I have spent a lifetime doing math problems and science problems. I can hardly believe that 10th grade physics, chemistry, and math problems are easily solved in a matter of a minute.
I remember my younger years, years of struggle never believing a page long math problem would become as easy as 1+1=2.
I wonder would my graduate school problem sets ever turn into 1+1?
Saturday, September 22, 2007
A Protestant
Aaaaeemen! Aaaeeemen! Aaaeemen! Amen! Amen!
Holding summer school for 2 students who have already starting preparing for the end of the year national 10th grade test, my focus on the circuit problems strayed as the sound of a familiar song swept into the empty classroom. Shouted at the top of his voice a young shepherd, a kid was pushing his flock home with a song. Our class grinned.
Holding summer school for 2 students who have already starting preparing for the end of the year national 10th grade test, my focus on the circuit problems strayed as the sound of a familiar song swept into the empty classroom. Shouted at the top of his voice a young shepherd, a kid was pushing his flock home with a song. Our class grinned.
Pancakes
It is raining. The sun is setting and I am making pancakes without syrup, just a little margarine and grainy sugar.
Baking always seemed such a hassle in the US, all of the dishes and mess. Here it seems so much simpler. I wonder why.
It could be a new time scale, where taking an unknown amount of time doesn't feel like sacrificing anything. I have nothing else to do except to use up time. It could be that I only dirtied 1 spoon, 1 cup, 1 bowl, and a frying pan to make the pancakes, hardly any dishes at all. My wash basin is sitting outside filling with rain water.
Baking always seemed such a hassle in the US, all of the dishes and mess. Here it seems so much simpler. I wonder why.
It could be a new time scale, where taking an unknown amount of time doesn't feel like sacrificing anything. I have nothing else to do except to use up time. It could be that I only dirtied 1 spoon, 1 cup, 1 bowl, and a frying pan to make the pancakes, hardly any dishes at all. My wash basin is sitting outside filling with rain water.
Flies
August 29
Flies are horrible, pesky little creatures. The ones in my latrine are huge. Their wings audibly buzz at a frequency that tells me as soon as I lift the lid I'll be swarmed, my parts all of them attacked. Why must I pee? At least my friends the ants are trying to help, removing the eggs the flies lay. And today I saw 4 ants attacking one of the the hundreds, the ants being dragged from here to there by the giant.
The smaller ones are just as annoying. Their legs must be huge because not a one goes unnoticed as they land. While bent over doing laundry today, I had to keep a steady march in place to keep the 20 flies from making my ankles and feet a place to linger.
Flies are horrible, pesky little creatures. The ones in my latrine are huge. Their wings audibly buzz at a frequency that tells me as soon as I lift the lid I'll be swarmed, my parts all of them attacked. Why must I pee? At least my friends the ants are trying to help, removing the eggs the flies lay. And today I saw 4 ants attacking one of the the hundreds, the ants being dragged from here to there by the giant.
The smaller ones are just as annoying. Their legs must be huge because not a one goes unnoticed as they land. While bent over doing laundry today, I had to keep a steady march in place to keep the 20 flies from making my ankles and feet a place to linger.
August 28
"Look to the clock on the wall, hands hardly moving at all. Oh Lord, What can I say? I'm so sad since you went away. Time, time, ticking on me. Alone is the last place I wanted to be."
Brandi Carlie's song "What can I say?" is beautiful. In my restless state tonight, unable to focus on writing a letter, I've been singing along with Brandi in repeat for the past 30 minutes.
I completely understand how time stops with solitude.
But why am I not sad being alone?
Even tonight with my restlessness, with a desire to sleep- it's too early to blow out the lamp, only 8 pm- I do not feel sad or lonely. I feel a smile, a sense of love for my house, the outside darkness, the desk I write at, the dim light. The atmosphere makes me smile, happy. A lovely presence keeps me company on the walls of brightly painted pastels. The cool wind through the screen door caresses my warm body.
I love the state I am in.
I am alone, silent, and free.
Brandi Carlie's song "What can I say?" is beautiful. In my restless state tonight, unable to focus on writing a letter, I've been singing along with Brandi in repeat for the past 30 minutes.
I completely understand how time stops with solitude.
But why am I not sad being alone?
Even tonight with my restlessness, with a desire to sleep- it's too early to blow out the lamp, only 8 pm- I do not feel sad or lonely. I feel a smile, a sense of love for my house, the outside darkness, the desk I write at, the dim light. The atmosphere makes me smile, happy. A lovely presence keeps me company on the walls of brightly painted pastels. The cool wind through the screen door caresses my warm body.
I love the state I am in.
I am alone, silent, and free.
It takes a village...
My neighbors are a courtyard of females. I don't know where the men are, maybe deceased. The women leave in the morning to walk 3 km to their fields. Left behind are two little girls 5 and 4 whom I often feed. The women return as the sun sets.
Am I part of the village babysitting network?
Am I part of the village babysitting network?
Okra
I never realized how tasty okra is. It is a beautiful green with entertaining yummy white seeds that pop. Boiled, it is slimy and gooey. Stir-fried it is crispy goodness. Try it with onions, salt, basil, and oil.
Here okra is boiled into a stringy sauce. Like how we manipulate stress balls, millet toe, a more solid form of grits, is formed into a ball and dipped into an okra sauce. Toe doesn't really have a taste. It is the texture people find hard. For me it is the sauce that makes or breaks toe.
Here okra is boiled into a stringy sauce. Like how we manipulate stress balls, millet toe, a more solid form of grits, is formed into a ball and dipped into an okra sauce. Toe doesn't really have a taste. It is the texture people find hard. For me it is the sauce that makes or breaks toe.
Knee Deep
August 26
I am somewhat concerned that the square cement floor covering a square pit hanging on by its edges over a live smelly mess, made personally by yours truly will cave in. Rain is slowly eating away at the crumbling edges.
My nearest Peace Corps neighbor is a comedian, "I'd get a picture and then help you out."
I am somewhat concerned that the square cement floor covering a square pit hanging on by its edges over a live smelly mess, made personally by yours truly will cave in. Rain is slowly eating away at the crumbling edges.
My nearest Peace Corps neighbor is a comedian, "I'd get a picture and then help you out."
August 23
Today's taxi ride from Ouaga back to the village reminded me why in Guinea I preferred biking 68 km for five hours rather than riding in a 15 passenger van crammed with 24.
I've been happy with Burkina's transportation. The roads are better. Buses leave on time. There are more runs per route making the bus less crowded.
Today though may have pushed me to start biking the 100 km. The only problem is I like starting at 5 am. I'm not sure the canoes used to cross a river 3 km from my village on the way to Ouaga are operating that early. Plus it would be kind of scary crossing a river in the dark. If I don't leave early for Ouaga though the sun will get me.
I've been happy with Burkina's transportation. The roads are better. Buses leave on time. There are more runs per route making the bus less crowded.
Today though may have pushed me to start biking the 100 km. The only problem is I like starting at 5 am. I'm not sure the canoes used to cross a river 3 km from my village on the way to Ouaga are operating that early. Plus it would be kind of scary crossing a river in the dark. If I don't leave early for Ouaga though the sun will get me.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
August 21
I arrived in my new Burkina Faso village during the dry season. I learned how to sweat and relax living outside under a thatched roof compared to the metal one of my house-like oven.
The rainy season has arrived and I am slowly learning how to live inside. The flies are horribly annoying outside. It has turned cooler and I don't mind sitting at my desk writing as long as the flies are kept on the outside all whacked dead on the inside. Life these days remind me of the many hours at my desk in Guinea.
I am glad to be back in the writing habit.
I am glad to have a desk at which I can write without drenching each letter with a drop of sweat.
The rainy season has arrived and I am slowly learning how to live inside. The flies are horribly annoying outside. It has turned cooler and I don't mind sitting at my desk writing as long as the flies are kept on the outside all whacked dead on the inside. Life these days remind me of the many hours at my desk in Guinea.
I am glad to be back in the writing habit.
I am glad to have a desk at which I can write without drenching each letter with a drop of sweat.
August 18
I live in a quiet world of solitude.
It isn't the silence of noise that pierces
for there is a lot to hear
the ringing of the 5:45 am church bell
the cackling of a hen chased from pooping on the front porch
the bubbling of water from cooking rice or the popping of cooking corn
the scurrying of lizards across my metal roof
the tearing of weedy roots like the sounds of ripping teeth from their gums
No, it is the lack of English that envelops me into a bubble of quiet aloneness.
I read a book a day filling my mental silence with stories and conversations for my eyes to devour.
My ears feel neglected.
Sound can be a touch of human contact.
When the sun sets, I imprison myself under a net with mosquitoes guarding my access to freedom.
Anyways there are no coffee shops, no theaters, or music halls to attend. Where else can I be but at home?
With the star-filled sky as the stage, I slip in a CD and listen to the dramatic brass, the sad guitar strings, the voices of theatrical emotion expressing love, rebirth, anguish, strength, justice, and injustice as tonight's hearing of Les Mis fills my need for contact.
And I cry when Eponine dies, a star shooting across the black sky.
And I cry when all of the songs on the ruined disc 2 skip, a 3 hour showing shortened to 1.5 hours.
The stars keep falling to the sounds of crickets, to the sounds of solitude.
And I am content.
I can hear without distraction.
I can feel and listen in ways that are lost in a developed world surrounded by English.
Yes I am at peace, a monk studying the art of being.
It isn't the silence of noise that pierces
for there is a lot to hear
the ringing of the 5:45 am church bell
the cackling of a hen chased from pooping on the front porch
the bubbling of water from cooking rice or the popping of cooking corn
the scurrying of lizards across my metal roof
the tearing of weedy roots like the sounds of ripping teeth from their gums
No, it is the lack of English that envelops me into a bubble of quiet aloneness.
I read a book a day filling my mental silence with stories and conversations for my eyes to devour.
My ears feel neglected.
Sound can be a touch of human contact.
When the sun sets, I imprison myself under a net with mosquitoes guarding my access to freedom.
Anyways there are no coffee shops, no theaters, or music halls to attend. Where else can I be but at home?
With the star-filled sky as the stage, I slip in a CD and listen to the dramatic brass, the sad guitar strings, the voices of theatrical emotion expressing love, rebirth, anguish, strength, justice, and injustice as tonight's hearing of Les Mis fills my need for contact.
And I cry when Eponine dies, a star shooting across the black sky.
And I cry when all of the songs on the ruined disc 2 skip, a 3 hour showing shortened to 1.5 hours.
The stars keep falling to the sounds of crickets, to the sounds of solitude.
And I am content.
I can hear without distraction.
I can feel and listen in ways that are lost in a developed world surrounded by English.
Yes I am at peace, a monk studying the art of being.
When I am bored
I floss my teeth
I scrub my feet
I sweep the floor
I separate beans from rocks
I cook a time-consuming dish
I read an entire book
All the little things combined with bigger tasks like weeding, visiting, and tutoring make up a full enjoyable day.
I scrub my feet
I sweep the floor
I separate beans from rocks
I cook a time-consuming dish
I read an entire book
All the little things combined with bigger tasks like weeding, visiting, and tutoring make up a full enjoyable day.
An Ode to My Pagnes
August 15
Even though you are
strangely decorated with
mixed matched colors
and weird designs like
blenders,
cell phones,
severed fingers,
and
egg beaters
how fast you dry
how little you wrinkle
how amazingly well you hide
dirt and sweat
You are practical
and that is
what makes you great.
Note: Pagnes are 1.5 meters of African cloth.
Even though you are
strangely decorated with
mixed matched colors
and weird designs like
blenders,
cell phones,
severed fingers,
and
egg beaters
how fast you dry
how little you wrinkle
how amazingly well you hide
dirt and sweat
You are practical
and that is
what makes you great.
Note: Pagnes are 1.5 meters of African cloth.
My Pillow
When I first got to country I was so thankful that I brought my pillow from the states. It made it easier to fall asleep in the hot room of my host family.
When we left Guinea, I also left the pillow.
My new bed is a foldable cot made out of woven plastic rope. It is a hard bed. I bought the rectangle foam pillows that they have here. I was able to fall asleep, but then the hot season came and it was too hot to use the pillow. So I learned how to sleep without a pillow and now I never use one even if I'm in a hotel with fluffy ones.
Funny how quickly a body adapts.
When we left Guinea, I also left the pillow.
My new bed is a foldable cot made out of woven plastic rope. It is a hard bed. I bought the rectangle foam pillows that they have here. I was able to fall asleep, but then the hot season came and it was too hot to use the pillow. So I learned how to sleep without a pillow and now I never use one even if I'm in a hotel with fluffy ones.
Funny how quickly a body adapts.
August 11
Can you imagine?
mowing a lawn, by pulling up all the grass by hand?
Well that is what we did. It is necessary for safety. Who knows what the tall grass attracts to the house.
mowing a lawn, by pulling up all the grass by hand?
Well that is what we did. It is necessary for safety. Who knows what the tall grass attracts to the house.
August 6
"I want a bon bon," the ringleader of the 3 girls with bloated tummies asked in Moore.
I replied, "Do you want beans?"
Only the youngest, a 3 year old nodded yes.
She gobbled down my black eye pea chili and when I asked again, do you want beans, the 2 others nodded yes.
I gave them spoons and was glad to see that I am not the only one who makes a mess when using a new utensil.
I replied, "Do you want beans?"
Only the youngest, a 3 year old nodded yes.
She gobbled down my black eye pea chili and when I asked again, do you want beans, the 2 others nodded yes.
I gave them spoons and was glad to see that I am not the only one who makes a mess when using a new utensil.
August 5
Am I bored if
I sit in my house
whacking flies
with my handmade straw broom?
It did cross my mind
that flies have a right to live.
I should value life, but
it was only a slight hiccup
in my killing spree.
I sit in my house
whacking flies
with my handmade straw broom?
It did cross my mind
that flies have a right to live.
I should value life, but
it was only a slight hiccup
in my killing spree.
Village Tidbits
After a week and a half, it is thrilling to come home to my once barren garden now full of weeds mixed with bean, corn, and peanut greenness.
and
My Moringa trees that I have started in little bags have sprouted. My enclosed latrine is a great place to start a tree nursery well protected from hungry animals.
and
If I learned how to fix well pumps, I could do a bike tour across Africa re paring pumps in exchange for food and a place to stay.
and
Weeding is fun.
It is like a treasure hunt digging until you find the gold.
and
My Moringa trees that I have started in little bags have sprouted. My enclosed latrine is a great place to start a tree nursery well protected from hungry animals.
and
If I learned how to fix well pumps, I could do a bike tour across Africa re paring pumps in exchange for food and a place to stay.
and
Weeding is fun.
It is like a treasure hunt digging until you find the gold.
Flying versus the road
August 2
Airplanes are cramped ways to travel, an uncomfortable day to get from point A to point B.
I flew to Dakar, Senegal last week.
After a year of Bush taxis rides, airplanes are a first class way to travel
air conditioning
your own seat
seat belts
hot food and drinks handed to you instead of thrown through open windows chased by foot for their money as the taxi pulls away
a smooth ride
Airplanes are definitely a welcomed bump up to first class.
Airplanes are cramped ways to travel, an uncomfortable day to get from point A to point B.
I flew to Dakar, Senegal last week.
After a year of Bush taxis rides, airplanes are a first class way to travel
air conditioning
your own seat
seat belts
hot food and drinks handed to you instead of thrown through open windows chased by foot for their money as the taxi pulls away
a smooth ride
Airplanes are definitely a welcomed bump up to first class.
African Polite
July 30
Good morning.
How are you?
How is your family?
How did you sleep?
How is work?
God bless your day.
Amen
If I start a greeting in French o fin Moore I can be African polite, each question asked with a squeeze of the hand, at least 3 hand squeezes per greeting.
If I start a greeting in English, I am impolite with my minuscule greeting starting with good morning and ending with How are you running full speed into business.
Good morning.
How are you?
How is your family?
How did you sleep?
How is work?
God bless your day.
Amen
If I start a greeting in French o fin Moore I can be African polite, each question asked with a squeeze of the hand, at least 3 hand squeezes per greeting.
If I start a greeting in English, I am impolite with my minuscule greeting starting with good morning and ending with How are you running full speed into business.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
In Graduate School
I sometimes would hate life.
Here in Africa,
I sometimes feel sad and lonely,
but I never feel that I hate my life.
That makes me smile.
I love it here!
Here in Africa,
I sometimes feel sad and lonely,
but I never feel that I hate my life.
That makes me smile.
I love it here!
I am adopted
I feel like I have no roots.
I am connected to 30 years of life on this earth, but do not feel connected to anything older. My genetic makeup is my tradition. I have no cultural tradition. I am an outsider looking in, a reader doing research at the library.
No roots
No home
Am I burdened to forever wander, following me, for that is where my home is. I am my family.
Or does all of this have nothing to do with being adopted but has to do with age?
Am I in some common phase of life where 30 year olds think about their dreams, selfishly doing what they want following their hearts forsaking a life with family?
I am connected to 30 years of life on this earth, but do not feel connected to anything older. My genetic makeup is my tradition. I have no cultural tradition. I am an outsider looking in, a reader doing research at the library.
No roots
No home
Am I burdened to forever wander, following me, for that is where my home is. I am my family.
Or does all of this have nothing to do with being adopted but has to do with age?
Am I in some common phase of life where 30 year olds think about their dreams, selfishly doing what they want following their hearts forsaking a life with family?
Lights Out
Thursday 18 July
When dark falls it is easy to fall asleep even it if is only 7:30 pm.
Dark is dark here.
It is hard to differentiate a 7 o'clock dark from a 11 o'clock dark.
Electricity and light fool the body to stay up past dark.
When dark falls it is easy to fall asleep even it if is only 7:30 pm.
Dark is dark here.
It is hard to differentiate a 7 o'clock dark from a 11 o'clock dark.
Electricity and light fool the body to stay up past dark.
Dry Dirt
Wednesday 17 July
I have half an acre of land that I am planting using hand tools. A student plowed my land with a donkey while I was away.
Yesterday I planted peanuts and corn. Today beans.
I love physical labor feeling the sweat drip off of me like right after a cool bucket bath.
My 6 blisters hopefully will turn into calluses today rather than popped open sores.
I have half an acre of land that I am planting using hand tools. A student plowed my land with a donkey while I was away.
Yesterday I planted peanuts and corn. Today beans.
I love physical labor feeling the sweat drip off of me like right after a cool bucket bath.
My 6 blisters hopefully will turn into calluses today rather than popped open sores.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
When it rains
my yard turns into an
endless gigantic puddle.
