Guinean Homecoming, Part Trois: Getting back to Senegal

My taxi ride back to Dakar was of course, an adventure. The first leg went fairly smoothly and I befriended a traditional doctor. We slept at the border where a creep-o went into my pocket while I was sleeping and stole my cell phone! But I was using my purse as a pillow (and completely passed out) and am happy that the phone was there to get stolen and not my purse, which had my camera/money/passport, etc. I consider myself lucky- and what is a guy going to do with a busted-ass cellphone with 1000 GNF (20 cents) on it? Knock yourself out. When we arrived to the town to transfer taxis, the traditional doctor offered me a ride in his SUV with his chauffer. HELL YES I accepted- but should’ve forseen the consequences. We went back to his hut to shower, then I had to meet the family, eat the fonio, package traditional medicines. And Senegal is HOT … like disgustingly so. But it was kind of cool to spend several hours in a Senegalese village and speak the Pular and eat the food and 'gain pharmaceutical experience.' I had this bizarre open wound on my arm that had been bothering me since the plane ride from Botswana but the doctor put on this blue paste and it healed within hours. I swear. We eventually left the village but the SUV was so old and ghetto we were crawling at like, 30 mph. And had to stop to sell medicine. And had to pick up a possessed woman. (I will never forget: "Kiki, I know you want to get back, but we have to get this woman. She is very, very sick. She needs to go to the capital city. She needs good doctors. You see ... she is possessed by the devil.") But the doc was so nice, bought all my foods, bought me some cold medicine, and didn’t let me chip in for gas. So he saved me a lot of money, which I then used to buy skinny jeans in Dakar (NO zippers this time, folks.) Dakar is a fun city- beautiful beaches and nice hotels and all the Peuls are really nice. While bargaining for a tshirt the Pular came out, and word spread though this giant city that an American girl was speaking Pular and this Guinean guy found me and brought me to this factory filled with Peuls who were making clothes/bags/wallets/all sorts of crafts! And he took me around to On Jaramaa EVERYONE and it was another ridiculous episode in the series. Hilarious … and I was happy to be getting all the Pular out of me for the next year or so. I just seriously love the Peuls. They are the greatest ethnic group on the face of the planet, in my opinion. Time and time again, outside of Mamou when I met a group of them, they took me in as family and cared for me and made sure no harm would come to me. I think I appreciated this on a new level after having been in Shoshong where, although people nice enough (like America) the hospitality and warmth of this ENTIRE subset of people is mind-boggling.

Alright folks, that is the official conclusion of the Guinean homecoming. The first Guinean homecoming, but certainly not the last.

Guinean Homecoming, Part Deux

here we go (from the same letter written to friends):

My two weeks in Mamou were a blur. The first thing we did after I showered and was acceptable to walk around town was get shown the World Map that ESM did. AND OH MY GOD- I have never been so proud. It is BEAUTIFUL. Like the Guineans who painted my bathroom dripped paint on the door, floors, everywhere- so I was naturally nervous about seeing a detailed map go up on the side of a school. But this thing is perfect! And the colors are incredible! They even hired a calligrapher to stencil our name/logo/contact information up top. The association is SO proud of this first project- Jake and I had given a combined 100,000 GNF to do it, but costs were wayyy more than that, and they even raised money on their own! They had written and distributed fundraising letters, and I conveniently was there just in time for the map’s inaugural ceremony (I wonder if there have been other World Map Inauguration Ceremonies?). But government authorities had been invited, chairs rented, DJs hired and professional rappers solicited. The inaugural ceremony was on my last day and all the meetings and preparations for it were stressful- I forgot how much work I had put into this association. To do anything takes so much time and energy, and I don’t know how these kids haven’t gotten exhausted by it all. After two weeks I was SPENT. The ceremony got rushed along because of a storm blowing in, but authorities came, rappers rapped, and even an HIV/AIDS group did standup comedy that segued into a sensibilisation. So anyways, going back to Mamou and seeing the project I poured all my effort into not only surviving, but thriving, was just a really cool experience. Now that the first project is officially completed, part of their "plan d’action" is to enter the Youth Association scene where they compete for international projects with all the NGOs who come specifically to Mamou to look for groups to train/fund. I don’t know how it all works, and wish I was there to support them, but the leadership of this group is strong and they have built an established network who can help them get their game to the next level. Inch-ALLAH. (I could gush about ESM for hours, so I’ll stop here for now. But our one year anniversary is June 10^th!!)

Another thing I loved about going back was I no longer had to pretend I was a poor PCV and hide my money. I mean, yes I’m still poor, but I totally delved into the “vie communutaire” philosophy and shared what I had. So I started spending silly and took everyone to the club one night. It’s one of those things where being students, all my boys are too poor to do ANYTHING, so whatever I want to pay for, I have to pay times seven so we can do it as a group. So clubbing was fabulous at L’OASIS (where Sach and I had lived it up and been celebrities in months past) but I didn’t get any DJ shout-outs this time around. That was a first, but I survived. I also really wanted to go hiking in Doucki (an area renowned for its mountainous hiking), but that of course meant I had to pay for everyone else. So me and my seven hired a taxi with my chauffer friend and set off.

