Sea Vomit? Hakuna Matata.

Alright alright, let's get a post going about Botswana. How the heck is this crazy place?

Well, like I've said, it's a middle income country. So it's like a suburb. A suburb of where? Of nowhere. It's a suburb of the desert, but that's fine. If you like strip malls and KFC.

My village is in the Kalahari Desert, and I get to walk through deep sand in heels to get to work. (Mamou had me mountain climbing in heels ... I will never have a problem in shoes after Africa.) Shoshong (my village) is surrounded by beautiful rocky hills, apparently inhabited by baboons and ancestoral spirits. I've yet to encounter either. My house is nice, with water, electricity and an oven stove AND fridge, although there's no kitchen so I wash my dishes in my bathtub. After making a nice dinner it's quite efficient to hop into the bathtub, wash my dishes, then my clothes, and then myself ... all without taking a single step. Efficiency at its finest!

In my yard there's another house for my "mom" who's the nicest lady I've met in this country. I have a "brother" who's a lawschool-dropout turned witch-doctor. He's really smart, and he's starting to warm up to me. He doesn't usually work with white people, but I'm trying to get on his good side. I think putting "Witch Doctor Experience" on med-school applications would really give me an edge!

So people here are ... nothing like Guineans. They don't really like white people. In fact, their Setswana word for us translates to "Vomit of the Sea." It's cute, I know. It really makes me love walking to work in the mornings. It's not malicious, especially because the kids screaming it don't have any idea what it implies, but it does give some insight as to how white people are viewed. Apartheid feelings have spilled over from South Africa. Batswana are proud and whites being around is insulting. They're terrified of me. Those are all some excuses I've heard, take your pick.

That said, I have defied the odds and made a few friends! People were freaking us out, saying we'd never get a dinner invitation (a hilarious logistical nightmare in Guinea because there were so many invites- I had nights where I'd eat dinner at 3 different homes!) - but I've had dinner at 4 different places so far! Not bad for 3 weeks in the village :) However everyone keeps warning me not to hang out with other people or trust them- but they're all saying "Don't trust anyone except me!" Do they want me to hide inside my house all weekend? Because I've done that, and it got old, real fast.

I'm working at a clinic, dealing with HIV+ mothers having babies. One out of three pregnant women here are HIV+ ... it's crazy. But, they can have babies with almost zero risk of transmitting the virus IF they follow a set procedure. However, that's my job in paper. In real life, my boss doesn't talk to me, so I've started working with some NGO workers, doing home visits and visiting bars to teach people how to use condoms.

Bars, that's another thing. These people DRINK. Like, it puts whatever esteem the Irish had in my eyes to SHAME! I go to work at 7am and people are already stumbling around everywhere. The ground is littered with broken bottles, and people are in drunk driving accidents on a regular basis. And the sad thing is that it's everyone, not just young people. Old, children, men, women ... everyone. My village has no cafes, but bars are EVERYWHERE. It's just sad. And the unwanted attention a white girl gets in an African village is just multiplied by creepy drunk men.

So, sea-vomit, drunks, and AIDS. That has been my experience so far, and although it is a huge adjustment, I'm doing okay. Like I've said, I'm making friends and building relationships that I'm praying will turn into good work opportunities.

I still talk to Guinea almost every day. Those guys over there are some of my best friends, and it's been hard coping with that loss- I don't know if realistically I'll ever see them again. I've been spending a fortune on phone calls, and I've got to cut that out or I won't have ANY money left. Someone shot their president in the head Dec. 3rd and he fled to Morocco for medical treatment. He didn't die, but no one knows if he'll go into exile, come back, if there will be another coup d'etat ... it's a mystery. And a nightmare. I just want those people to have a chance to lead normal lives.

On the bright side- that organization I started? My last night in Guinea I sat around a candle and explained to them how to launch their first project- painting a mural of a World Map. I had a book explaining how to do it, step-by-step ... only the books in English. So I translated some colors English to French, threw them some money, and left Guinea laughing at how ridiculous that how-to session went, and at how impossible it would be for them to paint this map. And then one of my best friends, Ama Sara, called me recently and said they've started the map!!!! They got permission, bought paint, and have started drawing. I couldn't believe it ... I actually still can't. They are awesome, and it's so hard knowing that I'll never have a group like that again.

Anyways, that is the latest here in Botswana. Tomorrow I'm running in a 10k race to raise awareness about AIDS. This weekend some PCVs nearby organized a welcome pool party for Sacha Jake and I, then they'll come back to Shoshong with me to go hiking and picnicing- we want to find baboons!! (or spirits.) Christmas will be spent at Jake's village, and New Years we're headed to the Okavango Delta to go camping with hippos and crocodiles!!!! We'll also be renting a plane and flying over the interlinking waterways to scout out some elephants, zebras, lions ... you know. (The Delta is in the Lion King ... and "Hakuna Matata" is true- and the language I speak!)

Alright well I love you all and hope everyone is doing well back home. The support you guys have lent me through this rocky time has been great and know that it's much appreciated!! Take care and have some happy holidays and a great new years!!!!!!!!!!!

Address in Botwswana!

Hey all!



This is just a quick address update:



Please send all forms of love to:



Kiki Obama/Caitlin Mulligan the Peace Corps Volunteer

Box 69

Shoshong Clinic

Shoshong

Botswana

(Southern Africa)



There will be updates soon, I promise. Know that I'm alive and well in my village. And bonus: packages and letters should be arriving no problem! That means no more threatening religious messages in red ink are necessary. AND they come straight to me ... no more ridiculous postal system mazes.

Making Moves

Alright ... a decision has been made.

Let me preface this with: these past three weeks have been a living HELL. grief. stress. anger. It hasn't stopped or slowed down, but rather these three emotions have been spun into high-gear and penetrated every waking and sleeping thought. Even my dreams, on the rare occasion when I do sleep, leave me exhausted. Illnesses that are too whack (three exotic, one domestic) to ever mention on a blog have simultaneously invaded my system, and make a miserable situation worse. I am exhausted. Through and through. But there is a light, albeit faint, at the end of this tunnel.

I am going to Botswana.

Botswana; most of you have heard of that, unlike Guinea. It's about the size of Texas, north of the South African border. Home to the world's largest waterfalls (Victoria Falls), safaris, and camel treks through the Kalahari Desert. World's largest inland delta (Okavango). DeBeers diamonds. Bushmen (The Gods Must Be Crazy takes place there). Clicking languages. The most stable and least corrupt government in Africa. And the 2nd highest HIV/AIDS rate in the world.

Botswana is a middle-income country. I hear there are roads and running water. Electricity. Grocery stores. They have what Guinea doesn't have. Including a crisis that is currently undoing all the development progress they've made. 4,000 teachers a YEAR are dying from HIV/AIDS. 1 in 6 people are HIV positive. Peace Corps actually "graduated" from Botswana because they had their act together, but went back in in 2003 to help out with this disaster. So that's where I come in.

No more village loans or drying mangos with market women. I am finally going to get to assume the role I wanted when I applied to Peace Corps two years ago, health work with HIV/AIDS. My actual job will be assigned after I arrive.

But this is special- I got to use my economic background in Guinea to help people in one of the poorest and most corrupt countries on the planet, and now I get the chance to explore the health field in a country that actually HAS the resources and government to put an end to HIV/AIDS. What Peace Corps Volunteer actually gets to do BOTH of these things in two very different settings? I do feel lucky. The fact that 3 of my best friends in Peace Corps are coming with me make it better.

So where is my head right now? I'm trying to accept all I've lost and left behind in Guinea and figure out when is the appropriate time to close that door. I'm trying to get excited for what seems to be a really cool country. I am thankful that I get the chance to do the HIV/AIDS work I originally wanted to do when I applied for Peace Corps. I am trying not to scream when I think about the 2 weeks of language training I will have in the capital before I can finally find a home again (this will make SIX weeks of having NO HOME and ZERO alone time). And I am ecstatic that I finally get to leave this hot, sandy, hellacious post in Mali.

Travel plans are being figured out by Peace Corps today. I could end up having my Halloween party on the 28hr flight (with insane layovers) to Gaborone. That would be exactly how I want my new boss to meet the Guinea-Transfer crew...

3rd World Dentists

Guinea is over. 100%. I still have no idea what's up next. But in the meantime, Peace Corps has been funneling 100 PCVs through this warp-speed medical process.

Which includes a trip to the dentist.
In Mali.

So I hop by myself into a PC car and drive away from the shacky/grimy areas of Bamako and all of a sudden we're in this beautiful luxurious high-class neighborhood of Bamako that looks as if it could be in Florida. My chauffer stops in front of a building and I get out, assuming that the dentist is somewhere around here. There's a door, and a stairwell and I start climbing stairs looking for a random dentist office. An African girl is waiting in the stairwell and motions for me to enter through a door. How did she know I'd be here at this exact time and where I wanted to go? I walk in.

And it's a waiting room. With a giant mirror and two doors. No receptionist desk. No "Bienvenue chez le dentiste" signs. Nothing but chairs, this huge mirror, and a funky looking plant. So I sit down in the chair, and wait. And I'm alone in this room hoping its the dentists office, but kind of hoping it's not and the Peace Corps will never find out because I'm terrified of dentists. Especially 3rd-world country ones. And then I hear drilling from behind the closed door. And I realize, I found the place.

