YOLO in Guinea. And Botswana. And America & everywhere else in this life.

Guinean Homecoming, Part Trois: Getting back to Senegal

2010-09-28T23:31:00.002-04:00

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

2010-09-28T23:22:00.002-04:00

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

2010-09-28T22:58:00.004-04:00

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!

2010-06-08T17:25:00.007-04:00

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.

2010-05-13T10:01:00.004-04:00

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.

2010-04-13T13:30:00.010-04:00

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

2010-04-11T09:10:00.007-04:00

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

2010-03-11T06:34:00.000-05:00

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.

2010-03-07T08:50:00.006-05:00

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

2010-02-04T02:22:00.000-05:00

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.

2010-01-18T04:27:00.001-05:00

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!!!

Sea Vomit? Hakuna Matata.

2009-12-14T08:08:00.004-05:00

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!

2009-11-27T03:43:00.004-05:00

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

2009-10-28T07:01:00.003-04:00

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

2009-10-23T14:43:00.002-04:00

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

2009-10-18T13:26:00.002-04:00

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

2009-10-16T06:42:00.003-04:00

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.

2009-10-09T04:42:00.000-04:00

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.

2009-09-30T06:24:00.002-04:00

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.

2009-09-14T06:10:00.002-04:00

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.

2009-08-31T08:49:00.004-04:00

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

2009-08-24T13:56:00.003-04:00

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

2009-07-29T13:04:00.005-04:00

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

The tour starts with the family room, you might en joy 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

2009-07-29T12:38:00.003-04:00

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

2009-07-29T12:18:00.004-04:00

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

2009-06-15T11:08:00.000-04:00

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

2009-06-13T15:53:00.003-04:00

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.

2009-06-13T13:27:00.008-04:00

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.

2009-06-13T13:06:00.002-04:00

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

2009-06-08T08:13:00.004-04:00

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

2009-05-20T12:11:00.003-04:00

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

2009-04-25T09:19:00.005-04:00

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

2009-04-25T08:45:00.003-04:00

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

2009-04-23T08:43:00.006-04:00

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

2009-04-16T07:44:00.002-04:00

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.

Eating Breakfast with the 7.5-Fingered Enemy.

2009-04-10T07:21:00.003-04:00

So things aren't always what they seem.

Back when I was still "in training" I came here to visit Mamou, and my last night of a week-long stay I was with a group of friends. We had just finished finding dinner somewhere and were search of a cold beer. That being nearly impossible on two fronts. The COLD part, considering we're in Africa with electricity so infrequent refridgerators are a scarcity, and the BEER part, considering I live in a superficially strict Muslim culture (I've since found out that shanningans are shanningans, no matter how conservative you try to front). Anyways, on the way to my house we saw this shack ... it's about the size of a garage and the walls are round sticks of wood assembled so that you can peer through them. There was a dim light on inside. Looked sketchy. Had we just found the bar? Feeling confident in our numbers ... we were 6 ... we braved the awkwardness of rolling into a new joint, completely and utterly foreign. We go in, murmmer a few salutations, and unsure of what to do next, sit down. A guy comes up to us and asks us what we want. Afraid to straight up order a beer, in case its not a bar, we ask what they have to drink. The reply is "orange soda, coca cola, and water." Disappointed, we order sodas. Laughing and defeated that we failed for another time in trying to figure this darned place out. As we're drinking our sodas, which might I add are cold, we hear a bleeting from the dark corner of the shack. And then we realize the stench of manure. Oh yes, this was a combo restaurant/barn. The owner keeps his sheep in his 'restaurant' at night. Health inspection USA would have a field day. We're in shock at the absurdity of the whole situation ... a sketchy bar, no alcohol, orange sodas and livestock. We're reduced to admitting how confusing this whole thing is.

But fast foward now two months, to a few weeks ago.

