of the quartier marche. It didn’t feel quite right just mixing that money with the rest of my money, so it’s sitting in an honorary spot at the corner of my desk/table/counter, kind of like how people frame the first dollar they make, until I figure out something better to do with it.
Each day at site, I make an effort to spend at least a few hours integrating into the community, which basically means a walk through town, in my Sunday best, to the café, where I’ll drink tea with the older men who can only speak a little French. Most of the people here speak a language called Yalonke, which it either the basis for Susu or is based off Susu, depending who you ask. Nevertheless, I am the only volunteer in a Yalonke village (I think there are only about 10,000 people who speak it in the world, and most of them are in my village), so I just studied Susu with the others. I can pick up words here and there, but it is a very subtle language and it will be quite a while before I am comfortable with it.
My only real setback in moving into my hut was the realization that two of my bags had not made it onto the truck in Conakry. It’s not a big deal, hopefully they will arrive when the mail-run comes. It is, however, a little inconvenient because those two bags were the bags with all the stuff I’d bought in Conakry for site – i.e. my sheets and my cooking gear. Like I said, it’s not a big deal – I have a sleeping bag until the sheets come, and my neighbors will cook for me until my cooking stuff arrives… or so I thought!
When I walked through town during my site visit about a month and a half ago, I must have received 20 invitations to eat with various people. Naturally, I figured the same thing would happen when I moved here.. only, that wasn’t the case. My first night I ended up eating some care package snacks for dinner. The second night, though, I did receive a delicious chicken dinner from my principal’s wife, as well as some rice for Wednesday’s lunch, but other than that, I’ve been on my own. Luckily, I have that care package food and the fruit I bought the other day, so I’ve actually been eating quite well. On this day, though, I spotted some bread for sale on my walk through town. I scooped up a loaf and went off in search of some peanut butter. A woman sold me a lump (that’s how they sell it here) and I was headed home to a delicious dinner! I figured I’d eat half the loaf tonight and the other half in the morning before the 50km bike ride into Faranah.
I fixed myself a nice little sandwich with peanut butter, honey I’d bought in Conakry, and even went a bit overboard by adding a few pieces of some fancy bittersweet chocolate my friend had been so kind as to send. Sandwich in hand, I sat in front of my hut, taking the first bite as I continued to write in my journal. Just as I was about to take the second bite, an old woman walked by on the path which crosses just 20 feet from my front door. She greeted me in Yalonke and I greeted back, and, in an attempt to be vrai Guinean, said “invitation?” Guineans love this and always say, “Merci, bon appétit!” and go on their way. Well! I’ll be damned if that old woman didn’t take me up on it! She took the sandwich and sat next to me. Expecting her to take a bite and hand it back to me, I was rather surprised when she stood up, said thanks, and walked off, my whole sandwich (and dinner), minus a bit, in tow!
Thank goodness for second halves, right? I just went right back into my hut and made up the sandwich I was going to have for breakfast, although this time I was sure to eat it behind the cover of a book whenever somebody walked by… I guess the moral of the story is that whenever you invitation someone on a sandwich, unless you want them to take the whole dang thing, break off how much you really want to share…
Saturday, September 27, 2008
33 pounds.
That's how much I've lost since I came to Guinea. I was 220 pounds the day we left for Forecariah; 187 the day we finished in Forecariah and come back to Conakry.
Sorry there's not a new, large post on leaving Forecariah and swearing in at the embassy, but there's a lot to swallow in the process, and I'd like to do it justice. Hopefully I will be back on here before Halloween with a decent wrap-up.
Until then, please know that I am incredibly happy right now; the last few days in Conakry have been some of my happiest, most euphoric moments. The friendships I have made here are great and will only become stronger. And, I am very proud of everyone in our group - all 25 of the people who started that first day in Philly have made it all the way here, a rarity for Peace Corps.
I'd like to give special shout-outs to the parents of Tiffany, Alison, and Valentin, and of course to all those other G-16 parents out there reading this right now. Your kids are all wonderful people and I consider myself very lucky to have them in my life. Except for Jesse, of course. We could all really do without him...
Joking. I love Jesse; there are none better than said guy.
Lastly, for those of you who would like to leave a comment but don't have a google account, I've updated the settings so that anonymous comments can be made. So go ahead then, make 'em!
Sorry there's not a new, large post on leaving Forecariah and swearing in at the embassy, but there's a lot to swallow in the process, and I'd like to do it justice. Hopefully I will be back on here before Halloween with a decent wrap-up.
Until then, please know that I am incredibly happy right now; the last few days in Conakry have been some of my happiest, most euphoric moments. The friendships I have made here are great and will only become stronger. And, I am very proud of everyone in our group - all 25 of the people who started that first day in Philly have made it all the way here, a rarity for Peace Corps.
I'd like to give special shout-outs to the parents of Tiffany, Alison, and Valentin, and of course to all those other G-16 parents out there reading this right now. Your kids are all wonderful people and I consider myself very lucky to have them in my life. Except for Jesse, of course. We could all really do without him...
Joking. I love Jesse; there are none better than said guy.
Lastly, for those of you who would like to leave a comment but don't have a google account, I've updated the settings so that anonymous comments can be made. So go ahead then, make 'em!
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
On killing chickens, pigs and men
(This post was finished late Wednesday, early Thursday, the 24th and 25th of September. At this point I have finished training in Forecariah and am in Conakry through Sunday, at which point I’ll travel to Kankan for a day or two before setting off for my site. This post will mostly be limited to things which happened before Wednesday – hopefully I will have a new post ready Saturday night to reflect on things like leaving Forecariah, swearing in at the US embassy, and my hopes and fears of being the only white person for 120 km. If you want to catch me in the next few days while I still have good phone service, my number is 224-65805011)
After sharing my last set of adventures with you, I was worried I might run dry on material and return to the blog empty-handed. But then I remembered I’m in Africa and all I have to do is get out of bed in order for something crazy to happen. In this entry, I’ll be regaling you with accounts of mistaken identity, evil sorcery, and gruesome beheadings, among other niceties.
Let’s start with the case of mistaken identity and the evil sorcery.
The story begins a few weeks ago, in my afternoon Susu class. For those of you who have never been in or seen a Guinean school (what’s that, like 90% of you?), I’ve gone to the trouble of providing a few pictures to lend some visuals to the story.