Finally the door opens and my friend walks out with this horrified look on her face. She whispers "he's rough and doesn't use novocaine" and leaves me freaking out. An African woman scurries out behind her mopping the floor. And a Lebanese woman comes out and takes my name. I get ushered into "the room" and seated on the chair before I know what's going on. And this huge Lebanese man starts attacking my mouth. Turns out the Leb woman is his wife ... and they were shouting in Arabic at eachother the whole time. I'd get the occasional English command like "open" or "spit" but then when it was in French, it was a toss up as to whom it was directed. Me? The wife? He's yelling "A LOT! NOT A LITTLE!" and I'm debating whether to open wider to appease his anger or is his wife messing up the tools? No clue. And then when he starts saying "take it out" in English I start to panic- TAKE OUT WHAT?! My tooth? Turns out a filling fell out. But it didn't matter, because I had "a GOOD cavity." I don't get teeth-talk in English, let alone French or Arabic. I ended up getting (I think..) a cavity filled. No novocaine. He just started drilling, ignoring my kicking feet and flailing hands as he was chisiling out the nerve. I almost punched this angry yelling fool. But I couldn't punch him, because my hands were busy doing half the work because I was holding all the guaze in place. And then you know how dentists like to talk to you, and you can never answer.
"How are you? How's work?" Like what are you supposed to say? Does "agrrgmmmph" work?

Well this quack was a step WORSE. He's saying "okay, we filled the cavity. DO YOU SEE?" so not only can I not respond to this ignoramous because his (and my) hands were in my mouth, but HOW DO YOU REALLY THINK I CAN SEE INSIDE MY OWN DAMN MOUTH?

Ohh it was ridiculous. And painful. And I finally exited 30 minutes later in a state of shock with my heart racing faster than it has in months.

Which makes me say, Dr. Linkoff, I appreciate you. For all the times I hated going to sit in that chair of yours, I am sorry. I will never again complain. I promise.

rock climbing

so being in a 'peace corps refugee camp' with 100 other stressed-out PCVs is not the easiest situation in the world. last night was particularly rough. but today a small group of us went rockclimbing in what i would want to call the mountains, but the ground was all sand. i wasn't paying attention in 7th grade geography when we learned differnt environments- maybe its savannah with redrock?

anyways just hanging outside in the shade, eating peanuts still attached to the roots and climbing seemed to just take away an enormous amount of stress. which made me realize that whatever "Plan B" i decide will have to have mountains.

so that means that i am not moving to the desert in Niger.

options are finally narrowing down, thanks be to God.

Chimpanzee at the Bar

so last night a group of friends and i decided we wanted to bike down to the local bar.

so we take our bikes, do the ten minute ride, order cold beers and take our seats underneath the mango tree. all of a sudden i hear a car pull up behind me and a shrieking noise. i turn around, and next to the driver, hanging out of the  passenger side of this white jalopy is a CHIMPANZEE. the chimp is laughing/shrieking, clearly excited to see these white kids, yet he is innocently baring his hideous fangs. i am paralyzed with a combination of shock and pure fear. this chimp, who's name is Roussou, is the size of a grown person. no less intimidating is the link chain and metal lock fastened around his neck. my paralysis leaves me unable to flee like my mind is telling me to (i'm imagining scenes where the chimp jumps out of the car and chomps his fangs into my neck giving me HIV) and before i can make a move the chimp has calmly gotten out of the car, and shut the door. Him and his owner walk up to our table, and the chimp proceeds to shake our hands. THE CHIMP SHOOK THE HAND OF EACH AND EVERY PERSON AT OUR TABLE. so of course when it's my turn, i don't dare reject Roussou's outstretched hand. but as soon as he moved i got up from the table and ran into the bushes with so much adrenaline/fear/shock running through my system i nearly threw up. the africans (and the americans) died laughing at my ridiculous (over)reaction. the chimp calmly walked to the bar owner, received a Coke, thanked the owner and climbed back into the car and drank his bottle of Coke as they drove away.

So that is what I've been doing in Mali. Other activities have/will include:

Tours of Bamako

Sudan v. Mali World Cup Qualifier Soccer Game

Markets 

Restaurants (with the best food/atmosphere I've seen in 10 months)

Hiking

Biking (home from bars)

Rock Climbing

Swimming at the American Club

Volleyball

Concerts

Clubs

Peace Corps is taking care of us and making the best of a  bad situation. They've somehow managed to take a traumatic evacuation and turn it into Club Med Mali. I can't complain. But I can mock the duffel bag of board games PC/Washington flew out to keep up morale.

Mali.

Hey guys.

So a lot of you have heard that Peace Corps Guinea is, well, no longer in Guinea. It’s true. We “consolidated” (the euphemism for “evacuated”) and are now in Mali, which was about a 16 hour drive north from Mamou.

I can’t even begin to describe the emotions of being ripped from a place you love- my friends, coworkers, neighbors, a great job, a beautiful house … I haven’t had to “move away” since the first grade. And it’s terrible. Absolutely awful. Tears haven’t stopped since last Saturday. I can’t think/focus/eat/talk about this without breaking down. I stayed next to friends for my final hours, and climbing into the back of the Peace Corps vehicle 7am Wednesday morning and watching as my home, my street, my city, my country, grow smaller and smaller out the back window, is an awful vivid memory that I can’t seem to erase from my mind.

We’re “waiting” right now. We might go back in 14 days if the “situation” clears up. But unless an assassinating dictator steps down from power, a divided military makes up, and democratic elections are promised to take place, in 14 days, I think I’m going to be forced to find Plan B.

No, I don’t know what Plan B is. Which also compounds the stress/emotions.

I have nothing else to write as of now, but you don’t need to worry about my safety. Thanks for all the encouraging emails. I’m praying this will all be over soon enough.

Military Wack Attacks.

Alright, I know that all of you are probably glued to CNN waiting to hear the latest on the political situation in Guinea. But for the far and few between of you who have better things to do than turn your shortwave radio to BBC, I would like to take this opportunity to fill you in on the political happenings of GUINEA:

December 2008: The president goes MIA for a period of time. No one knows where he is. Then an announcement stating that he has died is made. A youngbuck military captain organizes a bloodless coup d’etat, seizes power, overthrows the constitution, and declares himself president. We welcome Dadis, for Dadis promises to return Guinea to democracy, will have elections ASAP.

ASAP: comes and goes. Election dates get scheduled, cancelled, rescheduled, pushed back. Dadis cracks down on drug trafficking, but if you ask me, at least the drug dealers had jobs. So in a sense, he raised the 99% unemployment rate. He insults foreign diplomats. He pays off youth to cheer for him in front of TV cameras. He promises he won’t pose as a candidate for presidential elections, but the entire nation calls him a liar. His military men roam the country with their guns thinking they’re God in camouflauge. (They even stopped me and my friends the other week while running, and were threatening to throw Souleymane in prison because he was wearing a camo tanktop. He begged and pleaded and swore to Allah that never again will he wear this shirt, which is a crying shame, because I know its his favorite.)

Last Friday: I drive through Mamou, and see HUNDREDS of police officers and soldiers. With big guns. They have innondated the city, and are posted all over the place.

Last Saturday: Dadis leaves the capital Conakry for the FIRST time since he declared himself president. He decides that he’s going to make an appearance in Mamou (my hometown) and Labe (3 hrs north) to try and convince people to stop hating him. I woke up to the sound of a helicopter over my house and people yelling. Wait- Guinea has a helicopter? Anyway Dadis goes to these cities; rumor has it in Labe everyone purposefully stayed in their homes so as NOT to welcome him, and that soldiers took buses to surrounding villages paying people to come fill up the stadium and cheer for him, giving TV viewers the impression of popularity. He was here in Mamou, there were small groups of protestors (who may or may not have tried to open my car door) and things were calm and cool.

Monday: Two weeks earlier, a political demonstration had been organized, with the underlying message: Dadis, do NOT run for president at the end of January. Dadis said that the demonstrations were prohibitied. People went anyways. The military went buck wild. Shot 157 dead. 1,200 others injured. Women were raped and perversely abused at the site of the protests. Military stole random things (like my friend’s cell phones) and were actually using knives and bayonets.

Tuesday: Shortly after arriving at work, someone runs into our office saying that people have begun protesting in town here in Mamou. First we get put on “lockdown” at the office, but soon after we return home. Vehicles are hidden around town (so protestors can’t damage them) and I get a little freaked out. Protestors are fine, burning tires don’t mean a thing, but if the military starts running around with guns, that’s when all hell breaks loose. I stayed home for the rest of the day. The military never went out. Protestors went home. Mamou is cool, calm and collected. Mom and Dad, I repeat, Mamou is cool, calm and collected.

Wednesday (today): Today and tomorrow are declared holidays to honor the 160 lives lost. Things seem to have greatly calmed down. Peace Corps has been in contact with us, they’re doing their job. No one is in any danger as long as they’re not leading demonstrations with a bunch of pumped-up youth. And like I was telling a friend, at least we're not stationed in some boring country that has no excitement.

For the CNN version, http://edition.cnn.com/2009/WORLD/africa/09/29/guinea.protest.deaths/index.html

Political excitement aside, things here in Mamou are great. Work evacuations, days honoring the dead and another random holiday on Friday are making work non-existant, but I’m adapting to this no-work all-play schedule.