I was walking by the shack which I hadn't braved since that one absurd night. The guy shouts out "Kiki Barry!" I say hello back. And then I realize that he's sawing some wood. Is this maniac also a carpenter? I need a carpenter. I should add here that finding a good carpenter is near impossible. (You commission carpenters to come over and make you want you want, to order. There are no IKEAs or furniture stores here to buy ready-made goods). I had one carpenter come over to install a simple screen door, but after demolishing my cement walls, flooding my family room with wood shavings as he tried to "resize" the door on my coffee table, coming back after stealing money with paint the wrong color inside an empty coke can and using a PLASTIC BAG INSTEAD OF A PAINTBRUSH to repaint the walls the guy knocked out, I'd had enough. I'd rather keep my clothes in their suitcases than deal with another nightmare. But seeing my sketchy non-bartender man sawing that wood out there, I was filled with a strange sense of hope and optimism. So I go over, we talk, shake hands (I realize that on his right hand he's got a thumb and 4 half-fingers. Maybe he's not as skilled as I'd hoped?) and I learn that in addtion to making spaghetti, selling unpasturized yogurt, offering phone cards, hosting football-viewing parties and of course, boarding livestock, this bro also is a carpenter. Score. I tell him I've got some work for him and I'd like him to come over to the house to show him my drawings/dimensions for a bar-height table and a dresser. He says he'll be over in 20 minutes.

Three days later this bro shows up. I was serving breakfast to a friend and PC staff person, so what's a 4th person? I invited the enemy for breakfast. I felt sneaky. Befriend the carpenter- the one man who is sure to make your life a living hell and overcharge you way to much money just because you're white. I sat him down, poured him a cup of coffee and a gave him some baguette and we talked about the family. Eventually the PC person/friend left and me and carpenter got down to business. We share the same last name, Barry, automatically making us family. Whether or not we settled on a good price, I have no idea. But what I do know is that this guy is a genuinely nice guy. I like him a lot. I stop by the sketchy bar now from time to time just to say hi and shoot the breeze. And he works a TON, as evidenced by his broad array of offerings.

Last night after a rough week and an especially rough volleyball practice I was hungry and thought I'd stop by the sketchy bar shack to see if there was food tonight. I'm still intimidated going somewhere new, becuase you really never know what to expect. But I saw my friend and he told me for dinner I had my choice of peas (yes, just peas), spaghetti, or an egg sandwich. Egg sandwich?! I effing thought it was Christmas. I sat down, watched the football game on TV, took in the scent of sheep feces reminding me of home, and ate the best egg sandwich in Mamou made by a guy missing half his fingers. He even appeared a few moments later and gave me a free baggie of water (Guinea being the only place I know of to sell peanuts in plastic bottles and water in plastic bags). And then I realized that this guy was still working outside, at 9pm at night with no lighting except the full moon, on my furniture. And now I'm even more sure I like this guy. He works harder than anyone I've met so far in a diverse array of activities, and is giving. I felt bad that with the free water, he ended up loosing money on me. But then I looked at the furniture he was making for me, realized I probably am paying way too much, and ate my meal without worrying about a thing.

Villages and Brothels (only kind of)

2009-04-02T10:27:00.003-04:00

So yesterday I actually did a little bit of "work" here. (Although to be clear, everything is work here ... amplified to the power of ten. You want a cup of tea? Okay, go to the well, pull up some water, filter it, bleach it, light your gas stove and boil it and make the drink. Now that you've drank it, go back to the well, pull some more water and do your dishes before mice and ants attack.)

But yesterday morning I went into the office and got told I was being sent "au village" to help collect some loans that had been given out a few months ago. I love going out to the villages, because it reminds me that I am lucky to live in Mamou, and hella luckier to call America home. So I climb in the Land Rover with 2 other ladies from work and our chauffer, and we start the 40 minute drive towards some town of which I can neither say nor spell the name. Not even our chauffer knows how to find this far-out place, but no worries. We just pull over and ask people and ... this is the good part ... they say "it's over there" and throw out a pointed finger in any which direction. But what's funny is, our chauffer doesn't ask any further questions. He simply thanks the man, continues driver in the direction of "over there" until he feels like asking the next man. It's like that everywhere. Even when creepers in town ask me where I live, I can just easily say "I live over there" and they accept that as a full and compete response. Anyways, after asking a few guys on the road where the village is, we turn off the main road and drive a ways on the dirt road and figured we found the village when we saw the cluster of huts. Right on. So we get out of the car and find a building where we will be meeting the women ... it's a one room cement school, literally in the middle of nowhere. We waited about an hour until the first lady came ... and to summon the other ladies she grabs this pot and starts banging on it with a spoon. I think she's whack. But sure enough, within another hour, ladies with babies tied on their backs and bowls of rice on their heads start showing up. Finally our meeting commences, and these ladies were awesome- all of them paid back what was due (half of the principal of the loan). There was even one lady who didn't realize she only had to pay half back, and she paid back 90% of her loan. Of course, that caused some problems because she was "showing off" I guess ... a cat fight among toothless women armed with drooling babies broke out, but it got resolved quickly. But these women who live in these villages ... it's really something else. The school there only educates the young ones, so if you want to continue your studies, and if your family can afford it, you have to move elsewhere, like Mamou, to go to school. So it's awful, because everyone who IS in the village is virtually uneducated. I have NO clue what the men are doing, besides drinking tea all day... and the women just work. Getting these people into school seems to be the answer for ANY hope of a normal life over here. It's sad... because it's not easy. Especially when these young girls are popping out babies left and right. They say this is a conservative Muslim culture ... but it's no different than back home. It's just "undercover." My friends will be like "no, Kiki, I don't drink" but then when they find out that I'm cool with it, will bring out two bottles of wine that they hid in my bushes in my front yard, in hopes that I would drink with them. Hilarious.