Doucki was incredible. I had been told to “find Hassan” in Doucki, which is “after the town of Pita.” I called, but got no answer- no reception. Hmm … maybe that means he’s in the bush? Which is where we want to go? So we set off in our taxi after I made sure the boys understood that “I have no idea where we’re going and if the guy will be there. We might not have any food. I’m warning you, this could be a disaster.” The boys were down for the adventure though (the taxi driver was definitely not) and several HOURS after Pita aimlessly driving on dirt roads some children see me in the taxi and start screaming for us to pull into their compound. We obeyed, and found Hassan and insane amounts of mangoes. He took us for a hike that afternoon down into the crevices of the earth which turned out to be like rainforests (I didn’t know Guinea had rainforests!) and the boys had a blast swinging from vines and finding monster-sized bugs and snails. We had a great dinner, my boys brought anti-Muslim substances (re: booze) and we stayed up all night just talking and joking and enjoying being together. We really transcended a level of friendship this time around- something about not being there as a PCV but as a friend changed our dynamic and maybe it sounds silly, but we all really felt like genuine family. The next morning we hiked up rocks and down cliffs and played in waterfalls. We followed one waterfall underground into an underground swimming hole- and then the water flowed out to a DIFFERENT waterfall- so we’re swimming underground between two waterfalls. It was awesome! And these boys had the time of their life too- Souleymane is studying tourism in Conakry and he’d never before been a tourist! So while we all had fun, he had this eye-opening experience that meant a ton to him. After playing, hiking and swimming all day we made it back to our taxi, commissioned some petits to fill up the trunk with mangoes, and drove back to Mamou.

The rest of the time there was just spent eating a lot of rice, riding a lot of motos (SO fun) and doing a lot of work with the association. My market lady took me shopping for indigo and then brought me to the tailor and leather-worker to buy 1 complet, 1 dress and 2 pairs of sandals. The whole time she had me hold her 4-year old son’s hand who she had dressed up in an Obama collared shirt with patent leather shoes on. We went back to her house where she had a photographer come over to take family pictures and then we ate rice and she paid for my moto back home. Another day I made peanut sauce with my boss’s wife … after we got into a yelling match about why I wasn’t at her house more often. I was seriously SO angry- I had forgotten how EXHAUSTING my life in Mamou was and busted my ass to the top of the mountain to keep our sauce-making date after running around town to deliver ESM Inauguration Invitations, and this lady starts whining that I don’t spend more time with her. I lost it … but after we both vented and aired out our anger, we hugged it out and went back to being mom/daughter-like and I made some fabulous peanut sauce. I visited my office a lot and joked around with old co-workers (the 52 states of America suddenly became a big topic of discussion) and also went to another mountain to visit my guard’s family. There had been only one noticible change to Mamou since my departure: a keke (favorite african dish: pounded millet-like grain with hot peppers, tomatoes, fish, avocado, you name it!) lady opened up RIGHT NEXT TO MY COMPOUND!! Which was awesome, considering PC had taken my stove. The only downside is if I wanted keke, you have to “invitation” everyone- once I was so hungry and didn’t want to share but did anyways, and I tried shoving a wad of keke down my throat so I could eat something before everyone devoured it all, and started choking. So I spent all my time gagging by the moonlight and everyone was too busy eating to notice and by the time I was able to swallow, almost everything was gone.

My last night in Mamou was one of my biggest worries: I was scared I would have another collapse when it was time to leave and I’d be in the same bad place I was in in October. But it started with an impromptu party in my house when I gave my boys (and my favorite guard!) these badass Lacoste polos I picked up in Shoshong and we started dancing and taking pictures and being all silly in my house. There was so much excitement with the presents (I also handed out mini American flags) and laughter that this thick atmosphere of “JOY” just landed on us. I know, it sounds cheesey, but everyone was so HAPPY and joyful and we were together and were like a family … it really felt like Christmas. That happy/excited/I love life kind of feeling. The party eventually stopped so I could pack (by candlelight- I had lent my headlamp to a friend a few nights prior). Malcolm came over, I quickly gave up packing, and we joined my boys outside my compound. So we were all just hanging out, listening to Takana Zion’s latest album when a rainstorm chased us onto our terrace. MX was sick so didn’t stay long, but me and my boys and my guard just talked all night- who would get married first? Who’d have the most kids? And so on. So then the joyful tone took a serious “what about the future” tone, and I shared my biggest fear: I was afraid to come back to Mamou one day to find that no one lived there anymore, or they were all married and wouldn’t be able to hang out. And then Ama Sara goes “Kiki, when you come back, we’ll all just meet up from wherever we are here in Mamou and bring our wives with us!” And as silly as that sounds- isn’t that what we do in America anyways? Reunions, bring the family- everyone anywhere in this life moves on, but you keep in touch and sometimes you have to travel a little bit but relationships don’t have to end just because, say, Abdourhamane moves to Conakry. So anyways, that I think had been one of the biggest fears gnawing at me- I didn’t want to leave Mamou and have everything disappear. But Ama Sara totally made me see how silly I was being!

One year ago

September 28, 2009: a day that started like any other, but ended up drastically changing the path I thought my life was on.

Last night I woke up at 3:30 am and heard the rain falling outside for the first time in months. I immediately was transported back to my bedroom in Mamou, where I would lay in bed listening to the rain fall on the tin roof for hours. And what used to be a soothing, peaceful experience in Mamou has become a memory-lurching sleep-depriving one here in Charlottesville. I was back in Mamou until my alarm went off at 6:30 am.

And the strangest part?

Today is the anniversary of the killings/rapings that were in Conakry's (Guinea's capital) stadium at a peaceful protest concerning the upcoming elections.

I know it's been months since I've written (I still haven't finished my Guinean homecoming recount) but given to this anniversary's significance, let me just give you the rest of that letter (subsequent post).

On a reflective note, it pains me to acknowledge the fact that Guinea has been having "upcoming" elections for a full year now. I was wearing a t-shirt with a Guinean presidential candidate on it and a janitor asked me whose face was on it. "A candidate for Guinea's upcoming presidential elections" I answered. Great, with 2009 emblazoned across the front.