Friday I head out to run a 10k race organized by another volunteer, so I’m really looking forward to that! Afterwards, if things cool down, I’m hoping to spend next week in Conakry with some friends, doing some work and vacation planning. Alright well that’s what I’ve got for the moment, I love you all and appreciate each and every letter/phonecall/package/facebook message that gets sent my way.

Espoir de S'Ouvrir au Monde - the kids who make me fall in love with Mamou (almost) everyday.

My last blog entry was spewing with frustrations in regards to how Ramadan obliterates the sub-standard work ethic possessed by many of the Guineans I’m working with, but, as we all know- generalizations are dangerous.

After storming at of work, exasperated as women at the office traded real work to doling out goodie bags of rice mush from that baptism we all skipped work to attend, I decided I needed to press ‘pause’ on World Education for the rest of the week and focus on working with an association that has become the most exciting part of work in Peace Corps.

A group of three youth approached me when I first moved to Mamou asking to do a project together. “What kind of project?” Their response was anything, just something to do to help their community. Wary of groups of youth asking to work for free, I told them “let’s wait a few months before jumping into anything.” This group of kids persisted, continuously asking to work together, and at the same time demonstrating their commitment to do something. Finally I gave in- “okay, tell whoever is interested to meet at my house tomorrow night.”

The next night I was arranging my family room to seat about eight people, lighting candles, when all of a sudden a horde of people walked through the door … far more then eight. THIRTY young people came into my house that night ready to make some moves in this mountainside city! After several lengthy discussions over the course of many meetings, the association Espoir de S’Ouvrir au Monde (roughly translated into ‘hope of opening up to the world’) was born. ESM elected officers, set up bi-weekly meetings, started collecting membership dues and drafted logos and vision statements.

ESM is now an association that is fully managed by youth, working to ameliorate education for youth all over the world. We’re starting here in Mamou first. However … and this is the exciting part … our first project will be to host a conference teaching and promoting leadership. I left America as Obama was taking that nation by storm and came to Guinea in a time when a new dictator, Dadis took Guinea ... by storm. But his storm was more coup d’état style. So more than ever, the cry for leadership is loud and desperate, and it’s up to the youth to start learning now 1. what leadership is, and 2. how they can develop into positive leaders to change their communities.

So for all of you who’ve been wondering what in the world I’ve been doing when not watching break-dance fighting or nearly dying in bush taxis, this association is the heart of my work here. I just wanted to wait until things were rolling before I mentioned these kids. Because they are awesome!

Which brings me to why I admitted generalizations were dangerous- after stepping back from my ‘real job’ where workers were photo-stalking (not even on facebook … the computer’s previous owner had left photos on the hard drive, so these stalkers didn’t even know who they were stalking) I turned my attention to ESM. And these kids, despite the fact that they too are fasting all day and now staying up from midnight until 2am reciting the Koran, are meeting DAILY to get the project development committee up and rolling. So when a group of 13 boys and girls can stop eating, pray until 2am, sleep for 4 hours, pray, sleep for 1 ½ hours and then come work without pay for an association every day for a week … I can only speak about a work ethic and a determination that is unprecedented. And working with them and teaching them how to host a leadership conference is about far more than hosting the conference itself- these kids working on the project have been placed into positions of leadership with real responsibilities, and we’re working side-by-side learning things from how to manage money to how to set goals. They are learning how to enter and conduct themselves during meetings with Guinean authorities and I even had the privilege to take some of them into their city’s bank for the very first time to inquire about opening an account. These are experiences that they will keep with them for the rest of their lives!

I am now back in deep with World Education and continuing work every day with ESM. Plus 4 English classes a week as well as computer trainings. The schedule is packed, but it’s fun. I’d also like to mention here that my culinary techniques are evolving quite nicely- in addition to jarring a killer pineapple salsa, last weekend a friend and I learned to make dumplings. I think going back to an American kitchen where things are pre-made and you just defrost or bake or microwave food is going to be selection-overload. I’ve become adept in making delicacies out of the basic ingredients (ex- flour and salt and eggs). And thanks to Dad’s endless supply of tuna fish I think I can make a can of Chicken of the Sea into a dish more elegant than anyone has imagined possible. So yes, personal accomplishments are surmounting.

Thanks again to everyone for all the WONDERFUL packages and cards and letters!!! My walls are getting full with pictures and cards (and ridiculous 2ft American Flag cards that warm my heart and soul) and I look forward to the “mail run” day with unwavering and heightened anticipation. Also, congrats to Emilie who had a beautiful little girl and Lindsey who got engaged!!! I trust everyone reading this is doing their part to love and ENJOY America a little bit extra every day for me. Much love. OoOoOoo (that’s goodbye in Pular … just say the letter “O” and bring your voice up and down a few times).

The answer to Guinea's development problem: they're saying you need a work ethic.

ok, i need to vent.

just a little. or more like, a lot.

it's about this month called Ramadan.

now before i get attacked, i am culturally sensitive. i like muslims. i like islam. obvi, or i wouldn't be living on the side of a mountain eating by candlelight with them, or not eating at all during this holy-month. this is in no way an attack on religion.

So Ramadan is a month in the Islam faith that is pure and holy- Muslims fast starting at the 5am prayer until the 7pm prayer. Unmarried boys and girls aren't supposed to be spending alone-time together. Music is forbidden, and all the clubs are closed for these thirty days of pure purity.

So the majority of Guineans here will wake up at 4am, stuff their faces with food, pray, and go back to sleep until work (for those who have jobs). But this is my problem: they come to work exhausted. not only were they up at 4am, but they haven't eaten anything all day (and nothing but carbo-loaded the night before with rice, corn powder, potato powder, etc). And because they are so far below an optimal productivity-level, and because the women get the shit-end of the stick and have to prepare dinner for everyone starting at 4pm (for that 7pm meal time) work days end EARLY. Like at 3pm. Even at a reputable American NGO like where I work.

What kind of job decides to close shop 2 1/2 hours early for a month so women can go home and make dinner?!

Keep in mind that I live in a country now where nothing gets done. Work ethic levels don't even register with those of the most lazy high school students. You, at your fancy schmancy international NGO, have to submit a budget proposal too your big boss in America? Maybe you'll get around to it later, but it's been so busy, what with saying hello to your brother's third wife's second cousin's baby. And then you had to take off 2 days of work last week for 2 weddings, and then someone died and you had to present your condolances, and then Monday morning you had to go attend that baptism for a few hours ... really, there's just no time for work with such a packed social schedule.

It's bullshit.

So really, my frustrations don't really involve Ramdan. Until you take that packed social schedule and cram it into your half-days of work where people are too tired to work hard anyways. It is just incredible that an entire country can operate on such a half-assed motivational level. And I consider myself surrounded by some of the most hard-working, dedicated, Africans. But when I'm bending over backwards to do three jobs at once and show up early to work only to find that no one is in the office because EVERYONE decided to go to the same wedding, I roll my eyes with exasperation. How can a country reach its goal of development if people act like this?

I would also like to say that I have a newfound appreciation for all my Muslim friends participating in Ramadan in America ... because not only are they fasting without the mutual understanding of a thousand other hungry bellies, but they don't leave work early or give up on life for a month. You guys are strong. Well done, and good luck with the next 20 days.

I might also be in such a sour disposition becuase when I showed up to work at 8am this morning I learned that yes, it was time to cram 11 people in a normal SUV for a baptism. In I went, off-roading for 30 minutes to the village. Arriving there, the proud father (who I love) greets us all with a big smile- and then sends all the women into the house, and takes the men to where the actual ceremony-part takes place. What the hell? I crammed in a car, came to your village, all to see you and your baby and be present for your big day- and you redirect me to claw my eyes out due to excessive bordem in your house while the MEN get to participate? You think I enjoy sitting around in a concrete room in fancy clothes with other old ladies for hours that I cannot communicate with? Ridiculous. After a time, I heard some men cheering (looks like the show's over) and we got back in the car and came back to the office. And there wasn't even the consolation of good food, because its Ramadan. Not worth it.

Seriously folks, this is not Guinea's month. Work doesn't get done. People sleep-walk through their days like a bunch of zombies. And my bean-lady is no longer on the side of the street.

This time next year, I will be better prepared to live Guinean-style: pencil in 30 days of vacation, stock up on cans of beans and tuna fish, and hibernate.

