Affectation (Sept 22, 2006)

Affectation is the shiny word to mean that traning is over, go to a ceremony at the US Embassy and then head out to site. The ceremony took place on Friday. Ushered into the back door, we all made our way into the highly guarded compound. There were speeches made (I even made the French one), we all swore to protect the US and are now volunteers.

I leave for my site Tuesday to start village life. If all goes well, school will start next week but one never knows.

Chicken Suit (Sept 19, 2006)

The Farewell Ceremony is only days away. Do I go to the tailor and have him make local clothes for me to wear at the event or do I just hope that my family gets clothes for me? I opted for the “it’s better to be safe than sorry” scenario and got clothes made.

By Monday afternoon this was looking like a good thing. The ceremony was the next day. I was essentially living in a bachelor’s pad. My mother had been away for a week now because my sick brother was in Conakry and the other females of the house have seemed to disappear. It was amazing that I was even eating every day – how could a bunch of guys remember that tradition calls for the making of clothes for the stagiere?

7:15 Monday night. “I’m going over to Patrick’s house for an end-of-stage celebration that his family is having,” I say to Modaf, who is standing on the edge of the porch.

He has a somewhat worried look on his face and has been glancing towards the entrance to the concession for some time. “Umm, do you think you could hang out for a little longer? Seydouba left a few minutes ago to get some fabric for your outfit. You know the ceremony is tomorrow, right?”

A few minutes later, Seydouba comes running around the corner with three pagnes in his hands. A pagne is a measure of fabric that is 2 meters by 1 meter. It takes three pagnes to make a “complet,” which is a top and bottom outfit. The traditional Guinean clothing has the same pattern for both sets. I can find almost any pattern imaginable in the market from amazing colors, to swirls, leaves, tea pots, lamps, Africa, abstracts…What would my pattern look like?

Chickens. Mom and her little chicks. Rooster heads. Even eggs. Oh yeah, I am going to be styling tomorrow.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Modaf tells me. “Seydouba, where is the closest tailor? Go get him and bring him back to measure Youssouf” (my Susu name).

I’m almost cracking up inside. By now, it is a little after 7:30 at night and Seydouba is taking off in search of a tailor with chicken pagnes under his arm. Would he even be able to find a tailor at this time?

Minutes later a tape measure was flying around my arms, waist, chest and legs as the tailor hurriedly took my measurements. After a quick haggling over cost he left with a promise that I would have the outfit by tomorrow morning.

The next morning I woke to find chicken pants, shirt and as an added bonus a hat. I was ready for the Farewell Ceremony.

Remember Morlaye

Remember Morlaye, the one who welcomed me into his family as a brother,

Tall, lanky, too skinny from illness,

Eyes, engaging, playful, yellowish and cloudy from illness,

Wool hat, even on hot, humid days,

Hair under the hat, dark with a white spot in the front.

Remember Morlaye, the 38-year old nicknamed Bebe,

He was the youngest son,

Though not the youngest of six.

Radio on, the news was his constant companion,

Morlaye would talk with me about any and all: taboos, politics, religion, culture,

His French was well-spoken, voice clear

Thank-you for helping me learn the Guinean twist on French,

Thanks again for laughing and encouraging my feeble attempts at Susu

Remember Morlaye, the one who would walk with me to uncover the paths of Forecariah,

The bridge on a clear night, reflections of the Milky Way and its partners in the river,

The family rice fields on a plantation 5k from town,

Night walks as I gained night vision on cloudy, electric-free evenings dodging to avoid puddles,

Off to the club, an introduction to Guinean nightlife.

Remember Morlaye, the one who laughed at me the morning I was ready to leave with my shirt inside out,

Only to laugh more when we realized

His shirt was also inside out.

Remember Morlaye, father of two,

Marian, his wonderful 16-year old daughter, the pride of his life,

She passed the national exam only days before.

Remember Morlaye,

My first Guinean friend,

My teacher,

My brother.

One of the things that I am going to have to steel myself to is the fact that death is so much more present in Africa. At the end of my host family stay, my brother Morlaye passed away. It was a definite shock for me as he was truly the one who helped me begin my integration into the Guinean lifestyle. I will miss you and I wish you could give me the surprise visit to Wonkifong that you wanted to take once your health recovered.

Thank you Letter Writers! (September 13, 2006)

Over the past few months, I have received several letters from those of you on the other side of the pond. I thank you as much as you can imagine. I read your letters multiple times. It is great to hear about life back in the States and what people are doing. Thanks!