Nice Damon is constructing
an elevated walkway from my
front door to the latrine
using clay and flat river rocks
that we collect daily strapping to our bikes.
He is so nice, isn't he?
Meals
Food is scarce.
People are planting.
Our diet consists of
noodles, oil, and onions
plus some yummy Nong Shim Shin Ramyun
a friend's sister so thoughtfully sent.
People are planting.
Our diet consists of
noodles, oil, and onions
plus some yummy Nong Shim Shin Ramyun
a friend's sister so thoughtfully sent.
Rain
I live outside, sleep, eat, read, and write outside.
But tonight the rain drove us inside.
Inside is scary.
Winged wispy bugs as long as a pinkie
and a HUGE rat plump as a grapefruit
who wanted to go outside
But tonight the rain drove us inside.
Inside is scary.
Winged wispy bugs as long as a pinkie
and a HUGE rat plump as a grapefruit
who wanted to go outside
but the screen door kept him on our side.
I did not scream.
And then an exclamation from Damon of "cute"
a pea-sized frog that Damon helped outside as he did with the rat.
What will the rest of the night bring?
a lime sized frog crawling up the screen door
a turtle swimming in the newly formed pond of a yard
to see or not to see?
which is better?
kerosene lamp on or off?
I did not scream.
And then an exclamation from Damon of "cute"
a pea-sized frog that Damon helped outside as he did with the rat.
What will the rest of the night bring?
a lime sized frog crawling up the screen door
a turtle swimming in the newly formed pond of a yard
to see or not to see?
which is better?
kerosene lamp on or off?
Writing
Saturday July 7
My writing has taken a hit.
Africa, life au village, provided the perfect writing environment to write in my journal, to write letters, blogs, and even various essays about love and relationships.
village
my perfect writing environment
solitary
quiet
lacking electricity and distraction
endless hours of
me and my pen
But with the arrival of Damon, a boyfriend, my writing has taken a hit. Having a 24 hour companion to take vacations to Banfora, Burkina Faso and to Ghana to experience new African sites and sounds put a stop sign on my writing.
But that is okay.
I've had fun travelling around. I don't like travelling probably due to my lifetime of car sickness. Without a companion I probably would have stayed put in my comfortable safe surroundings of village. I prefer the familiarity of having adapted and been accepted to a new culture rather than the stress of new money, of a maze of a new city, of drowning in a new language.
As a tourist, a new country, a new city, a new village, is not fun for me. Having a companion made it easier.
I love exploring new cultures as a long-term participant rather than a hello goodbye tourist.
My writing has taken a hit.
Africa, life au village, provided the perfect writing environment to write in my journal, to write letters, blogs, and even various essays about love and relationships.
my perfect writing environment
solitary
quiet
lacking electricity and distraction
endless hours of
me and my pen
But with the arrival of Damon, a boyfriend, my writing has taken a hit. Having a 24 hour companion to take vacations to Banfora, Burkina Faso and to Ghana to experience new African sites and sounds put a stop sign on my writing.
But that is okay.
I've had fun travelling around. I don't like travelling probably due to my lifetime of car sickness. Without a companion I probably would have stayed put in my comfortable safe surroundings of village. I prefer the familiarity of having adapted and been accepted to a new culture rather than the stress of new money, of a maze of a new city, of drowning in a new language.
As a tourist, a new country, a new city, a new village, is not fun for me. Having a companion made it easier.
I love exploring new cultures as a long-term participant rather than a hello goodbye tourist.
Friday, June 08, 2007
A Witch's Brew to make you feel Better
(for Damon)
In the morning
gobble rice and goat sauce,
stir in a cafe au lait
(sweetened condensed milk with instant coffee),
with a buttered baguette,
chomp on a slice of coconut,
drink zoom koom (ginger drink),
open up a mango,
and mix with
dried manioc shavings and fried fish,
try a mouthful of warm millet beer,
share a plate of grilled goat and lung,
sip a bottle of hot coke along
with warm Guinness
ending by mixing the two.
An African Tapas experience au village
Let the stomach rumble and grumble till nightfall.
Then throw it up and piss it out your ass.
Welcome to Africa.
In the morning
gobble rice and goat sauce,
stir in a cafe au lait
(sweetened condensed milk with instant coffee),
with a buttered baguette,
chomp on a slice of coconut,
drink zoom koom (ginger drink),
open up a mango,
and mix with
dried manioc shavings and fried fish,
try a mouthful of warm millet beer,
share a plate of grilled goat and lung,
sip a bottle of hot coke along
with warm Guinness
ending by mixing the two.
An African Tapas experience au village
Let the stomach rumble and grumble till nightfall.
Then throw it up and piss it out your ass.
Welcome to Africa.
Taxi Bus/Brousse
Sunday 3 June
The ride was luxurious in a big 60 passenger bus, a five hour trip with curtains on the windows, with music and air conditioning. The road was smooth, flat, and straight.
On a dirt detour from the paved road being repaired, the bus stopped.
We sat outside on the sparsely grassed dirt and planned our trip to Ghana.
An hour later we flagged down a 12 passenger van and became two of the 19 sardined inside.
Luxury turned into reality.
Ahh... the adventures of travelling in Africa.
The ride was luxurious in a big 60 passenger bus, a five hour trip with curtains on the windows, with music and air conditioning. The road was smooth, flat, and straight.
On a dirt detour from the paved road being repaired, the bus stopped.
We sat outside on the sparsely grassed dirt and planned our trip to Ghana.
An hour later we flagged down a 12 passenger van and became two of the 19 sardined inside.
Luxury turned into reality.
Ahh... the adventures of travelling in Africa.
Something to do au Village
Thursday May 24
One of my favorite things to do in my house is to search for termite tracks along the white walls.
Termites form dirt paths as fat as my fingers that can be as long as my foot and even longer if you leave them be.
Termites don't bite. I just brush the crispy dirt away with my hands.
The only negative thing about termites is that they eat paper, precious reading material. Documents turn into dust.
I have to keep my eye and broom on those insects that give me something to do au village.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Wednesday 16 May
It is 1:21 am and I cannot sleep even though today was an extremely busy day with girls' club, teaching, and market day.
I wonder if the elderly in Africa have trouble sleeping like my grandmothers.
Is my insomnia due to drugs, the infamous Larime, the excitement of organizing activities for a girls' club, or the excitement of Damon's visit?
I wonder if the elderly in Africa have trouble sleeping like my grandmothers.
Is my insomnia due to drugs, the infamous Larime, the excitement of organizing activities for a girls' club, or the excitement of Damon's visit?
Rain and Bugs
The heavy rain upon my aluminium roof hurts my ears.
It is a good thing I brought ear plugs.
The rain knocked down my straw roofed and straw enclosed patio where I sleep every night. Thankfully I was already inside my sturdy house. That would have hurt. Straw is heavier than you would think.
When the rain is pouring, know what I need?
a chamber pot
You know what I like about Africa?
You can leave a dead roach on the floor of your house and the next morning it will be gone.
It is a good thing I brought ear plugs.
The rain knocked down my straw roofed and straw enclosed patio where I sleep every night. Thankfully I was already inside my sturdy house. That would have hurt. Straw is heavier than you would think.
When the rain is pouring, know what I need?
a chamber pot
You know what I like about Africa?
You can leave a dead roach on the floor of your house and the next morning it will be gone.
My Kitchen
consists of a 2-tier table supporting a 3 burner table top gas stove with its tank on the floor. I have one frying pan and two pots. I have 1 sharp knife, a big stirring spoon, 7 spoons, no forks, and one pair of chopsticks. I have two aluminium plates and 3 plastic cups. I have a plastic basin to wash my dishes in. I have slat, oil, and beef bouillon cubes.
And you know what the great thing is?
My village has a market day every three days, so if I need a bowl or a fork I can just walk 2 football fields and buy whatever I desire.
And you know what the great thing is?
My village has a market day every three days, so if I need a bowl or a fork I can just walk 2 football fields and buy whatever I desire.
May 13: Starting at 6 am
I do my laundry every Sunday
today the wind was strong
a quick dry
my clothes like kites in the sky
snap like the sound of a whip
Ideas for Village Projects
A co-worker has approached me with two ides for projects:
- to help start a program for families who take in orphans and need assistance
- to help with cultural preservation, the traditional masks of the village.
I have a few ideas, but would appreciate your suggestions, your expertise, and your experience.
At the school, I'm trying to start a Girl's Club. Empowering women and tackling women's issues must have an impact on poverty right?
The Poverty Question
What can I do? To what point do I give such that I myself do not fall to a level of poverty? What must I give up to help the poor: meat, sushi, movies, coffee, cheese?
Seeing people especially kids in need really hits me and I feel the urge to give, but if I started handing out 5000 CFA ($10) bills does that help anyone? It provides a temporary solution to my guilt of being privileged and a temporary solution to a person's hunger. After the money is used up though hunger creeps in again.
How can I have an impact on poverty? Giving money? Teaching skills that help people make money? Putting money into the local economy by spending? Planting a Moringa tree? What can I do to put a dent into poverty and hunger?
My 10th graders say, "We need jobs."
Seeing people especially kids in need really hits me and I feel the urge to give, but if I started handing out 5000 CFA ($10) bills does that help anyone? It provides a temporary solution to my guilt of being privileged and a temporary solution to a person's hunger. After the money is used up though hunger creeps in again.
How can I have an impact on poverty? Giving money? Teaching skills that help people make money? Putting money into the local economy by spending? Planting a Moringa tree? What can I do to put a dent into poverty and hunger?
My 10th graders say, "We need jobs."
Peaceful living
Thursday 10 May
As I was cleaning the glass of my kerosene lamp, I thought to myself, "Wow. Every day you are living at a campsite: a pit latrine, a tent, light from a flame, and it's become normal, not weird or uncomfortable."
Life here has a simplicity that makes it a desirable and a wonderful life for me. Even though I'm covered with mosquito bites and rashes from the heat, I feel a sense of peace I rarely felt in the US. The burden of responsibility of having to make money to live comfortably was a dark shadow that made it heard for me to enjoy time. Here my shelter, food, health care, and spending money are all provided for me in exchange for teaching and cultural exchange.
Everything I need is here. I don't have to worry about how I'm going to make ends meet. Here I can enjoy. Even bouts of sadness, I seem to experience differently here. Au village, it is so much easier to be sad, to find peace with the sadness, and to watch it pass. In the US for some reason I held onto my misery for longer than I should.
I am provided for here. I feel safe. In this safety I don't worry. I exist with a sense of contentment, and if I do worry it doesn't linger. How strange that in the endless quiet au village, thoughts and worry don't spin in my unoccupied head.
As I was cleaning the glass of my kerosene lamp, I thought to myself, "Wow. Every day you are living at a campsite: a pit latrine, a tent, light from a flame, and it's become normal, not weird or uncomfortable."
Life here has a simplicity that makes it a desirable and a wonderful life for me. Even though I'm covered with mosquito bites and rashes from the heat, I feel a sense of peace I rarely felt in the US. The burden of responsibility of having to make money to live comfortably was a dark shadow that made it heard for me to enjoy time. Here my shelter, food, health care, and spending money are all provided for me in exchange for teaching and cultural exchange.
Everything I need is here. I don't have to worry about how I'm going to make ends meet. Here I can enjoy. Even bouts of sadness, I seem to experience differently here. Au village, it is so much easier to be sad, to find peace with the sadness, and to watch it pass. In the US for some reason I held onto my misery for longer than I should.
I am provided for here. I feel safe. In this safety I don't worry. I exist with a sense of contentment, and if I do worry it doesn't linger. How strange that in the endless quiet au village, thoughts and worry don't spin in my unoccupied head.
Things in the night
Last night I lay beneath my mosquito net writing a letter when all of a sudden a huge insect went scurrying all over.
A scorpion?
I turned out the lamp and breathed in the wish that it wouldn't find its way into my protected space that has ample openings for it to discover.
Today I learned it was a harmless palm sized insect, called a transporter.
It's package?
scorpions
A scorpion?
I turned out the lamp and breathed in the wish that it wouldn't find its way into my protected space that has ample openings for it to discover.
Today I learned it was a harmless palm sized insect, called a transporter.
It's package?
scorpions
Tuesday May 8
My live au Burkina revolves around work. It's a nice work schedule 2-5 hrs in the morning and 2 hrs in the evening, 3-4 of those hours are with students, the rest are spent grading or preparing for the next day's lesson. Work is not frustrating. It can be tiring with all of the grading. Thankfully math is easy to grade.
The rest of the time is spent eating and napping in the shade. Do I get bored? No way!
The most challenging part of the day is having visitors all of the time, visitors who lie on a prayer mat on the ground just napping. I let their presence frustrate me, allow them to disrupt my peace and my activities at home. I need to learn to just let their company be a comforting presence instead of an irritating chirp of a cricket.
The rest of the time is spent eating and napping in the shade. Do I get bored? No way!
The most challenging part of the day is having visitors all of the time, visitors who lie on a prayer mat on the ground just napping. I let their presence frustrate me, allow them to disrupt my peace and my activities at home. I need to learn to just let their company be a comforting presence instead of an irritating chirp of a cricket.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Monday 23 April
Today I spent a couple hours on an old fashioned typewriter.
Twas fun.
Reminded me of playing the piano.
What were you typing?
I was typing a 3 page English exam written by the principal that will be copied using a manual hand crank replicator.
Twas fun.
Reminded me of playing the piano.
What were you typing?
I was typing a 3 page English exam written by the principal that will be copied using a manual hand crank replicator.
The Day's Schedule
Saturday 21 April
5:30
Rise and shine
6:05
My water girl showed up ready to move a pile of sand out of my patio.
6:10
Went and had a cup of instant coffee mixed with sweetened condensed milk with a buttered baguette to dunk.
7:00
Went in search for veggies and salt, but the market was empty.
7:30
Went to the tailor
8:00
Started grading 80 math tests.
9:00
Went to the market and bought tomatoes, onions, okra, sugar, salt, and freshly butchered lamb.
10:00
Graded some more.
11:00
Started cooking spaghetti for five people using my one tiny pot.
Noon
Ate spaghetti.
Afternoon
Washed dishes.
Started and finished a book.
Crocheted a bag.
Braided my hair.
17:00
Took a bucket bath
Evening
Had tea with neighbors.
Put grades into grade book.
Read Where There is No Doctor for my continuously runny nose. Allergies to the dust? Take Dramamine it suggested.
20:00
Listened to music and fell asleep
5:30
Rise and shine
6:05
My water girl showed up ready to move a pile of sand out of my patio.
6:10
Went and had a cup of instant coffee mixed with sweetened condensed milk with a buttered baguette to dunk.
7:00
Went in search for veggies and salt, but the market was empty.
7:30
Went to the tailor
8:00
Started grading 80 math tests.
9:00
Went to the market and bought tomatoes, onions, okra, sugar, salt, and freshly butchered lamb.
10:00
Graded some more.
11:00
Started cooking spaghetti for five people using my one tiny pot.
Noon
Ate spaghetti.
Afternoon
Washed dishes.
Started and finished a book.
Crocheted a bag.
Braided my hair.
17:00
Took a bucket bath
Evening
Had tea with neighbors.
Put grades into grade book.
Read Where There is No Doctor for my continuously runny nose. Allergies to the dust? Take Dramamine it suggested.
20:00
Listened to music and fell asleep
Black Hole
Monday April 16
I'm always afraid of dropping my
flashlight down the hole
like how my good soap from Mali
got away from me and plummeted to its death.
I knew a guy whose hat fell.
He fished it out.
Must have been a really special hat.
I knew a girl who lost 5 pair of sunglasses.
And I once heard the story of a kitten who skidded and couldn't stop.
No wonder the 3-year old goes in the courtyard rather than my latrine.
I'm always afraid of dropping my
flashlight down the hole
like how my good soap from Mali
got away from me and plummeted to its death.
I knew a guy whose hat fell.
He fished it out.
Must have been a really special hat.
I knew a girl who lost 5 pair of sunglasses.
And I once heard the story of a kitten who skidded and couldn't stop.
No wonder the 3-year old goes in the courtyard rather than my latrine.
Sunday 15 April
The sun makes one
not even want to move out of the ombre
to go to the unshaded latrine
holding it until the last moment possible
like on a long car trip.
not even want to move out of the ombre
to go to the unshaded latrine
holding it until the last moment possible
like on a long car trip.
Dust covers everything.
Yet people's feet and shoes always seem so dust free.
I've learned to scrub my sandals every night, my feet several times a day, and rinse my flip flops before leaving the house. I now understand better the washing of feet so often spoken of in the Bible.
I'm surprised that in this dusty, dirty, hot place, my pores don't clog.
Maybe sweating keeps the pimples away?
Maybe it is the lack of chocolate?
Or is that a myth?
I've learned to scrub my sandals every night, my feet several times a day, and rinse my flip flops before leaving the house. I now understand better the washing of feet so often spoken of in the Bible.
I'm surprised that in this dusty, dirty, hot place, my pores don't clog.
Maybe sweating keeps the pimples away?
Maybe it is the lack of chocolate?
Or is that a myth?
Friday April 13
It is dark.
It is hot.
It is still early only 8 pm.
I lie in the dark thinking up dresses I want tailored made.
I was never a clothes person in the US, hating shopping because nothing ever fit. Here though everything fits if its a good tailor.
I have a good tailor.
Send me pictures or patters of cute modest sundresses.
I left all of my clothes in Guinea.
It is hot.
It is still early only 8 pm.
I lie in the dark thinking up dresses I want tailored made.
I was never a clothes person in the US, hating shopping because nothing ever fit. Here though everything fits if its a good tailor.
I have a good tailor.
Send me pictures or patters of cute modest sundresses.
I left all of my clothes in Guinea.
Seeing two nuns
speeding away on their little motorcycles an attitude of eat my dust with veils flapping behind them makes me smile.
The Burkinabe nuns live it up here a walled compound full of foodies: cold water, running water, toilet paper, popcorn, a fully cemented courtyard, flowers, and fruit trees.
The Burkinabe nuns live it up here a walled compound full of foodies: cold water, running water, toilet paper, popcorn, a fully cemented courtyard, flowers, and fruit trees.
Easter
It was impressive here.
About 500 people showed up for the 4 hour Catholic service, about 100 baptized, about 10 couples married.
Then the partying began, feasting on pork, lamb, and goat, washing it all down with millet beer.