Anyways after a few hours we had collected the money but now have to count it. In Guinea they have the equivalent of a $1, $5 and $10 bill. No higher than $10. So imagine counting out a couple Gs in $10 bills. It's a joke, really, with piles of money in front of you so high they keep falling over or spilling out of your purse ... but is hardly worth a hundred bucks. So we count the money and thank the ladies and tell them we'll be back to collect the remaining principal in a month. The whole ordeal took entirely too long by American standards, and everyone is really good at wasting everyone's time ... but it's just like that here. You have a job that should take 1 hour, well great ... but plan for 3. Even when I want to walk to the market that's 5 minutes from my house, it will take 20 minutes to get there. You have to stop and say hi to everyone ... and touch adorable little kids who run down the mountain screaming at the top of their lungs "Kiki! Kiki!" and in turn, summoning all the kids from the bottom of the mountain, so that I get attacked by 50 at the same time. Sometimes it's cute. Othertimes I want to drop kick them down the nearest well ... especially the ones with snot alllllll over the face.

But my day "au village" was good yesterday. Afterwards I attended a "dinner party" hosted by a French couple here. They constructed a brick oven in their backyard and we had pizza. A bunch of my Lebanese friends came with their hookahs, we were celebrating an Italian's last night here, a Guinean girl came as well as this Tunisian guy. It's funny, my life here. My friend and I are always joking that "I don't know what I'm doing in Guinea, but it's not Peace Corps" the way I always seem to be running around with various people and am never isolated and alone ... which are the 2 things most PCVs fear. So, I guess I'm lucky ... although I get overwhelmed by too many people quite often. Volunteers are at my door a few times a week as they're passing through the country since Mamou is the "intersection of Guinea" and then I've made a lot of Guinean friends who like to just "show up" at my house. I got pretty annoyed the other night when my 2 girlfriends were at my house the other night. I had bought something small for dinner and was starving after practice when Aisatou and Aisatou showed up. Of course ... I can't eat in front of them without offering them food, and like the true Guineans that they are, they both accepted. So we're eating my dinner that gets devoured before I can even taste it ... and I'm exhausted and still haven't showered. They tell me go ahead, go shower. Fine, I can't entertain guests 24/7 so I leave them in my family room and go take care of my candle-lit, incense-lit bucket bath. All of a sudden, I hear a guys voice in my house. I get out of my shower (again, shower is a term used verrry loosely. should I say bucket?) to find Bekaye, the bf of Aisatou at my house. It's like 9pm, too late for him to be at her house in this "conservative" culture. So what was that?! Did she come over to my house, just to invite him here to hang out? I was pretty ticked ... for the first time I felt used. Fortunately my friend Mohamed was on his way to pick me up to bring me back to his house, so they didn't last long. But still ... like I said, there is always someone at my house.

I don't have any crazy exciting news to tell as of now ... but life is fun and good. I've got good friends around me all the time, even when it's too much of the time. Work is fun. It's starting to move into the rainy season, which makes this place absolutely beautiful. This weekend I've got 3 really good friends coming over, so I'm really excited! It will be a time to hibernate a little inside the house (read: vacation from being a celebrity, it's no exaggeration) and we'll make some good food and hang out. Last time Nick and I made burritos ... including our own beans, own salsa, own tortillas and even our own cheese. Corinna and I made our own Reeses peanut butter cup the other night. We're pretty skilled over here ... rice 3x a day drives your determination and perserverence to new levels.

Love you all. Thanks for all the letters/packages/emails/fb messages and such ... and for not forgetting about me over here. Talk to you soon !