The excitement and hope surrounding the elections in 2009 was outrageous. Democracy was going to work, we were sure of it. People were registering to vote, election committees from all over the world were helping out. And now- a year later, and to what avail? Sorry, the dictator got shot in the head. Sorry, trucks couldn't get ballots to this part of the country. Sorry, I need more time to get candidates to like me. Sorry, it's Ramadan and we're too hungry to vote. Excuses have run dry, and judging by the tones of my friends back there, it sounds like hope has too. Really, it is amazing that America got it right the first time. It defies so many human-instincts to set up a smoothly functioning democracy, and BAM! Washington held power, turned over power, and walked away.

I love America.

(Minus our whacked-out healthcare system. But that's for another time.)

Guinean Homecoming, Part Un: Getting There. PLUS: VIDEO OF A BUSH TAXI RIDE!

I couldn't take the heat I was getting after having stopped writing.

But I'll be honest, sharing my adventures here in America are hard: because the people I'd be writing about would be reading this (and understand English.) I feel like I'd have to censor some parts, be politically correct in others, and I'd loose my flava.

That said, I wrote a letter to friends back in Botswana detailing my return to Guinea and I'd love to share excerpts. In installments, as to preserve your patience. I write a lot.

Getting There: plane to Senegal, 3 days in a taxi, and Day 1 in Guinea.

My 1^st week back in America was blissful, I felt like I’d escaped a hell and I was giddy with anticipation of my Mamou trip. I surprised a few of my best friends at their homes/work and went out one night with my sister in College Park. (At the bar I was dancing with a black guy, and Claire informed his posse of friends that I was more African than they were. Love her.) Claire dropped me off at the airport and when I went to check in the guy at the desk told me that I did not have a reservation for the flight to Dakar. WHAT? I showed him my confirmation, and he told me anyone could get a confirmation, but that my credit card had been denied (probably because I hadn’t used it the whole year prior). So I was at the airport with bags for Guinea and no plane ticket. I told him I needed to get on that flight, and he said there were a few seats left (the airport was chaos because of a volcano that erupted and flights all over Europe/Asia were cancelled due to ash)but that the price was something like $1800. I told him that he was crazy and that I wanted the ticket at what I had paid originally. He told me it was impossible, called his superiors, and said that he was sorry, there was nothing he could do. Either I cough up $1800 or go home. Well … I have experience bargaining for tomatoes harder than this, so I gave it my Guinean best. And by the time I pulled out my last move, he made ‘the final call’ to his boss and got me my ticket at my original price.

I almost cried tears of joy when I landed in Dakar (SO close!) and actually did tear up when I touched down into Labe (Guinean soil). And of course tears and cries and shouts and applause and laughter and a million other emotions pulsed through my body when I got out of the taxi at the taxi gare in Mamou and the whole gare (taxi depot) and petit marche (market) erupted into cheers and tears and WOW- it was a welcoming that I will never forget. Ama Sara was the only one who was in on the surprise visit and he’d been so excited he waited over an hour at the gare to pick me up (despite it being a 4 minute walk from home). After hugging every market lady and picking up every baby as I made my way through the market, I composed my tears long enough to walk towards my house when I saw Kanja (my carpenter/café man with missing fingers) who ran out of his café, threw his hands in the air and screamed “am I dreaming?” The hugs and crying recommenced. Eventually I made it onto my street and my worst fear never occurred- all the kids ran up and knee-hugged me screaming “Kiki Barry” and neighbors and On Jaaramas were all over the place! Ama Sara and the other guy carrying my bag dropped everything off at Ama Sara’s before I walked to my compound, where the guard and all the other neighbors had the shock of their lives! They knew I was coming but didn’t know when, and it was SO fun surprising them! I had hidden a key and the moment I unlocked my front door (of my old house) a team of 15 neighbors and petits rushed in and started cleaning EVERYTHING. I didn’t realize what a mess I’d left in the aftermath of the evacuation. But all my furniture was taken out, boxes sorted, even my mosquito net was taken down and washed. I kept trying to pick up a broom or a mop but eventually gave in to everyone yelling at me to go shower. And damn, did I need a shower.

In a former life I must have done something terrible to piss off the taxi gods, because I never get a good ride. Our taxi broke down more times

than I can count, I was caked with a THICK layer of dirt and exhausted. The first night I was told to get out of the taxi and spend the night at a town before the final destination I paid for- a guy (who worked

for PC Senegal) helped me find a taxi for Guinea that would leave the next day at 7am and helped me transfer my bags. I had no idea where I was, if this was a good idea, where I would sleep- I was totally at the mercy of the Peuls. Which, if you have to be at the mercy of a subset of strangers, I guess this is where my luck comes in. The man then told me to take my money, leave ALL my bags in the taxi, and we walked about two blocks away to the gendarmerie where he asked if I could spend the night, thinking it would be safer/more comfortable than on the ground next to the taxi. Again, leap of faith leaving the bags- but what can you do? The gendarme let me use his hole in the ground to shower, and my limited Pular got me a towel and water from a nice lady. The next morning I showed up at the taxi to find the greatest group of boys ever- all young Guinean merchants working in Dakar (Senegal). One started off by buying a giant bowl of bouille (pounded rice in sugar) for everyone in our car to share. We started joking around in Pular, sharing a meal- I teared up because this was my first interaction with Guineans and made me so anxious

to get to Mamou to share food and conversation with my boys. The taxi ride through Guinea was

incredible. Yes, it was long and hard. I’ve never been so dirty and eaten more dirt in my life. But it was BEAUTIFUL. Through forests and parks and sand and jungle … the road is actually like a hiking trail with rocks and roots and everything that makes you think “Appalachian Trail” and not “national road.”

