Ultimate Frisbee and a Trip to the Conakry Emergency Room (aka Mom, I’m OK)

A line is drawn across the field approximately 10 feet behind the goal line for ultimate Frisbee matches. The purpose of the line is to keep the Guinean kids at a safe distance from the playing field. It’s a funny sight. They line up shoulder to shoulder along this line and watch us play. Even after an hour of playing they are still there, watching.

Today’s match was no different. The spectator line was drawn and the crowd gathered to watch the funny Americans run in circles and throw a purple disk at one another. Little did they know that their tickets actually gave them front row seats to action, physical contact and lots of blood. The teams were evenly matched and my team was on the defense. The man I was marking began a diagonal run for the end zone. I gave chase and the Frisbee was thrown. All I had to do was make sure that he did not catch it. We jumped and while my hand managed to deflect the Frisbee, his elbow made solid contact with my lip.

When hit in the lip, my first impulse is to put my hand there for a blood check. Today, I was rewarded with dripping, bright red blood in large quantities. My lip felt like a massive chunk had been torn out. Where was the rest of my lip? Was it on his elbow? The spectator line contains faces of disbelief and a little disgust – there was a lot of blood. Using my shirt, I attempted to slow the bleeding as a PC volunteer and another trainee walked with me towards the PC building in Forecariah.

Fortunately, we see a PC truck and flag it down. Using the rear view mirrors, I was finally able to see the “damage” done. The left side of my lip had been split wide open with a gash going from the lip up several centimeters. Closer inspection revealed that a chunk had not been torn out but that the gash was deep. The decision was made. I needed to go to Conakry as soon as possible to get stitches.

I was driven home to quickly shower and pack an overnight bag. My buddy Patrick was given permission to travel with me to Conakry. We were picked up by a PC driver and began the trip as I still tried to stop the blood flow from my lip.

Two hours later, we picked up the PC Medical Officer and headed for a hospital emergency room. Walking into the emergency room, I immediately noticed how quiet it was. This is a capital city on a Friday night and the emergency room was completely empty. The benefit is that I was seen immediately.

Minutes later, I was on the ER table wondering how much I would feel the needle about to prick my lip. Once, twice, three times and a fourth. Fingers were then poked at my lip. Can you feel it? I could not, so the sewing began. Three stitches were put into my lip/face. Here’s to good healing!

The Ride Home (August 12, 2006)

In the best of situations, travel in Guinea is an adventure. Public transport involves haggling with a taxi driver then cramming oneself into a cab for a ride that could result in personal injury at any time. Taxis themselves vary from “decent” condition to “I can’t believe that thing actually moves!”
Today’s adventure started with four other stagieres as we began the return home to Forecariah from Conakry after the week of site visits. Leaving the Peace Corps compound is like stepping back into another world where the five of us were completely out of place with our full backpacks attached to our backs. (We haven’t figured out how to carry everything on our head yet.) Our travel itinerary seemed simple enough: catch a cab to Bambeto (a taxi station in Conakry) then another cab to Forecariah. Perfect! We would be out of Conakry in a half-hour. The first let was straight-forward. We quickly “displaced,” meaning we bought all the seats in the six person cab though we were only five, and were on our way to Bambeto. The taxi driver let us out and pointed us in the direction of the gare, or taxi station.
Interesting side note: an effect of an oral society is that most things are not printed or published in a written way. This means that almost all prices are both negotiable and likely to increase rapidly at the site of five Americans walking towards a merchant. This means that I am never sure if I am getting a good deal on an item or if I am being completely ripped off (even after I have talked the person down several hundred Guinean Francs). This being said, it’s advantageous to have an idea of a price before beginning “the game.”
The taxi. The goal of a Guinean taxi driver is to get as much money per rides as he can. This is achieved by either cramming more people into a car than the manufacturers though would be humanly possible or by having people pay for the “empty” slots. The driver will not leave until all slots are paid for. For comparison, a small Honda Civic type car will typically hold at least six people plus the driver. Coming into Bambeto, we had an idea of the price. Theoretically, each person should pay 11,000 Guinean Francs.
Immediately upon walking into the gare, we were accosted by people: “Where are you going?” “Will you displace the taxi?” “There are five of you. Pay for the 6th seat and we can leave now.” We were the center of attention and the going rate was 25,000 Guinean Francs per person. After discussions with several people, it appeared that this price was not going to change (known as wonderful coordination by the people trying to rip off Americans). In desperation, I asked someone what a single person would do to find a ride to Forecariah since not everyone can displace a taxi. The man replied that we had to go to the taxi gare in Medina, which was the market we visited the previous day. In disgust, we walked out to find another taxi to take us there. Two minutes later, several men raced towards us yelling “Forecariah! Forecariah!” One trick in the bargaining game is to leave the merchant. Since a lower price is better than no sale at all this tactic will sometimes result in a lower price. They dropped to price to 20,000 GF/person which was still too high for us. It was important that we get to Medina.
We hailed a cab and began haggling on the price it would cost to get us to the Medina gare.
“20,000”
“15,000”
“20,000”
“15,000”
“15,000” d’accord (ok) – we pile in