Break Dance Fighting Does Exist

More and more my "fake life" feeling in Guinea fades away, and realities of my current life style start to feel real. However, there are still times when the ridiculousness of what I'm surrounded by sets in, and I have a "omygosh I love that I'm in Guinea" moment. Take last night for example:

After several weeks of intense work, nonstop housevisits and 24/7 "just to say hi" phonecalls, I was exhausted. I mean, you know that tiredness that makes you break down and cry and get sick exhaustion? I had that. So I decided to escape for the weekend to Conakry. So last night as I was watching the sun set on the Atlantic and thinking "somewhere on the other side of this ocean are my family and friends" I decided to take in my surroundings. And this is what I saw:

1. A prostitute and her white client behind me
2. A man in whitey tighties running around like a lunatic on the beach. Lunges, pushups, squats, and literally running around in circles. Apparently he never stops. And for the 3 hours I was there, he didn't. This little dude was quite buff, yet quite insane.
3. To my right 3 lovely Lebanese young bucks. One of them thought it would be appropriate to sit directly facing me, spread out, and spend the evening staring into my eyes. It was intense. I avoided most of it. Although I will admit, he was gorgeous.
4. In front of me were a bunch of rastamen. One of them (the one with 2 feet of dreads hidden beneath a rasta "top hat") played with one of the world's most famous rastamen (aka reggae men) named Takana Zion. So these guys, with their guitars out and dreadlocks, were rockstars. Me and my girls were star-struck.
5. In front of me on the beach (to the right of the whitey-tighty energizer bunny) was, I kid you not, a ring of BREAK DANCE FIGHTING. These two guys drew a sumo-wrestling-sized-circle in the sand and began their faux-attacks, including backflips and many cartwheels. This went on for several hours. It was kind of like a scene from a bad action movie with two short black dudes, ripped muscles, and braided hair are smiling and doing those high-karate kicks you probably practice when you're by yourself at home in the kitchen when you want to see how flexible you really are. It stars with a circle-walk, hands in the middle, eye contact. Throw in a fake out kick, your opponent does a cartwheel. Stand back up. High kick, pretend fall to the ground where you b-boy rock, then do a back flip to standing position. Repeat. When Mr. Whitey Tighties wasn't doing pushups he would run laps around the perimeter of the circle clapping and singing African songs.

So although I've become better acclimated to Guinean life, moments when I'm surrounded by international superstars, hoes, men running around in underwear on the beach, and the occasional break dance fight do still catch me off guard and make me laugh. A lot.

I will also let you all in on another fun piece of information:
eventually the prostitute and her client left, it got too dark to break dance fight, Mr. Whitey Tighties tired out and put some clothes on, and the beautiful staring contest ended. So the excitement died down and it became like a "normal" bar on the beach. Except for the reggae stars. Being with 2 other white girls, there was a mutal understanding of what possibilities could lay ahead. A plan was conceived with that wonderful telepathy females possess, and within 10 minutes we got invited to sit at the reggae all-star table. Victory. Rounds of drinks on the rockstars, and reggae music was played on the guitar. It was incredible. I mean, I've been around a lot of guitars and guitarists, but never have I heard reggae played and have reggae men sing in my presence. It was awesome- 7 Bob Marleys, in the flesh.

Anyways that was last night. Work is driving me back to Mamou (about 4-6 hours away, depending how much the military wants to harass you) and I'm going to have an intense rest of the week ahead.

Also, during the writing of this, my World Education boss called to let me know his wife had a baby! Please, I eat rice and sauce at this man's house every day, I hang out with his wife, every day, and have done so for the past 7 months- and NO ONE tells me she's pregnant! (I figured it was either a baby or she was eating too many white carbs.) People are crazy here, but I love 'em.

Cribs: MAMOU

You've been asking for a while now ... and welcome to Chez Kiki!!!

The tour starts with the family room, you might enjoy knowing that the turquoise patterned table cloth matches the curtains and bulletin board you see hanging accented with pink ribbon, all made by yours truly.Here is what I call the kitchen. Minus of course, the fridge, dish washer, oven, and kitchen sink. The hanging "calabashes" I made myself, and prevents mice and such from eating my food. White bucket contraption? That's where us volunteers have been trained to filter and bleach water to avoid parasites and worms.


Here's the bathroom, furnished with a shower, toliet and sink. None of which function, seeing as I don't have running water. Optimistic construction workers? The buckets you see are a staple of any Guinean household ... that's where the showers/laundry/toilet flushing power comes from.
And the bedroom ... furnished with a nice cubbyhole/basket system that I thought up, drew, and handed to my carpenter. Hanging mini-mirrors, thanks to the Chinese invasion of this country ... I had to peel off the sexy Chinese lady stickers that were attached originally. Also home made. You can the wonderful bed and the princess canopy, aka mosquito net. And if you've sent me a card look closely in the background ... you'll see it hanging up on the wall.

Well that concludes my humble abode. 1 bath, 1 family room, 1 bedroom, and 1/2 kitchen. Front terrace, and a stellar view (posted earlier). Soon to come: strawberry fields accented with sunflowers when you walk out the door. in-sha-ALLAH.

Bike Trip & A Garden Helper **pictures accompany previous posts**

Favorite view in Mamou
Everyone wanted to help with my garden ... and mom, you can see how the leopard print boots are quite a hit.
Jason and I had to make the 20 minute hike to his "cell phone reception spot" so he could call our PC doctor and get advice on the best treatment when you fall down a latrine, simultaneously accumulating open wounds.
Refilling nalgenes

Bike Rides and Hannah Montana Bubble-pens

A lot has happened. However due to lightning striking the only internet "thing" (I feel that venturing to say satellite dish would be pushing it) and Mamou not having enough money to repair it for over a month, despite being one of the country's principal cities, a lot of crazy life happenings have been forgotten or burried in a journal.

Here's what I do remember:

After coming home from that "business trip" in Conakry, I arrived at my doorstep with two volunteers only to find that I lost my keys for my massive iron front door that stands between my house and the world. After calls to my boss (no, he didn't have a spare key) we called a carpenter who literally just started pounding through the metal with hammers, crowbars, and anything else. After more or less busting through the cement that holds the doorframe in place, the door kind of fell off. But at least I was in my house. We slept well and I had plans to get the door fixed in the morning. However, being a metal door and needed a metal-working welder to reassemble the mess; my simple carpenter couldn't do it. But welders need welding tools. Welding tools need electricity. Mamou only has electricity between midnight and 6:00am. Welders work only during the day. Not to mention my friend and I had planned to bike to his village about 50 miles away.

I decided to ditch the front door situation and bike to my friends. Leaving my house with no front door.

The bike ride was my first time stepping out of city-living and into the absolutely breath-taking country side. It was all mountain biking and the wildlife was incredible, ranging from the typical goats and cows, getting more daring with a badass snake, and culminated when a giant white monkey flashed in front of my path! I almost fell off the bike I was so shocked!

We’d gotten a late start (because of the front-door fiasco) so were biking in midday African sunshine (read: hot) and found ourselves out of water pretty quickly. But a highlight was stopping off in one of the villages we were passing, completely covered in mud and looking ridiculously foreign in helmets and yoga pants, and asking for a drink of water. In Pular. It was my first 100% Pular exchange with people, (they didn’t know French, we had no choice) and it was a proud moment. Not only did they show us where a pump was to fill our nalgenes but a nice little old lady even gave us water from her house!

So after the villages, monkeys, hot sun, 3 rain storms, and a lot of mud, we finally arrived at my friend’s hut in his village right as it turned from dusk to dark. Perfect.

We were warmly greeted with, you guessed it, rice and sauce and were exhausted after the several hour ride (this was only the 2nd time I used my bike in 7 months was for a 50 mile trip through some mountains … it was a little rough). We’re getting ready to crash for the night so I’m brushing my teeth outside the hut, and Jason goes to use the latrine.

Jason: AGHHH!!!!!! %$#%&*!!!! %%$&#@!!!!!! AGGHHHH!!!!
Me: What’s going on?
Jason: (he comes doing a Frankenstein-walk towards me, dripping some sort of liquid, blinding me with his headlamp, bleeding everywhere, and covered in…. is that mud?)
Me: Ohhh my goshh! What in the world just went on?
Jason: I…FELL…DOWN…THE…LATRINE!!!!!!

You see, our dear friend walked into the latrine (where I just finished showering) and was just finishing up some business when the cement floor, corroded from acidic fumes from delicious human waste for several years, completely gave in … causing Jason to fall about 8 feet down. The broken cement scraped him up pretty badly so he was bleeding, and then proceeded to fall into a pile of … not mud.

I was stuck silent for a moment, and then tears started forming. I didn’t know if I was crying because of how disgusting he was or how utterly hilarious the situation was. I had to go knock on a neighbor’s door in the middle of the night, explain that their American friend was covered in latrine stuff, and may I please have several buckets of water to wash him off?

The next few hours were spent washing, disinfecting, washing and disinfecting again, cleaning up blood and bandaging wounds on the feet, head, torso, legs and arms. Finally Jason and I are changed and clean, we walk into his hut, light a few candles and he goes “This night sucks … but at least there’s chocolate” as he goes into his trunk to pull out a giant bag of peanut M&Ms sent from home. And then there’s more screaming and cursing; ants had invaded.

Other events in life:

The following weekend I went on a 70 mile bike trip to another village with my 2 best Guinean friends to visit Souleymane’s father. I was a little hesitant- I live in the most mountainous region of the country, and going to Timbo involves several giant mountains that even bush taxis sometimes can’t climb. But fellow PCVs offered reassurances: “No worries Kiki, you’ve got your fancy multi-speed Peace Corps bike and they have typical Guinean wrecks.’ I decided they were right, and prepared for the trip. After making them peanut butter/honey/banana sandwiches (they were telling me they didn’t need to eat anything until after we completed the journey) we hit the road. And about 10k into the ride I get a “Hey Kiki, let’s trade bikes!” and there went my advantage. So I rode the rest of the way to Timbo, up several ridiculously steep mountains, on a bike that was so low when I pedalled my knees almost kept hitting me in my face.

