I took a brief video tour of my home during training in Forecariah. You can double-click the link to navigate to YouTube and see a bigger version.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
A Word We Didn't Want to Hear
26 Septembre, 2009 (continued)
Our last day in Conakry was already brimming. The seatbeltless taxi arrived back at the transit house 4.5 hours after we set out for Medina, giving about an hour of recupe time for the pool party at director Dan’s house. Wait, like a real pool? Chlorine and stuff? Chicken fights?? Float tipping! It was like taking a 200 yard walk back to America—chic, 1970s America, but America nonetheless. Scotty lounged, John jumped through inflatable donuts, Jake & Jarred threw darts on the rooftop patio, Kris gave Andrew tips on the butterfly. We played. Then we gorged—-glorious, seasoned hunks of beef with real burger condiments down to the Heinz 57. We were spoiled, we were nearing the end of our four-day binge of food and escapism. We were on lockdown...
Dadis was out of town for the first time, off to Labé to promote his image in the region that least accepts his self-appointed presidency. The Embassy sniffed rumors of demonstration in Conakry, so at the time when we would be most amenable to the news (i.e. full of delicious American food), Dan stood up and forbade us from leaving the compound on our last night together.
Two burgers and a fair share of potato salad had me stuffed, my stomach refusing to let in another thing. So how I found myself five Guiluxes deep on the roof of the volunteer house was somewhat a mystery. Ten or so of us were up there taking in the fresh breeze off the Atlantic. The ocean was no longer in view, but one could easily entertain himself by watching the bats weaving around the perimeter lighting, or just by greeting the rotation of fresh faces coming and going...I need to digress.
My ‘speechmaker’ appointment can probably be traced back to G18’s first days in country. Climbing on a wobbly table at the beach bar on the first night, I thanked all the current volunteers for giving us exactly what we needed: a heartfelt welcome. Later that week I let slip to Sarah that I wouldn’t mind speaking on behalf of G18 during the adoption ceremony in Forecariah. Not two hours later, our training coordinator Ousmane waltzes into ‘Survival Susu’ language class and announces, “Kevin, someone told me you’re giving the stagaire speech.” It was settled. Every social event involving a modicum of energy or booze would also involve late-evening chants of “Speech! Speech! Speech!” It was usually instigated by Jake, our catalyst, our lowerer of the fun barrier. A couple times I tried yelling “Speech! Speech!..” while turning around and realizing there was no one to whom I could possibly pass the torch. Crap.
I hate being put on the spot. I’m not good at thinking on my toes. You conversationalists and humorists who have the quip in your heads before the previous sentence is even finished, you got it made. Usually I’d beg for a bit of time to gather myself, hoping they’d forget. That tactic had about a 10% success rate. The usual process:
1. Briefly extricate self from chitchat and mentally scramble to make sense of whatever craziness had happened in recent days
2. Plug event into whatever stock motif is typically associated with the Peace Corps experience(time of our lives, adventure, yadda yadda)
3. Wait until group is good and liquored, so not to notice current speech’s similarity to all previous speeches
4. Continue exaggerated resistance—-though I’m ready as I’ll ever be—-to pretentiously heighten drama
5. Deliver
If people noticed the formula they were nice enough to not call me out. Even then, I often fell on my face. It’s unsettling as hell to stand in front of a collection of expecting eyes and completely lose what you were saying. That leads to rambling and, eventually the thought, ‘Did I really say that last night?’ in my head along with the headache. Nevertheless, I started to embrace the challenge. It prompted me to try and start putting moments into perspective while I was living them, piling ammunition for future times when a dozen voices have the “s” word on repeat.
On this Saturday morning Abdoullah, a compound guard, pulled me aside as I was walking to a nearby café for breakfast.
“Kelvin! Ça va?” He could never get rid of the “L”.
“Abdoullah Oblongata! Très bien, et toi?”
He was lounging in the air-conditioned office leading to the outside.“I really enjoyed your speech from yesterday. It was really heartfelt.”
“You were at the swearing-in ceremony? I didn’t see you.”
“No, I heard it on the national radio station this morning; it was rebroadcast.”
Now, there was nothing really special about this exchange. The volunteer speeches are broadcast every year. Even if it had been senseless drivel, every single Guinean who heard it would have walked up to me with nothing but praise. Guineans like to tell you what you want to hear. I remember a story from Marg about a kid she had personally helped prepare for the Baccalaureate, the national college entrance exam. She was overjoyed after a phone call from the boy’s mother: he had passed with flying colors. Upon receiving her congratulations in person, the boy looked at her with surprise, “What do you mean? I flunked.” Guineans like to tell you what you want to hear.