Thank you Chacos! (September 12, 2006)

Imagine my despair when I looked down at my Chacos to find that the sole was delaminating. My daily footwear was falling apart. After several failed attempts to glue the sole back on with bike tube repair glue, I took the sandal down to a shoe repair person in the market. He stitched the entire shoe back together by poking holes around the edge and weaving the sole back onto the foot bed. I emailed Chaco the story and received an apology and word that they would send me a new pair. I received them (in Guinea) today. You have to love a company that stands by their product (they told me that the factory had been experimenting with new glue for worker safety reasons and that a few substandard sandals had been released).

September 9, 2006

And the answer to the question of the day: I am even one more year older today. The past few years seem to fly by with increasing speed and provide me with amazing friendships and adventures. I can only hope that this next year in Africa will be as wonderful as I think it will be. If today’s celebration is any indication, it will be a great year.
7:00 – get the day going with an early morning run. The run included three waist-to-chest deep river crossings, hill climbs, scenic villages and rocky descents.
9:00 – end of practice school ceremony. The kids seemed to love it. Speeches were given, the high school students sang songs to show off their English skills and awards recognized the top students.
Lunch and purchases for the evening’s celebration (Ecole Pratique is over after all) took a bit of time but by 3:00, a group of us were heading to the river. Patrick and I had convinced six others that walking up to the place where we tried to float our bikes the previous day and swimming back to town would be a great idea. The walk out to the jumping in point took an hour. A 10th grade student of mine followed us through the river crossings and the rice fields but when we jumped into the river he looked at us as if we were completely crazy.
The float was beautiful. Lush, green vegetation densely packed the river’s edge. The current was quite strong and we were transported downstream at a quick pace, occasionally kicking to stay afloat. After 30 minutes, the initial enthusiasm of the adventure had faded and people started to question how much farther we had to go.
“The guided portion of this trip ended when we jumped into the river,” was all Patrick and I could say. We really had no idea how long we would be in the river. The river always seemed to bend in the wrong direction. Finally, after an hour and a half of floating the diagonal leaning palm tree that marks our normal swimming spot was spotted. A bit waterlogged, we slosh onto the bank and walk home.
That night, the current volunteers cooked everyone a Mexican fiesta and we celebrated (we even had electricity!).

Ecole Pratique (September 8, 2006)

Today was the last day of Practice School. Over the three weeks, I taught two different sessions. The first was a one week period where each volunteer had two classes a day for one hour. The second period covered the remaining two weeks and classes each were two hours long. During this period, only one class was taught a day so I alternated the class I taught every day. A few observations:
· Teaching in French is a good challenge (especially when some of the kids don’t speak French). I have learned a lot of math specific vocabulary but still find myself talking in huge circles to explain things.
· Lesson planning in French takes much more time.
· Lesson planning by hand is even more time consuming.
· Classrooms without electricity. If it is dark outside due to a storm almost no one can see their paper.
· Kids are kids. Some want to be there and learn, others find school a relaxing alternative to working in the fields.
· Students have been trained to all rise when the teacher walks into the room. This annoys me to no end. Respect or a power stamp? I ended up getting to class before the students to avoid this.
· Open windows along the side of the class are good places for spectators to hang out (or for other students to check on their friends).
· Students are not used to giving their opinion or critically thinking about why they are learning a topic. The teacher is seen as the sage on the stage.
· A photocopier would be nice on test days.

My class sizes hovered around 30, with several absences a day. Life could be a little different at site if that number doubles or triples. I am looking forward to the start of the school year. Tomorrow, there is a ceremony where the top students from every class will be recognized.

Crossing the Karokoro (September 4, 2006)