As you can see, there is not much to the school – basically just a bunch of rooms with open windows. These windows can prove to be a problem when teaching, because passersby don’t seem to have any problem stopping and watching your class for ten minutes. They also have no qualms with verbally greeting the occupants of the classroom, generally sticking around and speaking up until they get some sort of response. Most teachers will just shoo away the spectators, but Dr. Diané, being the friendliest person you’ll ever meet, does not hesitate to greet every single person who stops by our class.
On the particular day of this story, a man dropped by just as we were taking a break, with Federico, Tiffany and I stepping outside to stretch and walk around. Dr. Diané talked to his visitor for the duration of the break, handing the man some money as he bade him ‘Bonne chance!’ and turned his attention to us. He could tell we were curious why he gave the man money and provided us with this explanation, ‘That man is in a little bit of trouble. He was out hunting this weekend when he accidentally shot a man. It looks like he might be going to jail.’ We didn’t have much with which to respond, so the subject died away… until a few weeks later.
Now it’s a few a weeks later and, once again, Federico, Tiffany and I are sitting in Susu class. This time, a woman stops by and talks to the doctor for a good five minutes. Afterward, he turned around and explained she was the wife of the man who had been shot. Naturally, we asked how he was, and we found out he’d only been shot in the shoulder and would be okay. The next question, though, was to yield a much more interesting answer. What about the man who shot the guy? Is he in jail? ‘Well,’ the doctor responded (in French, this has been translated for your benefit!), ‘during the day, he stays in the prison across the street, but they let him walk home for meals and at night to sleep. You see, it’s a tricky situation, because it turns out the man he shot is a sorcerer. At the time when he shot him, the man/sorcerer was actually in the form of a pig. However, after being shot, the sorcerer/pig turned back into the man/sorcerer who consequently bore the bullet wound of his former pig/sorcerer-self. Since the man being charged was basically only guilty of shooting pig, since he didn’t know it was actually a man, the authorities don’t know how to justly try him.’
The entire time the doctor was telling the story, I had been recopying some notes, not watching him. Looking up at the end of the story, I was expecting to see a large grin and to hear a loud ‘GOTCHA!’, but I didn’t. He was dead serious. This is Guinea, and in Guinea, if you’re a sorcerer, you can turn into a pig. I guess, seeing as this is a Muslim country, that must generally be a fairly safe transition, what with Muslims not eating pigs ever since the time a pig led a thirsty Mohamed to a water source ages ago (is this really why Muslims don’t eat pork? This is just the explanation I’ve been given over and over here, so don’t hold me to it). Unfortunately, this man/sorcerer/pig picked the wrong time to transform, seeing as one of the very few non-Muslims in the country happened to be hunting right by him. I guess this is just one of the risks you take when you choose the path of pig sorcery.
At the end of all of this, Federico tried to connect to the story by adding that he’d heard ducks can turn into snakes. The doctor replied that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard – how could a duck possibly turn into a snake??
Please don’t misinterpret this as a knock on Dr. Diané – he is one of the most intelligent people I’ve met here: he earned his doctorate in linguistics while studying in Russia, speaks French, Russian, English, Susu, Malinke, and Pular, and now does linguistics research at the university in Conakry; basically, a pretty sharp dude. Rather, let this serve as an example of cross-cultural learning and understanding. I don’t (or at least I try not to) think less of a person because they believe a person can turn into a pig, just like I would try not to think less of a person in India for believing the cow in the middle of the road is his or her reincarnated grandfather, just like I would hope some foreigner doesn’t come to my house in the States someday and laugh at me for saying I believe in Jesus. All that said, I still think that story is really funny, and I hope you enjoyed it.
Moving on to killing chickens.
The classic Guinean method of killing a chicken comprises 8 magic steps:
1) Pick up the (now living) chicken by the feet. Preferably the feet were already bound when you bought it at the market, otherwise you may need to throw in a pre-step-1 step: catch the chicken.
2) For those of you who have read The Power of One, the next step should be obvious (and if you haven’t read it read, you should probably get on that). Lay the chicken (should we give it a name? How about Montgomery? I just came up with it and think it’s a brilliant name for a chicken with whom we don’t want an over-stayed friendship), Montgomery, down on the ground, beak first. Since the chicken has been hanging upside-down, the blood flows to the head and results in a docile, sleepy chicken. I think that’s how it works.
3) With Montgomery on the ground, spread out his wings behind it and pin them to the ground with a knee.
4) Hold his head with your left hand, being sure to cover his eyes so he doesn’t see the knife – for some reason that really freaks him out.
5) With his head in your left hand, move your right elbow down to pin the legs down, while your right hand reaches for the knife.
6) Use your left hand to spread the neck kind of thin, giving yourself something easy to cut into.
7) Now you have two choices:
7a) Use the vrai-Guinean method and just slice the neck a little, letting the chicken bleed out to death. This will take five to ten minutes.
7b) As an alternative to waiting ten minutes for Montgomery to die, you can keep sawing through after that initial slice, straight on through the neck until suddenly Montgomery is in two pieces.
8) This is the last numbered step because at this point, you just wait for the body to stop moving. The head will move around for a little while – just involuntary nerve-twitching for ten or twenty seconds, but the body is the real champ. That sucker will keep rocking for the next five minutes, as though he’s really got something to fight for. Anyways, I suppose I could go on in a little more graphic detail about what Montgomery is doing at this point, but I think I’ll spare you.
I will, however, tell you the next few steps in preparing the chicken. First, you have to break the legs midway down, so you can cut off the feet. We won’t be eating those. Next, you pour boiling water on it. This will make the feathers easy to remove, which also happens to be the next step. Pluck the feathers. Once you’ve taken care of this, you can hold our friend over a light fire for just a few seconds, charring off any remaining feathers. At this point, you have the same basic whole chicken you might see in the grocery or on a rotisserie spit.
Now that you are equipped with the knowledge of chicken killing, I suppose I’ll give you the actual story. One Sunday, a bunch of the PCTs and a few of the PCVs decided to experiment with cooking over an open fire and make a good meal at the same time. About 15 of us threw money and work to secure a nice meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and chocolate cake. We got 9 chickens from the market (if you’re curious, a live chicken costs between 15000 and 2000 GF, or between $3 and $4). Naturally, the chickens had to be killed. Honestly, I wasn’t terribly enthused by the prospect of killing – once as a child, while I was backing out of the pen, I accidently stepped on and killed one of the seven baby ducklings my parents had gotten for my sisters and me as an Easter gift. Needless to say, I was scarred for a long, long time. Well, Sunday was the day to build a bridge and I got over it. I was able to justify it by the fact that chickens will never be my friends so long as they continue to cluck, crow, and buh-gok! outside my bedroom window from 5am to 7pm every day, even after I throw rocks at them.