A drive back across town, including a detour to avoid a police check point finally got us to Medina.
“Watch each other. This place was not too friendly to us yesterday,” we remind each other as the cab pulls to a stop in the middle of a busy street to let us out. We grab our bags and one of us pays the man. Suddenly, trouble came rushing towards us as if just released from one of our bags.
“I said the price was 20,000 GF.”
I began arguing with the driver – it’s amazing how quickly French can fly with a little adrenaline. As we argue, a crowd slowly begins to crowd around us. I can feel the pressure of the people, heat and humidity bearing town on the five of us. The nearest street vendor takes our side as he questions whether the price was agreed on before we got into the cab.
“Yes,” I say. “The driver said 20,000. We said 15,000 and his associate agreed so we got in.”
“He doesn’t count,” retorted the driver. “I’m the boss.”
This interchange continues to go in circles. With the crowd steadily growing, we decide that the easiest and quickest option is to pay the extra 5,000 and get out of there. After two taxi mishaps, we enter the Medina gare frustrated and apprehensive. What will be the next taxi experience? At least we were in the right place. Fares given to us were 11,000 GF. Just as expected! Happy that our switch to Medina dropped the price, we agree to ride in the taxi. Backpacks came off and we began to pile them into the miniscule hatchback trunk.
“It will be 3,000 GF per bag,” a helper informs us.
“C’est impossible,” groans a stagiere.
“No,” I continue, “we came to Conakry with the same bags and did not have to pay. We are not paying this time.”
“2,500,” he replies.
“No way. It was free last time and it’s going to be free this time.”
“But, we will get in trouble at the police barricade,” he attempts to reason even though he knows that the police could care less about whether we paid for the bags to be in the car or not. The police only try to extort money from people in their own manner.
“We came through the barricade last time with no problem. We will not pay extra.”
He finally relents and our bags are packed. The tickets are bought, which are necessary to guarantee transport to our final destination. If the car were to break down, a distinct possibility, it becomes the driver’s responsibility to find the passengers a way to their destinations. We cram ourselves into the taxi and prepare for the ride.
It may be hard to picture what our taxi looks like. To start with, imagine an old-school Subaru station wagon. Not the Outback, but a few models prior. The hatchback “trunk space” has been shrunk by placing a second row of seats behind the typical back seat. Now, the car is ready to contain nine people plus a driver: the driver in his front bucket seat, two passengers in the other bucket seat, four in the “middle” row, and three in the bonus section. I find myself in the back row for the upcoming 2.5 hour ride. It’s funny that only a little over a month ago I though economy seats on an airline were cramped. Perspective can change so fast…
Fortunately, the ride has little adventure with the exception of a prolonged stop at the police barricade while the police scrutinized the ID cards of the five Americans. (There was no mention of the bags.) My legs and butt were extremely excited when the bridge to Forecariah came into sight. The ride was finally over. Maybe next time some chickens will be in the car as well!

Medina

People everywhere. Strolling. Yelling. Laughing. Haggling. Taxis honking. Police directing? Walkways. Mud. Water Streaming. Small, winding alleyways. Broken pavement. Escalator! Buildings. Open air. Closed and confined. Fabric. Yellow. Blue. Red. Purple. Swirls. Patterns. Prints with circles, snails, cubes, lamps, palm trees, huts, diagonals, fish, stripes, faces… Vendors. Lamb kebobs. Water in bottles or sacks. Toothpaste. Pharmaceuticals. Cauldrons. Pots. Chairs. Beds. Sandals. Cell phones. Belts. Watches. Dead fote clothes. Electronics. Cookies. 30,000 guinean francs. A friend. A “crazy” man. An accomplice. Distraction. Money stolen. Taxi Home. Traffic confusion. Price is too high. Keep walking. Bridge. Two men. A friend. A grab. He yells. I turn. I yell. Men leave. Taxi negotiation. A ride. We slowly pull out of Medina. Medina is the big market in Conakry. By some estimates it is the largest in West Africa. My first visit to Medina was one of chaos with some order, sights and adventure.