I went and said hello to all the people who I see daily or who have helped me: the boutique guys, the meat guys, the coffee guy, the taxi guy, the street food ladies, the profs at the middle school, the family of the girl who helps get my water, my tailor, my carpenter, and the guys I drink tea with.
Then I hid away from the market drinking tea in a quiet courtyard away from the center. It is hard being the white person amongst a bunch of drinking strangers. So I sat in the distance watching the comings and goings of motorcycles that were going too fast for a heavily populated area. Thankfully he crashed instead of hitting a person.
There was a lot of drumming and dancing.
The night was full of joyful noise.
About 500 people showed up for the 4 hour Catholic service, about 100 baptized, about 10 couples married.
Then the partying began, feasting on pork, lamb, and goat, washing it all down with millet beer.
I went and said hello to all the people who I see daily or who have helped me: the boutique guys, the meat guys, the coffee guy, the taxi guy, the street food ladies, the profs at the middle school, the family of the girl who helps get my water, my tailor, my carpenter, and the guys I drink tea with.
Then I hid away from the market drinking tea in a quiet courtyard away from the center. It is hard being the white person amongst a bunch of drinking strangers. So I sat in the distance watching the comings and goings of motorcycles that were going too fast for a heavily populated area. Thankfully he crashed instead of hitting a person.
There was a lot of drumming and dancing.
The night was full of joyful noise.
1st Week of School
Twas easy.
The kids come to school on time.
They listen.
They participate.
They attend office hours.
They know what 9x9 is at least some of them do.
They are quiet.
They work.
my 8th graders all 110 of them
my 7th graders all 88 of them
I'm impressed this week.
The kids come to school on time.
They listen.
They participate.
They attend office hours.
They know what 9x9 is at least some of them do.
They are quiet.
They work.
my 8th graders all 110 of them
my 7th graders all 88 of them
I'm impressed this week.
Thursday April 10
God is funny or maybe sympathetic.
In the hottest, driest season,
He gave us mangoes.
In the hottest, driest season,
He gave us mangoes.
Thursday 5 April
A wind storm
drove us inside
me, a girl, and a mother with a baby
They said they could smell rain.
Later I heard it rained in Ouaga today.
They smelt it 100 km away.
drove us inside
me, a girl, and a mother with a baby
They said they could smell rain.
Later I heard it rained in Ouaga today.
They smelt it 100 km away.
Burkina vs Guinea
Wednesday April 4
Things here just work better.
The quality is higher.
There are more choices.
The matches light on one strike.
Chalk doesn't break every time I write.
2 pieces can last 2 hours whereas
in Guinea I would need 10.
The taxi for Ouaga left on time
even 10 minutes early.
It was a cush ride.
Things here just work better.
The quality is higher.
There are more choices.
The matches light on one strike.
Chalk doesn't break every time I write.
2 pieces can last 2 hours whereas
in Guinea I would need 10.
The taxi for Ouaga left on time
even 10 minutes early.
It was a cush ride.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Monday April 2
Lying still
I am okay
But as soon as I start moving,
even just my writing hand
my face slicks up.
It is only 19:30
I cannot lie still
till morning
So here I write
Here I glisten
I am okay
But as soon as I start moving,
even just my writing hand
my face slicks up.
It is only 19:30
I cannot lie still
till morning
So here I write
Here I glisten
Sunday April 1
A hornet's nest worth
of flies come zooming
out of the dark hole
whizzing by my ears
a few of them
their wings
succumb
to my splatter
stuck buzzing in a puddle
unable
to take off again.
of flies come zooming
out of the dark hole
whizzing by my ears
a few of them
their wings
succumb
to my splatter
stuck buzzing in a puddle
unable
to take off again.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
H2O
Monday 26 March 2007
Even though I have been swimming before I could walk, I have always felt much closer to earth enjoying the ground under my running feet, mud pies, clay at the bottom of a pond, the sound of gravel under my bike’s wheel, my bed inside a tent, worms hiding in the soil.
Now don’t misunderstand me.
I love drinking water.
It is my preferred beverage; however, I am a solid type of person rather than a flowy one, a person who loves to be grounded.
Water however has taken on a whole new perspective here in Africa.
My house is full of water: a large clay pot, three buckets, 2 bidons, and a huge garbage can. My water girl got over-zealous at $0.20 a bidon transporting 8 bidons of water today from the well. She wants to buy an expensive store-bought jean outfit for $10, to get dressed up for Easter.
Water is hard work here in my new village.
I have a new-found appreciation as I can down a liter and a half in 2 minutes, can take 3 bucket baths a day, and tend to drink at least 10 liters a day and still feel thirsty.
Water, more precious than the gold in the nearby mine.
Even though I have been swimming before I could walk, I have always felt much closer to earth enjoying the ground under my running feet, mud pies, clay at the bottom of a pond, the sound of gravel under my bike’s wheel, my bed inside a tent, worms hiding in the soil.
Now don’t misunderstand me.
I love drinking water.
It is my preferred beverage; however, I am a solid type of person rather than a flowy one, a person who loves to be grounded.
Water however has taken on a whole new perspective here in Africa.
My house is full of water: a large clay pot, three buckets, 2 bidons, and a huge garbage can. My water girl got over-zealous at $0.20 a bidon transporting 8 bidons of water today from the well. She wants to buy an expensive store-bought jean outfit for $10, to get dressed up for Easter.
Water is hard work here in my new village.
I have a new-found appreciation as I can down a liter and a half in 2 minutes, can take 3 bucket baths a day, and tend to drink at least 10 liters a day and still feel thirsty.
Water, more precious than the gold in the nearby mine.
Chores and Play
Saturday 24 March 2007
After drinking a 6:30 am cup of coffee and after sitting at a table with thousands of flies thankfully more interested in the skinned lamb instead of me as I waited for my flat tire to be fixed, I arrived home to my two seventh grade helpers and a 3-year old sibling, all sleeping on my sand-covered patio.
We washed clothes, swept the house, and washed my bike. The two girls braved the hottest part of the day to make 3 trips to the well to collect 5 bidons of water wanting to get me water instead of waiting for hours during the cooler parts of the day when the line of women for water is extra long.
I babysat the cutest little boy. The 3-year old taught me how to say I want water in Moore. He learned how to operate a spigot on a water filter. We played with rocks instead of blocks constructing bridges. We put his baby to sleep, a tiny figure that his sister molded out of candle wax. He listened attentively as I sang the ABC’s and all the nursery rhymes I knew, hoping he would take a nap.
When his sister returned, I watched as she used one small clear plastic bag amusing him for half an hour making balloons of all shapes and sizes that go boom.
Today was a nice mix of chores and play.
After drinking a 6:30 am cup of coffee and after sitting at a table with thousands of flies thankfully more interested in the skinned lamb instead of me as I waited for my flat tire to be fixed, I arrived home to my two seventh grade helpers and a 3-year old sibling, all sleeping on my sand-covered patio.
We washed clothes, swept the house, and washed my bike. The two girls braved the hottest part of the day to make 3 trips to the well to collect 5 bidons of water wanting to get me water instead of waiting for hours during the cooler parts of the day when the line of women for water is extra long.
I babysat the cutest little boy. The 3-year old taught me how to say I want water in Moore. He learned how to operate a spigot on a water filter. We played with rocks instead of blocks constructing bridges. We put his baby to sleep, a tiny figure that his sister molded out of candle wax. He listened attentively as I sang the ABC’s and all the nursery rhymes I knew, hoping he would take a nap.
When his sister returned, I watched as she used one small clear plastic bag amusing him for half an hour making balloons of all shapes and sizes that go boom.
Today was a nice mix of chores and play.
No Naan *pout*
I thought I liked eating with my hands, mashing up rice and beans into a ball that neatly pops into my mouth.
The oil factor has turned me off of the always handy utensil.
My hand drips of oil, impossible to remove after a meal.
I’m either going to have to keep a spoon or a bar of soap in my bag.
The oil factor has turned me off of the always handy utensil.
My hand drips of oil, impossible to remove after a meal.
I’m either going to have to keep a spoon or a bar of soap in my bag.
Q&A
Thursday 22 March 2007
In the US I am known for my never-ending questions. If I was in the US, what questions would I ask my friend in Burkina?
What is your living situation like?
I live in a tiny 2 room house full of sand and dust with an aluminum roof. It’s smaller than most of your garages. Can a car even fit into mine?
My latrine shares a wall with my house and has no roof. I wonder how that will be during the rainy season. I have a front porch, sand as the floor, enclosed and roofed by straw mats surprisingly private, a place to sleep in the heat. I write by kerosene lamp and have a couple of girls fetch water 2 football fields away from a wheel pump well. My house is empty except for a desk. I basically live in my porch. It’s too hot inside.
I don’t cook. There are too may food vendors: rice, black-eye peas and spaghetti ($0.20), corn toe (solid form of grits), fish and sauce ($0.20), bread and 1/3 cup of sweetened condensed milk and a spoonful of instant coffee, the rest water ($0.20), cabbage, lamb, rice, and spaghetti ($0.20), a huge plate of goat or lamp ($1).
Are you lonely?
No way. There is a ton of socializing here. Lots of people speak French. In the mornings, I have coffee and talk with students. In the afternoon I walk around town talking to whomever. Kids and students come visit especially girls. In the evenings, I eat with a family and drink green tea with a group of men.
How’s school and teaching?
Well I arrived during the last week of the 2nd trimester. Teachers were calculating grades and having the kids recheck the math.
My first impression is that it is a well-run school. The facilities are new provided by PLAN. They have 10 classrooms, a library, an administration building, a teacher’s room, a kitchen where the cafeteria lady cooks over wood, and nice homes for the teachers who are brought in by the government.
During the last week of the 2nd trimester, the students organized a football tournament, a traditional clothing pageant, a carnival, and a dance. I got to judge the pageant based on costume and a 5 minute speech on a theme like HIV/AIDS, child labor, excision, scholarisation of girls.
We are now on 2 weeks of vacation and I’ll finish the month and a half of the last trimester teaching 10 hours a week of math to 7th and 8th graders, class sizes of 80-100. That will be a challenge. I also haven’t done any geometry since 11th grade. I guess it’s good that I have a PhD, a badge of a self-learner.
Do you see any differences between your village in Guinea and your village in Burkina?
First off the village in Burkina has a Catholic church, a Protestant one and a mosque. It has pork running around as well as donkeys. It has cell phone coverage, cold beer, homemade millet beer, and cold cokes.
Another big difference is I see a lot of kids with big bellies which is something I never saw in my village in Guinea.
Here it is flat with sand, shrubs, and cliffs, kind of reminds me of Colorado.
I can’t get fruit in my Burkina village, but I can get cabbage.
There are cultural differences too, but I’m too new to comment on them.
I am very happy in my new home. I do daily 20-30 km bike rides and did a 60 km ride today. I am hoping to do the 80-90 km to Ouaga soon.
My house isn’t furnished yet. It feels more like a large walk-in closet. But this village feels like home. I have a daily routine, people to talk to, girls to teach how to make friendship bracelets, kids who come over to play. It is a community not a house that makes a home. I’ve never been a Martha Stewart. Who cares if my windows have curtains? I can be happy living outside on a cot as long as there are people who come to visit, people to cook for, people to share my huge bag of salted cashews with.
In the US I am known for my never-ending questions. If I was in the US, what questions would I ask my friend in Burkina?
What is your living situation like?
I live in a tiny 2 room house full of sand and dust with an aluminum roof. It’s smaller than most of your garages. Can a car even fit into mine?
My latrine shares a wall with my house and has no roof. I wonder how that will be during the rainy season. I have a front porch, sand as the floor, enclosed and roofed by straw mats surprisingly private, a place to sleep in the heat. I write by kerosene lamp and have a couple of girls fetch water 2 football fields away from a wheel pump well. My house is empty except for a desk. I basically live in my porch. It’s too hot inside.
I don’t cook. There are too may food vendors: rice, black-eye peas and spaghetti ($0.20), corn toe (solid form of grits), fish and sauce ($0.20), bread and 1/3 cup of sweetened condensed milk and a spoonful of instant coffee, the rest water ($0.20), cabbage, lamb, rice, and spaghetti ($0.20), a huge plate of goat or lamp ($1).
Are you lonely?
No way. There is a ton of socializing here. Lots of people speak French. In the mornings, I have coffee and talk with students. In the afternoon I walk around town talking to whomever. Kids and students come visit especially girls. In the evenings, I eat with a family and drink green tea with a group of men.
How’s school and teaching?
Well I arrived during the last week of the 2nd trimester. Teachers were calculating grades and having the kids recheck the math.
My first impression is that it is a well-run school. The facilities are new provided by PLAN. They have 10 classrooms, a library, an administration building, a teacher’s room, a kitchen where the cafeteria lady cooks over wood, and nice homes for the teachers who are brought in by the government.
During the last week of the 2nd trimester, the students organized a football tournament, a traditional clothing pageant, a carnival, and a dance. I got to judge the pageant based on costume and a 5 minute speech on a theme like HIV/AIDS, child labor, excision, scholarisation of girls.
We are now on 2 weeks of vacation and I’ll finish the month and a half of the last trimester teaching 10 hours a week of math to 7th and 8th graders, class sizes of 80-100. That will be a challenge. I also haven’t done any geometry since 11th grade. I guess it’s good that I have a PhD, a badge of a self-learner.
Do you see any differences between your village in Guinea and your village in Burkina?
First off the village in Burkina has a Catholic church, a Protestant one and a mosque. It has pork running around as well as donkeys. It has cell phone coverage, cold beer, homemade millet beer, and cold cokes.
Another big difference is I see a lot of kids with big bellies which is something I never saw in my village in Guinea.
Here it is flat with sand, shrubs, and cliffs, kind of reminds me of Colorado.
I can’t get fruit in my Burkina village, but I can get cabbage.
There are cultural differences too, but I’m too new to comment on them.
I am very happy in my new home. I do daily 20-30 km bike rides and did a 60 km ride today. I am hoping to do the 80-90 km to Ouaga soon.
My house isn’t furnished yet. It feels more like a large walk-in closet. But this village feels like home. I have a daily routine, people to talk to, girls to teach how to make friendship bracelets, kids who come over to play. It is a community not a house that makes a home. I’ve never been a Martha Stewart. Who cares if my windows have curtains? I can be happy living outside on a cot as long as there are people who come to visit, people to cook for, people to share my huge bag of salted cashews with.
The Walk
the heat
yet I'm not miserable
there is a savoring sense like a good dark chocolate
this walk in the sun
The Heat
Wednesday 21 March 2007
They say April is worse.
I sit legs spread not waiting the moisture of my thighs to touch into a sticky heated mess.
Why are clothes necessary for decency?
I move my cot out of the moving light, but it is impossible to escape.
The liters and liters I drink are as warm as a cup of tea and I rarely pee.
The hot breath of mother nature comforts me for a mini-second.
The droplets that flow down my chest are incredibly cooling.
Yet the heat is trapped here, a prison I cannot break free from.
At dusk when my eyes don’t seek shelter from the bright glare, its beautiful overpowering sphere, so moonlike, fills the sky, a huge presence whispering goodbye, its daily torture already fading from the memory in the awe of its beauty.
They say April is worse.
I sit legs spread not waiting the moisture of my thighs to touch into a sticky heated mess.
Why are clothes necessary for decency?
I move my cot out of the moving light, but it is impossible to escape.
The liters and liters I drink are as warm as a cup of tea and I rarely pee.
The hot breath of mother nature comforts me for a mini-second.
The droplets that flow down my chest are incredibly cooling.
Yet the heat is trapped here, a prison I cannot break free from.
At dusk when my eyes don’t seek shelter from the bright glare, its beautiful overpowering sphere, so moonlike, fills the sky, a huge presence whispering goodbye, its daily torture already fading from the memory in the awe of its beauty.
Nostalgia
Sunday 18 March 2007
Reading by flashlight, upon my single cot outside under the tent of a mosquito net reminds me of my youth, the many nights enjoyed camping in the tight confines of a tent placed upon my single in my bedroom.
Why are tents so much fun when we are young?
the tents made from tables and chairs
the ones bought to place upon beds
the refrigerator cardboard boxes shelter upon a hard patio
Reading by flashlight, upon my single cot outside under the tent of a mosquito net reminds me of my youth, the many nights enjoyed camping in the tight confines of a tent placed upon my single in my bedroom.
Why are tents so much fun when we are young?
the tents made from tables and chairs
the ones bought to place upon beds
the refrigerator cardboard boxes shelter upon a hard patio
Food and Biking
Saturday 17 March 2007
Sushi is yummy. I used to get the clear raw sweet flesh of shrimp served along with its head deep fried, its long antennas making it barely manageable for my petit mouth.
I found a Burkina snack food that is like popping fried shrimp heads except I pinch off the heads, removing the icky taste, of the deep fried little fish, a salty delight in this potato chip deprived town.
Where do the fish come from?
I rode my bike to a nearby village. I rode past big fields of water. I bet the fish are local. In the neighboring village, they were selling shrimp.
Biking is easy 22 km (13 miles) in 50 minutes and I am out of bike shape. It is easy until the wind. It took me 1 h and 30 minutes to make it home. Winds are easier than the hills and rocky terrain of Guinea though, but the winds make the trip super long.
Can I make the 90 km trip to Ouaga?
Should I even try?
Transport is easy, cheap, and fast.
Sushi is yummy. I used to get the clear raw sweet flesh of shrimp served along with its head deep fried, its long antennas making it barely manageable for my petit mouth.
I found a Burkina snack food that is like popping fried shrimp heads except I pinch off the heads, removing the icky taste, of the deep fried little fish, a salty delight in this potato chip deprived town.
Where do the fish come from?
I rode my bike to a nearby village. I rode past big fields of water. I bet the fish are local. In the neighboring village, they were selling shrimp.
Biking is easy 22 km (13 miles) in 50 minutes and I am out of bike shape. It is easy until the wind. It took me 1 h and 30 minutes to make it home. Winds are easier than the hills and rocky terrain of Guinea though, but the winds make the trip super long.
Can I make the 90 km trip to Ouaga?
Should I even try?
Transport is easy, cheap, and fast.
The Sounds of the Night
Thursday 13 March 2007
I sleep outside on a cot made of woven plastic rope, under a mosquito net hidden away by thick straw mats unable to see the stars.
My nighttime sleep weaves in and out of dreams of Africa and home.
My 30 some Catholic neighbors renting a courtyard until Easter are undergoing training before being baptized and they are loud: babies, chatter, and dinner. When they become quiet, the singing and drumming of choir practice at the Protestant chapel take over. Then the silence is broken by a random motorcycle, a bicycle that seems to stop at my gate, the loud action movie at the cinema hut, the thumping of the dance club. Then the loud braying of donkeys shatter the quiet, then the dogs, the guinea hens, the roosters, and then it is time for breakfast.