Some of the chickens barely bled, but not mine; he was a bleeder. To be honest, though, the whole thing really didn’t bother me; it actually all seemed pretty natural. And I love chicken. The fried result was delicious – we breaded it in flour, lemon pepper, pimont, salt, and many other tasty choses. There’s a good chance you’re also wondering how we had chocolate cake, considering there are no ovens here. Well! We made one! You take a giant pot, put three similar sized rocks on the bottom, but your (covered) cake dish on the rocks, for the pot with water about halfway up the rocks, cover the pot, and let it bake. It takes a while, but it does a pretty good job.
Here are the pictures of the ordeal - please be aware they include me cutting off the head.. and holding it, so if you don't want to see it, just skip ahead.
Practical jokes.
I’m been living with a family of clowns, and, naturally, I love it. Nba loves to prank call me. Some nights I’ll be reading on the front porch surrounded by the family and about 600 others. Just when I’ve really become engrossed in my book, my phone will start to ring. You can only imagine how excited I get when my phone rings – there’s a chance somebody might be calling me from the States! But then I pull the phone from my pocket only to see “Nba Calling”. I let out a defeated “Ohhh! Nba!!!” and they go nuts laughing. Pretending the joke is over, I put the phone back in my pocket, Nba puts his phone back into the bottom of the plastic bag he carries around. Little does he know, I’ve got his number queued and ready to go. A few minutes later --- BAM! His phone rings and he starts digging madly through his bag to answer the call.. but alas, it’s just me, hahaha! ‘Ayyyyy Ablo!!’ is the cry resounding throughout the front porch. They love it, and through this exchange I know I have become a part of the family.
As impressed as you may already be by my family’s sense of humor, I promise it gets even better. The first package I received (from my awesome mom – thanks Mom!) contained some ready to eat bacon, which is a pretty amazing thing in a country where they don’t eat pork. Figuring that my family was Muslim and would not eat the bacon, I had put off the idea of eating until installation at site. However, this all took a turn for the better one night when I ventured into the gray realm of religious discussion with Nba. It would something like this:
Me: “Nba, are you Muslim?”
Nba: “Haha, no!”
Me: “Are you Christian?”
Nba: “Haha, no!”
Me: “Do you practice any religion at all?”
Nba: “No way!”
This came as quite a shock, considering his brother, who lives across the dirt path, awakens the neighborhood nearly every morning with his 5am prayer obligations. Also, seeing that everyone else in the country is Muslim, it would have made sense for my family to follow suit.
I saw this discovery as a window of opportunity and jumped at the attempt to please my family and enjoy a tasty ‘American’ meal all at the same time – I would cook them breakfast! Seeing as I thought ahead and had packed my non-stick frying pan and matching spatula, cooking eggs and bacon over a fire would not be a problem. The morning of the breakfast, I woke up and walked down to the market, hoping to find potatoes, garlic, eggs, fruit, and all sorts of other delicious breakfast accoutrements. Unfortunately, 7am on a rainy Sunday morning is not the best time to go to the market; I ended up going home with a dozen eggs, a loaf of bread, and some (expensive) bananas.
Apparently, Fote cooking causes quite a scene, such that approximately two thousand people watched as I cooked. Surprisingly, the eggs I fried over the open fire were the prettiest I’ve ever made and the breakfast turned out to be a great success. The family took after my lead in making bacon and egg sandwiches, followed by some of the bananas. Probably one of my better meals in Guinea.
Now we flash forward a few weeks to the first day of Ramadan… For those of you who aren’t familiar with this Muslim holiday, Ramadan is a month of reflection and prayer during which the followers fast during the day (they don’t eat between 5:20am and 7pm – pretty much sunup to sundown), and pray more consistently, in larger groups, and much louder. The fasting includes abstaining from water, and, in the more devout cases, even the swallowing of spit is denied.
I was curious what it was like for a non-Muslim living in a Muslim society during this time, so I decided to broach the topic with Nba. This conversation went something like this:
Me: “So, Ramadan starts tomorrow.”
Nba: “Actually, it started today. I’m already fasting.”
Me: “Fasting? What do you mean? You’re not Muslim.”
Nba: “Of course I am!”
And that night I even saw Nba pray for the first time. The son-of-a-gun pulled a fast one on me! So, it turns out, I was living with a Muslim family after all… or so I thought!! Because two days ago, I came home from school early, only to find Nba fist-deep in a bowl of rice. Our conversation?
Me: “Nba, you’re eating!”
Nba: “Well, of course I am!”
I don’t know. She gets kicked in the head by a mule – eyes go crossed; she falls in a well – eyes go back. I don’t know!
(Ten points to you if you know that quote)
On Sickness.
Last Wednesday, all 25 of us piled into the Peace Corps bus and made our way into Mamou, located in the center of Guinea. The six hour ride through windy, bumpy roads could not have been better. Oh yeah, except for the fact that about 40 minutes into the ride I got really hot and began vomiting violently. This happened six more times over the next two hours, resulting in one of the most unpleasant voyages ever, even worse than the bumpy ferry ride to Vieques the morning after Ryan and I kept drinking those hurricane glasses of Bacardi. Seeing as I haven’t been motion sick since my childhood trips to Hilton Head, I figured the vomiting must have been due to something I ate that morning (hardboiled eggs, potatoes, cucumbers, a vegetable I’ve never seen before which I hated, and peanut butter on Guinean bread). The doctor was in Mamou when we got there, so I told him about it, just sort of brushing it off as a bad case of food poisoning.
Two days later, after a few bad headaches and some dizziness which I’d attributed to poor sleep, I got a phone call from the doctor. Looks like the nausea and fever were caused by… Malaria! Yep. I became the first volunteer in Guinea to test positive for Malaria this year. You see, we had (sort of luckily) done sample blood slides the week before in a session with the doctor, and they’d happened to examine these right as I was getting sick. Pretty lucky, really. Don’t worry, you can rest easy, because I’m okay. I started the medication right away, and in spite of a miserable (and I mean REALLY miserable – vomiting seven times in forty minutes, curling up on the floor in the corner of my room, and crying) Sunday, I am feeling great now. Some blood was taken today and I should know later tomorrow whether or not I’ve got the all-clear. So, for all you parents out there reading this and worrying about your kids getting malaria, don’t worry! Just like Calvin’s dad always said – it builds character!