Volleyball Superstardom

2009-03-22T21:39:00.004-04:00

So the latest ridiculous thing from over here: I've joined Mamou's official volleyball team.

Yes, I was baffled to learn there was an organized league over here, but there's actually something with some relative sense of order here. There's a girls team and a guys team, they practice 6 days a week. I'm kind of on both teams. And beyond belief exhausted (this week concludes week 1 of practice). Volleyball is fun, but if anyone tells you they remember my all-star skills from my high school days they'd be lying- because I don't have any. But my coach seems to think otherwise. You see, I told him I didn't know how to play (I conveniently left out the fact I played a few season in HS) so when I'm serving and hitting during practice, the teams, and the coach, think this is my first time touching a volleyball in my life. They think I'm what's come to win Mamou national championships. I don't have the heart (or will, to be honest) to tell them otherwise. Who knows ... maybe this the part of my life where I really do become a volleyball superstar. On a concrete court in scorching sun with some of the scariest ball-spiking 7 foot dudes I've ever seen in my life.

So, although week one of practice was fun, it really wore me out. I've also been sick, some kind of parasite, so in addition to puking all week my entire body aches from the new sport, my knees are black and blue from some spectacular ball saves (on concrete, without knee pads...) and my arms are red and bruised from 4 hours of practice a day. Basically, I'm hot. And I don't really have the time to play all day every day ... but I'm going to stick it out. You see, I feel like I have a chance to build relationships with some of these girls, and do something positive, or at least show them something positive in their lives. A 17 year old was crying the other day during practice on the sidelines into the shoulder of our coach. "KIKI! COME HERE!" coach screamed. "This girl, she's crying because she doesn't have a husband." I almost bust out laughing. Seriously? You're 17 ... and here I was pitying these girls getting married off at these young ages, but I never for a second even thought they WANTED to get married at such young ages. And then the next day this other 18 yr old girl was like "Kiki ... me? I'm looking for a husband right now." Again ... I was shocked. I tried to explain to her that I wasn't looking to get married for a long time ... wanted to do my thing, go to more school, and then settle down. Let her know that the "American" way (which they idolize) isn't swapping vows at 18. But these girls ... I can't understand why ANY woman would want to get married in this country! Marriage is an immediate call to waking up early, caring for 19 kids and spending all day cooking the same god-awful rice and sauce for your husband and his other 2 wives. Our coach seems like this special guy, working 6 days a week (I can guarantee Guinea isn't paying him) with these girls (who, unfortunately, are far worse at vball than I am and don't take practice seriously) seems to have this vision for the team, where it's "school first, then come to practice so you're not chasing boys and getting into trouble." I feel like we have this common goal between us ... in trying to show these girls there more to life than making rice and sauce with a baby tied on your back. So I'm going to stick this volleyball gig out for a little while longer. Maybe this could be a good gateway to do some kind of Peace Corps project. We'll see. In the mean time, I'll be in training to play on Guinea's first olympic volleyball team.

Candlelight Dinners and Taxis from Hell

2009-03-12T13:14:00.000-04:00

I told my friend at the office I'd speak a little english with him in exchange to use his internet, so here I am. All is well in Mamou. In fact, it's better than well. It's amazing.

I've been in my new house about a month now. For a while I was pretty exhausted, between extreme heat, running around meeting 50 people a day, non-stop visitors, trying to learn the Pular basics, trying to avoid rice and sauce everyday (I've hence given in, I've learned to love it), and trying to set up a new house. But, fortunately, I got pretty sick and it was a good excuse to hide inside the house for a few days and caught up on my rest. So since last week, each day has kept out-doing the day before, and I love things here.

Being sick here is ... unlike anything I've ever experienced. Peace Corps has done a fantastic job of preparing us for most of the cultural twists and turns, but no one told me the protocol for what happens when someone is sick. That was a surprise. It started in the middle of the night, just puking and whatnot, nothing terribly out of the ordinary considering I'm an American living in Guinea. But I called the office in the morning, told ONE person over the phone I was sick, and I went back to sleep. Or at least I tried ... within half an hour not only did I receive NINE phone calls (do the math ... thats like one every 3 minutes) but within the hour I had SEVEN visitors! It was crazyness. Here I am, looking smoking hot after puking my brains out since 3am, but now the director of the organization, the guards, my co-workers and neighbors are all passing by the house to "see my state." At first I didn't understand why people wouldn't leave me the hell alone and let me sleep ... but then I realized that these incredible people are not only hospitable, but they genuinely care that I'm not alone and dying. So while I might have worried that it would be awful to be sick and all alone in Guinea, I don't have to worry about the alone part. Ever. It's a nice feeling.