School starts at 7 am.
I’m in Africa, a dream soundtrack of a waking reality.
Silly us, complaining about the 5 am prayer call in Guinea.
I sleep outside on a cot made of woven plastic rope, under a mosquito net hidden away by thick straw mats unable to see the stars.
My nighttime sleep weaves in and out of dreams of Africa and home.
My 30 some Catholic neighbors renting a courtyard until Easter are undergoing training before being baptized and they are loud: babies, chatter, and dinner. When they become quiet, the singing and drumming of choir practice at the Protestant chapel take over. Then the silence is broken by a random motorcycle, a bicycle that seems to stop at my gate, the loud action movie at the cinema hut, the thumping of the dance club. Then the loud braying of donkeys shatter the quiet, then the dogs, the guinea hens, the roosters, and then it is time for breakfast.
School starts at 7 am.
I’m in Africa, a dream soundtrack of a waking reality.
Silly us, complaining about the 5 am prayer call in Guinea.
Day 2 Au Village
Saturday 10 March 2007
Dust covers everything in my new home, yet I am very happy. The house is simple: two tiny rooms, plus a front sand filled straw covered patio enclosed by straw mats, an outdoor latrine lacking a roof that shares a wall with the house. What will that be like in rainy season? Water? A well, 2 football fields away.
My new village has meat everyday, lamb and goat, has boutiques stocked high with soap, sardines, spaghetti, all that you could ever want. It has bars that serve beer and cold cokes. It has donkeys, pigs, sheep, and goats. It has solar power for a TV with a satellite dish, car batteries for music and cell phones. It has a Catholic church, a Protestant one, and a mosque. It has a lot.
With all of the amenities, one would think my village has a large population, but it is about the same size as my Guinea village. It feels small, and I am glad. It is the community that will make or break a town.
My first impression is a good one.
Dust covers everything in my new home, yet I am very happy. The house is simple: two tiny rooms, plus a front sand filled straw covered patio enclosed by straw mats, an outdoor latrine lacking a roof that shares a wall with the house. What will that be like in rainy season? Water? A well, 2 football fields away.
My new village has meat everyday, lamb and goat, has boutiques stocked high with soap, sardines, spaghetti, all that you could ever want. It has bars that serve beer and cold cokes. It has donkeys, pigs, sheep, and goats. It has solar power for a TV with a satellite dish, car batteries for music and cell phones. It has a Catholic church, a Protestant one, and a mosque. It has a lot.
With all of the amenities, one would think my village has a large population, but it is about the same size as my Guinea village. It feels small, and I am glad. It is the community that will make or break a town.
My first impression is a good one.
Friday, March 09, 2007
City life
Burkina Faso is nice at least the parts I have seen, Ouaga and Bobo.
Soon though I will see the village.
Yesterday I went on a bike ride. It was flat. It was on a paved road around a huge water reservoir, a big lake. It was fast and fun. Too many cars, motos, pedestrians, and other bikers. I actually passed a couple people on motorcycles. They were going a bit slow. I believe the challenges to biking here will be the wind, the dust, and mud, very different challenges than biking in Guinea with its mountains, rocky ravines, ungrated roads, and huge rocks.
Last night I went out to eat. It was nice. Before the meal there was all you can eat olives, soft tasty rolls with butter. For dinner I had a steak with mustard sauce and five tapas: frog legs, hummus, spinach fondue with shrimp, guacamole, and fish in a tasty oil sauce. For dessert I had a huge chocolate ice cream sundae with chocolate sauce and whip cream. Then they brought out little glasses of strong, strong tea and a bisap drink made out of hibiscus flowers for your digestion. There was lovely live music with local instruments and the walls were covered with local artwork. It was a fine dining experience. Something I never found in Guinea.
Soon though I will see the village.
Yesterday I went on a bike ride. It was flat. It was on a paved road around a huge water reservoir, a big lake. It was fast and fun. Too many cars, motos, pedestrians, and other bikers. I actually passed a couple people on motorcycles. They were going a bit slow. I believe the challenges to biking here will be the wind, the dust, and mud, very different challenges than biking in Guinea with its mountains, rocky ravines, ungrated roads, and huge rocks.
Last night I went out to eat. It was nice. Before the meal there was all you can eat olives, soft tasty rolls with butter. For dinner I had a steak with mustard sauce and five tapas: frog legs, hummus, spinach fondue with shrimp, guacamole, and fish in a tasty oil sauce. For dessert I had a huge chocolate ice cream sundae with chocolate sauce and whip cream. Then they brought out little glasses of strong, strong tea and a bisap drink made out of hibiscus flowers for your digestion. There was lovely live music with local instruments and the walls were covered with local artwork. It was a fine dining experience. Something I never found in Guinea.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Week 1 in Burkina
It has been many days since my last confession, and it is not much of a confession at all.
The trip from Mali to Burkina Faso was on a big bus, a bus with a schedule, each person with their own seat, a 12 hour trip on a ship tighter than an airplane with no air conditioning and windows shut.
Burkina Faso has been days worth of training. Moore is my new language. I have met tons of volunteers because of the film festival. I have been shopping to furnish a new house in a village without electricity or running water.
I have been busy.
But how have I been feeling?
Transferring to a new country is difficult. It is a challenge. I came to Africa looking for challenges, yet I didn't find many.
The other day I got teary-eyed.
I think I may have found my challenge.
It is hard leaving a village you love, a village you were only beginning to feel comfortable in, a place where you were starting to make friends. It is hard leaving that for something totally new.
Here in Burkina, my village will be big with daily transportation, with flat dirt roads for biking with an easily accessible nearest neighbor who shops at my market that stocks toilet paper and mayo, a village with class sizes of 100, with cell phone coverage, with internet 30 km away, with a mail system that actually works.
It is hard not to compare Burkina's village to my little isolated village in Guinea.
It can be a bit weird, overwhelming, sad having to say goodbye to something I really loved in Guinea to adapt to a new environment here in Burkina.
I can only hope that the Burkina village will one day become my home.
The trip from Mali to Burkina Faso was on a big bus, a bus with a schedule, each person with their own seat, a 12 hour trip on a ship tighter than an airplane with no air conditioning and windows shut.
Burkina Faso has been days worth of training. Moore is my new language. I have met tons of volunteers because of the film festival. I have been shopping to furnish a new house in a village without electricity or running water.
I have been busy.
But how have I been feeling?
Transferring to a new country is difficult. It is a challenge. I came to Africa looking for challenges, yet I didn't find many.
The other day I got teary-eyed.
I think I may have found my challenge.
It is hard leaving a village you love, a village you were only beginning to feel comfortable in, a place where you were starting to make friends. It is hard leaving that for something totally new.
Here in Burkina, my village will be big with daily transportation, with flat dirt roads for biking with an easily accessible nearest neighbor who shops at my market that stocks toilet paper and mayo, a village with class sizes of 100, with cell phone coverage, with internet 30 km away, with a mail system that actually works.
It is hard not to compare Burkina's village to my little isolated village in Guinea.
It can be a bit weird, overwhelming, sad having to say goodbye to something I really loved in Guinea to adapt to a new environment here in Burkina.
I can only hope that the Burkina village will one day become my home.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Flexibility
...is a requirement when being a volunteer in the Peace Corps.
If you are planner and need to know when and where, how and what, then the Peace Corps is not for you.
When my friend was going to visit her site for the first time in Guinea, she had to wait 10 hours for her taxi to leave.
Thursday we spent ALL day doing dental and sitting around the medical office waiting to get medically cleared.
Friday, we tried to leave Mali on Monday. The office closes at 11 am on Fridays. That plan went out the window.
Today, we tried to leave Mali on Tuesday. At 8 am, the coordinator said you are leaving tomorrow by bus. Would you mind leaving on a plane though? I replied, "I am as flexible as you need me to be."
We took the Peace Corps provided shuttle the 30 minute ride into town braving the horrible traffic and the kids selling stuff as they weave in and out of stopped and moving cars. I walked to get passport photos for Visas and then walked to the Mali Peace Corps office where we were told, come back around 3 pm. We will get your Burkina Faso visas and then we will give you money and a bus ticket to leave tomorrow.
We had a lovely lunch of falafels and yummy pita filled meat sandwiches. Then I went and had ice cream.
At 5 pm we learned that we would not be leaving tomorrow, but would be leaving on Wednesday on an 8 am bus. My friends who were looking forward to riding a bus to Niger learned that they would be flying. They were disappointed.
It was a day of waiting, of just being in the moment, of not worrying about plans, over the future, over anything, of just going with the flow of change. Funny how such a day was so stressful yet peaceful.
If you are planner and need to know when and where, how and what, then the Peace Corps is not for you.
When my friend was going to visit her site for the first time in Guinea, she had to wait 10 hours for her taxi to leave.
Thursday we spent ALL day doing dental and sitting around the medical office waiting to get medically cleared.
Friday, we tried to leave Mali on Monday. The office closes at 11 am on Fridays. That plan went out the window.
Today, we tried to leave Mali on Tuesday. At 8 am, the coordinator said you are leaving tomorrow by bus. Would you mind leaving on a plane though? I replied, "I am as flexible as you need me to be."
We took the Peace Corps provided shuttle the 30 minute ride into town braving the horrible traffic and the kids selling stuff as they weave in and out of stopped and moving cars. I walked to get passport photos for Visas and then walked to the Mali Peace Corps office where we were told, come back around 3 pm. We will get your Burkina Faso visas and then we will give you money and a bus ticket to leave tomorrow.
We had a lovely lunch of falafels and yummy pita filled meat sandwiches. Then I went and had ice cream.
At 5 pm we learned that we would not be leaving tomorrow, but would be leaving on Wednesday on an 8 am bus. My friends who were looking forward to riding a bus to Niger learned that they would be flying. They were disappointed.
It was a day of waiting, of just being in the moment, of not worrying about plans, over the future, over anything, of just going with the flow of change. Funny how such a day was so stressful yet peaceful.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Burkina Faso
I am off into the great unknown.
I left the US for Guinea with 80 lbs worth of stuff.
I leave Mali for my new country with a week's worth of clothes, a headlamp, a nalgene, a pair of sandals, and a pair of running shoes. I left so much behind at my village to be given away.
It is a lesson in attachment.
It is a lesson in letting go.
It is a lesson in living at the bare minimum.
I use to say that air, water, food, shelter, and human companionship were the only things I ever wanted or needed in life.
It is being tested.
I wonder if it is still true.
I left the US for Guinea with 80 lbs worth of stuff.
I leave Mali for my new country with a week's worth of clothes, a headlamp, a nalgene, a pair of sandals, and a pair of running shoes. I left so much behind at my village to be given away.
It is a lesson in attachment.
It is a lesson in letting go.
It is a lesson in living at the bare minimum.
I use to say that air, water, food, shelter, and human companionship were the only things I ever wanted or needed in life.
It is being tested.
I wonder if it is still true.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Leaving Mali
I am sad.
Each night I give goodbyes away.
Soon I will be the one being waved at from inside a car window heading toward an airport in the middle of the night.
I am transferring to Burkina Faso soon to teach math and science.
Each night I give goodbyes away.
Soon I will be the one being waved at from inside a car window heading toward an airport in the middle of the night.
I am transferring to Burkina Faso soon to teach math and science.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Last days in Mali
Here in Mali, I wait.
I sit watching the trees move in the breeze.
I am waiting for a transfer offer to a new African country for a 27 month Peace Corps tour.
If I say no, I will return to the US.
If I say yes, I will pack up my week’s worth of clothes, board a plane, and be dropped off alone in a new country.
I sit and I wait.
The viscious mosquitoes are tearing up my ankles and legs. I spray Off, yet my bites turn red, pus-filled, infected.
I wear long skirts, but they are sneaky little buggers. So now I wear pants found in the free-box left by Peace Corps volunteers departing for home.
Today I found a pair of jeans. It has been 7 months since I have worn jeans. Jeans and Africa do not exactly mix. It’s too hot for heavy pants, but today I have no new bites.
I feel so American in jeans!
What does that mean?
In Africa, I feel very female, a woman, a different sense of power as a second-class citizen compared to men. I feel the pressure to be a wife, a baby-maker. Wearing jeans, I feel tough, feel the girliness leave, feel the strength of being who I am regardless of my sex and gender.
I sit watching the trees move in the breeze.
I am waiting for a transfer offer to a new African country for a 27 month Peace Corps tour.
If I say no, I will return to the US.
If I say yes, I will pack up my week’s worth of clothes, board a plane, and be dropped off alone in a new country.
I sit and I wait.
The viscious mosquitoes are tearing up my ankles and legs. I spray Off, yet my bites turn red, pus-filled, infected.
I wear long skirts, but they are sneaky little buggers. So now I wear pants found in the free-box left by Peace Corps volunteers departing for home.
Today I found a pair of jeans. It has been 7 months since I have worn jeans. Jeans and Africa do not exactly mix. It’s too hot for heavy pants, but today I have no new bites.
I feel so American in jeans!
What does that mean?
In Africa, I feel very female, a woman, a different sense of power as a second-class citizen compared to men. I feel the pressure to be a wife, a baby-maker. Wearing jeans, I feel tough, feel the girliness leave, feel the strength of being who I am regardless of my sex and gender.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Time to leave
Even with the energy of the Malian camp changing from hope to ugh
Even with drama, anxieties, boredom and goodbyes
I still laugh and smile.
I am still well.
The time in Mali is coming to an end.
I still do not know where I will be, but by the end of this week
the answer surely will be seen.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
The Contrast of Life in Mali
Yesterday I went to participate in a community cleanup in a neighboring village where we collected and burned trash in the market and near the mosque. The village was dusty with no electricity and with well water from a hand pump. It was brown with brown mud huts dotted with a mango tree here and there.
Last night, I went out into the city to celebrate a friend's birthday. We sat in a restaurant with a case of cakes and pastries, with a freezer full of colorful flavors of sorbet. I ate ice cream on an outside patio next to a main road full of cars and establishments with Neon signs. The city has stop lights and fancy hotels, dance clubs, and casinos, supermarkets, and an art museum.
Last night, I went out into the city to celebrate a friend's birthday. We sat in a restaurant with a case of cakes and pastries, with a freezer full of colorful flavors of sorbet. I ate ice cream on an outside patio next to a main road full of cars and establishments with Neon signs. The city has stop lights and fancy hotels, dance clubs, and casinos, supermarkets, and an art museum.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Day 14 in Mali
We spent 14 days on standfast in Guinea.
We have spent 14 days consolidated for training in Mali.
Au village, I was alone.
Au Mali, I am with 106 Americans.
Au village I ate rice and sauce, fresh fruit, and cooking project dishes.
Au Mali, I eat eggs and pancakes, rice and sauce, and Western food for dinner spaghetti, mac and cheese steak and green beans.
Au village, I finished 6 books, wrote 10 page letters, worked on art projects, worked on community building by going to ceremonies and carrying rocks.
Au Mali, I souvenir shop, play ping pong, ultimate frisbee, flag football, watch music videos and Gray's Anatomy, eat chocolate, take educational training classes for if we return to Guinea, talk with people about our futures.
Time in Mali is coming to an end.
Political unrest in Guinea is not.
Where will I be next?
We have spent 14 days consolidated for training in Mali.
Au village, I was alone.
Au Mali, I am with 106 Americans.
Au village I ate rice and sauce, fresh fruit, and cooking project dishes.
Au Mali, I eat eggs and pancakes, rice and sauce, and Western food for dinner spaghetti, mac and cheese steak and green beans.
Au village, I finished 6 books, wrote 10 page letters, worked on art projects, worked on community building by going to ceremonies and carrying rocks.
Au Mali, I souvenir shop, play ping pong, ultimate frisbee, flag football, watch music videos and Gray's Anatomy, eat chocolate, take educational training classes for if we return to Guinea, talk with people about our futures.
Time in Mali is coming to an end.
Political unrest in Guinea is not.
Where will I be next?
Surprise
foot of the Niger
Bright stage lights below
a full moon amongst glittering stars
Two powerful women drumming
with their souls
The crowd stands
a mass panic
shirts turned into face masks
the scent of tear gas in the air
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Fun
The problem with scraping up your knees playing flag football is squatting to go to the bathroom. Man, those knees are painful, each wound being opened up again.
The day I arrived
Saturday 27 January
Roughing it in a tiny village of Guinea, wilderness camping has turned into car camping in Mali. My lifestyle has turned luxurious: stable electricity, water that doesn’t run out, huts with ceiling fans, internet, a dining hall that serves pizza, pancakes, and omelets, basketball courts and a football field, fancy international restaurants: Thai, Chinese, tex-mex and ice cream, even an oven to bake cookies with.
Am I on vacation?
For the past 3 weeks, I have not been teaching. I have been on standfast (told to stay put in my safe village) as the nation of Guinea has been striking for a regime and economic change.
Because Peace Corps had no way of contacting me, I rode my bike 5 km each day to a neighboring village to use the HF radio powered by solar panels. Each day I got the boring message, “Everything is calm here;” however, I knew protests were ending in deaths as radio listening teachers gossiped with me. I knew the Labe taxis were not coming to our market-day. The town was running out of cooking oil. The price of 1 liter sky rocketed from from 6000 FG to 12000 FG. Even though there were small hints that the nation was striking, in my village things were very peaceful and calm.
I was not hurting for anything. The local market ladies still had their tubars. Plus tomatoes were also coming back into season. One of my students even walked 10 km to get me eggs.
On Tuesday, the PC message drastically changed, from "All is calm, to “Pack a bag. We might be going to a training session in Bamako, Mali. Radio tomorrow morning for more information.”
On Wednesday morning at 8 am, the radio was not working. All I could hear was mumble jumble and static. People were talking, but I could not understand anything that was being said. I finally just tried to call in.
"This is Jennifer in Tounkourourma. Jennifer in Tounkourouma."
A driver answered in a clear voice, “I’m on my way to pick up a couple of volunteers. You are next. I’ll be there soon.” The one voice I could hear was the one with the most important message.
I got a boost of adrenaline as I pedaled hard the 5 km home even up the rocky hill I usually walk. I believed that I would meet the Peace Corps car, parked in front of my hut. I wasn't ready. I had assumed that I had at least one more day. My hair was only half-way braided. My things were spread upon the floor. I hadn’t packed my perishables to give the family. My heart felt disarrayed just like my house and packing.