After the longest shower ever at Ama Sara’s (washing insane quantities of dirt out of your hair with a cup and bucket of water is NOT efficient) I walked over to his room to find he had made an avacado salad for us, bought bread and even bottled water for me. We shared a meal together and it was honestly one of the h

appiest moments of my life. I had actually arrived and made it to Mamou. And no one could take that away from me at this point.

(Photo One: Mid-taxi ride, broken down in this village for about 5 hours. Note the dirt caked on my shirt. And if you do notice the dirt caked on my face, please realize this is after having washed it once an hour for 32 hours.)

(Photo Two: Our bush taxi broken down.)

(Photo Three: Our bush taxi broken down (no surprise here) with about 9 mechanics, most under the age of 12, trying to fix it.)

(Video: Want to check out what a bush taxi ride is really like? There are 11 people in the car, 2 on top and we did this for 2 nights/3 days.)

Playing Carmen Sandiego.

Alright it’s been a little while since I wrote and there is some clarifying to be done.

Yes, I am finished with Peace Corps.

(HELLZ) No, I am not in Botswana.

Yes, I did sneak back to Guinea for one last party.

And YES … I AM IN AMERICA!!!

 

I finished my time in Botswana shortly after Easter (post-flamingo hunting) and made moves for the capital city, did some medical/dental exams for Peace Corps, and touched down in the US for a few undercover days (I had big plans to surprise my sister ... but when I went to put my luggage in the trunk of the car at the airport she jumped out screaming SURPRISE!) before hopping back on a plane to Senegal where I stayed with the family of an old boss for 48 luxurious hours. After getting back in the swing of eating with my hands and speaking le francais, I hustled my way into a bush taxi and appeared three days later in Mamou, Guinea, filled with absurdly high hopes for the best vacation of my life. My high hopes were exceeded in this city of dreams, and two weeks later I reluctantly made moves across borders and over rivers out of Guinea and back through Senegal in busted taxis and SUVs with traditional doctors and possessed patients. I spent 2 more days with the lovely Diop family in Dakar (and promised to stay longer in the future) and caught flight SA207 back to Washington DC. I’m back in Maryland at the Mulligan household for about three weeks and then I’m off again (but still in the continental US) to Charlottesville, Virginia where I’m starting a Post-bacc Premed Program for the next 12 months. (It’s a program for kids who picked the wrong major in college – like me – that will get me the science classes & skills to get into medical school.)

 

Any questions? Likely. Even I have tons. Like how am I going to pay for school? And when can I get back to Guinea? And where can I get a free TB shot? And when is Obama going to fix our busted healthcare system that has me running from doctor to doctor without any treatment? But those answers will come (inch-ALLAH). In the mean time I’m sticking with basics like relearning how to use a washing machine and order food at a restaurant.

 

I have a few outrageous and heartwarming tales from my time in (and my trek to/from) Guinea that I’ll post soon. But the official announcement needed to be made: I am back.

 

(Old cell phone number is back up and running. As is my more badass number, 425.200.KIKI)

The Challenges of Hunting Flamingos.

Easter weekend. 

Sua Pans.

Sua Pans are these flat barren wastelands, deriving their name from the local word for salt. Salt is found on these pans, and nothing else. However, guide books amp up the thousands of bare square kilometers of salt pans for their ethereal danger. Adventure junkies beware: Thou shall not venture into the pans with out two 4 wheel drive vehicles. Or a GPS. Or 3 days supply of food and water more than what you plan. Because lets face it, if both cars in your party get stuck and your GPS runs out of batteries, it doesn't matter how many days supply of water you have- you are never finding your way back.

And did I mention- when there's been substantial rain, the pans fill up with a few inches of water. The water and salt then attract the world's largest concentration of- who would ever believe- FLAMINGOS!

So the Peace Corps Volunteers decide this is definitely the party place for Easter weekend. Let's have a "Burning Man Festival" and go camping on the edge of the pans. PCVs set it up- they built a giant inflammable man and bought hundreds dollars worth of steak and sausage. All we had to do was show up with tents and booze.

We met at the PCVs house in the town where the salt miners live, crammed into the back of a pickup, and drove out to the pan's edge. Driving in we saw some wildebeest and far, far into the 

horizon we noticed a white fuzzy line. What in the world? Yes, thousands upon thousands of flamingos!! Definitely a treat- rain was all but nonexistent this season and I was certainly not expecting this. While most people started setting up camp immediately, Sacha, Ashley and I wanted to explore a little bit. We're only here once- YOLO, right?

The three of us start walking towards "the horizon." There really aren't any landmarks. The ground starts as dry, cracked mud. Which slowly gives way to soggy, gooey mud (ideal for 

moonwalking). Which eventually turned into shallow water as we approached the birds. Their tracks were everywhere- millions upon millions of flamingo footprints and hot pink feathers scattered the mud. We walked for over an hour into the pans, leaving behind deep footprints that we were confident would lead the way back to camp. After all, we'd read the books. Getting lost and becoming a Sua Pan Statistic didn't seem all that far-fetched. Compounding the excitement was the setting sun.

So not only were we "walking" (sliding? cross-country skiing without skis?) as fast as we could through thick mud to the flamingos before we were left in total darkness, but the gorgeous sunset in the sky was being reflected in the shallow water at our feet.

After what seemed like miles and two very sore calves into the trek, we finally saw them: THOUSANDS OF FEEDING FLAMINGOS! Nothing quite prepares you for that. The birds saw us coming (despite my brilliant idea for us to walk closely together so that we appear as one animal in lieu of three) and they stopped feeding, squared up to us, and extended their wings in an attempt to scare us off. 

