Guineagogy

I'm midway through a brief respite away from Forecariah for counterpart workshop, where each volunteer meets the principal of his school. It was nice to finally put a face on the community where I'll be eventually living, though the three day workshop has proven to be frustrating at times (for reasons I currently don't have the time or energy to do justice). Mamou's weather is a wonderful contrast to the perpetually sticky Forecariah. I actually had to borrow a sweatshirt during our morning sessions. It's hard to believe I'm in the middle of Sub-Saharan Africa.

We're not actually in Mamou proper, but at a retreat about 5 min out of town. This area is technically considered the Fouta Djallon, the region where I'll eventually be living. We've been spoiled with egg sandwiches and Nescafé each morning, rice and meat sauce for lunch, and noodles and salad for dinner--not to mention bananas and oranges from time to time.

Courses tend to run from 8 until about 3:45, in contrast to the 8-5 (minimum) + lesson planning schedule that is Forecariah. Considering the daily chores of filling up the seau, taking an extra half hr to dry off in the humid air, and giving our host families their proper due, free time in Mamou has increased exponentially. I've taken the opportunity to scribble a couple letters, plug into my first card games in Guinea (other than huite américain, or Crazy 8's, perhaps the only card game in Guinea), and enjoy a walkabout around the countryside with a couple other volunteers. The retreat is nestled into the foothills, spillover from the mountainous Fouta region. Being up high is refreshing and empowering. The numerous palms in the Basse Côte have given way to the all deciduous trees--apparently there are pines higher up near Dalaba, closer to my village. Like Forecariah, cement houses are usually complimented by a mud hut kitchen.

The internet connection is terrible and expensive, so I’ll finish by saying how happy I was to receive my first mail run exactly a week ago. Letters and packages came in from Tina, M&D, Aunt Karen, Becky, Olga, and Grandma Roche. I felt like a king. If you ever have a chance, shoot me a quick email with your stateside updates. We volunteers are starved for news. What’s the status of Indy Ultimate?!

Kevin

p.s. I’m keeping up an online correspondence with a 4th grade class in Indianapolis, for anyone that’s interested: http://clark2guinea.blogspot.com/

The rain is a teenage driver. Beyond acceleration, it knows only deceleration, comes in at dinner and capriciously splits whenever it pleases. The rain is a toddler, bangs on the corrugated school roof until everyone comes out and pays attention. It hangs on your clothes, on your neck, makes a mess of your suitcase, until you just accept that it’s not leaving anytime soon…

but sometimes you just have to enjoy.

I’ve learned to grow excited as I hear the first hollow raps of condensed water lose their grip from the roof and rap the bottom of my red seau (pronounced “so”). If it’s made it that far I’m cheering on the rain, praying the whole five-gallon bucket fills before evening—fresh bathing water, a treat. No plunges into the acrid kitchen, adjacent to the house, where I choke down smoky breaths to fill up from the well. I’ve begun to time my trips when Mali (the mother) is cooking, so we have to use the neighbor’s well, which is outside. Slabs of concrete with a makeshift cover over the hole, they’re easy to see; and rarely is there a gap in the dense network. From one edge of Forecariah to the other, you’re guaranteed to reach one in a stone’s throw, maybe a lob wedge.

The seau is filled once to twice per day and is used for everything other than drinking. This includes laundry (3 seaus required), toilet flushing (1/4 and 1/3 seau, depending on your business), and bathing (1/3 seau). The potable stuff is fetched from one of the pumps interspersed throughout the ville. Like electricity, pump water is fickle but predictable, arriving every few days. Pre-Service Trainees (PSTs) have a guaranteed supply by biking our empty 20L bidons (“bee-d’OHns”, I like to picture Homer Simpson saying it) to the bureau and exchanging for a full one, though returning with 45lbs of water strapped above one’s back tire is no easy task. Most of us choose to walk the bike rather pedal over an ever-swaying center of gravity.

We’re living in a photograph. Regardless of time of day, regardless of composition, our eyes are perpetually loaded with a surfeit of color. The newly-painted prefecture building is a boastfully bright blue with rigid red and green borders. Pagnes purchased for clothing hang in the market stands, walls of chaos; yet the patterns walk gracefully through the pleats and seams of a vendor’s complet, or even a volunteer’s trendy new cargo shorts tailored hours before. The vibrance is necessary. Our eyes would otherwise never stray from the red earth, beautiful in its own right.