I was ready to go very quickly though. My sac was ready with a few clothes, toiletries, meds, and things to entertain me like my journal, crochet, a CD player, and my running shoes. I packed an extra bag of food which could be left behind if there wasn’t room.
Then I waited.
As I sat on my porch, surrounded by kids, they understood I was leaving, but none of us knew when I would be back. They kept me company singing and dancing. My heart was heavy. I couldn’t leave my compound to say goodbye to my community. I told two key people who would inform the others, but it felt strange to just be one day shouldering red bauxite rocks to the mosque with the community to silently disappearing.
The Peace Corps SUV with an empty caboose except for two sideways facing benches picked me up, my next closest neighbors were already packed in. As we sped away, kicking up dust, my head and ass feeling the brut of the car, I was glad for my mother’s Christmas package that had luckily arrived full of Dramamine. We were in a hurry not because of danger, but because we had 12 other people to pick-up.
It was a LONG day!
The ride got easier though as more were packed in. Since we were hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder we couldn’t bounce as much, a solid unit keeping each of us securely weaved into a hard bench.
Keeping to non-main bumpy dirt roads, we arrived at a fellow volunteer’s site by dark. They were cooking pasta for us having spent the whole day trying to find accommodations for around an estimated 24. The village, the most generous people gave us their best beds. The bus full of the other half of the volunteers didn’t arrive till the next morning.
We packed the 25 passenger bus with 28 including a row dedicated to our luggage and picked up an additional 2 volunteers on our way to Kankan. We were six to a row for the 12 hour trip from the cool green Fouta region to the hot, dry dusty Haute Guinea region. It was an exciting way to see Guinea!
One group of volunteers had already left the Peace Corps house in Kankan, the Peace Corps regional capitol for Haute Guinea, leaving an empty house for the fifty plus volunteers who would be arriving. We were the first to arrive. Around midnight 24 others arrived. We filled the beds, the floor, the balcony, the cars trying to get a few hours of sleep before the 5 am departure time.
Fouta volunteers stayed one more day. Our passports were with a program director who was helping the other Fouta volunteers get to Mali. It was a welcomed rest to the 2 days of hard travel. We cooked, did laundry, went to the dead empty market. Our trip out of Guinea was like the empty market, uneventful. We saw absolutely no trouble, no road blocks, nothing. Many of us had stories of being in a quiet village during the challenging days of waiting in our villages, waiting for any news during standfast. Our trip was like our villages, quiet, unlike some of the stories I heard here in Mali from volunteers from some of the bigger cities where there were clashes between people and the military.
3 SUV’s arrived with the last volunteers going to Mali by car and we headed off the next day at 5 am, through beautiful country, mesa-like landscapes. We had no trouble at the border, just sitting in our cars as a Peace Corps staff handled our transition from one country to the next. On the Mali side, a peace Corps Mali car met us and accompanied us to the PC training center.
Wow and what a training center it is! It is a huge compound. I can run around it in a leisurely 15 minutes. It is big enough to give us 100 plus volunteers space. Gathering 100 people who survive in the isolation of their villages, sometimes isn’t easy on all of us who enjoy that solitude. It is like a small college campus. My education group are the freshmen, the most recent arrivals to Guinea, Group 12 (G12). G9 are the seniors who are about to graduate who were getting ready to leave in the next couple of months. We even have some grad students, volunteers from G3 and G7.
What next? We wait and see what happens in Guinea. We have a maximum of 4 weeks before we either go back to our Guinean villages, go back to the US, or get reassigned to a new country. We will keep busy with trainings, sport activities, projects, talent shows. We must or else face the symptoms of cabin fever, an unhealthy challenge for PC volunteers.
Peace Corps Guinea has been amazing. The staff ran a tight ship in a country were organization, order, schedules usually are put aside for flexibility. In this case the hard work of the chauffeurs, the program directions, the security officer, the office people, the medical staff, the country director, and the volunteers got us out in 4 days, an amazing feat! And now Peace Corps Mali has been extremely accommodating arranging the training site for our arrival organizing cultural events, safety and security sessions, and language classes.
It is amazing to feel the accomplishments of this Peace Corps community that I have become a part of.
My gratitude
My thanks
Roughing it in a tiny village of Guinea, wilderness camping has turned into car camping in Mali. My lifestyle has turned luxurious: stable electricity, water that doesn’t run out, huts with ceiling fans, internet, a dining hall that serves pizza, pancakes, and omelets, basketball courts and a football field, fancy international restaurants: Thai, Chinese, tex-mex and ice cream, even an oven to bake cookies with.
Am I on vacation?
For the past 3 weeks, I have not been teaching. I have been on standfast (told to stay put in my safe village) as the nation of Guinea has been striking for a regime and economic change.
Because Peace Corps had no way of contacting me, I rode my bike 5 km each day to a neighboring village to use the HF radio powered by solar panels. Each day I got the boring message, “Everything is calm here;” however, I knew protests were ending in deaths as radio listening teachers gossiped with me. I knew the Labe taxis were not coming to our market-day. The town was running out of cooking oil. The price of 1 liter sky rocketed from from 6000 FG to 12000 FG. Even though there were small hints that the nation was striking, in my village things were very peaceful and calm.
I was not hurting for anything. The local market ladies still had their tubars. Plus tomatoes were also coming back into season. One of my students even walked 10 km to get me eggs.
On Tuesday, the PC message drastically changed, from "All is calm, to “Pack a bag. We might be going to a training session in Bamako, Mali. Radio tomorrow morning for more information.”
On Wednesday morning at 8 am, the radio was not working. All I could hear was mumble jumble and static. People were talking, but I could not understand anything that was being said. I finally just tried to call in.
"This is Jennifer in Tounkourourma. Jennifer in Tounkourouma."
A driver answered in a clear voice, “I’m on my way to pick up a couple of volunteers. You are next. I’ll be there soon.” The one voice I could hear was the one with the most important message.
I got a boost of adrenaline as I pedaled hard the 5 km home even up the rocky hill I usually walk. I believed that I would meet the Peace Corps car, parked in front of my hut. I wasn't ready. I had assumed that I had at least one more day. My hair was only half-way braided. My things were spread upon the floor. I hadn’t packed my perishables to give the family. My heart felt disarrayed just like my house and packing.
I was ready to go very quickly though. My sac was ready with a few clothes, toiletries, meds, and things to entertain me like my journal, crochet, a CD player, and my running shoes. I packed an extra bag of food which could be left behind if there wasn’t room.
Then I waited.
As I sat on my porch, surrounded by kids, they understood I was leaving, but none of us knew when I would be back. They kept me company singing and dancing. My heart was heavy. I couldn’t leave my compound to say goodbye to my community. I told two key people who would inform the others, but it felt strange to just be one day shouldering red bauxite rocks to the mosque with the community to silently disappearing.
The Peace Corps SUV with an empty caboose except for two sideways facing benches picked me up, my next closest neighbors were already packed in. As we sped away, kicking up dust, my head and ass feeling the brut of the car, I was glad for my mother’s Christmas package that had luckily arrived full of Dramamine. We were in a hurry not because of danger, but because we had 12 other people to pick-up.
It was a LONG day!
The ride got easier though as more were packed in. Since we were hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder we couldn’t bounce as much, a solid unit keeping each of us securely weaved into a hard bench.
Keeping to non-main bumpy dirt roads, we arrived at a fellow volunteer’s site by dark. They were cooking pasta for us having spent the whole day trying to find accommodations for around an estimated 24. The village, the most generous people gave us their best beds. The bus full of the other half of the volunteers didn’t arrive till the next morning.
We packed the 25 passenger bus with 28 including a row dedicated to our luggage and picked up an additional 2 volunteers on our way to Kankan. We were six to a row for the 12 hour trip from the cool green Fouta region to the hot, dry dusty Haute Guinea region. It was an exciting way to see Guinea!
One group of volunteers had already left the Peace Corps house in Kankan, the Peace Corps regional capitol for Haute Guinea, leaving an empty house for the fifty plus volunteers who would be arriving. We were the first to arrive. Around midnight 24 others arrived. We filled the beds, the floor, the balcony, the cars trying to get a few hours of sleep before the 5 am departure time.
Fouta volunteers stayed one more day. Our passports were with a program director who was helping the other Fouta volunteers get to Mali. It was a welcomed rest to the 2 days of hard travel. We cooked, did laundry, went to the dead empty market. Our trip out of Guinea was like the empty market, uneventful. We saw absolutely no trouble, no road blocks, nothing. Many of us had stories of being in a quiet village during the challenging days of waiting in our villages, waiting for any news during standfast. Our trip was like our villages, quiet, unlike some of the stories I heard here in Mali from volunteers from some of the bigger cities where there were clashes between people and the military.
3 SUV’s arrived with the last volunteers going to Mali by car and we headed off the next day at 5 am, through beautiful country, mesa-like landscapes. We had no trouble at the border, just sitting in our cars as a Peace Corps staff handled our transition from one country to the next. On the Mali side, a peace Corps Mali car met us and accompanied us to the PC training center.
Wow and what a training center it is! It is a huge compound. I can run around it in a leisurely 15 minutes. It is big enough to give us 100 plus volunteers space. Gathering 100 people who survive in the isolation of their villages, sometimes isn’t easy on all of us who enjoy that solitude. It is like a small college campus. My education group are the freshmen, the most recent arrivals to Guinea, Group 12 (G12). G9 are the seniors who are about to graduate who were getting ready to leave in the next couple of months. We even have some grad students, volunteers from G3 and G7.
What next? We wait and see what happens in Guinea. We have a maximum of 4 weeks before we either go back to our Guinean villages, go back to the US, or get reassigned to a new country. We will keep busy with trainings, sport activities, projects, talent shows. We must or else face the symptoms of cabin fever, an unhealthy challenge for PC volunteers.
Peace Corps Guinea has been amazing. The staff ran a tight ship in a country were organization, order, schedules usually are put aside for flexibility. In this case the hard work of the chauffeurs, the program directions, the security officer, the office people, the medical staff, the country director, and the volunteers got us out in 4 days, an amazing feat! And now Peace Corps Mali has been extremely accommodating arranging the training site for our arrival organizing cultural events, safety and security sessions, and language classes.
It is amazing to feel the accomplishments of this Peace Corps community that I have become a part of.
My gratitude
My thanks
The day I left
Wednesday 24 January
This is not the right way to say goodbye not knowing if I’m coming back pretending that I am.
This is not the right way to say goodbye not knowing if I’m coming back pretending that I am.
Where do I live?
Tuesday January 23
My village has two parts: the village and the center of town.
The village is a huge area where most everyone lives. The area is surrounded by a man-made fence to keep livestock out. It takes about 20 minutes to walk from one end to the other. It is a wooded area with lots of huts, cassava gardens, orange trees, bamboo groves, avocado and mango trees. The mosque is in the village towering over the trees.
In the center of town, there is a huge tree, a small mosque, and a couple of concrete buildings where a tailor stores his machine, where rice, flour, and other goods are stored. Here there aren’t many trees. It is mostly wide open land with concrete houses on plots of land surrounded by fences to keep the sheep out. There is a football field. Both the middle school and the elementary school are here. Here we have pump water powered by solar panels. In the village, they have wells. The well-groomed dirt road passes through this part of the village.
Sometimes I wish I lived in the village under cool trees, in a mud hut; however, I am also quite happy living in the center of town with my close by running water.
My village has two parts: the village and the center of town.
The village is a huge area where most everyone lives. The area is surrounded by a man-made fence to keep livestock out. It takes about 20 minutes to walk from one end to the other. It is a wooded area with lots of huts, cassava gardens, orange trees, bamboo groves, avocado and mango trees. The mosque is in the village towering over the trees.
In the center of town, there is a huge tree, a small mosque, and a couple of concrete buildings where a tailor stores his machine, where rice, flour, and other goods are stored. Here there aren’t many trees. It is mostly wide open land with concrete houses on plots of land surrounded by fences to keep the sheep out. There is a football field. Both the middle school and the elementary school are here. Here we have pump water powered by solar panels. In the village, they have wells. The well-groomed dirt road passes through this part of the village.
Sometimes I wish I lived in the village under cool trees, in a mud hut; however, I am also quite happy living in the center of town with my close by running water.
The Boring Village
Monday 22 January
It is day 13 of nationwide strikes. Give up your Presidential power is the cry. As I was riding the5 km to use the nearby radio to check in with Peace Corps, I thought, I have seen my village. I have tasted its food. I have sat through its ceremonies, its deaths, it births, its religious rituals. I have experienced its generosity and hospitality. I have shopped in its market. I have played with its children and talked with its old. I have experienced a small part of Africa.
Is it time to leave? It isn’t as strange as I would have assumed sitting in the U.S. I haven’t eaten any insects, danced around any fires, seen any elaborate costumes, or strange ceremonies.
There isn’t any magic here in this village.
Today was a scheduled nationwide gathering to show the strength of the striking people. I asked if the village was doing anything. No way. We are in the country, not in the city was the reply.
Sitting on my porch on a stool, the floor as my table, scrubbing the dishes, I heard a distant drum. I have only heard a drum one other time when the village was called to pray during the end of Ramadan. Was this second drumming a call having to do with the strikes?
The children started jumping with excitement chanting, “Caillou, Caillou.”
Do I really want to go transport rocks from the hillsides to the courtyard of the mosque? I have nothing else better to do. Plus wouldn’t it be cool to leave something behind once I left Africa? How about a bowl full of rocks?
I followed some of my male students carrying a bowl of red stones upon my shoulder. I was afraid of the weight upon my head. At the mosque, I saw every familiar face of the village, everyone excited, everyone with a thank you upon their lips. I did two more trips with some of my female students, walking 500 yards to the hillsides, squatting in the brown dry terrain, gathering bauxite to fill the courtyard. The men enthusiastically grabbed my bowl spreading the rocks in the sacred yard, an area bigger than half a football field. Then I rested under a tree with 50 other females sitting on our overturned bowls.
I watched as 30 old women passed us bowls of rock upon their heads singing in Arab, one voice answered by the many. As they exited, they goaded us for sitting and I rose with the principal’s wife, Binta, to continue on with the group.
Reaching the hillside, we split off in multiple directions finding a spot rich with rocks. I followed the principal’s wife and we quickly filled our bowls. As I shoulder it to take off, she said, “Wait. We’ll wait here.”
The women regathered and then there was an uproar, a clucking of hens. I asked Binta to translate. She said, “Everyone’s yelling ‘Wait. Wait,’” scolding as one lone woman started to take off. When a mass of women had gathered, we started a slow steady walk, a tight group. I was in the middle of the tall female strength gazing between the pots of rock upon their heads, the towers of the mosque looming ahead. It was in that moment that I felt the magic of a community effort to build our mosque, finding the pleasure in being.
It isn’t the time to leave my village yet. There is more magic to be found.
It is day 13 of nationwide strikes. Give up your Presidential power is the cry. As I was riding the5 km to use the nearby radio to check in with Peace Corps, I thought, I have seen my village. I have tasted its food. I have sat through its ceremonies, its deaths, it births, its religious rituals. I have experienced its generosity and hospitality. I have shopped in its market. I have played with its children and talked with its old. I have experienced a small part of Africa.
Is it time to leave? It isn’t as strange as I would have assumed sitting in the U.S. I haven’t eaten any insects, danced around any fires, seen any elaborate costumes, or strange ceremonies.
There isn’t any magic here in this village.
Today was a scheduled nationwide gathering to show the strength of the striking people. I asked if the village was doing anything. No way. We are in the country, not in the city was the reply.
Sitting on my porch on a stool, the floor as my table, scrubbing the dishes, I heard a distant drum. I have only heard a drum one other time when the village was called to pray during the end of Ramadan. Was this second drumming a call having to do with the strikes?
The children started jumping with excitement chanting, “Caillou, Caillou.”
Do I really want to go transport rocks from the hillsides to the courtyard of the mosque? I have nothing else better to do. Plus wouldn’t it be cool to leave something behind once I left Africa? How about a bowl full of rocks?
I followed some of my male students carrying a bowl of red stones upon my shoulder. I was afraid of the weight upon my head. At the mosque, I saw every familiar face of the village, everyone excited, everyone with a thank you upon their lips. I did two more trips with some of my female students, walking 500 yards to the hillsides, squatting in the brown dry terrain, gathering bauxite to fill the courtyard. The men enthusiastically grabbed my bowl spreading the rocks in the sacred yard, an area bigger than half a football field. Then I rested under a tree with 50 other females sitting on our overturned bowls.
I watched as 30 old women passed us bowls of rock upon their heads singing in Arab, one voice answered by the many. As they exited, they goaded us for sitting and I rose with the principal’s wife, Binta, to continue on with the group.
Reaching the hillside, we split off in multiple directions finding a spot rich with rocks. I followed the principal’s wife and we quickly filled our bowls. As I shoulder it to take off, she said, “Wait. We’ll wait here.”
The women regathered and then there was an uproar, a clucking of hens. I asked Binta to translate. She said, “Everyone’s yelling ‘Wait. Wait,’” scolding as one lone woman started to take off. When a mass of women had gathered, we started a slow steady walk, a tight group. I was in the middle of the tall female strength gazing between the pots of rock upon their heads, the towers of the mosque looming ahead. It was in that moment that I felt the magic of a community effort to build our mosque, finding the pleasure in being.
It isn’t the time to leave my village yet. There is more magic to be found.
The Grass is Greener
Sunday 21 January
In Seattle, a lazy Sunday would be spent in a coffee shop writing, sipping a Latte, a pastry waiting in the corner of my eye. Sometimes I’d stop and have an ice cream my spoon sinking into the soft cold sweetness.
In Guinea, a lazy Sunday is spent sitting at a desk, writing, sipping a full bottle of water, artwork and photographs in the corner of my eye, a cool breeze passing through the open door and windows. My spoon sinks into the yellow sweetness of a freshly picked papaya.
In Seattle, a lazy Sunday would be spent in a coffee shop writing, sipping a Latte, a pastry waiting in the corner of my eye. Sometimes I’d stop and have an ice cream my spoon sinking into the soft cold sweetness.
In Guinea, a lazy Sunday is spent sitting at a desk, writing, sipping a full bottle of water, artwork and photographs in the corner of my eye, a cool breeze passing through the open door and windows. My spoon sinks into the yellow sweetness of a freshly picked papaya.