On another, slightly related note, I am getting paler by the day. In order to ward off malaria, I am taking Mefloquine weekly. This drug does two things: 1) not prevent malaria, apparently (just kidding! But no, really) and 2) prevent tanning. I can still get sunburned, but the medicine does something to the melanin in your skin and prevents it from coming out and making me pretty. If there’s a dermatologist somewhere out there reading this, please feel free to chime in with a comment on this. All I’m trying to say is, as you look at my pictures, month after month, this is the reason why, in spite of spending day in and day out under the African sun, I’ll be as pale as an snowman (see, that’s funny, because there are NO snowmen in Guinea).
High Culture.
Last night was my last night in Forecariah and, as such, I deemed it prudent to spend time with my family. We happened to have power, so the evening’s activities involved cramming about 40 people into our living room to watch a Susu film. I have no idea what the movie was about, but I can aver to its cultural validity. The movie seemed about one step up from me following two Guineans around with a camera, watching them greet their friends (this movie had no shortage of saluations), eating, and walking home. At one point, as I tried to find something to pay attention to in the movie, I thought about what kind of clothes the actors were wearing. “If this film is vrai Guineen, the actors would be wearing clothes from the dead white people’s market.” Sure enough, the very moment this thought crossed my mind, I looked up and saw the character on screen was wearing a University of Kentucky t-shirt. Booya!! It just so happens Nba was wearing the UK hat I’d brought for him. When I pointed out he and the actor wore the clothes of the same dead white person, the living lost it, with a few more “Ayyy, Ablo!”’s.
Practice School.
I realize teaching is the reason I’m here, so I should dedicate at least a small section of the post to it. Granted, I’ll be teaching full-time once I move to site and will have many more stories to share, so this section won’t be too long. As trainees, we spent three weeks teaching Guinean students in a sort of honorary summer school – only students who registered themselves were allowed to come. During the first week, I taught 7th and 8th grade each day, one hour for each class. During the second and third weeks, I taught 9th and 10th grade on alternating days, one two hour class each day.
Believe it or not, getting in front of a class of Guinean students and speaking French for two hours was no problem at all. I find that the first few minutes are kind of like waking up in the morning – you’re not exactly sure what you’re saying – but after a few minutes you’ve gathered yourself and are ready for the day. One of the great challenges came during tests, when every student, even the smart ones, tried to cheat. It must be in their blood. This subject really deserves its own post, so I’ll hold off on its elaboration until I’m at site.
Buff.
During the first month of training, I avoided my training in the other sense, that is, running, lifting and just fitness in general. I was worried that by leaving the family to run, I would be alienating myself and not becoming “bien integre”. As I may have already said once or twice, it’s really hot here. When I run, my body becomes very hot, so it takes a LONG time to cool down afterwards. If I go straight from the run to the bucket bath, I’ll end up spending the remainder of the evening sitting on the porch in a second bath – a bath of sweat. In an effort to prevent said sweat bath, each run/exercise session is followed up by thirty or forty minutes of laying, quite still, on a pagne of cloth on my floor as I listen to music. I’m pretty sure this ritual has convinced the family I’m nuts, but to me, it’s a moment of pure euphoria, one of the reasons I’m here. Unfortunately, it eats up a good chunk of the evening, which would have been a bit too anti-social for the premier month of stage.
During the second month, though, I hopped out of my funk. I was tired of feeling homesick, out of shape, and generally not myself. Although I don’t currently have a specific training plan to follow, this is what I mapped out:
Monday: 4 miles run, pull-ups and chin-ups at the stade 1 mile from the end of the run, core stability once I get home
Tuesday: 6 miles run, 10 sets of 25 pushups (wide grip, close grip, narrow/tricep, incline, and decline), and Basedow abs 1 (laugh if you want, but it works)
Wednesday: same as Monday
Thursday: 10 sets of 25 pushups (wide grip, close grip, narrow/tricep, incline, and decline), and Basedow abs 2
Friday : 7 miles run, pull-ups and chin-ups at the stade 1 mile from the end of the run, core stability once I get home
Saturday: 10 miles run, 10 sets of 25 pushups (wide grip, close grip, narrow/tricep, incline, and decline), and Basedow abs 3
Sunday: Off
The miles have varied as the weeks have progressed, and I’ve taken off of working out since the malaria hit, but the result is the same – I am happier and healthier now that fitness is a part of my life again. I can’t wait to get to site and put in some serious Hunter time on the road! This will probably play a big role in my future posts.
Some might be interested to know that I weighed myself today. However! I’m not going to tell you my new, African weight… yet. I want people to guess, and the winner will get a prize. Post your guesses as comments to this blog post, and I’ll put the answer and winner on the next post, Wednesday.
Hunter. What are you going to do after Peace Corps? Do you have any awesome ideas?
Of course I do! I’ve been planning on starting a snail farm for years, and now I think I’ll finally be able to realize that dream. Okay, no. Realistically, I am planning on taking the GRE and LSAT next summer, with the possibility of enrolling in graduate or law school in the fall of 2010, after I’ve finished over here. Right now, though, I’m looking at that as a backup plan. Here’s my grand Plan A:
Upon finishing my service in Guinea, I’ll travel to South Africa, where I’ll run the Comrades Ultramarathon (56 miles) with Noah, kicking off a year-long tour around the world of all the world’s great sporting events. In June of 2010, I’ll watch the World Cup in South Africa. From there, I’ll scoot up to France to see the Tour de France. Ensuite, I’ll catch the Henley Royal Regatta in England. Ultimately, I’ll see the whole world: ping pong in China; cricket in India; sumo wrestling in Japan; rugby in Australia; the Superbowl and World Series in the States. Naturally, I’d finish up the tour with the Kentucky Derby in May of 2011, at which point I’d write a book about the experiences around the world, documenting the different cultures, atmospheres around the events, and the crazy tailgating/after-parties.
Now you’re thinking, ‘Hunter, what an awesome idea! But how will you pay for it??’ Ah-hah! That’s where you come in, kind of. If you enjoy reading this blog, and especially if you don’t even know me, tell your friends and family about it and spread the word. More people reading it means I might actually work a little harder at providing you with something readable and entertaining, and maybe, with some absurd amount of luck, become a decent enough writer to pen a book. Hopefully that absurd amount of luck will also carry with it a wonderful benefactor who will know how to help me fulfill this dream! Or, if you have any ideas, feel free to share them.