Futile. Flamingos don't scare me.

So we continued our approach, and eventually scared the flock. Which wasn't a terrible thing- 

because it resulted in thousands of flamingos flying over our heads while the sun was setting. Words can't capture the beauty of the experience, and neither can photo nor video. I tried. I failed.

After that experience, we had to hustle back to camp before the sun dipped below the horizon. When we got back into cell phone range Jake had called me worrying about whether we were still alive. PCVs (while braiing up some steaks) were wondering if we'd make it back while the Batswana were telling stories of lost hikers. Seriously? Did they not think we knew what we were doing? We had sight of the camp and 3 sets of footprints and a flashlight to get back, but it was kind of cool knowing people were wondering if we'd survive. Not to mention people were upset they missed out on the experience and photos.

Who seriously chooses to set up a tent instead of going flamingo hunting?!

Another bonus: by the time we got back there were steaks waiting for us on the grill and the bonfire was almost prepared. We set the Burning Man aflame and enjoyed being the 4 Guinean refugees amongst the Botswana PCVs in their badass country. The night ended with a violent sandstorm that broke up the party, but when the sand stopped blowing and we could open our eyes again the lighting striking down onto the pan was yet another example of how big and powerful Nature is and made me thankful for having seen the Sua Pans in the raw.

Getting Wild in Shoshong

Shoshong, my village, is counted as one of the two "original" villages of Botswana. Ancient hills surrounding the village emmanate a sense of history and grandeur, and naturally I've wanted to explore. A while back Jake and I climbed a hill overlooking the village and it was great- but I wanted more. I wanted to play with a local. 

Perfect solution? Instead of sitting around doing nothing in my clinic with my "PMTCT team" I figured that time would be better spent spending the day exploring with them- and we could educate anyone we found in the bush on AIDS as we went. The team was down, and before I knew it me, my friend Smalls, and two girls set out into the bush.

I love hiking in chinos and a cardigan.

The hills give way to an old riverbed still strewn with rocks, and you find yourself in the gorge that must have been cut away millions of years ago by strong waters. We found a few waters sources, took a plethora of pictures, and stumbled into a herd of cattle. The guys tending the cattle were outraged when they saw me- "What are you doing here?!" They didn't believe me when I told them I lived in Shoshong, and they wanted nothing to do with a white person in this isolate and undiscovered spot. Rumors about developing a tourist site in Shoshong are rife, and they feared I was the first of the Sea Vomit to invade their privacy. The guy went on to say he lived in a cave four kilometers up the mountain and had never been to Shoshong, but that I was only allowed to come back to treat his illnesses (he thinks I'm a doctor). After a lot of unfriendly conversation in Setswana that I didn't need translated to understand, my friends and I turned around and started hiking back the way we came. Angry cattle farmer scared us off. 

Smalls and I decided we wanted to hike up one of the hills, which are actually just giant boulders stacked upon each other. We left the two girls at the bottom to wait and set off, hoping to be back in two hours time. Climbing up was a blast and the views were spectacular. Getting near the top, Smalls saw a small indentation on the rock filled with a tiny bit of water and goes "Kiki, I'm going to take a bath." I think he's joking, when he starts taking off his shirt. I think to myself "Dear God this boy is ridiculous, it's not like he hasn't showered before work this morning and I really don't want to see him in his underwear" but I laugh and say "okay I'll turn around." This guy (who has kids and a wifey) then proceeds to take off ALL his clothes on top of the mountain and tells me I can take pictures!!! Turned the opposite direction, I just yell at Smalls to enjoy his bath and that no, I am not taking naked photos of him on top of the mountain. (I got cajoled into taking PG ones)

Eventually his luxury bath comes to an end (and I'm not going to lie- I was a little jealous of his experience, especially since my house has had no water for two months and I needed the bath more than him) and we start descending the hill. We collect some medicinal herbs from the mountain that only grow out of this rock, found a few caves, and Smalls taught me how his ancestors used to run up the hills during times of battle and heave boulders down to crush their enemies. Getting the bottom my legs were shaky and the two girls went through our pictures ... and decided that they were jealous that Smalls vindicated himself on the mountaintop. They too wanted their shot at freedom. And before I know it Diana and Nkamu are hopping from rock to rock in their underwear, demanding a photo shoot. 

Who am I friends with? And why do they all like to run around without their clothes? 

These people are insane.

Anyways later on in the day I'm hanging around "town" and this mentally retarded guy that I love named John comes up. It was the first time I had my camera out and of course John was fascinated, so I decided to teach him to use it. John had a ball- and quickly mastered the point and shoot. He went all around the village taking pictures of EVERYTHING and EVERYONE. So I know have a few hundred pictures on my camera of close-ups of peoples faces (John never learned how to zoom, so he would stick the camera right into peoples faces. I love people with no inhibitions) and the reactions on peoples' faces are priceless. Some people pose, but most people in Shoshong look pissed off that this retarded boy is sticking a camera in their face. 

So between my friends running around without clothes in Shoshong Hills and angry people with watermelon on their heads, I have pictures that will forever leave me laughing about ridiculous times in Shoshong. It really is the best village in Botswana.

And for added entertainment. I love this guy:

Exorcisms and Afterthoughts

Botswana is a predominantly Christian nation. There are a multitude of churches (ranging from conservative white-clad ladies to a more extreme sect that drinks gallons of a coffee-oil-sugar mixture to puke out the devil) and my door is frequently being knocked upon by sweet ladies inquiring about the status of my soul. However, beneath the strong religious exterior lay vibrant and unyielding traditional beliefs. Call it Voodoo, call it witchcraft, call it a respect for the ancestors. But whether or not the Batswana partake in its activities, I have yet to meet a single person to discount the role of the spirits in everyday life. Which leads me to a few weekends ago, in which I had my single coolest moment in Shoshong.