Guinean Tidbits
Guinean Tidbits
It just dawned on me. Vultures here in Africa are as common as red cardinals in Alabama. I forgot that you out there in the US don’t get to see them everyday. Today on my way home from a 5 km hike to a neighboring village for lessons on how to read Pular, I saw the most beautiful huge vulture, taller than my knee. It even had a mane like ruffle. I wish I could have finished watching it dine.
Five young kids were on my porch with 10 oranges to peel the special Guinean way, leaving the white pulp intact, slicing the top off so each child could suck and squeeze the juice out without getting their hands messy. This non-wannabe mother took a deep breath and started.
My 3 cockroach friends who live in the latrine have turned into 30 with one dead, a hundred ants attending the funeral.
Non,a Russian onion flatbread was a bigger success to my tongue than the tortillas. Cooking projects are fun during these nationwide strikes. Day 12 had arrived with no end in sight.
It just dawned on me. Vultures here in Africa are as common as red cardinals in Alabama. I forgot that you out there in the US don’t get to see them everyday. Today on my way home from a 5 km hike to a neighboring village for lessons on how to read Pular, I saw the most beautiful huge vulture, taller than my knee. It even had a mane like ruffle. I wish I could have finished watching it dine.
Five young kids were on my porch with 10 oranges to peel the special Guinean way, leaving the white pulp intact, slicing the top off so each child could suck and squeeze the juice out without getting their hands messy. This non-wannabe mother took a deep breath and started.
My 3 cockroach friends who live in the latrine have turned into 30 with one dead, a hundred ants attending the funeral.
Non,a Russian onion flatbread was a bigger success to my tongue than the tortillas. Cooking projects are fun during these nationwide strikes. Day 12 had arrived with no end in sight.
Leave and Good Things Will Happen
Wednesday 18 January 2007
Needing to get out of my house, I sat in the town center under a tree, upon a rock, with the nine gathered there: 3 children at their near empty tables of condiments that are hard to find as day 8 of the strikes continue- the Labe trucks don’t come to our Thursday market anymore- several women selling tomatoes, dried manioch roots, and peanuts, and 3 women dressed in their best stopping to chat.
I asked the typical greeting in Pular, “Where are you coming from?” The mother of one of my best 7th grade students replied, “There was a death in the village. Have you gone? He was an old man, very nice.”
I was wondering where all of the men who typically gather in the town center. I continued sitting there as the mother continued on. She is one of the few women who speak French and indirectly hinted that I should go greet the mourning family as she said goodbye.
I sat for a while longer then stood, “Awa, see you later.” At home I went into the inner bedroom, lay upon my bed, and looked up at the metal ceiling through my mosquito net. I’m tired. I just spent a day riding 3 hours on my bike. I don’t want to go visit a mourning family. It’s late, 16 h. How will I find their hut? I ran across the mothers of my concession returning from their visit as I was returning from my bike ride. They are not going to want to stop their dinner preparations to take me. All the older kids have been sent to other villages to help with work. The younger kids won’t be able to guide me. Anyways what difference does it make if I go or if I don’t go. I’m tired. You’re just feeling guilty because you’re a people pleaser. What is the big deal if I miss this one visit? You know the village would be pleased with your presence. They’re probably just wanting money.
I took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes, and relaxed, observing how I was feeling, observing my breath, stopping the voice in my head for 5 minutes. Then pop, like a bullet out of a gun, I jumped out of bed through the opening of my net and grabbed my African clothes, my good sandals, wrapped up my hair, and locked up bringing only my keys, no money.
I took off in the direction that I saw the mothers coming from earlier. I walked with a 7th grade student, trying to get directions from her, a girl whose French level was low. I had to be clever in my questioning. Some people answer yes to every question coz they don’t understand all the questions.
There was a death in the village?
Yes.
It’s late. Will there be anyone there?
Yes.
But aren’t the men burying the body?
Yes.
So there will be no one there?
Yes.
So if I go over there will there be anybody?
A few.
Am I going in the right direction?
Yes.
Is it near the mosque (opposite direction)?
Non.
Is it far?
Yes.
As far as Lamba?
Non.
She pointed in a general direction as she left me for her own home. Well this is going to be an adventure.
I continued on and in the far distance two figures greeted me, “On Jaramma. Ko honto yahataa?” Hello. Where are you going?
I pointed in the direction, shouting, “There was a death in the village wasn’t there?
They shouted back, “Wait there. We are some of your students. One of us is going home and lives over there.”
Thank goodness. Now I have a guide and won’t be wandering aimlessly in he maze of paths of the densely packed village full of huts, fruit-trees, and gardens.
We twisted right then left through rock filled courtyards, past girls sifting pounded corn, always under rotting orange filled trees, past a bamboo grove, across a dry creek until we reached a gathering of women sitting on mats. I sat down.
Thank goodness in Forricarriah during training I had accompanied my family to visit a mourning family, the husband of a friend had died. That friend was even a friend of mine, a woman who often sat in our kitchen preparing dishes unfamiliar to my family, but believed that I would enjoy. She helped cook my birthday feast. She had labored over toe, a favorite of mine, a play dough like cassava dish. So I was familiar that consoling a family was by visiting and sitting for some time. You can stay for a long time or just for a couple of minutes. I had experience in a situation that can be culturally scary to a newbie.
Children gathered around me. The women laughed as two started crying as the two young uns caught my eye and my smile. I saw some of my students learning the death was an old teacher of Arab, an uncle of one of my students. I greeted the mourning wife, sat for a few minutes more, and took my leave, followed by 10 giggling kids accompanied by two students back through the maze.
I felt a sense of well-being as I learned the two female students’ names, a challenge I have been trying to overcome- learning 120 strange names. Little by little they say here in Guinea. Walking home I saw 6 girls playing soccer. Wow, what a find! Each time I leave my house I learn something new.
Returning home, 6 kids were singing and dancing on my porch. What have they been eating? Their explosive energy, moved through their feet, their arms, into their shoulders radiating through their smiles. I pulled out a chair and the kids lay in a semi-circle around my feet. “Teach us French,” Mamadou asked. I taught them the 2 French songs I know “Alouette” and “Frere Jacques.”
I asked them to do a recitation. Their first grade memorized speech was about the days of the week, recited without understanding. I then asked what today was giving them a lesson about Thursdays being market day, Fridays mosque day, and Sundays no school days. Then we practiced our sums. I tried to help them learn to count their fingers instead of just memorizing the answers, answers that have no meaning.
The sun set. I sent them to their house. I went to bed, content with the good things of this Wednesday
Needing to get out of my house, I sat in the town center under a tree, upon a rock, with the nine gathered there: 3 children at their near empty tables of condiments that are hard to find as day 8 of the strikes continue- the Labe trucks don’t come to our Thursday market anymore- several women selling tomatoes, dried manioch roots, and peanuts, and 3 women dressed in their best stopping to chat.
I asked the typical greeting in Pular, “Where are you coming from?” The mother of one of my best 7th grade students replied, “There was a death in the village. Have you gone? He was an old man, very nice.”
I was wondering where all of the men who typically gather in the town center. I continued sitting there as the mother continued on. She is one of the few women who speak French and indirectly hinted that I should go greet the mourning family as she said goodbye.
I sat for a while longer then stood, “Awa, see you later.” At home I went into the inner bedroom, lay upon my bed, and looked up at the metal ceiling through my mosquito net. I’m tired. I just spent a day riding 3 hours on my bike. I don’t want to go visit a mourning family. It’s late, 16 h. How will I find their hut? I ran across the mothers of my concession returning from their visit as I was returning from my bike ride. They are not going to want to stop their dinner preparations to take me. All the older kids have been sent to other villages to help with work. The younger kids won’t be able to guide me. Anyways what difference does it make if I go or if I don’t go. I’m tired. You’re just feeling guilty because you’re a people pleaser. What is the big deal if I miss this one visit? You know the village would be pleased with your presence. They’re probably just wanting money.
I took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes, and relaxed, observing how I was feeling, observing my breath, stopping the voice in my head for 5 minutes. Then pop, like a bullet out of a gun, I jumped out of bed through the opening of my net and grabbed my African clothes, my good sandals, wrapped up my hair, and locked up bringing only my keys, no money.
I took off in the direction that I saw the mothers coming from earlier. I walked with a 7th grade student, trying to get directions from her, a girl whose French level was low. I had to be clever in my questioning. Some people answer yes to every question coz they don’t understand all the questions.
There was a death in the village?
Yes.
It’s late. Will there be anyone there?
Yes.
But aren’t the men burying the body?
Yes.
So there will be no one there?
Yes.
So if I go over there will there be anybody?
A few.
Am I going in the right direction?
Yes.
Is it near the mosque (opposite direction)?
Non.
Is it far?
Yes.
As far as Lamba?
Non.
She pointed in a general direction as she left me for her own home. Well this is going to be an adventure.
I continued on and in the far distance two figures greeted me, “On Jaramma. Ko honto yahataa?” Hello. Where are you going?
I pointed in the direction, shouting, “There was a death in the village wasn’t there?
They shouted back, “Wait there. We are some of your students. One of us is going home and lives over there.”
Thank goodness. Now I have a guide and won’t be wandering aimlessly in he maze of paths of the densely packed village full of huts, fruit-trees, and gardens.
We twisted right then left through rock filled courtyards, past girls sifting pounded corn, always under rotting orange filled trees, past a bamboo grove, across a dry creek until we reached a gathering of women sitting on mats. I sat down.
Thank goodness in Forricarriah during training I had accompanied my family to visit a mourning family, the husband of a friend had died. That friend was even a friend of mine, a woman who often sat in our kitchen preparing dishes unfamiliar to my family, but believed that I would enjoy. She helped cook my birthday feast. She had labored over toe, a favorite of mine, a play dough like cassava dish. So I was familiar that consoling a family was by visiting and sitting for some time. You can stay for a long time or just for a couple of minutes. I had experience in a situation that can be culturally scary to a newbie.
Children gathered around me. The women laughed as two started crying as the two young uns caught my eye and my smile. I saw some of my students learning the death was an old teacher of Arab, an uncle of one of my students. I greeted the mourning wife, sat for a few minutes more, and took my leave, followed by 10 giggling kids accompanied by two students back through the maze.
I felt a sense of well-being as I learned the two female students’ names, a challenge I have been trying to overcome- learning 120 strange names. Little by little they say here in Guinea. Walking home I saw 6 girls playing soccer. Wow, what a find! Each time I leave my house I learn something new.
Returning home, 6 kids were singing and dancing on my porch. What have they been eating? Their explosive energy, moved through their feet, their arms, into their shoulders radiating through their smiles. I pulled out a chair and the kids lay in a semi-circle around my feet. “Teach us French,” Mamadou asked. I taught them the 2 French songs I know “Alouette” and “Frere Jacques.”
I asked them to do a recitation. Their first grade memorized speech was about the days of the week, recited without understanding. I then asked what today was giving them a lesson about Thursdays being market day, Fridays mosque day, and Sundays no school days. Then we practiced our sums. I tried to help them learn to count their fingers instead of just memorizing the answers, answers that have no meaning.
The sun set. I sent them to their house. I went to bed, content with the good things of this Wednesday
A Treat
Monday 15 January 2007
Have I been in Africa too long when mashed night chilled ripe avocados mixed with sugar tastes like ice cream?
Have I been in Africa too long when mashed night chilled ripe avocados mixed with sugar tastes like ice cream?
Patience for a Sunset
Saturday 13 January
I walked in-between two of the mothers of my concession through our fruit tree filled village, up a rocky path surrounded by barely green bushes only slightly taller than us, across a barren black burned field down a hill into a tiny village of about 5 huts. And there I sat in silence for 3 hours upon a chair, the only one sitting on a chair. Everyone else gathered leaves or straw or found prayer mats to sit upon on the ground. There was no one to explain the ceremony we were attending. The men, the French speakers were all gathered over there.
I sat and watched with a patience that never found comfort in the wooden chair. A singing parade of people carrying wood upon their heads dumped it all in a pile. Money was collected. Women gave 100 GF. Because I didn’t know what the ceremony was for, I pretended I didn’t have any money in my bag. I didn’t want to be giving money to some ceremony I might not agree with. Everyone just sat listening, listen to what? No idea. We couldn’t even hear what any of the men were saying, probably something from the Koran. Not knowing when the ceremony was going to end, I glanced at my watch, almost 17 h, hour of prayer. Maybe this silent sitting will end by then. My ass is beginning to numb.
We were on our way home by 18 h. That was the best part of the day. No not because we were finally going home, but because it was beautiful. The full round sun was setting amongst beautiful dark shades of barren ground dotted by brightly clothed women making their way home single-file.
I rarely, okay never get to see Guinea during dusk. I am always inside. My source of light, candles. It was a rare treat to watch the trees go dark, the grand mosque blacken against the sky.
We reached home barely able to see. The moon doesn’t come out these nights. It was there where the husband explained that the ceremony was a religious one giving two women the title Therino, for their devotion and dedication to Allah, striving to lead a sinless life, devoted to reading and interpreting the Koran. It was much better than the theories I came up with like a circumcision ceremony.
I walked in-between two of the mothers of my concession through our fruit tree filled village, up a rocky path surrounded by barely green bushes only slightly taller than us, across a barren black burned field down a hill into a tiny village of about 5 huts. And there I sat in silence for 3 hours upon a chair, the only one sitting on a chair. Everyone else gathered leaves or straw or found prayer mats to sit upon on the ground. There was no one to explain the ceremony we were attending. The men, the French speakers were all gathered over there.
I sat and watched with a patience that never found comfort in the wooden chair. A singing parade of people carrying wood upon their heads dumped it all in a pile. Money was collected. Women gave 100 GF. Because I didn’t know what the ceremony was for, I pretended I didn’t have any money in my bag. I didn’t want to be giving money to some ceremony I might not agree with. Everyone just sat listening, listen to what? No idea. We couldn’t even hear what any of the men were saying, probably something from the Koran. Not knowing when the ceremony was going to end, I glanced at my watch, almost 17 h, hour of prayer. Maybe this silent sitting will end by then. My ass is beginning to numb.
We were on our way home by 18 h. That was the best part of the day. No not because we were finally going home, but because it was beautiful. The full round sun was setting amongst beautiful dark shades of barren ground dotted by brightly clothed women making their way home single-file.
I rarely, okay never get to see Guinea during dusk. I am always inside. My source of light, candles. It was a rare treat to watch the trees go dark, the grand mosque blacken against the sky.
We reached home barely able to see. The moon doesn’t come out these nights. It was there where the husband explained that the ceremony was a religious one giving two women the title Therino, for their devotion and dedication to Allah, striving to lead a sinless life, devoted to reading and interpreting the Koran. It was much better than the theories I came up with like a circumcision ceremony.
Donnez moi un Bon Bon
Monday 8 Janvier 2007
As the ringing sound of the tire hit by a rock notifying us that school was out, I gave the 6 year old not yet of school age a bon bon. Her siblings slowly trickled to my porch. She spat it out into her grubby hand and popped it into her 7-year old sister’s demanding mouth. It passed from one to another until it was gone. When was the last time you shared a bon bon?
As the ringing sound of the tire hit by a rock notifying us that school was out, I gave the 6 year old not yet of school age a bon bon. Her siblings slowly trickled to my porch. She spat it out into her grubby hand and popped it into her 7-year old sister’s demanding mouth. It passed from one to another until it was gone. When was the last time you shared a bon bon?
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
A Guinean Style Winter Break
An Interview
Guinean students have a Christmas break?
Being a 90% Muslim country, they don’t call it a Christmas break; however, December 23 was the last day of class before the week long winter break. They don’t celebrate Christmas, but they do have a holiday called Tabaski where a lot of animals get “sacrificed” and eaten in tribute to God saving Abraham’s son, Issac, from being sacrificed.
When was your last class and did you have plans for the break?
On the 21st of December I spent 2 hours teaching chemistry to 7th graders. We were learning about the composition of air so we spent an hour working on 20 fraction multiplication problems like 1/5x20 or 4/5x20 since in 5 liters of air there is 20% oxygen and 80% nitrogen. Then for the next hour we did word problems ending with an exciting game of whoever is left standing wins. Each student had to sit down if they got a multiplication question wrong, 2x2, 12x12, ect...
For the break I planned on spending Christmas in Labe and then go on a bike tour with friends. Because communication is so difficult in this country, we made general plans during Thanksgiving to meet in Labe during the weekend of Christmas. One has to be flexible in Guinea and give plans a wide window of leeway.
My friend, Kyan, was going to the Forest region the week before Christmas and you never know what might prevent her from getting back to Labe. We do not have personal cell phones to call each other if plans change. The last time I saw my other friend, Brian, was 3 weeks ago. He was going down to Conakry for medical reasons. He had no way to communicate with me au village to say whether or not he would be well enough to go on the bike tour.
So you just went to Labe hoping to meet up with your friends?
Yep! Friday, the 22nd, I got up at 6 am and hopped on my bike to beat Africa’s sun for at least a little while. It was a 60-70 km ride which I did at a leisurely pace for 6 hours.
Was anyone waiting for you in Labe?
The Peace Corps Labe house had two volunteers who were leaving to go other places, but I did have 3 notes: 1) Call Geoffrey and Christine. They are in the region and would like to come see some Fouta villages being that they are in he southern part of Guinea near Sierra Leon. 2) I’m well enough for the bike tour and will be there. Wait for me. Brian. 3) I’m leaving Conakry the 23rd for Labe. Kyan.
I sent a note with one of the volunteers who just so happened to be going down to Dukei where Geoffrey and Christine were supposedly vacationing, writing them my tentative plans: Leaving Labe for Kyan’s site the 26th likely spending Tabaski and New Year’s at my site. The note they had sent was from ages ago and the numbers they left were from their village. They were not au village. They were somewhere in Guinea without cell phones. My note was our only link. Would they get it though?
Did it feel like Christmas and what did you do to celebrate?
I wrote a short piece titled
Christmas is here, or is it?
I have not bought a gift.
I have not sent a card.
The season of giving
doesn’t feel like it exists here.
The pressure of buying has been lifted.
It feels kind of nice.
I spent Christmas Eve, making sugar coated peanuts and baking about 10 dozen chocolate chip cookies with cheap chocolate that tastes horrible alone, but awesome in cookies.
There were six of us in Labe for Christmas. Geoffrey and Christine never showed up. Many of the volunteers had travelled down to Conakry. We heard though that Conakry was a mess, no water, no internet, and not enough beds for all the volunteers who had trekked down to the capitol for Christmas.
In Labe we had a lovely Christmas dinner of fried fish, cabbage stir-fry, honey-glazed sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, and a squash pie.