However, upon our arrival, the boys were so proud of the voyage, it had been worth it. I was proud of us, too. It had been awesome. We were greeted by Souleymane’s family with lots of hand shakings and hugs and children and even one grandpa who was so old he couldn’t get out of bed but he cried because he was so happy. No one could believe that white girl would bike all the way to their village to meet the family. However, Souleymane’s family also let me see poverty on one of the deepest levels I’ve ever experienced. They kept giving us food, continuously apologizing for their “lack of means.” I kept telling them to stop feeding us, knowing that even the avocado, sardine and mayonnaise salad they made was impacting their pockets. Turning in for the night, Souleymane and Ama Sara slept in the fathers’ bed. Father slept on a plastic mat on the cement floor. I had a sleepover with the grandma on the hardest mattress I ever felt. As I was blowing out the candle before bed I said to grandma in my best Pular “I’ll see you in the morning!” and her reply, “If Allah wills it.” How creepy.

Getting up in the morning I pulled up the sheets to look at the mattress I had slept on. It was a rice sack filled with something like newspaper. What a life.

Before leaving the village the next morning, neighbors and village authorities and extended family members showered us with gifts: 8 avocados, 2 sacks of peanuts, 3 sheets of expensive fabric, $2, 3 peanut bars, and … 3 CHICKENS!!!! It was like Christmas. Luckily we did not have to bike home with chickens on the handlebars (that would have been very Guinean of us) but instead sent them home on a bush taxi. The next day Ama Sara slaughtered the chickens for us and made one of the best dinners I’ve eaten in 8 months for us and all of our friends.

Other big news:
- 4th of July was well spent with other volunteers. We had no fireworks, but we had a lot of combustible cans of bug spray and endless boxes of matches. One of the better firework shows I’ve seen.
- Mamou recently opened up its first real restaurant. I’ve only eaten the shwarma, but I’ve heard the “hambourgers” are good. “Pidzzza” is on the menu, but no price listed, and I’ve never actually seen a pizza, so I think it’s a hoax. However, it’s a step in the right direction!
- I started a garden! I was told I could only plant flowers because they wanted to keep the yard “pretty” and couldn’t take out any of the overgrown bushes that were driving me mad. I hacked out an entire section of yard for me, planted plenty of flowers, as well as spinach, strawberries, watermelon, and cantaloupe. And maybe I shouldn’t be shocked, but stuff is actually growing!
- While working on logistics for “Girls Conference” I ran into a group of respected men of Mamou at the café. I told them what I was doing and a doctor says “Oh no, you’re not going to turn them against us, are you? Telling them women are equal?” I threw back a few sassy comments, letting them know that there are many ignorant attitudes that are preventing Guinea from developing. Their proof that men and women aren’t equal? Because (and I quote):

“Women can’t climb a tree, cut down branches and build a fence.”
Me: “I built a live fence 2 weeks ago with branches that I hacked up with a machete myself.”
Men: Yeah, but you can’t climb a tree!
Me: Do I not have two legs and two arms like you do?

And then, because I really was too busy to have such an ignorant conversation, I walked away letting them know we’d continue this conversation later.

Other things in life are great. A HUGE thank you to Jackie, Mandy and Ali for an awesome package with articles and my first set of real art supplies! My new CDs from Cara and the McW sisters are awesome (although I admit I think I overplayed them). And Emilie for the best food supplies ever, including pesto packets, crystal light and granola. And the Hannah Montana bubbles/pen/stamp combo was a huge hit. I taught the little kids how to blow bubbles … it was like magic. And the boys were sad when the hot pink "stamp" didn't show up on their black skin as it did on my white skin. And dad and Claire, as usual, amazing. Souleymane loved the pen that said “Frederick, MD” on it … especially when I told him Frederick was the name of my village. And the cast-iron kettle is beautiful and great for mint tea. Love you ALL and miss everyone back home. A lot. I think about you often.

My Perfectly Normal Morning

7:00am. Alarm goes off. I quickly silence the annoying noise.
I don’t want to get out of bed.
As I come to consciousness, I feel the wooden slats of the bed beneath me.
Through the thin foam mattress.
My pillow has busted open.
During the night.
During the night my pillow busted open.
Brown balls. Little brown balls. Everywhere.
Little brown balls everywhere.
And unidentified fur.
Little brown seeds that look like peppercorns and unidentified fur everywhere around me as I was sleeping.
What the hell are these little brown balls and unidentified fur coming out of my pillow?
This is disgusting.
I want to get out of bed.

I’m up.
And I’m in place that is the closest thing I’ve felt to real life in long time.
I laugh as I turn off the air conditioner.
Air conditioner, aren’t I lucky?
I stumble into the bathroom, flush the toilet, wash my hands, and I laugh.
I have running water, and it’s ridiculous that I have a chance to revel in the luxury of washing my hands.
I wash them again, just for kicks.
Kicks kicks kicks kicks kicks.

I continue my tour d’appartement.
Lap top computer.
Internet.
Let’s check the internet, in my pjs, just for fun.
Maybe I have an email. Maybe good news on facebook.
I don’t really care if I have messages or if things are exciting.
I’m doing it because I can.
And I have emails and pictures and messages of people telling me they love me.
And I love them too.
And I wish that I could be in those pictures and writing those emails with those people I love back.
But for now, I’m happy to be doing a normal American task.
Checking email in pjs.
Checking email in pjs.
You can’t check email in pjs even if you’re one of the lucky volunteers with an internet café in town or in your office.
I’m checking my email in my pjs in my air conditioned apartment. I feel I am not in Guinea.

Breakfast. This is the most normal morning I’ve ever had in Guinea. Let’s continue it.
Breakfast.
I bought cereal yesterday.
At a grocery store.
There is one city that I’ve found in this country with grocery stores.
So while I’m here, I like to go in and walk around, just for the experience.
Yesterday I went to a grocery store.
And I bought a box of cereal.
A box of raisin bran.
Only not real raisin bran. No, real raisin bran would be too lucky.
Knock off raisin bran.
This is the first bowl of cereal in six months. Six long cereal-less months.
I carefully open up the cardboard box. Well done.
I carefully open up the plastic bag. I pull apart the plastic sides, but it doesn’t give.
I pull harder.
Damnit, I ripped the whole damn plastic bag. Perfect normal morning isn’t so perfect, but ripping the plastic bag, for me, is quite normal. I accept the failure.
Normal morning.
Find a bowl in the apartment.
No bowl.
Mug.
I find a mug. A mug will work just fine.
Milk. A can of Nido, the expensive, classy, powdered milk.
Luxurious.
This is not quite as normal on my perfectly normal non-Guinea morning. But Nido is classy by my standards. So I am being classy. And the perfection continues.
Perfect morning with my can of Nido powdered milk.
I put in a scoop of Nido. Must add water.
I have a sink in my kitchen.
A sink.
And a kitchen.
Two more things that I laugh at, because they amaze me. What kind of village savage have I become? I laugh.
I have a faucet that fills my mug with water.
And like Jesus when he turned water to wine, I have turned water to milk.
Water to milk with a kitchen sink. Unbelievable.
Water to milk.
Add cereal, careful not to loose any of those precious flakes of bran.
And there it is, my perfectly normal classy mug of knock off raisin bran.

First bite. Delicious because its cereal.
Flakes of brain. Bites of raisins.
But there is no crisp. It doesn’t crunch. This is not how I envisioned my first bowl of cereal.
The cereal is stale?
The cereal is stale.
I buy a box of knock off raisin bran and it is stale.
Only in Guinea does one accord so much importance and value to a mug of cereal, only to have all hopes and dreams of delicious cereal in powdered milk come crashing down.
Only to Guinea do people sell their boxes of cereal that never got sold after waiting 2 years on the shelf of some grocery store.
This knock off raisin bran hasn’t moved off the shelf in two years.
Let’s sell it to Guinea.
I buy it. I buy stale cereal.
But I devour it anyways, because it’s precious cereal and it’s almost normal.
I take my mug and devour my stale cereal that becomes soggy in the classy powdered milk and I devour it. And it is normal.
My perfectly normal morning continues.

It’s time to get dressed. I know what I’m wearing.
I know what I’m wearing because I wore the same thing out to dinner last night and it’s a good Monday morning dress.
My indigo dress with criss-cross straps in the back.
Office appropriate.
Clean. Unlike my tan pants.
My tan pants are filthy. How can I wash them in Conakry? I have no buckets.
I wonder if the maid would wash my pants.
But I’m not going to offer the job, even if he would appreciate it.
I can’t ask people to wash my clothes.
Just because I’m white does not mean I can’t find a way to wash my own clothes.
My indigo dress is good for today.
The Guineans at the office will appreciate my cultural adaptation.
I put it on.
It’s good.
I add turquoise jewelry.
Pretty, African jewelry. Again, I am scoring cultural points.
Cultural points that I hope will make a good impression on these people.
I am pleased. A great Monday morning outfit, first real day at the office job outfit.
It is good.
A business suit would be better.
But I never even thought of packing a business suit when I joined the Peace Corps.
Who would have thought.
But I have a good Monday morning dress and now I am dressed and my perfectly normal morning continues.