New photos (Forecariah - training)

I posted a few photographs from Guinea. They are ones from around Forecariah.
The link is:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/guineaswerve/

Site Visit

Currently, I am in Conakry which is the capital of Guinea. I apologize to many of you for not keeping in touch but Forecariah does not have access to internet so I have been out of touch for the last month. It looks like once training is over at the end of September I will have access about once a month. I have been doing some writing and posted several other times below. Site visit…

I was a little apprehensive about going to Wonkifong but the trip was amazing. Wonkifong is off the main road and is in a quiet, peaceful setting. The village has been there for a long time and looks to be well taken care of. When Devon (the PC volunteer that took me to site) and I got to Wonkifong, we kind of looked at each other and said “No what?” There was no welcoming committee waiting for us and the rain was starting to come on down. The taxi driver pointed us in the direction of the sous-prefet (person who runs the show) and a small child led the way. We got there to find the sous-prefet on his porch with his family. He welcomed us in and called the president and other important members of the village. Then he pointed to a nice house behind his and said that it would be mine.

Devon and I were then given a tour guide and a walk through the village to meet others such as the imam (religious leader) and some village elders. The walk to the school that I will be teaching in is about 15 minutes and ends by crossing a river above a small rapid. The school is lined with mango trees and consists of two small buildings. Overall, the village is beautiful.

I then went with Devon to visit her village before coming to Conakry. Though apprehensive about Wonkifong, I am now excited about the location (beautiful mountains in the distance and potential access along a river to the ocean) and look forward to the end of stage. I have 3 weeks of “practice school” coming up where I will teach math to 60 or so Guinean students. Sounds like fun…

Take care and I hope to get some photographs up soon. Once again, any mail, etc is greatly appreciated. My address is to the right of the screen.

Love,
Frank

Daily Life of a Peace Corps Stagiere

Well, here I am in Forecariah, Guinea. It is a small city located in south of the Basse Cote region of Guinea. The first in-country hurdle of a Peace Corps wanna-be is "stage". Stage refers to the 11-week period of training, host family-living and adjustment that the 29 of us must go through before being sworn in as Peace Corps Volunteers. I am in the G-12 group, meaning the twelfth group to have training in Guinea. Around six or seven years ago, the training for Guinea volunteers took place in Senegal but now it is in-country. I am in only the second stage at Forecariah. I live with a host-family and go to training sessions. It feels a bit like high school at times and the volunteers helping with training continually assure us that life gets much better once I get to site. Here is a general schedule of my life:

5:45 Wake-up and get dressed for running. I am trying to do this 3-5 times a week.

6:00 Meet Will for a run. It is still dark at this point so the extra challenge is to avoid twisting an ankle on the uneven roads. As the rainy season sets in more and more, the dirt roads quickly turn to lakes that empty into raging rivers. As you can imagine, water cuts through the road’s surface to create a wide array of hazards. We run for 40-60 minutes.

7:00 Return home for my bucket bath. Running water? Yes but it involves a large bucket of water, a small cup and my pouring water over my head/body. This method is quite effective and it’s amazing how much less water is used to bathe. After my shower, I dress, eat breakfast and head to school.

8 – 10. Class. This may include language (French or local languages. I am currently studying Susu, which is the national language in the region where I will be living.), technical language (teaching math in French), a medical information session, cross-culture classes or a safety/security session.

10 – 10:30 Break!

10:30 – 12:30 More class

12:30 – 2:00. Lunch. On MWF, I go to the market to find lunch and haggle with sellers. On Tuesday and Thursday, we all go to the Peace Corps office for an amazing lunch made by local people. I really look forward to lunch on these days.

2:00 – 5:00 More class

After class on Tuesday and Thursday, I am learning how to drum African style (Aaron I hope to play with you when I get back!) About five of us are taking lessons and at the same time five others are learning traditional dancing. It’s an hour I look forward to and I hope to buy a drum to take to site with me in the hope of continuing lessons.

On other days, I often go for a bike ride, swim in a river or just hang out and chat with my host family. I then eat dinner, do homework (I haven’t had this much in ages!) or head down the street to Chez Vikki’s, which is a type of bar.

9:30/10:00 Get some sleep!

Saturdays may involve some class or an outing into the local region. Sunday is family day where I hang out with my family and also do laundry.

Wonkifong? (July 28, 2006)

Cool name? For sure. Cool place? To be determined. Today was the big day for everyone. After lunch, we all (stagieres, volunteers and trainers) gathered in the gazebo at my family’s compound. On the tiles, a map of Guinea was sketched in chalk. The map contained major cities and the future sites for each of us. Oh, what would the future hold? This announcement was critical for our lives over the next two years. For each site, a description was given and the person assigned to the site announced.