Another idea, and possibly a better one, is to get some legitimate publishing credit – perhaps I could submit an article about running in Africa to a magazine like Runners’ World or Outside (thanks, Noah) and get something published (this is something I actually need to review with Peace Corps, because I’m fairly sure we can’t be paid, during service, for any writing done involving our service, a conflict of interest of sorts. However, if I refuse pay, maybe I can get around this. If, by some miracle, I can get a few things published, maybe I can convince a published to front me the money to write the book. It’s a work in progress, but I’ve got two years to try to flesh it out, so why the hell not??
And now for my shameless plug on sending me stuff.
Thanks! To everyone who’s sent me stuff. Granted, I’ve only received a handful of letters, but I’m sure the others will get here at some point. There has been a slight change to the address, such that PCT has been amended to read PCV (whoomp! there it is!), so the new address is:
Hunter Dreidame, PCV
Corps de la Paix
B.P. 1927, Conakry
Guinea
West Africa
Once again, I think drawing crosses and writing ‘Dieu Regarde!’ on the boxes/letters helps; I’ve seen that some people go as far as pasting religious images on the packages – hey, it can’t hurt.
Lots of people have been asking what to send, so here are some (okay, a lot of) ideas of things I can’t get here but love:
Twizzlers
Snickers (bite size)
Laffy Taffy
Chex Mix
Pepperoni
Jerky
Granola Bars
Camping meals (add hot water)
Fruit cups
Trail mix
Little Debbies
Sparks
Cold Beer
Woodford Reserve
Magazines (The Economist, Sports Illustrated, People – any news!)
DVDs
Good books you think I should read
Music! Mixed CDs are great, or CDs with mp3s.
NY Times/Washington Post crossword puzzles
Photos
This is just stuff I’m thinking of late at night – but I will love anything that you take the time to send. Keep in mind I only get mail once a month once I’m at site, so it may take as many as two months for your stuff to get to me. If it does get to me, though, I PROMISE you will get a response in the mail. Who doesn’t love snail mail??
Oh, and for the DVD’s – if you’re a computer buff and want to rip the movies into iPod format and just throw a bunch on one disc, that would be awesome as well (since that’s most of what I’ll be watching at site). I use DVD Decrypter to pull the movies onto the computer and Videora iPod Converter to convert the movies – if you google it there’s a great walkthrough.
Of course, a nice handwritten letter is just as good as any box packed full of candy, so write away!
If you've read this far, how about some pictures as a reward?
And now, it is getting very late here, so I must bid you adieu. Until Saturday!
Love to all,
Hunter
After sharing my last set of adventures with you, I was worried I might run dry on material and return to the blog empty-handed. But then I remembered I’m in Africa and all I have to do is get out of bed in order for something crazy to happen. In this entry, I’ll be regaling you with accounts of mistaken identity, evil sorcery, and gruesome beheadings, among other niceties.
Let’s start with the case of mistaken identity and the evil sorcery.
The story begins a few weeks ago, in my afternoon Susu class. For those of you who have never been in or seen a Guinean school (what’s that, like 90% of you?), I’ve gone to the trouble of providing a few pictures to lend some visuals to the story.
As you can see, there is not much to the school – basically just a bunch of rooms with open windows. These windows can prove to be a problem when teaching, because passersby don’t seem to have any problem stopping and watching your class for ten minutes. They also have no qualms with verbally greeting the occupants of the classroom, generally sticking around and speaking up until they get some sort of response. Most teachers will just shoo away the spectators, but Dr. Diané, being the friendliest person you’ll ever meet, does not hesitate to greet every single person who stops by our class.
On the particular day of this story, a man dropped by just as we were taking a break, with Federico, Tiffany and I stepping outside to stretch and walk around. Dr. Diané talked to his visitor for the duration of the break, handing the man some money as he bade him ‘Bonne chance!’ and turned his attention to us. He could tell we were curious why he gave the man money and provided us with this explanation, ‘That man is in a little bit of trouble. He was out hunting this weekend when he accidentally shot a man. It looks like he might be going to jail.’ We didn’t have much with which to respond, so the subject died away… until a few weeks later.
Now it’s a few a weeks later and, once again, Federico, Tiffany and I are sitting in Susu class. This time, a woman stops by and talks to the doctor for a good five minutes. Afterward, he turned around and explained she was the wife of the man who had been shot. Naturally, we asked how he was, and we found out he’d only been shot in the shoulder and would be okay. The next question, though, was to yield a much more interesting answer. What about the man who shot the guy? Is he in jail? ‘Well,’ the doctor responded (in French, this has been translated for your benefit!), ‘during the day, he stays in the prison across the street, but they let him walk home for meals and at night to sleep. You see, it’s a tricky situation, because it turns out the man he shot is a sorcerer. At the time when he shot him, the man/sorcerer was actually in the form of a pig. However, after being shot, the sorcerer/pig turned back into the man/sorcerer who consequently bore the bullet wound of his former pig/sorcerer-self. Since the man being charged was basically only guilty of shooting pig, since he didn’t know it was actually a man, the authorities don’t know how to justly try him.’
The entire time the doctor was telling the story, I had been recopying some notes, not watching him. Looking up at the end of the story, I was expecting to see a large grin and to hear a loud ‘GOTCHA!’, but I didn’t. He was dead serious. This is Guinea, and in Guinea, if you’re a sorcerer, you can turn into a pig. I guess, seeing as this is a Muslim country, that must generally be a fairly safe transition, what with Muslims not eating pigs ever since the time a pig led a thirsty Mohamed to a water source ages ago (is this really why Muslims don’t eat pork? This is just the explanation I’ve been given over and over here, so don’t hold me to it). Unfortunately, this man/sorcerer/pig picked the wrong time to transform, seeing as one of the very few non-Muslims in the country happened to be hunting right by him. I guess this is just one of the risks you take when you choose the path of pig sorcery.
At the end of all of this, Federico tried to connect to the story by adding that he’d heard ducks can turn into snakes. The doctor replied that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard – how could a duck possibly turn into a snake??