Even so, Abdoullah fired me up. All through the day—-on the cab ride to Medina, soaking up rays on a 70s-era patio chair, even as I listened to Kris and Ali pass out G18 superlative awards later in the evening—-I was mulling. It was the first time I actually felt I had something apart from fluff to say. After five Guinean beers I couldn’t wait for the usual charade, so I stood up and faced our open rectangle of couches. The words I actually fumbled through have long-since been forgotten, but they were an attempt to make this point:
Not 24 hours after, one of the most profound days in Guinea’s history began. Despite CNDD attempts to block the event, opposition parties gathered in a Conakry stadium to protest Dadis’s intimations that he will run in the January presidential race. Red berets and “anti-corruption forces”, fully clad in their usual black, stormed the stadium and opened fire. Protestors were ruthlessly beaten, women were raped in plain daylight, and opposition leaders were arrested. Dadis denied responsibility, pointing his finger at rogue military personnel acting on their own accord. Human Rights Watch would later conclude that the event was a premeditated attempt to terrorize opposition to the junta, as many of Dadis’s right-hand men were seen casually observing the massacre.
The U.S. embassy promptly evacuated all non-essential personnel. On October 7th, just one week after arriving, I was evacuated from Bodié. On Monday, October 19th, under a small outdoor pavilion of the Peace Corps Mali training facility, our country director stood before us and announced the Guinea program was officially suspended.
Our last day in Conakry was already brimming. The seatbeltless taxi arrived back at the transit house 4.5 hours after we set out for Medina, giving about an hour of recupe time for the pool party at director Dan’s house. Wait, like a real pool? Chlorine and stuff? Chicken fights?? Float tipping! It was like taking a 200 yard walk back to America—chic, 1970s America, but America nonetheless. Scotty lounged, John jumped through inflatable donuts, Jake & Jarred threw darts on the rooftop patio, Kris gave Andrew tips on the butterfly. We played. Then we gorged—-glorious, seasoned hunks of beef with real burger condiments down to the Heinz 57. We were spoiled, we were nearing the end of our four-day binge of food and escapism. We were on lockdown...
Dadis was out of town for the first time, off to Labé to promote his image in the region that least accepts his self-appointed presidency. The Embassy sniffed rumors of demonstration in Conakry, so at the time when we would be most amenable to the news (i.e. full of delicious American food), Dan stood up and forbade us from leaving the compound on our last night together.
Two burgers and a fair share of potato salad had me stuffed, my stomach refusing to let in another thing. So how I found myself five Guiluxes deep on the roof of the volunteer house was somewhat a mystery. Ten or so of us were up there taking in the fresh breeze off the Atlantic. The ocean was no longer in view, but one could easily entertain himself by watching the bats weaving around the perimeter lighting, or just by greeting the rotation of fresh faces coming and going...I need to digress.
My ‘speechmaker’ appointment can probably be traced back to G18’s first days in country. Climbing on a wobbly table at the beach bar on the first night, I thanked all the current volunteers for giving us exactly what we needed: a heartfelt welcome. Later that week I let slip to Sarah that I wouldn’t mind speaking on behalf of G18 during the adoption ceremony in Forecariah. Not two hours later, our training coordinator Ousmane waltzes into ‘Survival Susu’ language class and announces, “Kevin, someone told me you’re giving the stagaire speech.” It was settled. Every social event involving a modicum of energy or booze would also involve late-evening chants of “Speech! Speech! Speech!” It was usually instigated by Jake, our catalyst, our lowerer of the fun barrier. A couple times I tried yelling “Speech! Speech!..” while turning around and realizing there was no one to whom I could possibly pass the torch. Crap.
I hate being put on the spot. I’m not good at thinking on my toes. You conversationalists and humorists who have the quip in your heads before the previous sentence is even finished, you got it made. Usually I’d beg for a bit of time to gather myself, hoping they’d forget. That tactic had about a 10% success rate. The usual process:
1. Briefly extricate self from chitchat and mentally scramble to make sense of whatever craziness had happened in recent days
2. Plug event into whatever stock motif is typically associated with the Peace Corps experience(time of our lives, adventure, yadda yadda)
3. Wait until group is good and liquored, so not to notice current speech’s similarity to all previous speeches
4. Continue exaggerated resistance—-though I’m ready as I’ll ever be—-to pretentiously heighten drama
5. Deliver
If people noticed the formula they were nice enough to not call me out. Even then, I often fell on my face. It’s unsettling as hell to stand in front of a collection of expecting eyes and completely lose what you were saying. That leads to rambling and, eventually the thought, ‘Did I really say that last night?’ in my head along with the headache. Nevertheless, I started to embrace the challenge. It prompted me to try and start putting moments into perspective while I was living them, piling ammunition for future times when a dozen voices have the “s” word on repeat.