Did you go on you bike tour?
Hell yeah! It was awesome. The day after Christmas I got up at 5 am to make a spaghetti breakfast. We wanted to leave early because Kyan’s village was at least 80 km from Labe and Kyan hadn’t biked since the beginning of November. We would go at a leisurely pace with lots of breaks, the best way to see Guinea.
How was the ride?
It was long! We had to carry all of our water because there were only iffy wells along the route. We fueled up with cookies, sugar coated peanuts, oranges, fried gateaus, sardine/egg sandwiches, and peanut butter honey banana sandwiches. Without Cliff bars or Power bars I was surprised I never hit a wall.
For the first 5 hours, it was pretty smooth riding even though we were on dirt. At the half way mark we hit a sand twister that looked so pretty and small yet was so powerful, whipping tiny pebbles making us stop so not to be pushed off the road with its strong currents, dismounting to protect our faces.
It was a sign of the winds to come.
We pushed against a wind up and down never ending hills that were not steep just small grades up for what seemed like forever, spinning in our lowest gears never getting there.
At 7/8th of the journey, resting in the knooks of knobbly roots of a beautiful tree trying to find a comfortable position for our tushes, Brian made the observation, “This is a long ride.”
We rode into a unique town that reminded me of a frontier town like one in Colorado or Nevada just like in a western. Outside the center, huts and houses were scattered. Land was protected by tightly packed woven tree limb fences.
We stopped at the sole gas pump where Kyan told us to meet her. It was right in the center of town, a block of sandy road bordered by little shops. I felt like a cowboy coming into town, a stranger everyone pausing to look at, dismounting our horses and walking up to the saloon for beer. It was almost like that. We walked up to a little store and bought 20 cold little baggies of red sweetened hibiscus juice, bisap, tearing the corners off to suck out the goodness.
10 hours and 30 minutes later, 85 km under our belts, we handed Kyan a cold one when she finally rode up. “Never again,” she said, as she dismounted.
We pushed our bikes up the steep hill that she lives on into a shaded, fenced-in courtyard where her round 5 room cute cottage sat. We then had to hike 2 football fields to a foot pump where we gathered water into bidons and then carried those 50 lb weights back to her house. After washing off the layers of dirt with a chilly outdoor bucket bath we commented on our fatigue:
Jennifer: I’m tired, yet giddy from the chemicals of extreme sports.
Kyan: I’m not tired. I’m just sore all over.
Brian: I’m tired. She’s claiming she’s not tired, but I think that’s bullshit. She did the same thing we did.
We all laughed.
After such a long ride, what did you have for dinner?
Lucky for us Kyan lives in a pretty big town with about 8,000 people. We went to a rice bar and ate a peanut sauce on rice, the fast food of Guinea. The bad thing though, we learned that her gas tank was empty. No hot tea for us in the cool chilly evening.
What did you do in Kyan’s village?
Well after a night of sleeping on a hard straw mattress and I on a prayer mat on the concrete floor, we ate baguettes with sweetened condensed milk. Then one of Kyan’s students Bilo took us to a waterfall, supposedly 3 km away, but must have been longer because it took us an hour and a half to get there. The waterfall was pretty dry.
Bilo asked if we could visit his grandparents, so off we went our bodies tired, the sun hot for a short walk to a farm. There we were given 30 oranges, 30 bananas, and 10 cassava roots, by his generous happy relatives. Bilo carried the sack of gifts back over grassy hills, over fences, and up Kyan’s hill for us. Thank goodness.
We ate lunch at a rice bar, rice covered with a green leaf sauce, and then we bough eggplant, eggs, and an avocado for dinner, sushi rolls. Kyan’s family included sushi wraps in a care package and she was going to share.
We took a nap on a prayer mat outside under her trees on her rock covered courtyard and afterwards ate oranges throwing the remains over the fence for the goats and cows. It was getting close to dinner time.
We gathered our ingredients and headed back down her hill into the valley to the other side of the hill toward what looked like a trailer park from our side of the hill, 3 rows of 5-8 white houses symmetrically arranged on the opposite hillside. Kyan has a Peace Corps site mate who was currently not in the village. Her site mate was vacationing somewhere else. Kyan knew who had the key to her house though. We planned on using Kyan’s site mate’s gas to cook dinner. After a 20 minute walk we learned that the guy with the key was 17 km away in another village for a wedding.
Tired and hungry we headed down the hill and up Kyan’s hill thinking, “Man is this an omen of things to come?” Getting close to her cottage our attention was drawn toward a balcony of noisemakers hidden by some trees. Who in this country knows the song”We wish you a Merry Christmas,” and why were they being obnoxious singing it at the top of their voices? Out peered a white face, a stranger and a fleeting thought went through my brain, “Oh no. We have to entertain American tourists. I am tired, not up for socializing.” But then Geoffrey’s head peered through the trees and my spirit was jumping from joy- Geoffrey, Christine, plus Geoffrey’s visiting brother. Yay!
They had gotten my note and were hoping to catch up with us by taxi and lo and behold they did. We ate a lovely meal of egg, onions, beef, mayo sandwiches around a campfire and turned in early, four of us on the floor, 2 on the straw mattress.
What did you do the next day?
We all got up at 6 am. The three without bikes went to find a taxi to my village. Thankfully it was Thursday, a neighboring village’s market day so transport was easily available between Kyan’s and my village. Brian, Kyan, and I headed off on bike.
After mounting a hill we named the Lambchop hill, “This is a hill that never ends. It goes on and on my friend. Someone started climbing it not knowing what it was...” 4.5 hours later, and 55 km under our belts we arrived at the market. I went searching in the shoulder to shoulder crowds for the 3 other Americans who took a taxi, greeting my students, getting settle hints by hand gestures where to go, finally sneaking up on the three who had just arrived. It is amazing how we all left the house at the same time 3 by bike, 3 by taxi and we all arrived at our destination at about the same time.
After buying 2 days worth of food supplies, 3 walked and 3 biked the 5 km to my little village. With a community effort, the six of us Americans, we washed clothes, cooked a pasta dinner, cleaned up, and settled in for the night- 3 on the floor cushioned by a foam mattress and 3 on the straw mattress- filling my 2 room house to full capacity.
What did you do in your village on Friday?
I had to teach a 10 th grade chemistry review class in the morning. It was doubtful whether or not any kids would show, but I had an amazing turnout of 17 students.
Christine, Forest, and Geoffrey went on a 4 hour hike in the surrounding hills. Kyan and Brian took naps. I searched the village for flour walking from one household to the next finally finding a merchant who hadn’t sold out of the commodity. When we all convened back at the house, we sat in the shade peeling and eating oranges. It was a relaxing day.
For dinner, we slit the throats, plucked the feathers, and gutted two chickens for a soup. Under candlelight each with a spoon, sitting Indian style upon the concrete porch around a big pot, we gobbled up that meat a luxury rarely found in the village. Our vegetarian had a lovely tomato lentil soup. Dishes were done in the dark because the next morning, early, we would be on the move again.
Where did you go?
We all left at 7 am. The three without bikes hiked 10 km to a village which hopefully had taxis. The bikers headed for Labe, a 60-70 km ride. Surprisingly or maybe not really, we ALL, whether by foot and taxi or by bike, arrived at the Peace Corps house around the same time, 8 hours later.
And New Year’s?
Together as a well-oiled working unit, the six of us prepared a Pan-Asian meal of Tom Yum soup, sushi, and a cabbage stir-fry with chocolate chip cookies and a papaya for dessert. We welcomed 2007 with rounds of hugs and good wishes.
It was truly a wonderful winter break, 7 days travelling around the Fouta region Guinean style. I am riding back to the village today, back to teaching.
My two New Year’s goals are to start local language classes and to learn all of my students’ names.
At the end of January I have Peace Corps In-service training for a week and will be back online. See you then.
Guinean students have a Christmas break?
Being a 90% Muslim country, they don’t call it a Christmas break; however, December 23 was the last day of class before the week long winter break. They don’t celebrate Christmas, but they do have a holiday called Tabaski where a lot of animals get “sacrificed” and eaten in tribute to God saving Abraham’s son, Issac, from being sacrificed.
When was your last class and did you have plans for the break?
On the 21st of December I spent 2 hours teaching chemistry to 7th graders. We were learning about the composition of air so we spent an hour working on 20 fraction multiplication problems like 1/5x20 or 4/5x20 since in 5 liters of air there is 20% oxygen and 80% nitrogen. Then for the next hour we did word problems ending with an exciting game of whoever is left standing wins. Each student had to sit down if they got a multiplication question wrong, 2x2, 12x12, ect...
For the break I planned on spending Christmas in Labe and then go on a bike tour with friends. Because communication is so difficult in this country, we made general plans during Thanksgiving to meet in Labe during the weekend of Christmas. One has to be flexible in Guinea and give plans a wide window of leeway.
My friend, Kyan, was going to the Forest region the week before Christmas and you never know what might prevent her from getting back to Labe. We do not have personal cell phones to call each other if plans change. The last time I saw my other friend, Brian, was 3 weeks ago. He was going down to Conakry for medical reasons. He had no way to communicate with me au village to say whether or not he would be well enough to go on the bike tour.
So you just went to Labe hoping to meet up with your friends?
Yep! Friday, the 22nd, I got up at 6 am and hopped on my bike to beat Africa’s sun for at least a little while. It was a 60-70 km ride which I did at a leisurely pace for 6 hours.
Was anyone waiting for you in Labe?
The Peace Corps Labe house had two volunteers who were leaving to go other places, but I did have 3 notes: 1) Call Geoffrey and Christine. They are in the region and would like to come see some Fouta villages being that they are in he southern part of Guinea near Sierra Leon. 2) I’m well enough for the bike tour and will be there. Wait for me. Brian. 3) I’m leaving Conakry the 23rd for Labe. Kyan.
I sent a note with one of the volunteers who just so happened to be going down to Dukei where Geoffrey and Christine were supposedly vacationing, writing them my tentative plans: Leaving Labe for Kyan’s site the 26th likely spending Tabaski and New Year’s at my site. The note they had sent was from ages ago and the numbers they left were from their village. They were not au village. They were somewhere in Guinea without cell phones. My note was our only link. Would they get it though?
Did it feel like Christmas and what did you do to celebrate?
I wrote a short piece titled
I have not bought a gift.
I have not sent a card.
The season of giving
doesn’t feel like it exists here.
The pressure of buying has been lifted.
It feels kind of nice.
I spent Christmas Eve, making sugar coated peanuts and baking about 10 dozen chocolate chip cookies with cheap chocolate that tastes horrible alone, but awesome in cookies.
There were six of us in Labe for Christmas. Geoffrey and Christine never showed up. Many of the volunteers had travelled down to Conakry. We heard though that Conakry was a mess, no water, no internet, and not enough beds for all the volunteers who had trekked down to the capitol for Christmas.
In Labe we had a lovely Christmas dinner of fried fish, cabbage stir-fry, honey-glazed sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, and a squash pie.
Did you go on you bike tour?
Hell yeah! It was awesome. The day after Christmas I got up at 5 am to make a spaghetti breakfast. We wanted to leave early because Kyan’s village was at least 80 km from Labe and Kyan hadn’t biked since the beginning of November. We would go at a leisurely pace with lots of breaks, the best way to see Guinea.
How was the ride?
It was long! We had to carry all of our water because there were only iffy wells along the route. We fueled up with cookies, sugar coated peanuts, oranges, fried gateaus, sardine/egg sandwiches, and peanut butter honey banana sandwiches. Without Cliff bars or Power bars I was surprised I never hit a wall.
For the first 5 hours, it was pretty smooth riding even though we were on dirt. At the half way mark we hit a sand twister that looked so pretty and small yet was so powerful, whipping tiny pebbles making us stop so not to be pushed off the road with its strong currents, dismounting to protect our faces.
It was a sign of the winds to come.
We pushed against a wind up and down never ending hills that were not steep just small grades up for what seemed like forever, spinning in our lowest gears never getting there.
At 7/8th of the journey, resting in the knooks of knobbly roots of a beautiful tree trying to find a comfortable position for our tushes, Brian made the observation, “This is a long ride.”
We rode into a unique town that reminded me of a frontier town like one in Colorado or Nevada just like in a western. Outside the center, huts and houses were scattered. Land was protected by tightly packed woven tree limb fences.
We stopped at the sole gas pump where Kyan told us to meet her. It was right in the center of town, a block of sandy road bordered by little shops. I felt like a cowboy coming into town, a stranger everyone pausing to look at, dismounting our horses and walking up to the saloon for beer. It was almost like that. We walked up to a little store and bought 20 cold little baggies of red sweetened hibiscus juice, bisap, tearing the corners off to suck out the goodness.
10 hours and 30 minutes later, 85 km under our belts, we handed Kyan a cold one when she finally rode up. “Never again,” she said, as she dismounted.
We pushed our bikes up the steep hill that she lives on into a shaded, fenced-in courtyard where her round 5 room cute cottage sat. We then had to hike 2 football fields to a foot pump where we gathered water into bidons and then carried those 50 lb weights back to her house. After washing off the layers of dirt with a chilly outdoor bucket bath we commented on our fatigue:
Jennifer: I’m tired, yet giddy from the chemicals of extreme sports.
Kyan: I’m not tired. I’m just sore all over.
Brian: I’m tired. She’s claiming she’s not tired, but I think that’s bullshit. She did the same thing we did.
We all laughed.
After such a long ride, what did you have for dinner?
Lucky for us Kyan lives in a pretty big town with about 8,000 people. We went to a rice bar and ate a peanut sauce on rice, the fast food of Guinea. The bad thing though, we learned that her gas tank was empty. No hot tea for us in the cool chilly evening.
What did you do in Kyan’s village?
Well after a night of sleeping on a hard straw mattress and I on a prayer mat on the concrete floor, we ate baguettes with sweetened condensed milk. Then one of Kyan’s students Bilo took us to a waterfall, supposedly 3 km away, but must have been longer because it took us an hour and a half to get there. The waterfall was pretty dry.
Bilo asked if we could visit his grandparents, so off we went our bodies tired, the sun hot for a short walk to a farm. There we were given 30 oranges, 30 bananas, and 10 cassava roots, by his generous happy relatives. Bilo carried the sack of gifts back over grassy hills, over fences, and up Kyan’s hill for us. Thank goodness.
We ate lunch at a rice bar, rice covered with a green leaf sauce, and then we bough eggplant, eggs, and an avocado for dinner, sushi rolls. Kyan’s family included sushi wraps in a care package and she was going to share.
We took a nap on a prayer mat outside under her trees on her rock covered courtyard and afterwards ate oranges throwing the remains over the fence for the goats and cows. It was getting close to dinner time.
We gathered our ingredients and headed back down her hill into the valley to the other side of the hill toward what looked like a trailer park from our side of the hill, 3 rows of 5-8 white houses symmetrically arranged on the opposite hillside. Kyan has a Peace Corps site mate who was currently not in the village. Her site mate was vacationing somewhere else. Kyan knew who had the key to her house though. We planned on using Kyan’s site mate’s gas to cook dinner. After a 20 minute walk we learned that the guy with the key was 17 km away in another village for a wedding.
Tired and hungry we headed down the hill and up Kyan’s hill thinking, “Man is this an omen of things to come?” Getting close to her cottage our attention was drawn toward a balcony of noisemakers hidden by some trees. Who in this country knows the song”We wish you a Merry Christmas,” and why were they being obnoxious singing it at the top of their voices? Out peered a white face, a stranger and a fleeting thought went through my brain, “Oh no. We have to entertain American tourists. I am tired, not up for socializing.” But then Geoffrey’s head peered through the trees and my spirit was jumping from joy- Geoffrey, Christine, plus Geoffrey’s visiting brother. Yay!
They had gotten my note and were hoping to catch up with us by taxi and lo and behold they did. We ate a lovely meal of egg, onions, beef, mayo sandwiches around a campfire and turned in early, four of us on the floor, 2 on the straw mattress.
What did you do the next day?
We all got up at 6 am. The three without bikes went to find a taxi to my village. Thankfully it was Thursday, a neighboring village’s market day so transport was easily available between Kyan’s and my village. Brian, Kyan, and I headed off on bike.
After mounting a hill we named the Lambchop hill, “This is a hill that never ends. It goes on and on my friend. Someone started climbing it not knowing what it was...” 4.5 hours later, and 55 km under our belts we arrived at the market. I went searching in the shoulder to shoulder crowds for the 3 other Americans who took a taxi, greeting my students, getting settle hints by hand gestures where to go, finally sneaking up on the three who had just arrived. It is amazing how we all left the house at the same time 3 by bike, 3 by taxi and we all arrived at our destination at about the same time.
After buying 2 days worth of food supplies, 3 walked and 3 biked the 5 km to my little village. With a community effort, the six of us Americans, we washed clothes, cooked a pasta dinner, cleaned up, and settled in for the night- 3 on the floor cushioned by a foam mattress and 3 on the straw mattress- filling my 2 room house to full capacity.
What did you do in your village on Friday?
I had to teach a 10 th grade chemistry review class in the morning. It was doubtful whether or not any kids would show, but I had an amazing turnout of 17 students.
Christine, Forest, and Geoffrey went on a 4 hour hike in the surrounding hills. Kyan and Brian took naps. I searched the village for flour walking from one household to the next finally finding a merchant who hadn’t sold out of the commodity. When we all convened back at the house, we sat in the shade peeling and eating oranges. It was a relaxing day.
For dinner, we slit the throats, plucked the feathers, and gutted two chickens for a soup. Under candlelight each with a spoon, sitting Indian style upon the concrete porch around a big pot, we gobbled up that meat a luxury rarely found in the village. Our vegetarian had a lovely tomato lentil soup. Dishes were done in the dark because the next morning, early, we would be on the move again.
Where did you go?
We all left at 7 am. The three without bikes hiked 10 km to a village which hopefully had taxis. The bikers headed for Labe, a 60-70 km ride. Surprisingly or maybe not really, we ALL, whether by foot and taxi or by bike, arrived at the Peace Corps house around the same time, 8 hours later.
And New Year’s?
Together as a well-oiled working unit, the six of us prepared a Pan-Asian meal of Tom Yum soup, sushi, and a cabbage stir-fry with chocolate chip cookies and a papaya for dessert. We welcomed 2007 with rounds of hugs and good wishes.
It was truly a wonderful winter break, 7 days travelling around the Fouta region Guinean style. I am riding back to the village today, back to teaching.
My two New Year’s goals are to start local language classes and to learn all of my students’ names.