Please don’t misinterpret this as a knock on Dr. Diané – he is one of the most intelligent people I’ve met here: he earned his doctorate in linguistics while studying in Russia, speaks French, Russian, English, Susu, Malinke, and Pular, and now does linguistics research at the university in Conakry; basically, a pretty sharp dude. Rather, let this serve as an example of cross-cultural learning and understanding. I don’t (or at least I try not to) think less of a person because they believe a person can turn into a pig, just like I would try not to think less of a person in India for believing the cow in the middle of the road is his or her reincarnated grandfather, just like I would hope some foreigner doesn’t come to my house in the States someday and laugh at me for saying I believe in Jesus. All that said, I still think that story is really funny, and I hope you enjoyed it.
Moving on to killing chickens.
The classic Guinean method of killing a chicken comprises 8 magic steps:
1) Pick up the (now living) chicken by the feet. Preferably the feet were already bound when you bought it at the market, otherwise you may need to throw in a pre-step-1 step: catch the chicken.
2) For those of you who have read The Power of One, the next step should be obvious (and if you haven’t read it read, you should probably get on that). Lay the chicken (should we give it a name? How about Montgomery? I just came up with it and think it’s a brilliant name for a chicken with whom we don’t want an over-stayed friendship), Montgomery, down on the ground, beak first. Since the chicken has been hanging upside-down, the blood flows to the head and results in a docile, sleepy chicken. I think that’s how it works.
3) With Montgomery on the ground, spread out his wings behind it and pin them to the ground with a knee.
4) Hold his head with your left hand, being sure to cover his eyes so he doesn’t see the knife – for some reason that really freaks him out.
5) With his head in your left hand, move your right elbow down to pin the legs down, while your right hand reaches for the knife.
6) Use your left hand to spread the neck kind of thin, giving yourself something easy to cut into.
7) Now you have two choices:
7a) Use the vrai-Guinean method and just slice the neck a little, letting the chicken bleed out to death. This will take five to ten minutes.
7b) As an alternative to waiting ten minutes for Montgomery to die, you can keep sawing through after that initial slice, straight on through the neck until suddenly Montgomery is in two pieces.
8) This is the last numbered step because at this point, you just wait for the body to stop moving. The head will move around for a little while – just involuntary nerve-twitching for ten or twenty seconds, but the body is the real champ. That sucker will keep rocking for the next five minutes, as though he’s really got something to fight for. Anyways, I suppose I could go on in a little more graphic detail about what Montgomery is doing at this point, but I think I’ll spare you.
I will, however, tell you the next few steps in preparing the chicken. First, you have to break the legs midway down, so you can cut off the feet. We won’t be eating those. Next, you pour boiling water on it. This will make the feathers easy to remove, which also happens to be the next step. Pluck the feathers. Once you’ve taken care of this, you can hold our friend over a light fire for just a few seconds, charring off any remaining feathers. At this point, you have the same basic whole chicken you might see in the grocery or on a rotisserie spit.
Now that you are equipped with the knowledge of chicken killing, I suppose I’ll give you the actual story. One Sunday, a bunch of the PCTs and a few of the PCVs decided to experiment with cooking over an open fire and make a good meal at the same time. About 15 of us threw money and work to secure a nice meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and chocolate cake. We got 9 chickens from the market (if you’re curious, a live chicken costs between 15000 and 2000 GF, or between $3 and $4). Naturally, the chickens had to be killed. Honestly, I wasn’t terribly enthused by the prospect of killing – once as a child, while I was backing out of the pen, I accidently stepped on and killed one of the seven baby ducklings my parents had gotten for my sisters and me as an Easter gift. Needless to say, I was scarred for a long, long time. Well, Sunday was the day to build a bridge and I got over it. I was able to justify it by the fact that chickens will never be my friends so long as they continue to cluck, crow, and buh-gok! outside my bedroom window from 5am to 7pm every day, even after I throw rocks at them.
Some of the chickens barely bled, but not mine; he was a bleeder. To be honest, though, the whole thing really didn’t bother me; it actually all seemed pretty natural. And I love chicken. The fried result was delicious – we breaded it in flour, lemon pepper, pimont, salt, and many other tasty choses. There’s a good chance you’re also wondering how we had chocolate cake, considering there are no ovens here. Well! We made one! You take a giant pot, put three similar sized rocks on the bottom, but your (covered) cake dish on the rocks, for the pot with water about halfway up the rocks, cover the pot, and let it bake. It takes a while, but it does a pretty good job.
Here are the pictures of the ordeal - please be aware they include me cutting off the head.. and holding it, so if you don't want to see it, just skip ahead.
Practical jokes.
I’m been living with a family of clowns, and, naturally, I love it. Nba loves to prank call me. Some nights I’ll be reading on the front porch surrounded by the family and about 600 others. Just when I’ve really become engrossed in my book, my phone will start to ring. You can only imagine how excited I get when my phone rings – there’s a chance somebody might be calling me from the States! But then I pull the phone from my pocket only to see “Nba Calling”. I let out a defeated “Ohhh! Nba!!!” and they go nuts laughing. Pretending the joke is over, I put the phone back in my pocket, Nba puts his phone back into the bottom of the plastic bag he carries around. Little does he know, I’ve got his number queued and ready to go. A few minutes later --- BAM! His phone rings and he starts digging madly through his bag to answer the call.. but alas, it’s just me, hahaha! ‘Ayyyyy Ablo!!’ is the cry resounding throughout the front porch. They love it, and through this exchange I know I have become a part of the family.
As impressed as you may already be by my family’s sense of humor, I promise it gets even better. The first package I received (from my awesome mom – thanks Mom!) contained some ready to eat bacon, which is a pretty amazing thing in a country where they don’t eat pork. Figuring that my family was Muslim and would not eat the bacon, I had put off the idea of eating until installation at site. However, this all took a turn for the better one night when I ventured into the gray realm of religious discussion with Nba. It would something like this:
Me: “Nba, are you Muslim?”
Nba: “Haha, no!”
Me: “Are you Christian?”
Nba: “Haha, no!”
Me: “Do you practice any religion at all?”
Nba: “No way!”
This came as quite a shock, considering his brother, who lives across the dirt path, awakens the neighborhood nearly every morning with his 5am prayer obligations. Also, seeing that everyone else in the country is Muslim, it would have made sense for my family to follow suit.
I saw this discovery as a window of opportunity and jumped at the attempt to please my family and enjoy a tasty ‘American’ meal all at the same time – I would cook them breakfast! Seeing as I thought ahead and had packed my non-stick frying pan and matching spatula, cooking eggs and bacon over a fire would not be a problem. The morning of the breakfast, I woke up and walked down to the market, hoping to find potatoes, garlic, eggs, fruit, and all sorts of other delicious breakfast accoutrements. Unfortunately, 7am on a rainy Sunday morning is not the best time to go to the market; I ended up going home with a dozen eggs, a loaf of bread, and some (expensive) bananas.