Fifteen minutes before I have to leave.
There’s a TV in the corner of the apartment.
Normally I hate TV. I hate the noise that comes out of that box.
It just bothers me. And if it’s not in English, it just bothers me more.
But it’s a TV. And this is my perfectly normal morning. And I have 15 minutes.
I turn the TV on.
French news. I wish I spoke French with a French accent instead of a Guinean one. But I understand most of it.
What other channels are there?
I flip. Mouths are moving, no sound.
Wait. I am no lip reader, but I could swear that news anchor is mouthing English words.
I can just tell.
I want to know. Find out if I’m right. Why is there no sound?
I increase the volume.
Obviously, problem solved.
And I’m right.
There’s a British guy talking about the economy. It’s CNN. British CNN.
For the first time in six months I am watching TV in English.

How in the world have I become so privileged as a PCV that I am being shown English television?
For the first time in six months I am watching TV in English.
And it is unbelievable. I understand each word. And I don’t have to strain to pay attention. I don’t have to pay attention, and I’ll still understand.
Economy is in shambles.
Investors are risk averse. Overly risk avers.
The markets are doing much better. Investors should take on more risk.
Some Asian reporter flies to South Korea and pays $6 to put a hex on her co-anchor. Some crazy lady under a bridge writes his name on a paper and chants in Korean and burns the paper to hex this British report.
What the hell kind of crap is this?
The shot goes back to the British office.
The Korean reporter is sitting next to her hexed co-anchor.
She’s giggling like a fool.
I want to punch her in the face.
She is not professional. This is not news. Is this really CNN?
She blew $6 on a hex for a co-worker? $6 would feed my neighbor’s family of 10 for 3 days.
She is a giggling fool who hexes people and reports on her crap.
Stop wasting my time.
I’m getting dumber watching this.
They start talking about how to handle personal problems with co-workers.
The hexer and the hexed.
How do you handle discrepancies?
Talk it out.
Be honest.
Be respectful.
Listen to each other.
Crap.
Lots of crap.
If you don’t know how to handle a problem with a co-worker, and you are looking to CNN for answers, you have more problems than just the one with your co-worker.
CNN needs to report real news, not lame messages preceded by crazy Korean women under bridges chanting hexes.
It’s crap.
Utter crap.
I kind of like it.
Although its crap, I like it.
It’s normal.
It makes me feel normal.
I don’t get the luxury of watching crap TV anymore. So I enjoy it for what it is.
A continuation of my perfect normal morning.

And then I look at the time. 7:55 am.
I need to pack up and leave.
I pack up my lap top, place dishes in the sink, lock numerous doors, and leave.
I just had the most normal morning.
And it was perfect.
My perfectly normal morning.

And being a Peace Corps Volunteer, that is anything but normal.

View from the Top

This is the view from my front porch. You can see my private "yard" that is landscaped with trees to cover up the wall. It's safe ... no one can climb over the wall and I have guards 24 hours a day to protect me. And you can see why I love drinking coffee sitting on my front steps and looking at the mountains. Mamou is the most gorgeous city in the most gorgeous region of arguably the most gorgeous country in West Africa. Love Life.

Proof that I actually do live over here.

Okay ... from the top:

1. last week my friends were like "kiki ... sunday morning at 8am, we have a surprise for you." I wake up, and they take me on a surprise picnic into the woods. Adorable. We made tea all morning and a delicious tomato/avocado salad. I love these guys.

2. one of the pictures from my birthday party, inside my house.

3. a group shot of a bike ride we took out to some gold mines back in december. this was before we instructed that in case of an emergency, we were to bike under the cover of darkness to the Sierra Leone border.

4. me and sacha, another volunteer, during our party after our swearing-in ceremony. theme: dress up like a movie character. presenting: Juno & Bleaker.

5. me and some pcvs that live nearby. no, we don't always look so snazzy. but it was the morning of our swearing-in event ... we had to keep it klassy.

alright, i know, 5 pictures is kind of weak after 6 months of living over here, but this has taken nearly 3 hours. enjoy :)

Conakry: once you can get past the military tanks & sewage, it's kind of a nice place.

I walk into the Peace Corps house in Conakry and sit down on the couch, next to a bunch of volunteers I’d never met before. We do the introductions. Name. Where we live. What we do. Why we’re in Conakry. My name is Caitlin but they call me Kiki. I live in Mamou. I work for World Education. And I’m here on a business trip, we’re discussing potential micro finance projects to implement in the Mamou prefecture and my role in them.

Oh cool, so did you used to be a Peace Corps Volunteer?
No. I’m a volunteer here now. I just got here.

Once again, God has taken life, picked out all the best parts of it, and threw them at Kiki Barry. So while everyone else is Conakry for broken teeth and picking up friends from the airport, I’m here on official business. Yes, I’m staying in a luxurious apartment. In this apartment I’ve seen my first Guinean elevator, I have not only running water but running water that can get hot (I completely forgot that we can have hot showers in normal-life). I have electricity, with AC. I have a TV, and I can watch more than just the Guinean news on it. There is a kitchen. There is a refrigerator. And when I thought it couldn’t be any sweeter, I get a laptop with internet. Damn. These next 7 days may be spent in a city that terrifies the life out of me, but they will be spent in luxury.

I’ve been here twice before, both times safely barricaded in the Peace Corps compound. But other than the two times I’ve been babysat by the Peace Corps (when I landed in this country and again when I swore in), the only times I’ve heard about Conakry would be in tidbits of the following conversations:

“oh, the Coup d’Etat just happened. Not any serious danger, but military are running around Conakry shooting bullets in the air” or
“…there’s a tank parked outside of the US Embassy in Conakry, facing its guns towards the front door. But no serious danger,” or
“today the national football game is being held in Conakry, the air is really intense. And if we win, steer clear, rioters will be everywhere,” or
“we had a beautiful palace in Conakry, but during some turmoil rioters tore it down and burned parts of it.”

So basically, Conakry: guns, militia, tanks, riots, burning buildings. Go alone? Business trip? No problem.

But I’m here. I’ve survived two nights. And it’s not so scary anymore. I mean, they have 3 grocery stores. I will withstand anything to set foot into a grocery store. So in addition to going to grocery stores and working at World Education’s main office, I’ve gotten to acclimate to Conakry, watch episodes of The Office on a friend’s laptop, and watch the sunset over the ocean sitting at the Beach Bar. (Not to mention it’s nice being a little bit more anonymous in this big city, there aren’t 50 people I have to stop and greet and ask about the wife/kids/evil/peace/house/and health.)

So Conakry: not scary anymore, a glimpse of the modern world, and I sometimes I even see white people.

Kiki Barry meets Happy Gillmore

High school. Just thinking about high school brings back a slew of emotions where I was acutely aware of my surrounding and overwhelmed by insecurity. Pretty enough? Cool enough? Smart enough? And are my friends pretty, cool, and smart enough? But four years later, you’re out the door and you’re done with all that nonsense. Unless you follow one of two paths: Young Life leader or Peace Corps Volunteer. Lucky me, I’ve managed to follow both, yet no matter how “done” with high school I am according to that diploma, I keep coming back for more.

Which leads to yesterday afternoon.

My friend Souleymane had invited me along to go see his school and scope it out. I was excited at the prospect of seeing the empty campus, meeting the principal, and seeing where he spends his day. But when he comes to get me at my house he’s wearing his backpack.
“Souleymane, what’s the backpack for?”
“My notebook.””Why would you need a notebook just to visit school?””Oh, Kiki, did I forget to tell you? We’re going to my economics class.”
And then all of a sudden, I had no option, but to grab my own notebook and pen and head to class.

Standing around a cluster of worn-down cement buildings, awaiting the teacher who showed up to class 30 minutes late, the aura of high school insecurity was tangible. Even myself, who has already graduated from high school AND college was suddenly painfully aware of ‘what others might be thinking.’ I guess some things don’t change no matter how rich or poor you are. But then I caught myself worrying about my coolness level and laughed- because as a PCV I have no hopes of fitting in; either I’m rockstar cool or devastatingly an outsider. Or perhaps both at the same time. Anyways I decided to aim for the “rockstar cool” route and started chatting up the students. There was an overwhelming majority of boys, and the students in the equivalent of “senior year” of high school ranged from what looked like 17 to 27 years old. I met the philosophy teacher who was wearing a psychedelic lime green and navy blue patterned suit, dragging on his cigarette as he taught his class. And then before I knew what was going on, I heard a stampede. Running. Screaming. Fighting.

What the heck? All of a sudden about 100 self-conscious crazed adolescents start charging one of the buildings. You would have thought they were handing out 50 Cent concert tickets. But no, the professor had finally arrived and unlocked the classroom. Well shoot, I’m trying to fit in too so I start elbowing and shoving my way into the classroom and then I find out what we’re fighting for: seats. In this classroom are crammed together tables and benches, built for two, sat in by three. I share with my 2 friends. And before everyone is stuffed into this cement block of a classroom the professor starts mumbling some mumbo jumbo and people are frantically writing down every word. For lack of anything better to do, I also took notes. And this is how it went: the professor showing up half an hour late comes to class and spews out in less-than perfect French a lesson he had written. And students copy it down verbatim. And I’m talking verbatim. So when Souleymane has to go pray the 5:00 pm prayer, Abdoulaye takes notes, and then they switch off. But in all the frenzy, they’re lucky they can catch up and recopy from me and other students. Literally, it was 90 minutes of frantic chaos. And nothing was explained, just dictated. Apparently the teacher will explain the lesson next class. But what kind of system is that? Maybe because they don’t have text books, they have to write their own text book one day and then study the next? I don’t know, it’s crazy. And the classroom was so hot and uncomfortable that it takes a true devotion and willingness to be there. We don’t realized how spoiled we are in our own personal desks with pretty illustrated textbooks and air conditioned classrooms. I mean, I feel utter shame at how I habitually skipped classes at the plush R.H. Smith School of Business with fold-down padded chairs in a beautiful auditorium with microphones and beautiful lighting and air conditioners and projection screen televisions. These kids would die for something like that.