I attended a Voodoo exorcism.

My brother here is a traditional doctor, and a guy was sick and came to him. My brother first sent the man to the hospital (I give him points for blending modern and traditional medicine) and he got better, but then fell sick again. Diagnosis of the guy? Americans would say he was suffering from a mental illness, but here it was determined he was possessed by the ancestors. The exorcism went like this: we were about 30 in number, and we lined up and got marked with white chalk/face paint on our faces, took our shoes off, and sat down in the sand. Then we all started clapping out a steady rhythm while people took turns summoning the guy's ancestors by name. After calling them out for a while, my brother's apprentice brought out a slaughtered and dissected goat, and began dropping it in a hole dug in the ground, piece by piece. First was the heart. My brother explained they dropped in the best parts … the eyes for the old men (ancestors), the tongue for the ladies, and also the kidneys for the ladies, because the ladies (ancestors) really like the kidneys. Finally the head was put it, positioned towards the west where the sun sets. The ancestors move with the sun, and since they were summoning the ancestors out of that guy's body, they wanted those spirits to rest where the sun rests. Then the family members took the intestines together, made a circle of it, and together placed it around these stacked body parts while chanting. People then started cheering Batswana style: open your mouth, make a high-pitched scream, and move you tongue from side to side. Kind of sounds like that Indian hand to mouth rhythm you do when you’re a kid and playing pilgrims and Indians. So it's hilarious when old ladies start making this noise. But then, they take the pure white skin of the goat and place it over the hole. Next, the traditional beer that had been fermenting all week in a trashcan next to my house was poured into an adjacent hole. Again, more "cheering." I was told the ancestors really like traditional beer. Then they took the goat meat that was cooked, scooped it out of the cauldron with a chunk of bone and onto some special leaves positioned in the sand. I was ready for a ritualistic bonfire, but then people started chowing down! So the ceremony ended with eating meat and drinking beer, like any good exorcism. (I later asked my brother how he knew if he'd successfully treated his patient. He told me that his wasn't a complicated case.)

It was a great evening on a lot of different levels. Yes, seeing an exorcism is one of those "Peace Corps" experiences that I'll never forget. And also meeting the man we were healing was also insightful. I hadn't known he was at the ceremony until afterwards … and I can only hope my brother cured him. Because he looked like a crazy person. And there was a sense of accomplishment on being let in, on being trusted enough to partake in such a ritual. The ancient rituals are something that are strenuously kept on the down-low from white people, and understandably. We're quick to be judgmental, skeptical and discount such a ceremony's authenticity. I'd spent a lot of time with my brother and his friends showing them that I think there is more to healing than modern medicine. Traditional medicine, herbal medicine, acupuncture, hypnosis and Voodoo … they're all related. They all transcend a rigid scientific approach and push into another realm. Spirits, ancestors, herbs, positive thinking … each creating an atmosphere in which the body can heal itself without chemical tablets.

Now I don't plan on going to med school and do my residency in a cave learning traditional medicine (the story of my brother: his dad passed away, he became severely depressed and went to see a traditional doctor in a cave in the mountains to get healed. He ended up spending four months in the caves and came down from the mountains a traditional doctor himself. His mom was quite upset when this meant he dropped out of law school.) But I do find it interesting that 75% of all Voodoo ceremonies are attempts to drive away illness. And you can't argue with the fact that these people wouldn't place such strong faith in traditional medicine if it didn't work … after all, they've had thousands of years to determine its efficiency. Do I think slaughtered goats and chanting expel demons? It's not my place to say. But I do think that my brother is on to something in blending ancient rituals, mobilizing the community and utilizing modern medicinal resources to drive away illnesses. I wonder what would happen if he made a guest appearance to a psychiatric hospital in the US …

Dreadlocks and Kidnappings.

So I've wanted dreads for two years.

Working at a law firm? No way.
Peace Corps? Thought it was my shot, until I found myself in a conservative Muslim society in Guinea. No dreads.
Peace Corps round 2 in Botswana? Yes ... there's a thriving rasta subgroup here, I could totally pull them off "this side."

So a few months ago, I made an appointment and show up. Three hours later, the guy who was going to do them didn't show up. He had "babalas" ... AKA a killer hangover. No shame in it though- if you tell people you're hungover, then it's a legit excuse. So, no dreads.

Until today.

I found a great lady, she used to own a salon, and she said she'd do my dreads- for free! All I had to do was show up at her place at 9am today. No problem, right? I show up bright eyed for the big day (I was a little nervous) and I see her. Catherine. Bright and shining with a tye-dye dress and a frog-resembling umbrella to shield her from the sun. I didn't remember her looking so crazy. And then she says "Kiki, I promised my pastor I would meet him quickly, will you come with me and then we'll do your hair?" Sure, no problem. She had told me numerous times I had to get to her town 'early' because my hair would take a while. Then last night she specified 9am. O, how convenient, your church starts at 9am? Geez, who would have thought?

So I got kidnapped and taken to church. And no, you all know I'm not a church hater. But I WILL ADMIT to being a hater of 3-hour church services. And a pastor who screams in the mic and my ears start bleeding. And then he exorcises demons out of churchgoers and they pass out on the floor. Yes, they pass out on the floor. But it's okay, because there's a "clean-up" crew who catches the bodies, lays them on the floor, and covers them with cloth. It's like a mini-funeral, until they rise again, potentially healed, about five minutes later.