Apparently, Fote cooking causes quite a scene, such that approximately two thousand people watched as I cooked. Surprisingly, the eggs I fried over the open fire were the prettiest I’ve ever made and the breakfast turned out to be a great success. The family took after my lead in making bacon and egg sandwiches, followed by some of the bananas. Probably one of my better meals in Guinea.
Now we flash forward a few weeks to the first day of Ramadan… For those of you who aren’t familiar with this Muslim holiday, Ramadan is a month of reflection and prayer during which the followers fast during the day (they don’t eat between 5:20am and 7pm – pretty much sunup to sundown), and pray more consistently, in larger groups, and much louder. The fasting includes abstaining from water, and, in the more devout cases, even the swallowing of spit is denied.
I was curious what it was like for a non-Muslim living in a Muslim society during this time, so I decided to broach the topic with Nba. This conversation went something like this:
Me: “So, Ramadan starts tomorrow.”
Nba: “Actually, it started today. I’m already fasting.”
Me: “Fasting? What do you mean? You’re not Muslim.”
Nba: “Of course I am!”
And that night I even saw Nba pray for the first time. The son-of-a-gun pulled a fast one on me! So, it turns out, I was living with a Muslim family after all… or so I thought!! Because two days ago, I came home from school early, only to find Nba fist-deep in a bowl of rice. Our conversation?
Me: “Nba, you’re eating!”
Nba: “Well, of course I am!”
I don’t know. She gets kicked in the head by a mule – eyes go crossed; she falls in a well – eyes go back. I don’t know!
(Ten points to you if you know that quote)
On Sickness.
Last Wednesday, all 25 of us piled into the Peace Corps bus and made our way into Mamou, located in the center of Guinea. The six hour ride through windy, bumpy roads could not have been better. Oh yeah, except for the fact that about 40 minutes into the ride I got really hot and began vomiting violently. This happened six more times over the next two hours, resulting in one of the most unpleasant voyages ever, even worse than the bumpy ferry ride to Vieques the morning after Ryan and I kept drinking those hurricane glasses of Bacardi. Seeing as I haven’t been motion sick since my childhood trips to Hilton Head, I figured the vomiting must have been due to something I ate that morning (hardboiled eggs, potatoes, cucumbers, a vegetable I’ve never seen before which I hated, and peanut butter on Guinean bread). The doctor was in Mamou when we got there, so I told him about it, just sort of brushing it off as a bad case of food poisoning.
Two days later, after a few bad headaches and some dizziness which I’d attributed to poor sleep, I got a phone call from the doctor. Looks like the nausea and fever were caused by… Malaria! Yep. I became the first volunteer in Guinea to test positive for Malaria this year. You see, we had (sort of luckily) done sample blood slides the week before in a session with the doctor, and they’d happened to examine these right as I was getting sick. Pretty lucky, really. Don’t worry, you can rest easy, because I’m okay. I started the medication right away, and in spite of a miserable (and I mean REALLY miserable – vomiting seven times in forty minutes, curling up on the floor in the corner of my room, and crying) Sunday, I am feeling great now. Some blood was taken today and I should know later tomorrow whether or not I’ve got the all-clear. So, for all you parents out there reading this and worrying about your kids getting malaria, don’t worry! Just like Calvin’s dad always said – it builds character!
On another, slightly related note, I am getting paler by the day. In order to ward off malaria, I am taking Mefloquine weekly. This drug does two things: 1) not prevent malaria, apparently (just kidding! But no, really) and 2) prevent tanning. I can still get sunburned, but the medicine does something to the melanin in your skin and prevents it from coming out and making me pretty. If there’s a dermatologist somewhere out there reading this, please feel free to chime in with a comment on this. All I’m trying to say is, as you look at my pictures, month after month, this is the reason why, in spite of spending day in and day out under the African sun, I’ll be as pale as an snowman (see, that’s funny, because there are NO snowmen in Guinea).
High Culture.
Last night was my last night in Forecariah and, as such, I deemed it prudent to spend time with my family. We happened to have power, so the evening’s activities involved cramming about 40 people into our living room to watch a Susu film. I have no idea what the movie was about, but I can aver to its cultural validity. The movie seemed about one step up from me following two Guineans around with a camera, watching them greet their friends (this movie had no shortage of saluations), eating, and walking home. At one point, as I tried to find something to pay attention to in the movie, I thought about what kind of clothes the actors were wearing. “If this film is vrai Guineen, the actors would be wearing clothes from the dead white people’s market.” Sure enough, the very moment this thought crossed my mind, I looked up and saw the character on screen was wearing a University of Kentucky t-shirt. Booya!! It just so happens Nba was wearing the UK hat I’d brought for him. When I pointed out he and the actor wore the clothes of the same dead white person, the living lost it, with a few more “Ayyy, Ablo!”’s.
Practice School.
I realize teaching is the reason I’m here, so I should dedicate at least a small section of the post to it. Granted, I’ll be teaching full-time once I move to site and will have many more stories to share, so this section won’t be too long. As trainees, we spent three weeks teaching Guinean students in a sort of honorary summer school – only students who registered themselves were allowed to come. During the first week, I taught 7th and 8th grade each day, one hour for each class. During the second and third weeks, I taught 9th and 10th grade on alternating days, one two hour class each day.
Believe it or not, getting in front of a class of Guinean students and speaking French for two hours was no problem at all. I find that the first few minutes are kind of like waking up in the morning – you’re not exactly sure what you’re saying – but after a few minutes you’ve gathered yourself and are ready for the day. One of the great challenges came during tests, when every student, even the smart ones, tried to cheat. It must be in their blood. This subject really deserves its own post, so I’ll hold off on its elaboration until I’m at site.
Buff.
During the first month of training, I avoided my training in the other sense, that is, running, lifting and just fitness in general. I was worried that by leaving the family to run, I would be alienating myself and not becoming “bien integre”. As I may have already said once or twice, it’s really hot here. When I run, my body becomes very hot, so it takes a LONG time to cool down afterwards. If I go straight from the run to the bucket bath, I’ll end up spending the remainder of the evening sitting on the porch in a second bath – a bath of sweat. In an effort to prevent said sweat bath, each run/exercise session is followed up by thirty or forty minutes of laying, quite still, on a pagne of cloth on my floor as I listen to music. I’m pretty sure this ritual has convinced the family I’m nuts, but to me, it’s a moment of pure euphoria, one of the reasons I’m here. Unfortunately, it eats up a good chunk of the evening, which would have been a bit too anti-social for the premier month of stage.