On this Saturday morning Abdoullah, a compound guard, pulled me aside as I was walking to a nearby café for breakfast.
“Kelvin! Ça va?” He could never get rid of the “L”.
“Abdoullah Oblongata! Très bien, et toi?”
He was lounging in the air-conditioned office leading to the outside.“I really enjoyed your speech from yesterday. It was really heartfelt.”
“You were at the swearing-in ceremony? I didn’t see you.”
“No, I heard it on the national radio station this morning; it was rebroadcast.”
Now, there was nothing really special about this exchange. The volunteer speeches are broadcast every year. Even if it had been senseless drivel, every single Guinean who heard it would have walked up to me with nothing but praise. Guineans like to tell you what you want to hear. I remember a story from Marg about a kid she had personally helped prepare for the Baccalaureate, the national college entrance exam. She was overjoyed after a phone call from the boy’s mother: he had passed with flying colors. Upon receiving her congratulations in person, the boy looked at her with surprise, “What do you mean? I flunked.” Guineans like to tell you what you want to hear.
Even so, Abdoullah fired me up. All through the day—-on the cab ride to Medina, soaking up rays on a 70s-era patio chair, even as I listened to Kris and Ali pass out G18 superlative awards later in the evening—-I was mulling. It was the first time I actually felt I had something apart from fluff to say. After five Guinean beers I couldn’t wait for the usual charade, so I stood up and faced our open rectangle of couches. The words I actually fumbled through have long-since been forgotten, but they were an attempt to make this point:
I know I’m not the only one sick of hearing how profound our actions were prior to even stepping into an Airbus cabin last July. We stood in college halls, workplace meetings, and farewell parties on a pedestal of praise for having done nothing but fill out an application and talk with a recruiter. Arriving in Forecariah, we loathed the word, swallowed it like a pill; because the last thing we wanted at that moment was for anything profound to happen. We were busy learning to speak, learning to buy bread.
We get here and plow through three months of stress. But looking back into that wake there’s nothing but the ordinary: Rarely does a prayer call or pestilent rooster startle us awake anymore. One sandled foot steps in front of the other, strafing garbage piles and sections of crumbling road. We fumble through broken grammar and around gaps of vocabulary-—or better yet, we just bite our tongues. We humor armies of petites whose days otherwise peak at a stick coaxing along an old tire or knuckles staccato on a washboard. We jump for joy when we don’t receive avocado salad on the 20th day in a row. We stand watch over wandering students’ eyes, frapping the chalk out of skirts that surely pass over our knees. We pray the sun chases the mold from our clothes and the shadows from our classrooms.
At site we’ll be doing more of the same. As time yawns out the weeks, we’re going to forget what that word we swallowed so long ago even was. And we won’t even care, because we’ll be up in our trees of normalcy, slumbering on a routine—-taking in the view.
Not 24 hours after, one of the most profound days in Guinea’s history began. Despite CNDD attempts to block the event, opposition parties gathered in a Conakry stadium to protest Dadis’s intimations that he will run in the January presidential race. Red berets and “anti-corruption forces”, fully clad in their usual black, stormed the stadium and opened fire. Protestors were ruthlessly beaten, women were raped in plain daylight, and opposition leaders were arrested. Dadis denied responsibility, pointing his finger at rogue military personnel acting on their own accord. Human Rights Watch would later conclude that the event was a premeditated attempt to terrorize opposition to the junta, as many of Dadis’s right-hand men were seen casually observing the massacre.
The U.S. embassy promptly evacuated all non-essential personnel. On October 7th, just one week after arriving, I was evacuated from Bodié. On Monday, October 19th, under a small outdoor pavilion of the Peace Corps Mali training facility, our country director stood before us and announced the Guinea program was officially suspended.
Medina
26 Septembre, 2009
After a casual morning of egg sandwiches and café noir from the rickety stand down the street, we left the bureau in small groups for Medina to pick up some essentials. Medina is Guinea’s Mall of America. Even the streets leading up to the market are a claustrophobia of vendors, cars, and people. From the start you’re confronted with vegetable produce and used t-shirts, and the energy just keeps growing.
“Essentials” comprise anything that can’t be bought outside of Conakry. Many of the items in Medina can be found in stores outside the market, but these are generally upscale fixed-price Leb stores that are organized much more like an American 7-Eleven with aisles spaced for an anorexic. Medina is different. It’s a pricetagless labyrinth of Chinese imports, fake name brands, and standing water. A battleground.