Thunder clouds had been building in the distance throughout the afternoon and rumbles of thunder periodically rolled in. Would the storm taunt and tease like yesterday or open up on our heads?
“Should we still go for a ride?”
“Yeah, it’s been awhile since we’ve had a good adventure.”
Patrick and I met Rose for a bike ride and our number swelled by two more before we made it out of town. By this time it looked as if we received a temperature drop without massive amounts of rainfall.
We followed the paved road until it ended at the high school and then descended down a steep hill towards the Karokoro. It was a little after 5:00 pm and rush hour traffic was heading up the hill towards town. This traffic consisted primarily of men walking home from a days work at the local diamond mines.
“Do you want to buy some diamonds?” was a popular question as we bombed down the hill trying to avoid running into people. At the base of the hill is the Karokoro, which is a small creek that widens and deepens at the intersection with this road. People come to bathe and wash clothes. We cross and head up the opposite hill and through a small village. At the first fork in the road, we branch left and then left again at a small path heading up a hill. The crest of the hill offers one of the best views in the area. Towering cliffs loom towards the east and south. The cliffs rise in perpendicular walls, bleached a white/tan by the sun and in stark contrast with the lush green everywhere else. Palm and coconut trees dot the surrounding area.
“Rumor has it that we can make a loop by continuing down this path.”
“Should we try?”
Off we go down the incline and the trail immediately became narrower and more rugged. Rain fall had carved out deep gashes in the surface and encroaching brush attempted to grab our feet. The base of descents ended in puddles containing mud that grasped hold of our tires as water reached up to our knees.
Finally, we came to a fork where some Guineans were crossing over a large stream by walking across downed trees. Do we lug our bikes across or try the other fork? We opted to stay dry. The trail quickly plateaued out and opened up to a plain-like area sprinkled with the occasional palm or coconut and covered in tall grass. We soon passed several small, thatch-roofed huts surrounded by a woven fence and then descended a hill that abruptly ended at the foot of a large rice field, which was completely submerged in water.
Rose, Patrick and I attempted to ride our bikes across and as the water reached the level of our seats we tumbled one by one into the water and began wading. Patrick and I are almost the same height and water quickly reached our chests. Rose, however, is a wee bit smaller and soon found the water creeping up towards her neck. Fortunately, we had reached the deepest part and began climbing out of the field to find the large river of the area flowed by the opposite side. If I had a boat, I’d head out in the river…
Patrick and I hopped in and swam out into the river for a downstream (towards Forecariah) look. Dense shrubs lined the banks.
“Our swimming hole can’t be more than a couple of river bends downstream. Do you think we could swim our bikes?”
Why is it than when on adventures crazy ideas quickly gain momentum? Patrick scrambled back up the bank and tossed me his bike. We eventually realized what Rose (likely the brightest of this bunch) knew immediately – there was no way we were swimming the river with the bikes and we would have to backtrack through the rice field.
We retraced our path until we reached the fork where the Guineans had been crossing and waded our bikes across. On the opposite side was a path that eventually led us back to town. With smiles on our faces and mud everywhere else, we were united in the decision to ride instead of lesson plan.

Le Bac (September 3, 2006)

Shrieks and howls abruptly drew my attention away from whether or not my laundry was dry. Coming around the corner was one of my host brothers supporting my host mom. She was bent over and crying. My eyes quickly scanned for blood or other signs of injury. Nothing. My brother sat her down on the patio and she was repeating his name over and over, mingled with Susu that I could not understand. What has happened? Finally he simply states, “The results are in and I passed the Bac.” A faint smile appears on his lips.
I beam, “Congratulations!”
The Guinean educational system has continued the French tradition of high stakes testing. Tests are taken at the end of 10th grade, 12th grade and Terminale (after 12th, but before university). If you don’t pass you are done though can try to take the test again the following year. It’s interesting to place the No Child Left Behind testing craze beside the system. It quickly becomes apparent that high stakes testing leaves kids behind. Lots of kids.
In Guinea, students are not given the same identity protection as in the States. Traditionally, the names of passing students throughout the country are read over the national radio. This started last night around 10:00 pm and lasted 3+ hours. If you missed your name, lists posted in regional areas provide the names of passing people. Cell phone technology is rapidly entering Guinea and results were also provided via text messages from the testing center. My brother entered his test number into a text message and within several messages received the reply that he had passed. Now, he has to wait for the announcement letting students know if they are accepted to university as there is an extremely limited amount of space.

Question of the Day

What's special about September 9?

(aka shameless fishing...)