Though I tried not to get mentally attached to an area, I was hoping that I would be assigned to the “mountain” region. Unfortunately, I am not there. Wonkifong. Where is it? Well, I will be the closest volunteer to Conakry, at just under 60 km away. I have been told that Wonkifong is a small village, though it is 7 km from Coya, which is a major stop on the road from most of Guinea to Conakry. Hopefully, this location will bring me visitors.

I have been told that my site has many creature comforts such as electricity and a good water supply. Maybe brining my laptop was a good idea after all. Communication should be easier since I am close to Conakry. I will try to get there at least once a month if not more – it’s still too early to say.

On August 6, I will go on site visit. This is when everyone heads to their site to have a look around. I will visit site and then go to my regional capital, which is Conakry. Whenever I ask a Guinean about Wonkifong, I get a positive response so I hope that it is a good place.

La Boite (July 22, 2006)

Where do cultures cross? Is it the meeting of diplomats on the world stage? The education of youth around the world or is it a white American walking into an African dance club the size of a living room on a dark and rainy night without electricity? A room where no seat is hidden. A gathering of people whose skin makes the American’s skin appear to glow in comparison. Or do cultures cross when the American takes a deep breath, stands and steps onto the dance floor under the watchful gaze of every other person in the room? And at that moment, the response is an outpouring of smiles on previously impassive faces. People laugh and shake their heads. No, he can’t dance. But yes, he is having fun with us, in our way, and in our place.

An Early Morning Run (July 8, 2006)

Conakry. A West African city bordering the Atlantic Ocean that is the capital of Guinea. At 5:30 am, my wrist watch alarm began sounding off and I react instantly with the words of one of my five bunk mates echoing in my mind, “if that alarm wakes me I’ll kill you.” An understandable saying coming from a group of Peace Corps trainees that had arrived early the previous evening after a long day of travel including a bus ride from Philly to New York, a transatlantic flight to Brussels and finally a flight to Conakry via Dakar, Senegal.

To shake out the travel jet lag, two others and I decided to wake early for a jog in Conakry. This suggestion raised the eyebrows of several current volunteers that know Conakry. But hey, we were just excited to be in country and wanted to get out and about.

Downstairs, I found another trainee and two volunteers. The first bout of sickness had struck the group less than 12 hours after arrival. She was pale and tired as the 1-year volunteers attempted to comfort her. Minutes later my two companions appeared and we checked out through the security house to begin our run.

The morning was cool. The humidity, which grasped me in a warm embrace when I stepped off the plane the previous day, had lessened and it felt comfortable. We began our job. At first, the run resembled many other early morning jaunts I have had in the States. The streets were quiet as only our conversation filled the air. As we continued we came across others walking in the street. On one empty section, a Guinean appeared from a side alley. Seeing us he exclaimed, “Vous faites du sport!” with a big smile. He was dressed nicely in a button down shirt, slacks and dress shoes. Without pausing he tore off down the road. “Allez! Allez!” The three of us began chase and he zig-zagged to block the street so that we could not pass. With a laugh, he eventually stopped and we continued down the street.

Suddenly, as we rounded a bend we came across many people. At 6:00, the sky was only beginning to provide the first hints of dawn. The streets were quickly getting crowded though the people did not seem to be heading anywhere in particular. Instead the feeling was of a general milling around. Stares were plenty as three white guys ran down a street. We received some salutations though most quietly watched us go by. At an intersection we hugged the right corner and found ourselves on a larger road running in the same direction as traffic. Suddenly, our peaceful jog had gotten quite busy. We fell into single file and increased our pace to get out of the area quicker. I was at the back and heard a car rapidly approaching. In Guinea, main roads are not wide and joggers are not common. This increases the possibility of an accident. I moved right to put some space between myself and the car. As I edged right, my foot landed on a bit of crumbling pavement. Smooth traffic shoulders do not exist in Guinea and the road was perched up on an embankment. When my foot landed, it slid out and I instantly took a tumble down the hill scraping the outside of my left leg from my knee to my ankle. The scrape ended below my ankle with a large, open wound. I guess my welcoming gift to Guinea was an offering of blood on African soil.
Of course the next day’s health session focused on the ease of infection and the long healing process in Africa. Scrub the wound until it hurts, scrub some more, apply antibiotic ointment, cover the wound so the flies don’t have a party and repeat regularly. The one month update: I managed to avoid infection but the wound is still not completely healed. I was nervous with a few river swims but my ankle does appear to be healing, though slowly.