Our preparation for Medina was to basically listen as more experienced volunteers berated the place. “I’ve ruined two pairs of pants just dealing with the mud! I had to pay a petite to just show me how to get out of there!” Yadda yadda. Yik, Mark, and I were luckily chaperoned by John, who enjoyed the haggle and had the patience to deal with our lack of negotiating skills. He is also blessed with a keener sense of direction than the rest of us combined.
Noticing a couple people walking toward the market in heavy rubber galoshes, John remarked, “I’ve been meaning to get some of those.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see in a sec”
Not five minutes later the pavement ended and the road narrowed. Main street became a pond of red water, a foot deep in spots, loaded with trash and moving legs. Medina’s sewage system—if it exists—was not dealing with the rainy season’s flash flooding today. The sun definitely was working to help but not fast enough. At least the dust was down. A laborer struggled with his two-wheel cart in tow, overloaded with bags of potatoes, sank into a divot. He’d put all his weight back, and then drive forward, shoulders creasing, trying to use momentum to his advantage . It took two minutes and a team of neighbors, but the wheels were soon free to wobble forward under the weight of several hundred kilos, now with a queue of carts and taxis behind them.
We hopped onto a strategically-placed tire, then to half a door, on our way to the electric supplies. John swiftly caught his bearings and detoured down the relatively-quiet “pharmaceutical aisle” (think: a row of forty vendors, each with a pile of small, sometimes unmarked boxes and bottles). First on the list were a multimeter and various other items I’d be using for physics demonstrations. He knew a couple guys who had hooked up Marg with supplies she’d soon be using for a teacher’s conference. What often happens is you ask someone for a specific item, and the vendor responds, “Yeah! I can get that for you!” Next thing you know he’s gone, tracking down the guy who actually does sell the item. This transaction most certainly involves a mark-up. In the case of the single-beam flashlight (shone through a prism in composition of white light demos), it also involved twenty minutes of waiting, sitting and staring at hardware stand hammers, flecks of sunlight dropping through the low steel roof.
We slowly picked away at our lists: six forks for five mille (about a buck), two mille for good masking tape, batteries, shawarma for lunch, a big rice bag to carry it all. I began getting the hang of “discuter” (“Dis-cue-TAY”):
“70 mille!?” A volunteer told me he came here last year and got the same thing for 30!”
“Not in my store. You’re the first volunteer I’ve met. This is some high-quality kitchenware. Look: non-stick! Your food won’t…stick!” He reaches up to a smaller pan hanging from the low ceiling, exposing a fist-sized hole in the underarm of his blue-pink polo. “The 20-cm pan is sold for 35 mille. If you want this one you ca…”
“I’m sorry, but I need a larger pan and can’t afford what you’re asking. As volunteer teachers here we’re paid a Guinean salary {this is a lie}, and that’s not the price a Guinean would pay for it. I know I can get it for half of what you’re asking elsewhere. ”
Vendor leans back incredulously, eyebrows hitting the ceiling as he discusses, in Pulaar, the preposterousness of my claim with his neighbor.
Americans huddle at same time, re-evaluating the price where we hope to land. Five minutes pass.
“Vous-êtes Peul? D’où exactement venez-vous?”
“Je viens de Ditinn”
“Ah bon?! Je vais habiter juste à coté! À Bodié. Je suis passé par Ditinn il y à un mois quand j’ai visité mon village. C’est beau, vraiment. La chute est magnificent.”
“La plus belle de toute le pais! Ah, Bodié. Que seras-tu à Bodié?”
“Je vais enseigner la physique au college.”
“Ça c’est admirable…Listen, my brother: If I go any lower than fifty five on this I’ll be losing money {also a lie}.”
“Alright, that’s fair…What can you do for me if we each buy one?”
A couple transaction like this are fun. Two hours? Exhausting. Energy drained, I settled for twice the price I’d normally pay for a spaghetti strainer. I didn’t care. I was done with the arguing, with the elbows in my back, with the cheap sunglasses constantly thrust into my face. My last purchase was a Guinea soccer jersey, made while I was waiting for John to purchase a South Africa jersey across the way. I wasn’t even planning to buy it. “Name your price! Name your price!” the vendor shouted as he saw me hustling to catch up with the other Americans. He nearly tripped over his boubou trying to get back into shouting range.
After a casual morning of egg sandwiches and café noir from the rickety stand down the street, we left the bureau in small groups for Medina to pick up some essentials. Medina is Guinea’s Mall of America. Even the streets leading up to the market are a claustrophobia of vendors, cars, and people. From the start you’re confronted with vegetable produce and used t-shirts, and the energy just keeps growing.