Anyways, I got to be in high school again yesterday and it was painfully awkward and uncomfortable at times, but what is high school if it’s not like that? Not to mention I learned how the Bretton Woods System impacts the structural adjustments of Guinea. Whatever that means … I guess I’ll have to go back to class to decode my scribbled down notes.

Otherwise, things here are great. My friends surprised me Sunday morning by taking me on a picnic to the woods. And then got a hold of my camera and did a photo shoot, again. But this time they busted out the model poses and were even taking off their shirts. If GQ got a hold of these guys, they’d be receiving a sure ticket to America. They’ve got the looks, the walk, and the poses. How am I so lucky?

Also... HAPPY BIRTHDAY CARA!!!!!! Miss and love you tons, thanks for the beautiful letter and Kiki's Kicks CD. Having not gotten any new music for 6 months and utterly sick of everything I own, this CD has been on replay and will probably wear out by the end of the week.

Love you all. Peace.

Keeping Bees, Raising Chickens, and Mom Sent Leopard Print Rain Boots

and With Peace Corps, your first 3 months at site are for observation. So up until now, I have been laying back, learning the ropes of Mamou, and adjusting to the physical demands of the Guinean lifestyle. After 3 months, there’s this big training, and you get sent back to your new home to change the world.

Last week during the training I woke up one morning and boarded a bus, drove out to the bush, and met with a group of Guineans to learn (and teach) some beekeeping skills. So I’m standing there in the bush, in a dress and converse sneakers, surrounding by honeycombs and African bees, which are much more vicious than their American cousins (if mom asks, Yes, the EPI-pen was in my purse the whole time). I learned about different types of beehives, honey harvesting techniques, and how to attract bees to the hive. Unfortunately, being in a city, I don’t think the neighbors would like it if their American PCV started putting up beehives around the neighborhood. Afterwards, we took aside a few of the group members and showed them how they could earn some money with the beeswax. We showed them how to make hand lotion and we discussed other other options. The president of the group overheard me talking about beeswax candles (I was actually griping about how Guineans use POS fast-burning imported paraffin wax candles and would be much smarter and more economical if they used slow-burning beeswax candles from natural resoruces) and he turned to me and asked me if I could show him how to make beeswax candles. Now, you might be thinkng, that growing up in the suburbs of Maryland and studying Finance I wouldn’t know the first think about candle making. And under normal circumstances, you might be correct. But I had this intense flashback to a business trip dad took the family on to Colonial Williamsburg, VA about 12 years ago and I vividly remembered Claire and I taking turns dipping opposite ends of a wick into bubble cauldrons of wax with the aid of a woman donning 18th century garb. So I turned back to the President, noticed I had a mini audience, and proceded to tell this man just exactly he could make economical slow-burning candles from the materials he readily had at his disposition. Kiki: one point.

After a hearty meal of rice and sauce (note: sarcasm) I laid down for a nap. Cell phone wasn’t charged because there was no electricity so my alarm couldn’t go off for my next training session. I wake up and realize the conference center is empty. Crap, they all left to go somewhere (where?) without me! Someone tells me they went to a chicken farm down the mountain, I can walk there. So I pull on my dress and start running down a mountain that 6 months ago I wouldn’t have even tempted without hiking boots, passing half-dressed children and mud huts on my way. And all the kids are crying out to me “Hello white person! Is there any evil in your home?” and I’m replying back, trying not to fall face first into the rocks and simultaneously looking at the breathtaking view “No, there’s peace only, thank you!” all the while trying to catch up with the group so I can learn how to raise chickens and profitably sell eggs. And then it hit me: Peace Corps is awesome. And I’m so happy to be here. (and the chicken/egg raising training session was awesome- how cool would it be to start a chicken farm?! and it's profitable too!)

So my first 3 months are over, the real work has begun. I managed to convince the office to install internet on my computer in the office (so I now have one of the 10 connections in the country) and I taught my first English lesson Monday to my friends, helping them prepare for their SAT-equivalent. Only they’re 24 years old. One thing at a time, right?

Take care and much love! Thanks to Trieste, mom, Claire and dad for the awesome packages. I now can plant cantaloupes in my garden wearing leopard print rainboots (yes, mom was thinking ahead ... rainy season coming up!), catch up on real-life with a TIME magazine, all the while doting some Bonnebell lip gloss and new makeup. LOVE IT.

Botswana Phone Number

How many African phone numbers can I accumulate in a year?

Here's my Botswana number. Any prior ones you can throw out.

011.267.753.831.54

Also, turns out you don't need headphones to call me. Skype has "Skype on the Go" and after setting up a free skype account you can call at skype rates from your cell. http://www.skype.com/allfeatures/togo/

Details:
It's only 22cents a minute to call me. That's a fraction of the bills you accumulated in Guinea.
I'm 7 hours ahead. So call me when you have no one to talk with on your lunch break. Or while you're brushing your teeth in the morning.

I love you all. Peace.

Lost Items Down Wells

Just a quick funny story I want to share:

The other night I get home and need to draw water from the well outside my house. It's dark, there's not electricity, I'm tired... so I'm not totally paying attention. I lower the bucket into the well and start feeding the rope through my hands, waiting for the *splash* down below. But all of a sudden the rope picks up speed and the end slides through my hands- and I loose the bucket! Usually it's tied on, but the guard had just bought a brand new bucket and I LOST it down the well! Oh my gosh, I was so embarassed. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry or hide inside my house. I was way too embarassed to tell my guard (I mean, only an American would actually LOOSE the bucket down the well, right? Not so African right now, are we?) so I called my friend Ama Sara ... "hey, are you at your house? yes? you need to come here, we have a problem!" Poor Ama Sara thinks something is seriously wrong and he runs to the house to see me inside crying-laughing hysterically trying to throw out enough french words to explain the situation. I'm so embarassed but the guy's a total sweetheart and reassured me that this happens all the time to people. They even have these things you attach to the rope to catch lost buckets ... he brought his over to my house for me. Seriously though, what a relief. It was a minor crisis. But quickly resolved.

It made me wonder though, what's the mortality rate for kids and animals falling down wells? Or things like shoes, or cell phones? It's something to think about...

From Home to Frat House

Hey fools!



Okay, a massive thank you to everyone who sent birthday emails/fb msgs/calls/packages/letters etc. Thanks to the Guinean "mail system" I'm sure I'll be celebrating with bday mail for the next 3 months, so if I didn't get your thing, no worries.



My birthday weekend was, by far, the most fun weekend I've had in Africa so far. It started when my best girlfriend volunteer, Sacha, called me on Wednesday to tell me she was going to make the two day voyage to come to my party! I freaked out, I hadn't seen her since February. So on Friday I woke up and went to my friend Aisatou's house (same one I snuck out of) and we took a nice nap in her bed, and then went to the market together to buy stuff for the bday dinner. The plan was to make spaghetti, pesto pasta, garlic bread, bruchetta, a salad and a birthday cake. At 20:00 all my friends were to show up, I was expecting around 15-20 people. At 17:00 Aistaou and my crew of guys starting cooking. There were 8 of us, some were chopping avacados, two were learning how to crack eggs and separate the whites from the yolks, others were cleaning the house ... it was a flipping show. Finally Sacha called and after her taxi kept breaking down/driver kept stopping to say hi to relatives along the way/passengers kept requesting to stop to pray she finally made it! So after running around like a mad-woman trying to finish dinner/clean the house/shower, preparations were finally ready. Ama Sara brought over a giant boombox and hooked it up to his DVD player and the tunes started bumping. People started showing up. It was awesome ... people even brought birthday gifts! I got 3 leather wallets (no lie, they really do think all white people are ballin), my tailor made me a beautiful dress, some jewelry, and this hilarious fake rose with a note that said "I love you" from a new friend. Some new friends came by, some teammates from volleyball came, and even 2 members from the infamous Murder Inc. made their appearance. I gave my camera to my friend Souleymane to be photographer, and let me say. Guineans are HILARIOUS in front of the camera. To begin with, they don't smile. Which didn't matter at first since Souleymane had to be taught how to NOT chop heads out of photos. But once we started photographing the right parts of the body, Sacha and I started a hilarious photo shoot in which we imitated Guineans. Read: looking badass and/or forlorn with no emotion on the face. Slowly they started warming up, and before I knew what was happening both Sacha's and my camera got used to the max in the most ridiculous photo shoot EVER. Action shots, gangster shots, volleyball shots ... there are 100s of photos from this night. I mean, some of you know that I'm ridiculous with photo shoots, but my Guinean friends wayyyy out-did me. I was proud of them. So all in all, the party was a huge success, everyone ate well, and I'd say about 30 people passed through my house!! Peace Corps goal of being well-integrated into the community? I'd say that one is under wraps.



(PS- the cake was a disaster. We tried baking it over a fire. So even if the boys hadn't dropped eggshells into the batter, or over stirred it so much it tasted like rubber, the fire burned it and it was inedible. And if that wasn't enough, we actually burned a hole through the pot. Oops, my B.)