Okay, so I got taken to church until noon. Big deal. I'm alive. Until we start walking and I find out we're still not going to her house to do my hair- no, we are going grocery shopping. SERIOUSLY lady? Fine. I'll buy some milk and bread while I'm at it.

But then we get to her house, and somehow, instead of getting some sweet dreads, I'm chopping spinach and sauteeing onions. I am now cooking, while a small chicken is running between my feet. We finally eat.

So now that we've prayed, shopped, chopped and feasted I'm hoping that FINALLY NOW we can begin the long process of dreading my hair. I untie my ponytail, let my hair down, and she starts playing. Thirty seconds later she produces the first dread. 30 seconds? Geez ... I had thought this would have taken a lot longer. I look at her first piece of work- and she had taken to strands of hair and twisted them together.

WHAT?! You thought I wanted my hair twisted? I did not come to Botswana to look like Rainbow Brite. So I tell her no, DREADLOCKS! She argues a bit, tell me how hot the Rainbow Brite Twists will look, and then I say, forget it. Next time. So she wants to play with my hair anyways ... it's fine. Usually I like this lady. And before I know it here I am, not with dreads, but two beautifully childish pigtail braids.

And that is the story of how I always look so hot in the Peace Corps.

If you drink traditional beer, you can't get AIDS

I keep getting asked what a typical day is like in Shoshong, so I'm gonna give it a shot. I have good days and bad days.

Bad day:
6:30am- wake up
7:15am- at my health clinic, listen to a meeting in Setswana and no one translates
7:30am- head to the PMTCT (Prevention of Mother to Child Transmission) office and sit there with our testing counselor and other workers ... conversations go like this:
Me: "Smalls, how was your weekend?"
Smalls: "Oh, it was GREAT!! xxixixisdajkl...Setswana speak...asidjcxi"
and then I listen to a roomful of people laughing and having fun, and no one will translate.I will get "Kiki, why don't you understand Setswana yet? We aren't going to speak English. And no, we aren't going to speak Setswana more slowly because you need to understand it like we speak it- fast."
8:00am- At this point I'm so mad, frustrated and angry (it takes all my strength not to remind them how I speak slowly with beginner words for THEM) that I walk home, muttering every curse word under my breath, until I calm down at home. Then I stay at home for the rest of the day or visit friends or meet other people in the community.

Good Day:
6:30am- wake up
7:15am- at my health clinic, and me and my team of people go around the community to visit the police station, the water treatment plant, the chief's office, and even to peoples homes to talk to them about HIV. We ask them questions, teach them about our PMTCT program and show them how to use condoms. (And yes, since I don't yet speak fluent Setswana, I get to demonstrate how to use the condoms.) The PMTCT program is an attempt to start an "HIV Free Generation" and we need pregnant ladies to test for the virus, and if they're positive to go through the program so they can give birth to a negative child. It was noticed that mothers in this program had a lot of questions with no one to answer them, like how to prepare formula, for example. Enter Diana, our Peer Mother. Then it was found that even these mothers weren't complying with the steps of PMTCT, and it was because their partners weren't supporting them. Enter Smalls, our Peer Male. So Diana, Smalls and I go around Shoshong to let people know what the PMTCT program is, whey it's so important, and let them know that there is a team of people to visit them in their homes (where they are most comfortable) to support them in any capacity needed. Diana and I get to go to homes, and Smalls and I go into bars (where the boys are at!) I love talking with these people and hearing their ideas and experiences. My favorite: if you drink traditional beer, you won't get HIV. I told this guy that maybe if you drank traditional beer AND used protection you wouldn't get HIV. His response? "Have you RESEARCHED traditional beer? I don't think so. So until you perform the research on traditional beer you can't know." Touchee.


Other news- I got a puppy yesterday! I've been trying for a while now, and then Vince just fell into my lap quite easily. He's a little bit of a "fixer-upper" ... he's got a few bald spots, was covered in ticks and i can count his ribs. BUT- he's the sweetest and calmest guy alive! When i picked him up from a neighboring village i just put him in a shoulder bag and the guy didn't move or cry at all. I decided that with a guy that calm, i could hitch-hike home. Sure enough, some guys picked me up and Vinny didn't make a sound. Then towards the end of the ride they were asking me what I do after work so I told them "well I just got a puppy today so I'll be playing with him" and they turn around and I take Vince out of the bag- and these guys LOST it! they thought it was hilarious that this white chick smuggled a puppy into their car. They didn't even make me pay for gas :)

Also, a HUGE thanks is in order. Kristi- thank you for Mountains Beyond Mountains!! This is the book that made me ditch finance and work in an AIDS clinic in Botswana if anyone wants to know. Michelle- thank you for the BAAA-TSSS-WAAANNAAA remix that I can't wait to share with my crew over here. We do crank it Lion King. Jackie- thanks for the beautiful "Reassurance Journal" that I picked up from the post office on my worst day in Shoshong. Perfect timing. Kate- a box full of TREATS?! Trader Joe everything?! I died ... you saved me. Mom-body butter when my skin was drying out. Dad- a french coffee press!! (I'm still in need of that coffee..)Jen- BOGGLE?! you know I loved that one, even if my friends won't bring it the way you did. and for a Runners World that got me out of the house for my best run... 14 uniform-clad school kids AND a guy jumped off his donkey cart to join me for part of it! it was incredible ... and hilarious. And for all the phone calls (Dad, Chuk and Ryan), hilarious emails (Carrie), letters (Rachel/Emma for the latest) ... THANK YOU! I love you guys and am so thankful for all of you!!