“Essentials” comprise anything that can’t be bought outside of Conakry. Many of the items in Medina can be found in stores outside the market, but these are generally upscale fixed-price Leb stores that are organized much more like an American 7-Eleven with aisles spaced for an anorexic. Medina is different. It’s a pricetagless labyrinth of Chinese imports, fake name brands, and standing water. A battleground.
Our preparation for Medina was to basically listen as more experienced volunteers berated the place. “I’ve ruined two pairs of pants just dealing with the mud! I had to pay a petite to just show me how to get out of there!” Yadda yadda. Yik, Mark, and I were luckily chaperoned by John, who enjoyed the haggle and had the patience to deal with our lack of negotiating skills. He is also blessed with a keener sense of direction than the rest of us combined.
Noticing a couple people walking toward the market in heavy rubber galoshes, John remarked, “I’ve been meaning to get some of those.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see in a sec”
Not five minutes later the pavement ended and the road narrowed. Main street became a pond of red water, a foot deep in spots, loaded with trash and moving legs. Medina’s sewage system—if it exists—was not dealing with the rainy season’s flash flooding today. The sun definitely was working to help but not fast enough. At least the dust was down. A laborer struggled with his two-wheel cart in tow, overloaded with bags of potatoes, sank into a divot. He’d put all his weight back, and then drive forward, shoulders creasing, trying to use momentum to his advantage . It took two minutes and a team of neighbors, but the wheels were soon free to wobble forward under the weight of several hundred kilos, now with a queue of carts and taxis behind them.
We hopped onto a strategically-placed tire, then to half a door, on our way to the electric supplies. John swiftly caught his bearings and detoured down the relatively-quiet “pharmaceutical aisle” (think: a row of forty vendors, each with a pile of small, sometimes unmarked boxes and bottles). First on the list were a multimeter and various other items I’d be using for physics demonstrations. He knew a couple guys who had hooked up Marg with supplies she’d soon be using for a teacher’s conference. What often happens is you ask someone for a specific item, and the vendor responds, “Yeah! I can get that for you!” Next thing you know he’s gone, tracking down the guy who actually does sell the item. This transaction most certainly involves a mark-up. In the case of the single-beam flashlight (shone through a prism in composition of white light demos), it also involved twenty minutes of waiting, sitting and staring at hardware stand hammers, flecks of sunlight dropping through the low steel roof.
We slowly picked away at our lists: six forks for five mille (about a buck), two mille for good masking tape, batteries, shawarma for lunch, a big rice bag to carry it all. I began getting the hang of “discuter” (“Dis-cue-TAY”):
“70 mille!?” A volunteer told me he came here last year and got the same thing for 30!”
“Not in my store. You’re the first volunteer I’ve met. This is some high-quality kitchenware. Look: non-stick! Your food won’t…stick!” He reaches up to a smaller pan hanging from the low ceiling, exposing a fist-sized hole in the underarm of his blue-pink polo. “The 20-cm pan is sold for 35 mille. If you want this one you ca…”
“I’m sorry, but I need a larger pan and can’t afford what you’re asking. As volunteer teachers here we’re paid a Guinean salary {this is a lie}, and that’s not the price a Guinean would pay for it. I know I can get it for half of what you’re asking elsewhere. ”
Vendor leans back incredulously, eyebrows hitting the ceiling as he discusses, in Pulaar, the preposterousness of my claim with his neighbor.
Americans huddle at same time, re-evaluating the price where we hope to land. Five minutes pass.
“Vous-êtes Peul? D’où exactement venez-vous?”
“Je viens de Ditinn”
“Ah bon?! Je vais habiter juste à coté! À Bodié. Je suis passé par Ditinn il y à un mois quand j’ai visité mon village. C’est beau, vraiment. La chute est magnificent.”
“La plus belle de toute le pais! Ah, Bodié. Que seras-tu à Bodié?”
“Je vais enseigner la physique au college.”
“Ça c’est admirable…Listen, my brother: If I go any lower than fifty five on this I’ll be losing money {also a lie}.”
“Alright, that’s fair…What can you do for me if we each buy one?”
A couple transaction like this are fun. Two hours? Exhausting. Energy drained, I settled for twice the price I’d normally pay for a spaghetti strainer. I didn’t care. I was done with the arguing, with the elbows in my back, with the cheap sunglasses constantly thrust into my face. My last purchase was a Guinea soccer jersey, made while I was waiting for John to purchase a South Africa jersey across the way. I wasn’t even planning to buy it. “Name your price! Name your price!” the vendor shouted as he saw me hustling to catch up with the other Americans. He nearly tripped over his boubou trying to get back into shouting range.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)