Saturday morning Sacha and I slept in, and woke up to a trashed house. Like, the place was a disaster. We ate a delicious breakfast of mangos and chocolate icing that we'd made for the cake, and were just relaxing when Abdourahamane shows up saying he wants to make a cake for his birthday party tonight ... for which he'd rented out a club. So Sacha and I help him make this cake, but this time Abdourahmane knows of an oven in town where apparently you can pay to bake stuff. Random, I know, but this is Guinea. Afterwards the 2 of us have a delightful picnic in an abandoned factory while jamming to the ipod. This in no way resembles the picnics in the beautiful Champs de Mars beneath the Eiffel Tower, but it's as close as you can get in Mamou. But by the end of the afternoon, we were absolutely exhausted, but being it was a best friend's birthday, we were obligated to go to the club. First of all, how did I join Peace Corps and then all of a sudden become a socialite? I don't get it. But anyways, we got dressed and by the time we stepped out of my bedroom there were 10 boys all hanging out in my family room getting ready to go out. Um, apparently my home has turned into an open frat house? It's okay, I secretly love that they feel comfortable to just show up and start the party.

So as we're walking to the club (the hardcore volleyball players that always scream at me walked an hour to come "pick up" Sacha and I) we're listening to a beautiful Michael Jackson/Akon mash up coming through the cell phone. Once inside, we're dancing and I see the owner of the club who is also on my volleyball team. Sweet, connections. Except I swear he is the one guy who is always like "KIKI!!!!!" in a really mean voice when I screw up at practice. Like, he scares me. But now that we're off the courts, he is all smiles. He is hooking Sacha and I up with free drinks and before I know it we are shamelessly dancing with all the volleyball players who scare the living daylights out of me. Not to mention the constant DJ shout-outs to Kiki and Sacha. It's actually awesome ... after tonight I KNOW they can't help but love me and encourage me when I don't make a good pass at practice. It's the perfect "in" to the team.

So eventually all the "introductions" have to be made by the DJ, and before I can translate what's being said I hear me and Sacha's name and I'm getting pushed from the dark corners of the club (praise the Lord no spotlights this time around) into the center stage area. And then a knife gets placed in my hand. And Abdourahmane's "American Cake" that we made is before me. The whole club is looking at me, the DJs chattering on, and before I know it there's a countdown. A countdown for what?! Everyone's staring, waiting, for something. But what? And then I do some quick mental thinking ... countdown, cake, knife ... I'm cutting the cake. I'M CUTTING THE CAKE?! Ahhh! I don't know how to do this! How the heck are cakes cut in Guinea?!? Slow? Fast? All the way? Just a piece? Do I pick up a piece and shove it in Abdourhmane's face like he was my husband? I freaked out with the 100s of eyes on me, but hopefully it was only my insides that were so spastic and I at least played it off cool. I hope. Anyways, I figured it out. I did not warrant a freak out, it's a flipping cake cutting.

Sunday my house was again trashed and it took some serious scrubbing and cleaning after the weekend's festivities. But it was my favorite weekend so far in Guinea, just being with all my friends and having my house open for everyone. It's always a little scary celebrating a holiday/birthday alone in a new place without friends or family, but so far, everything's been perfect.

Sneaking Out and Dance Parties

So last Saturday night I had my first experience at "the club."

It was the birthday party of Murder Inc., a group of 4 guys who think they are so cool that they can just pick a name, form a group and pick a day they decide to be their birthday. Which apparently isn't all that uncommon. Anyways, these 4 guys are apparently pretty hot stuff around town ... they've got star basketball players on their team, they've beautifully spray painted their name on various buildings ... they're the ish. And 2 of my best girl friends here are each dating one of the guys of Murder Inc. So for the birthday bash, Murder Inc. paid a ridiculous sum of money to rent out the club, made up invitations, and awaited the big day.

Around 9pm I headed over to Aisatou's (my best gf here) here to get ready. I brought all the usuals: clothes, make up, music and chocolate. We and some other girls spent a few hours getting ready for the big night (things really aren't that different over here) and all of Aisatou's family, including her dad, know we're locked in one of the bedrooms getting dressed. 11pm rolls around and I'm set to go. I've gotten dressed, hair and make up are done, it's time to head out! But then Aisatou looks out the bedroom door, looks back at me, and says "Kiki, you need to put your other clothes back on." Meaning my gym shorts and tank top. I looked at her completely dumbfounded, and then her little sister explained that her dad can't know we're going out to the club. What?! So we're going to sneak out?? This is hilarious ... here I am, living alone in this remote country, finished college, and all of a sudden I now have to sneak out of someone's house so her dad won't see us?! So I oblige, change back into my casual clothes with the other girls and we plan to make the great escape. Which involved casually walking though the family room past her father with unconspicuous plastic bags full of halter tops and high heels under our arms, then as soon as setting foot into the night SPRINTING behind the closest (skinny) palm tree, the full moon brightly giving away our positions. I'm trying my best to be quiet, but 5 girls just sprinted across a well-lit yard, pulling off the most UNsmooth sneaking out ever. Tears are running down my face I'm laughing so hard.

Eventually we sneak into another friend's house to get changed, and begin the long walk to club, L'Oasis. After making a pit stop at ANOTHER friend's house to make the necessary change from flip flops to heels, we finally make it to L'Oasis around midnight. I walk into the club, and realize that groups of friends are all wearing the same color. So that is why my girls Mama and Aisatou are also wearing the same color I am ... and suddenly I feel like I fit in. Very cool. Until I see the dancing going on in there- I am instantly surrounded by dancers who ONLY dance like a combination of Timberlake Usher and Chris Brown ... amplified to the power of ten. I mean, these people can DANCE. For those that know me, I have no shame when it comes to busting a move, but this was on a whole new level. And all the walls are surrounded by mirrors, so there's no hiding. So now me and my fellow green-shirted girl friends are getting our groove on in the appropriately-dark club, I'm beginning to feel comfortable again, when all of a sudden BAM!! there is a spot light on me!! As if I wasn't already self-conscious enough being the only white person in a club where everyone was watching me anyways, I am now the victim of a spot light and his faithful following videographer!!!! Really, all I wanted was to wish Murder Inc. a happy birthday, dance a few Lil' Wayne songs and dip out. But now I've become a felon to Aisatou's father, I've become acutely aware that I do not dance like Shakira, and now in a dark club no one see anything except the white girl illuminated by the spot light. So I did what any normal Peace Corps Volunteer white-girl in Guinea would do, and hammed it up for the camera. I made the most of my dance moves, the club gathered around this newfound commotion I'd created, and people started cheering for Kiki. Then, noticing that I was center stage, I pulled my girl friends into the middle of the circle and made my escape. Which wasn't an escape, because the spotlight just followed me. Oh well, Murder Inc.'s got some good footage.

So after hours of dodging the spotlight, it's after 3am and I am exhausted. I want to go home. But no, we have to wait for the "Birthday Introductions" where someone on a microphone gets up and introduces the infamous Murder Inc. (umm, hello. we all know who they are, that's why we came to their bday party) and then that was to be followed by the cutting of the birthday cake. So Murder Inc. is being introduced, I want to gorge out my eyeballs I'm so tired, and then finally I hear it's time for the bday cake. Score! I'm starving. But wait ... the emcee announces that they FORGOT the knife, so he starts ASKING FOR A COLLECTION of donations to go buy a knife. Excuse me sir, but at 3:30am in Mamou where the heck are you planning on buying a knife? I barely know how to find a knife in the middle of the day in this crazy city. But the emcee continues his pleas for donations ... to no avail. Literally, 30 minutes of begging for money for a knife. I am on the verge of self destruction, I just want to go home, go to sleep, and am praying that I will wake up from this never-ending nightmare.

And then Allah heard my cries. The club went completely dark.

Whether the generator ran out of gas, the electricity just went out, or the club owner got so sick of this lunatic begging for knife-money that he cut the power, I suddenly found myself in a club with 100 other people and no lights save for the people pulling out their cell phones. Well, darn, I really would have loved to stick around and hear more introductions and give money for a knife, but looks like it's time to head out. The masses exit. But then congregate outside in the streets for another 30 minutes. Mama (one of my friends/honorary gfs of Murder Inc.) has the cake and decides to start ripping it apart with her hands and offering to the crowd. The cake is beautiful, 3 tiers, and costs a FORTUNE, considering things like butter, vanilla, and ovens don't exist in Mamou. I'm starving so I'm excited and honored when Mama hands me the first piece. I take a bite ... and it's the worst piece of cardboard I have ever tasted. Talk about disappointment.

Finally after wasting far too much time and posing for more pictures with the photographers/videographers a car appears and me and my girls get a ride home. It's now nearly 5am and the plan was to sleep at Aisatou's. But now, we have to sneak BACK INTO the house. Which is much harder since her little sister can't hear our faint tapping on the window with a stick. I got so frustrated and was so exhausted that as soon as her mother appeared to help us sneak back in (her mom is a champion, I love the lady. I call her 'mom.') I grabbed my bags and returned home.

Aisatou's dad was shocked to learn that I'd spent the night at his house and woke up at 6am, even before he did, to go back home to do chores around my house. Oh, the naiive.