During the second month, though, I hopped out of my funk. I was tired of feeling homesick, out of shape, and generally not myself. Although I don’t currently have a specific training plan to follow, this is what I mapped out:
Monday: 4 miles run, pull-ups and chin-ups at the stade 1 mile from the end of the run, core stability once I get home
Tuesday: 6 miles run, 10 sets of 25 pushups (wide grip, close grip, narrow/tricep, incline, and decline), and Basedow abs 1 (laugh if you want, but it works)
Wednesday: same as Monday
Thursday: 10 sets of 25 pushups (wide grip, close grip, narrow/tricep, incline, and decline), and Basedow abs 2
Friday : 7 miles run, pull-ups and chin-ups at the stade 1 mile from the end of the run, core stability once I get home
Saturday: 10 miles run, 10 sets of 25 pushups (wide grip, close grip, narrow/tricep, incline, and decline), and Basedow abs 3
Sunday: Off
The miles have varied as the weeks have progressed, and I’ve taken off of working out since the malaria hit, but the result is the same – I am happier and healthier now that fitness is a part of my life again. I can’t wait to get to site and put in some serious Hunter time on the road! This will probably play a big role in my future posts.
Some might be interested to know that I weighed myself today. However! I’m not going to tell you my new, African weight… yet. I want people to guess, and the winner will get a prize. Post your guesses as comments to this blog post, and I’ll put the answer and winner on the next post, Wednesday.
Hunter. What are you going to do after Peace Corps? Do you have any awesome ideas?
Of course I do! I’ve been planning on starting a snail farm for years, and now I think I’ll finally be able to realize that dream. Okay, no. Realistically, I am planning on taking the GRE and LSAT next summer, with the possibility of enrolling in graduate or law school in the fall of 2010, after I’ve finished over here. Right now, though, I’m looking at that as a backup plan. Here’s my grand Plan A:
Upon finishing my service in Guinea, I’ll travel to South Africa, where I’ll run the Comrades Ultramarathon (56 miles) with Noah, kicking off a year-long tour around the world of all the world’s great sporting events. In June of 2010, I’ll watch the World Cup in South Africa. From there, I’ll scoot up to France to see the Tour de France. Ensuite, I’ll catch the Henley Royal Regatta in England. Ultimately, I’ll see the whole world: ping pong in China; cricket in India; sumo wrestling in Japan; rugby in Australia; the Superbowl and World Series in the States. Naturally, I’d finish up the tour with the Kentucky Derby in May of 2011, at which point I’d write a book about the experiences around the world, documenting the different cultures, atmospheres around the events, and the crazy tailgating/after-parties.
Now you’re thinking, ‘Hunter, what an awesome idea! But how will you pay for it??’ Ah-hah! That’s where you come in, kind of. If you enjoy reading this blog, and especially if you don’t even know me, tell your friends and family about it and spread the word. More people reading it means I might actually work a little harder at providing you with something readable and entertaining, and maybe, with some absurd amount of luck, become a decent enough writer to pen a book. Hopefully that absurd amount of luck will also carry with it a wonderful benefactor who will know how to help me fulfill this dream! Or, if you have any ideas, feel free to share them.
Another idea, and possibly a better one, is to get some legitimate publishing credit – perhaps I could submit an article about running in Africa to a magazine like Runners’ World or Outside (thanks, Noah) and get something published (this is something I actually need to review with Peace Corps, because I’m fairly sure we can’t be paid, during service, for any writing done involving our service, a conflict of interest of sorts. However, if I refuse pay, maybe I can get around this. If, by some miracle, I can get a few things published, maybe I can convince a published to front me the money to write the book. It’s a work in progress, but I’ve got two years to try to flesh it out, so why the hell not??
And now for my shameless plug on sending me stuff.
Thanks! To everyone who’s sent me stuff. Granted, I’ve only received a handful of letters, but I’m sure the others will get here at some point. There has been a slight change to the address, such that PCT has been amended to read PCV (whoomp! there it is!), so the new address is:
Hunter Dreidame, PCV
Corps de la Paix
B.P. 1927, Conakry
Guinea
West Africa
Once again, I think drawing crosses and writing ‘Dieu Regarde!’ on the boxes/letters helps; I’ve seen that some people go as far as pasting religious images on the packages – hey, it can’t hurt.
Lots of people have been asking what to send, so here are some (okay, a lot of) ideas of things I can’t get here but love:
Twizzlers
Snickers (bite size)
Laffy Taffy
Chex Mix
Pepperoni
Jerky
Granola Bars
Camping meals (add hot water)
Fruit cups
Trail mix
Little Debbies
Sparks
Cold Beer
Woodford Reserve
Magazines (The Economist, Sports Illustrated, People – any news!)
DVDs
Good books you think I should read
Music! Mixed CDs are great, or CDs with mp3s.
NY Times/Washington Post crossword puzzles
Photos
This is just stuff I’m thinking of late at night – but I will love anything that you take the time to send. Keep in mind I only get mail once a month once I’m at site, so it may take as many as two months for your stuff to get to me. If it does get to me, though, I PROMISE you will get a response in the mail. Who doesn’t love snail mail??
Oh, and for the DVD’s – if you’re a computer buff and want to rip the movies into iPod format and just throw a bunch on one disc, that would be awesome as well (since that’s most of what I’ll be watching at site). I use DVD Decrypter to pull the movies onto the computer and Videora iPod Converter to convert the movies – if you google it there’s a great walkthrough.
Of course, a nice handwritten letter is just as good as any box packed full of candy, so write away!
If you've read this far, how about some pictures as a reward?
This is to show the giant, diagonal tree behind the house on my walk home. I love this tree.
Me and Tim, one of the Physics trainers.
This is the path I walk to my house, which is in the upper, left corner.
The Catholic church in Forecariah
Some guys playing the balafone at the maison de la jaunesse. I hope to upload a video of this soon.
Guinea's answer to Sparks Plus (although without alcohol).
And now, it is getting very late here, so I must bid you adieu. Until Saturday!
Love to all,
Hunter
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