At the end of January I have Peace Corps In-service training for a week and will be back online. See you then.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Still in the Suitcase
Thursday 21 December 2006
Tonight the family drummed plastic water containers and clapped, once voice sang and while the others responded- call and response.
I brought a tape recorder.
*smile*
I better unpack.
I brought a tape recorder.
*smile*
I better unpack.
The Giving Dilemma
Thursday 21 December 2006
Tonight I ate half a chicken. It was prepared by the 11 year old daughter and her mother, one of the 3 wives of my concession.
Who got the rest? Did the mother? Did the daughter? Did the other two wives? Did any of the other 10 children? Did the father eat as well as I tonight?
How do I repay the labor and cost of each evening’s meal?
Money? How much?
Goods? I gave a 50 kg bag of rice (twenty-two dollars) about a fourth of my monthly living allowance. I buy produce and give it to the family.
As a giver, I want to just give and give, to go to Labe and get twenty dollars worth of oil for the family.
I need to find a balance though, a fair exchange. Just because I can give and give doesn’t mean I should. My income will not be contributing to this family for a lifetime. I’m leaving in a year and a half. I don’t want them to become dependent on a second breadwinner.
The problem is givers keep giving and giving. Givers also downplay their value, and sometimes even feel guilty or uncomfortable accepting an exchange.
My tailor made a beautiful skirt and blouse for me. He charged a dollar for his labor.
The daughter and mother who plucked and prepared the chicken probably only got to taste the chicken juice in the delicious soup not asking for anything for their labor.
I have a sense of guilt. I feel like a taker sitting in my house packing to go to Labe for Christmas, waiting for my dinner to be served.
How do I find a balance giving and taking in this giving culture along with my own nature to give?
Should I go back to cooking my own meals? Should I calculate the cost of the labor and of the meal and pay that in money or goods?
It is hard for me to feel a sense of satisfaction contributing to a family by giving money or goods; therefore, I have a tendency to just keep giving and giving. I want to partake in the labor, but it is hard to know how to. Today, I had 9 little kids trying to help me wash a sock. Is there a way to contribute other than by an exchange of money or goods, when the labor is split amongst so many?
Volunteers often give a 50 kg sac of rice every 2-3 months for their meals.
I didn’t even ask the wives if the mind cooking for one more.
When I first arrived, he father sat on my porch and explained that whatever I need, the family is there for me. I just have to ask.
The family gives. I give and now we have a giving dilemma.
Tonight I ate half a chicken. It was prepared by the 11 year old daughter and her mother, one of the 3 wives of my concession.
Who got the rest? Did the mother? Did the daughter? Did the other two wives? Did any of the other 10 children? Did the father eat as well as I tonight?
How do I repay the labor and cost of each evening’s meal?
Money? How much?
Goods? I gave a 50 kg bag of rice (twenty-two dollars) about a fourth of my monthly living allowance. I buy produce and give it to the family.
As a giver, I want to just give and give, to go to Labe and get twenty dollars worth of oil for the family.
I need to find a balance though, a fair exchange. Just because I can give and give doesn’t mean I should. My income will not be contributing to this family for a lifetime. I’m leaving in a year and a half. I don’t want them to become dependent on a second breadwinner.
The problem is givers keep giving and giving. Givers also downplay their value, and sometimes even feel guilty or uncomfortable accepting an exchange.
My tailor made a beautiful skirt and blouse for me. He charged a dollar for his labor.
The daughter and mother who plucked and prepared the chicken probably only got to taste the chicken juice in the delicious soup not asking for anything for their labor.
I have a sense of guilt. I feel like a taker sitting in my house packing to go to Labe for Christmas, waiting for my dinner to be served.
How do I find a balance giving and taking in this giving culture along with my own nature to give?
Should I go back to cooking my own meals? Should I calculate the cost of the labor and of the meal and pay that in money or goods?
It is hard for me to feel a sense of satisfaction contributing to a family by giving money or goods; therefore, I have a tendency to just keep giving and giving. I want to partake in the labor, but it is hard to know how to. Today, I had 9 little kids trying to help me wash a sock. Is there a way to contribute other than by an exchange of money or goods, when the labor is split amongst so many?
Volunteers often give a 50 kg sac of rice every 2-3 months for their meals.
I didn’t even ask the wives if the mind cooking for one more.
When I first arrived, he father sat on my porch and explained that whatever I need, the family is there for me. I just have to ask.
The family gives. I give and now we have a giving dilemma.
A Balancing Act
Wednesday 20 December
We pushed our bikes up the mile long hill with the natural made speed bumps to the main road which was only a little better. At least it was flat.
We straddled our bikes- two in their sarongs, their knees showing and me in my hippie dress, a petticoat, and capri pants, my knees not showing. Off we went for the 5 km ride back to my village.
One carried my backpack full of eggs, peanuts, oranges, grapefruit, cassava, guava and potatoes. The other had two on one handlebar and one on the other. I had one on each, hanging upside down tied by their feet, a total of five chickens. Our skirts safely flowed in the wind and we arrived dusty to my house.
Today I spent 3 hours eating freshly plucked fruit, walking in a neighboring village where at least 10 of my students commute from to attend school.
The generosity of the village was tremendous, even helping me carry all of my gifts home, circumventing what would have been a true balancing act.
We pushed our bikes up the mile long hill with the natural made speed bumps to the main road which was only a little better. At least it was flat.
We straddled our bikes- two in their sarongs, their knees showing and me in my hippie dress, a petticoat, and capri pants, my knees not showing. Off we went for the 5 km ride back to my village.
One carried my backpack full of eggs, peanuts, oranges, grapefruit, cassava, guava and potatoes. The other had two on one handlebar and one on the other. I had one on each, hanging upside down tied by their feet, a total of five chickens. Our skirts safely flowed in the wind and we arrived dusty to my house.
Today I spent 3 hours eating freshly plucked fruit, walking in a neighboring village where at least 10 of my students commute from to attend school.
The generosity of the village was tremendous, even helping me carry all of my gifts home, circumventing what would have been a true balancing act.
Is giving good?
Monday 18 December 2006
The hospitality of many Guineans is tremendous.
Pleasure is derived from feeding you well and giving you whatever they have.
People here often ask for gifts from us “rich” Americans. We often perceive it in a negative way. I often have to check my first response, my attitude of “Why the hell are you asking me for gifts? You think just because I am a rich American I have bikes, computers, and 100 francs to give you? No, I am not going to give you anything.”
I have to learn to adjust my reaction. I hate being called a patron by strangers who don’t know my name. The thing is I am rich. I don’t have three wives and 10-15 kids to feed. By American standards though I am not rich, but I am not in America. Yet, still when someone says, “Patron buy some lettuce,” my silent, irritated response is, “I’m not a patron. I’m a volunteer.”
The thing is Guineans give. Rich Guineans get asked for gifts just like us Americans. They are well off. I am well off. We are all seen as such. If you have, you give in his country. This is not an American philosophy. Ours is sometimes more- I got mine. Why can’t you? I worked had. You can too. Don’t try to mooch off me.
I remember my host sister in Foreicarriah once saying that visiting relatives in Labe was extremely expensive because she would not only have to have the couple of 100,000 GF for transportation but a couple hundred more for gifts. She could not visit without giving gifts.
Even if you have nothing you give in this country. Farmers who live from hand to mouth give to this well-off teacher just because I can give their children something they can not, an education. They are happy, pleased, energized by giving.
Is it easy to take advantage of people who derive pleasure from giving, to take advantage of people who are more concerned for others’ well-being than their own?
I am at times a giver, someone who puts aside her wants, needs, desires for a partner. This becomes a problem when the generosity is neither acknowledged nor reciprocated. I can easily be taken advantage of by takers.
Is Guinea the same way?
The hospitality of many Guineans is tremendous.
Pleasure is derived from feeding you well and giving you whatever they have.
People here often ask for gifts from us “rich” Americans. We often perceive it in a negative way. I often have to check my first response, my attitude of “Why the hell are you asking me for gifts? You think just because I am a rich American I have bikes, computers, and 100 francs to give you? No, I am not going to give you anything.”
I have to learn to adjust my reaction. I hate being called a patron by strangers who don’t know my name. The thing is I am rich. I don’t have three wives and 10-15 kids to feed. By American standards though I am not rich, but I am not in America. Yet, still when someone says, “Patron buy some lettuce,” my silent, irritated response is, “I’m not a patron. I’m a volunteer.”
The thing is Guineans give. Rich Guineans get asked for gifts just like us Americans. They are well off. I am well off. We are all seen as such. If you have, you give in his country. This is not an American philosophy. Ours is sometimes more- I got mine. Why can’t you? I worked had. You can too. Don’t try to mooch off me.
I remember my host sister in Foreicarriah once saying that visiting relatives in Labe was extremely expensive because she would not only have to have the couple of 100,000 GF for transportation but a couple hundred more for gifts. She could not visit without giving gifts.
Even if you have nothing you give in this country. Farmers who live from hand to mouth give to this well-off teacher just because I can give their children something they can not, an education. They are happy, pleased, energized by giving.
Is it easy to take advantage of people who derive pleasure from giving, to take advantage of people who are more concerned for others’ well-being than their own?
I am at times a giver, someone who puts aside her wants, needs, desires for a partner. This becomes a problem when the generosity is neither acknowledged nor reciprocated. I can easily be taken advantage of by takers.
Is Guinea the same way?
Latrine: A Study by Headlamp
Monday December 18, 2006
Cockroaches are so cool.
Their antennas are longer
than their bodies.
Their antennas are longer
than their bodies.
Walking in their Shoes
Monday 18 December 2006
Some of my students are not as lucky as I. My home is right across from the school. I can leave my house at 7:44 am and be there on time for the 7:45 am national anthem and flag raising.
My students come from all directions. Some live off the main dusty road and can ride their bikes. Others live near the big Mosque, a mile or so from the school.
Today I hiked on a rocky non-bikable path up and over two hills, crossed two creeks, chasing after my 3 students who were almost running. In the hot noon sun surrounded by yellow tall grass, pulling up my long Guinean skirt that limited my stride, I walked an hour and half to the furthest village that my students come from.
The village welcomed me with great big smiles, enthusiastic handshakes, and fed me oranges and fonio with sauce until I was stuffed. Then they loaded me from their plentiful gardens, fruit from their trees containing hundreds of rotting and sweet oranges, grapefruit, cassava, peanuts, taro, fonio, sweet potatoes, and a live chicken. Thank goodness I brought my backpack.
The sun was setting as I tried to hurry home. Two students accompanied me part of the journey and then sent me on my way having no doubt I could make it carrying all of my heavy gifts, oranges and peanuts on my back, edible roots in one hand, and a live chicken in the other. One nice assumption Guineans have is that women are not assumed to be physically weak.
I have four truly dedicated students who walk 14 km (8-9 miles) round trip, 6 days a week to receive an education. I have a new respect for them walking in their shoes today.
Some of my students are not as lucky as I. My home is right across from the school. I can leave my house at 7:44 am and be there on time for the 7:45 am national anthem and flag raising.
My students come from all directions. Some live off the main dusty road and can ride their bikes. Others live near the big Mosque, a mile or so from the school.
Today I hiked on a rocky non-bikable path up and over two hills, crossed two creeks, chasing after my 3 students who were almost running. In the hot noon sun surrounded by yellow tall grass, pulling up my long Guinean skirt that limited my stride, I walked an hour and half to the furthest village that my students come from.
The village welcomed me with great big smiles, enthusiastic handshakes, and fed me oranges and fonio with sauce until I was stuffed. Then they loaded me from their plentiful gardens, fruit from their trees containing hundreds of rotting and sweet oranges, grapefruit, cassava, peanuts, taro, fonio, sweet potatoes, and a live chicken. Thank goodness I brought my backpack.
The sun was setting as I tried to hurry home. Two students accompanied me part of the journey and then sent me on my way having no doubt I could make it carrying all of my heavy gifts, oranges and peanuts on my back, edible roots in one hand, and a live chicken in the other. One nice assumption Guineans have is that women are not assumed to be physically weak.
I have four truly dedicated students who walk 14 km (8-9 miles) round trip, 6 days a week to receive an education. I have a new respect for them walking in their shoes today.
What Makes Me Laugh au Village
Thursday 12 December 2006
Sitting in the outdoor kitchen with my family, having a short-haired, goat looking sheep come into view running for its life, a half naked little boy in swift pursuit, of that gobbling manioch-leaf eating, nanny berry leaving pest, makes me laugh.
Having six little kids copying my every move as I dance, do the hokey poky, jump and hop on one foot, as I twirl, do somersaults, handstands, and cartwheels, high kicks in the air, pushups, and situps, makes me laugh.
Having crayons, sheets of paper, and kids scattered all over my porch shouting with glee as I say draw a flower, a car, a tree, a motorcycle, your family, feeling their eagerness to please, watching their shaking smiles at the impossibility of drawing a person makes me laugh.
Laughter, what a feeling for my well-being.
Sitting in the outdoor kitchen with my family, having a short-haired, goat looking sheep come into view running for its life, a half naked little boy in swift pursuit, of that gobbling manioch-leaf eating, nanny berry leaving pest, makes me laugh.
Having six little kids copying my every move as I dance, do the hokey poky, jump and hop on one foot, as I twirl, do somersaults, handstands, and cartwheels, high kicks in the air, pushups, and situps, makes me laugh.
Having crayons, sheets of paper, and kids scattered all over my porch shouting with glee as I say draw a flower, a car, a tree, a motorcycle, your family, feeling their eagerness to please, watching their shaking smiles at the impossibility of drawing a person makes me laugh.
Laughter, what a feeling for my well-being.
Females: A Strength in Guinea
Thursday 7 December 2006
A tree limb as thick as my forearm with a length of 15-20 feet long was carried balanced upon her head to the outdoor kitchen and then she took an axe almost as tall as her and split the limb into firewood. This eight year old smiled each time I would watch her lift the axe above her head hitting her target right on mark. It made me scared to watch her as we would make eye contact before her swing downwards. She was happily on stage though with her sole admirer. She never did miss.
I thought I was a tough, physically, aggressive, strong female. Playing football with some girls in Foreicarriah gave me a taste of the physically strong females of this country, but it was today as I sat with the family of my concession watching them cook that I really began to understand.
I was given a live chicken by one of my top student's family. My family offered to cook it for me. Women are not allowed to kill chickens. A man slit its throat while saying a prayer.
I sat outside in the middle of a ton of bustle. Four fires were going. One of the three mothers was preparing my chicken. The other two mothers were still at the market. The busyness was caused by 6 girls between the ages of 5 and 12 plus 2 babies.
Remember making mud pies, collecting leaves and flowers for yummy meals in our play kitchens? Well the 3 five-year olds had their fire roaring cooking a pot of collected scraps and peels that the other girls were leaving behind as they prepared the family meals.
The older girls, ages 7-12, were hacking away at a squash with a dull knife, sorting rice from rocks, washing the rice and cooking it in boiling water, chopping firewood, getting condiments for their mother, pounding cassava leaves with a pestle taller than they, and bring big buckets of water from the pump closer to my house than theirs (30-40 yards).
Remember carrying baby dolls in strollers and in baby backpacks? Well these girls took turns carrying the babies on their backs while working. The 5 year olds would sometimes take over playing with the babies and carrying them around too also on their backs. I am amazed that babies are not dropped. The only incident was an accidental grazing of a sitting baby, causing it to topple over when the girl brought in the 20 ft long tree limb. Those things are apparently hard to navigate.
It was non-stop hustle and bustle, and I just sat there in the middle of it watching, amazed, thinking, "Ummm... That 8 year old is chopping firewood with a dull axe. I don't think I would want to meet her on a rugby field."
A tree limb as thick as my forearm with a length of 15-20 feet long was carried balanced upon her head to the outdoor kitchen and then she took an axe almost as tall as her and split the limb into firewood. This eight year old smiled each time I would watch her lift the axe above her head hitting her target right on mark. It made me scared to watch her as we would make eye contact before her swing downwards. She was happily on stage though with her sole admirer. She never did miss.
I thought I was a tough, physically, aggressive, strong female. Playing football with some girls in Foreicarriah gave me a taste of the physically strong females of this country, but it was today as I sat with the family of my concession watching them cook that I really began to understand.
I was given a live chicken by one of my top student's family. My family offered to cook it for me. Women are not allowed to kill chickens. A man slit its throat while saying a prayer.
I sat outside in the middle of a ton of bustle. Four fires were going. One of the three mothers was preparing my chicken. The other two mothers were still at the market. The busyness was caused by 6 girls between the ages of 5 and 12 plus 2 babies.
Remember making mud pies, collecting leaves and flowers for yummy meals in our play kitchens? Well the 3 five-year olds had their fire roaring cooking a pot of collected scraps and peels that the other girls were leaving behind as they prepared the family meals.
The older girls, ages 7-12, were hacking away at a squash with a dull knife, sorting rice from rocks, washing the rice and cooking it in boiling water, chopping firewood, getting condiments for their mother, pounding cassava leaves with a pestle taller than they, and bring big buckets of water from the pump closer to my house than theirs (30-40 yards).
Remember carrying baby dolls in strollers and in baby backpacks? Well these girls took turns carrying the babies on their backs while working. The 5 year olds would sometimes take over playing with the babies and carrying them around too also on their backs. I am amazed that babies are not dropped. The only incident was an accidental grazing of a sitting baby, causing it to topple over when the girl brought in the 20 ft long tree limb. Those things are apparently hard to navigate.
It was non-stop hustle and bustle, and I just sat there in the middle of it watching, amazed, thinking, "Ummm... That 8 year old is chopping firewood with a dull axe. I don't think I would want to meet her on a rugby field."
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Done with city life
Conakry has been fun.
Unlimited internet access was nice.
Nighttime that feels like daytime was a bit trippy.
That electricity, you know?
My ear problem that brought me to Conakry isn't serious.
My right ear feels like I am on an airplane. It never pops.
Be patient is the diagnosis.
Got a long taxi ride today.
And then tomorrow a long taxi ride along with a long walk, 17 km.
That village kind of hard to get to, you know?
You might hear from me again around December 22.
Unlimited internet access was nice.
Nighttime that feels like daytime was a bit trippy.
That electricity, you know?
My ear problem that brought me to Conakry isn't serious.
My right ear feels like I am on an airplane. It never pops.
Be patient is the diagnosis.
Got a long taxi ride today.
And then tomorrow a long taxi ride along with a long walk, 17 km.
That village kind of hard to get to, you know?
You might hear from me again around December 22.
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