Rain, Umbrellas and Bucket Baths (8/30/06)

During the past seven years, I did my best to become a good Oregonian by walking happily in drizzling weather. Rain that continuously fell at a sow and constant pace hardly warranted a jacket and an umbrella was out of the question. How could someone try to be a “native” while owning an umbrella? With that mentality, I scoffed at the mention of an umbrella on the Peace Corps Guinea packing list.
The rain is a bit different here. Days of slow, cool drizzle are welcomed but are few and far between. Instead pounding, driving rain announces itself through dark, towering rain clouds and an arrival that sounds as if a freight train was barreling through town. This is bone-soaking rain.
After being caught once in a driving rain storm and arriving home to the laughter of my host family, I invested in an umbrella. The next few rain storms were met with secure confidence. I would be dry. Others of the non-umbrella owning persuasion were converted one by one. Unfortunately, the quality of umbrellas available in Guinea are not quite up to par and today I faced a walk home in heavy rain without the confidence that I had only a week ago. Of the ten spokes forming the frame of the umbrella, three from one side were broken. Yesterday, I spent time with my Leatherman bending and breaking the fragmented spokes so they would not poke additional holes in the fabric. On the walk home, I held the handle of the umbrella with one hand while pushing out on the remnants of a spoke with the other.
The hard falling, driving rain knows its course once it hits land. Walkways turn to gushing torrents, small paths to turbulent tributaries and surrounding areas to slippery mud. With “stream crossings” reaching mid-calf, I continued balancing the umbrella around me as a protective shield though knowing that one ill-fated slip would drench me from head-to-toe.
Soon after, I was enjoying the wound of the rain falling as I ate my dinner on the covered porch. At the same time, I was “drawing” up my bath. In Guinea, this involves setting a bucket under the overhang of a roof and waiting for it to fill with rain water. My definition of running water has changed to become a more active one. I shower with a large bucket full of water on the floor and a small “gobelet” in my hand. By candlelight, I fill the gobelet and then pour the water over myself. Remember that the water has been collected from rain. This means that it is cold water. Cold, cold water. Some days this is refreshing but at six in the morning I often carry on an extended monologue to convince myself that pouring the first gobelet over my head is a good idea. And the second.
Pounding, pounding rain. Even as I write this, I am treated to the sound of rain striking and then falling off of the room. I have been thoroughly introduced to the rainy season in Guinea.

The Graceful Snake (August 26, 2006)

Today, a group of us went to the river for a little free time. It was the first “free” day that we have had in a month so it was nice to relax a bit by the river and swim around. After swimming, we were standing on the bank talking when a bright green snake was spotted swimming through the river. The sky was overcast, causing the water to appear dark which heightened the contrast of the snake. Its color was almost fluorescent. The snake was not large, 12-15 inches and it swam with an S-shaped neck to that its head would be out of the water. Transfixed, we watched as it swam directly towards a dugout canoe. What would it do when it reached the canoe? Without pausing or changing speed it climbed the side of the canoe, traversed the interior of the boat, and then climbed the opposite side to continue down the river. It was truly a moment of grace and beauty that I will never be able to adequately describe and only hope that my memory will be able to hold onto the image of this small, bright green snake flowing through the river.

Stitches Out (August 24, 2006)

Since I’m not really a person with a deep interest in medicine, I have rarely given thought to medical practices several decades/a century ago. However, as I clenched my hands today as one, two and finally three stitches were pulled out of my lip/mouth I felt empathy towards those pioneers who unwillingly sacrificed body and mind in the name of medicine.
Maybe it was fitting that the class session prior to the removal of the stitches was First Aid. Since this is the Peace Corps, trips, slips and falls were skipped over for more interesting topics such as emergency tracheametries. All I wanted was for the strings to come out.
After the session, the doctor was ready to take out the stitches. Where? How about in the high school classroom we were sitting in? With what? Well, scissors to cut the stitches were apparently forgotten so a razor blade was brought out. A small group gathered to watch the show and provide moral support while the doctor pulled on the obligatory pair of latex gloves (it is the year 2006 after all).
With tweezers, the end of the string was pulled out a bit and then sawed off with the razor blade. My lip was slowly lifted off my teeth, stretched and then relaxed as the string was cut. The first stitch, located high above my lip, came out without much trouble. The next caused a bit of pain and the third was a bundle of joy. Blood, healed lip skin, etc. had congealed around the stitch. Tug, saw, tug, saw, tug… Bit by bit the stitch was worked free.
“Well, scarring should be minimal. Just clean it all of the time and put antibiotic ointment on it since infection is everywhere,” were the parting words as I left the classroom.
During my walk home, deep seated nausea producing waves of pain emanated from my lip. The look on the faces of passerby’s would have been amusing but I was feeling the anguished look.
Several weeks later: I managed to stay infection free and it looks like there will be little if no scarring!

I put a couple of photographs of the lip on the photo page. Check them out by clicking the link to the right.