The Longest Vacation I Ever Loved.

Happy New Year everyone!

Okay so I am currently “on holiday” as we say here … and it has been one hell of a holiday. By the time I arrive back in sweet Shoshong it will have been over three weeks of nonstop partying, hitch-hiking, and camping. Best. Vacation. Ever.

So it all started back in December when some PCVs threw a pool party for us new Guinea volunteers, Jake came back to Shoshong with me for a few days and we climbed my beautiful hills. Jake was barefoot. Still no baboons, still no ancestors. We did, however, set my “kitchen” (a room consisting of both couches and a stove) on fire. We were experimenting with rice, I added water to hot oil and BAM a flame shoots up (next to my giant gas tank) and starts crawling across my celing. Jake and I stood and watched, and laughed hysterically when it calmed down. All I could think was “Peace Corps forgot to give us the fire extinguishers.”

My water in my village ran out (and its not like Guinea- there are NO wells, so when there’s no water, there’s no water) so Jake and I packed up and headed out to his place to get ready for Christmas. Sacha came and we baked and cooked and danced and partied ‘til the 26th, and when we decided we had maxed out on “gluttony” and “sloth” we packed up and moved out to visit our 4th link, Ashely who lives at a UNESCO World Heritage site (aka the BUSH), to indulge on the other 5 deadly sins. We left Jake’s site at 5:00am after Christmas and after a hellacious day of travel, arrived an hour away from Ashley’s site at about 10:00pm. Utterly exhausted, we started looking for her counterpart who was going to drive us to Tsodilo Hills. All of a sudden this scrawny 6 foot black dude with dreads and thick glasses calls out in his cartoon character voice: “dude, you guys ready to party? We’re gonna drink at the bar, go to the military camp, then hit up a barbeque before we head home.” So we piled in his car with our backpacks, tents, sleeping bags, and groceries and wind up at various parties and bars (when all I wanted to do was collapse from exhaustion. But Batsawna party … so when in Rome…). We eventually made it to Ashely’s concrete hole in the wall at about 3am and surprised her by jumping in bed. She thought we’d been a lost cause, and no one could call her because she lives in the BUSH and has no cell phone.

So, then we camped out in Tsodillo Hills for a few nights. I perfected my campfire making abilities, we climbed the highest point in Botswana, saw some of the world’s oldest Rock Paintings and then realized that we were stranded, and had no way of getting out of her site to head to our New Year’s Party. Stranded miles away from a main road, I decided that I was going to charm my way into some fancy tourists’ car if my life depended on it. I ran until I found some tourists from Sweeden, quickly made friends, and begged for a lift. They were about to say there was no room and I say “we’re Peace Corps. We can fit inside any car, no matter how much room or how much luggage. I’m going to get my friends, we’ll leave in 5 minutes.” The Sweedes ended up being a blast and gave us a GREAT lift for free, and dropped us at the border of Botswana and Namibia. The 4 of us now had to find a way to get someone to let us hitch hike across the river on the ferry and into even more bush. A few hours later we found a pickup truck and climbed in back. With 8 other people. So it was PACKED- we were piled high with all of our luggage, plus theirs and settled in for a long, bumpy, dirt-road ride. And did I mention, it was POURING?! So we were in the back of an open pickup truck for hours in the rain. We were cold, bruised and muddy by the time we arrived to a village where another pickup truck was waiting to take us to our New Years Party Hotspot. It is (literally) at the end of the world and after traveling through grass (not even a dirt road- people tie toilet paper to trees so they can find their way back) we arrived at this backpacker’s joint that’s being built. So New Years consisted of partying in the bush with hippos, under a full moon, with about 20 other people in the middle of nowhere. It was fantastic. However, we woke up on the first to realize that ALL THE OTHER volunteers had left. Seriously. We looked around and decided we were shipwrecked. Stranded. Ashely at this point goes “we’ll never make any friends” and honestly, the Guinea PCVs are definitely the outsiders. But to be stranded in the bush? Dissed. Luckily the girl who’s building the backpackers and her cousins were around another day, so they gave us a lift to a “nearby” village the following day and we hitched back up the far side of Okavango Delta, over the ferry, and back down to a tourist destination named Maun. (That sounds simple- it took 2 days.)

So now Maun is where all you fancy white tourists go to spend big bucks, and us Peace Corps Volunteers just look hungry and helpless. But we did indulge and took a CRAZY flight over the Okavango Delta (world’s largest inland delta!) to see elephants, zebras, hippos, giraffes and such. Our pilot asked us if we wanted to have some fun (duh!) so we soon found ourselves zipping really low along the ground and doing some acrobatic stunts. SO FUN! We also took a hollowed out tree trunk (traditional mokoro) trip through the delta and we felt like Pocahontas floating through the reeds. It was incredible. We stayed at a great backpackers place and made friends with management who took us out on 1am boat trips to continue after-hours partying. Maun could probably be described as the “Sin City” of Botswana. Like Vegas. Beautiful, but could be troublesome if you don’t watch yourself. (No worries, I watch myself. Obviously.)

So after a few nights in Maun we headed back to Jake’s again because there’s this Peace Corps meeting in a nearby town coming up. Still with Sacha and Jake. Jake and I are about to celebrate our 3 weeks of being joined at the hip anniversary, but these kids are GREAT to travel with. STILL not sick of each other, still not sick of camping: I’m super impressed.

PS- I just ate my first worm. Delicacy? Sike. I screamed.

So Christmas and New Years has been a blast over here. I miss all of you guys (and the apparent blizzard back home!) Love you and hope you all had great holidays over there!! 2010!!!