Classrooms know no artificial light. Peace Corps classes have replaced normal classes during summer vacation at École Trois, three strips of concrete rooms that—together with a cinderblock wall and one residence, including the straw kitchen—make a paltry courtyard. As we sit facing the board, sun pours through the blue shuttered windows to our left and throws the desks’ raised cracks into sharp relief. It’s a strong contrast to my 27 years of flat fluorescent ceilings stripping classrooms and cubicle walls of their third dimension. Here the shadows are as much a part of the school day as no textbooks or electricity; one’s eyes must strain, but they’re rewarded with the undulating contours of the chalkboard, with dark, neglected corners piled high with forgotten lessons. Just feet away, village life passes by like frames of a movie: a sleeping toddler’s head bounces slack, his lower half wrapped tight to his mother’s back as she balances below a bowlful of market purchases; sage men dressed in white marching to the mosquée; the kissing sound of air sucked through closed lips, little sisters and (usually) brothers of volunteers trying to get their attention before being shooed away by our french instructor’s blasé hand wave.

We landed three weeks ago in what seemed at first to be absolute anarchy. The customs waiting room of Conakry’s airport felt like a Guinness World Records attempt. Already jaded from travel and frustrated with a packed in like sardines, I couldn’t believe it when I turned around and saw more individuals being ushered into the waiting room. The 45 minute wait was worth it as we were warmly cheered by a dozen peers holding a huge “Welcome G-18” sign. The entire group eyed the luggage conveyor for pieces with plum-colored yarn, which we fastened to each piece before leaving Philly. I nervously informed one of the volunteers that I had accidentally thrown out my luggage receipts (we had been informed to hang onto these at all costs). For once the madness worked in my favor, as one of the current employees shouted at the police officer demanding my tags, “You already took his! We’re leaving!” Mixed with blue uniformed police were camouflaged soldiers with what seemed like berets of every color. I still have no idea who’s who, but it’s even more confusing when what seems like a rep from every branch of the armed forces is standing right next to one another. It just augmented the already-overwhelming disorder of the airport. More likely, they’re looking for excuses to search bags or extort bribes. Luggage tags aside and everyone accounted for, we plunged through the front doors of Arrivals and into the darkness.

In contrast, Forecariah (site of our 3 month community-based training, pron. “Fore-eh-CAR-ee-ah) welcomed into its sunny arms a caravan of incongruously sleek, air-conditioned PC vehicles. We had traveled only 100km from Conarky but were in a different world. Jesse turned up Paul Simon’s “You Can Call Me Al” as we passed over the bridge to the city, but it was a contrived cheer that came from the 25 of us in the minibus. Our African families were waiting just a few more minutes away. We were stirring.

The steps of the bus led into a corridor of children--coyly waving or tossing Soussou banter at one another over our heads--and into a long hollow structure of corrugated steel. Inside West African music blared through tinny speakers. A DJ shouted into a gold microphone, rendered unintelligible by poor amplification and acoustics. Immediately, our group collided with mass of strange faces, coerced into dancing…with us. G-16 volunteers warned us of the awkwardness of this first meeting, and I think all of initially tried to break the thick window of discomfort, but soon the entire group was nominally shaking our shoulders, shuffling our feet just enough to keep them from sticking to the cement, shifting our gaze when it unexpectedly met with another’s. Only one man, head to toe in pristine white, was mingling. He’d pass himself from female volunteer to female volunteer, holding her forearms in his hands as he carefully rotated his hips. I mistook him for an imam. He ended being my drunk grandfather.

The DJ mercifully cut the music. We thankfully took our seats; but before we even had a chance to look around and take in the scene the music started again, and we were called up for another round of the same. After about three minutes a woman pulled a few thousand guinean francs from her small purse and threw them to the ground. The music stopped. We returned to our seats. This scene repeated itself at least three times more.

Finally the Prefet (“PRE-fay”, appointed mayor of Forecariah and its surrounding area) arrived. The official festivities could begin. Beneath the colored paper cutouts and half-inflated balloons, the 17 new American faces clustered together. We would listen to five prepared speeches—one of them my own “volunteer introduction” of pieced-together franglais corrected thankfully by Emily and Cice—as we tried to ignore the mounting tension in the aisle between us and our future families. After the prefet’s final words, we were called up one by one, family by family for brief intros and a photo. Large bowls of rice, meat, and peppers were served to each new family. In plastic chairs we sat, dipping awkwardly into the smorgasbord with spoons. Benjamin, my 3-year-old little brother, fumbled mightily. We had been encouraged by PC trainers to use silverware and plates to avoid diving too swiftly into a world of new bacteria, but Benjamin single-handedly nullified the preventive measures as more food tumbled from his spoon back into the bowl than the few grains of rice that successfully made it to his mouth. My own struggles involved two enormous pieces of meat joined by a string of fat, and nothing but a spoon to deal. After several minutes, my grandfather decided he was doing me a favor by relieving me of the embarrassment. But as he reached over to my side of the bowl, my little sister Jaqueline frapped his hand with the top of her spoon and continued with an unintelligible tongue-lashing.

We left the building, still wrapped in a haze of children, our tightly bundled lives unloaded onto the road next to the vehicles. We slowly collected our things and, fighting inner logic, began walking with strangers, stealing careful glances at the other mosaic families disappearing into the corners of Forecariah.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Mamou

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Familles

Saturday, August 1, 2009

Conakry, Briefly