Last Tuesday night was a Muslim holiday, so Wednesday everyone had the day off. I've become friends with some expats from Lebanon who live like millionaires (so when I want a ballin meal, like chicken or beef or hummus or a nice salad, instead of rice, I go over there), so my friend Mohamed called me Wednesday and said he and his crew were heading to swim in the river. I gladly accepted and when I climbed into the SUV I turned around and a goat "bahhhed" at me. Lunch? It was. So I spent all of Wednesday at the side of the river with my Arab friends working on my tan, eating goat for the first time (even it's liver ... raw ... rice and sauce every day makes anything enticing), swimming, pumping Arab jams for all the country to hear, and smoking hookah. It was a day well spent ... completely relaxing and comfortable.

I think the best part of this past week is that I'm finally starting to move past the "getting to know you" phase of building relationships and I've started becoming actual friends with these kids. There's this awesome group of about 10 guys who always sit along the wall in front of my compound ... they're all students so they're smart and motivated, and it's guys like them who are going to turn around this country. Anyways I went with one to his college yesterday morning ... holy crap the kid literally walks 40 minutes up a mountain to get to school, and the college is... nothing. I have so much respect for the kids who last in school here ... it's not like they have text books or internet to learn material- they're 100% dependent upon a decent teacher. Ha, if that was the case at UMD ... I'd be screwed. Anyways on the way home with my friend Ama Sara I realized that everyone has been feeding me and taking care of me since I've been here, and I haven't really contributed anything. (Ama Sara made me dinner himself the night before ... table for two lit by a full moon ... he's quite the romantic. Guinean men NEVER cook, btw) So I asked him and our other friend if they'd like to try "spaghetti americain." So last night I made spaghetti with my own sauce and garlic bread and invited over the crew. There were 9 of us in my house, crammed on my chairs and couches, eating by candle light, and it was just so much fun. Everyone is so close with one another and I've become a part of the group so easily. I'm so thankful for friends like them.

So that's the latest and greatest over here. I've got a trip to visit some other volunteers planned 2 weeks from now. Oh, I never wrote about the bush taxi experience. Bush taxis here ... I'll start by saying that when we say "our car is dead" and dispose of it ... our cars get shipped somewhere, half way repaired, and then run into the ground. After they get run into the group, someone takes a sledgehammer and beats the life out of it. After that, they gut the inside. And then they send it to Guinea. And that becomes my mode of transportation around the country. So I went to go visit a friend 2 weeks ago, by a normal car, 3 hours away. I left my house at 8am. I waited for the taxi to fill up with people ... it was hella slow so by 2pm I'd convinced this wealthy Nigerian man I'd befriended to pay for the "extra seats" so we could get a move-on. We start driving, and 20 minutes into the ride the car breaks down. We get out, I see that it's overheated. No biggie, right? We cool it down, climb back in. 30 minutes later, break down. We had run out of gas ... no worries, there's more in the back. But wait, they're pouring gas in the front of the car? Oooh, right ... because the driver had taken a plastic bucket with a lid, stuck a hose in the top of it, and MADE HIS OWN GAS TANK. We climb back in. Break down again. And again. And again. This next time, my door doesn't shut anymore. And the driver continues to drive with me phyically sticking my hand out the hole that used to be a window to hold the door closed. By this time I am tired and outraged. I forgot to mention- there were 3 people up front, 4 crammed in the middle, and 4 in back. Plus 4 kids. And one boy riding on top of the station wagon. This car is meant for 7 people. We had 16. Anyways, as I'm holding onto my door I am so unbelievably pissed off at this lunatic of a driver I start screaming in English "YOU ARE AN EFFING LUNATIC!!!!" And then in French that he was going to kill somebody. Never in my life have I screamed at someone like that! The next time we stopped I climbed out of the hole/window and just walked away. I would have hitch-hiked had there been another soul driving on the road. I would have called Peace Corps had there been cell phone service. Heck, I would have called America's 911 or Obama and asked to go back to America at the time, so it's probably a good thing there was no cell phone service. But as you see, I'm not walking distance of anywhere. There's no passer bys. No cell phones. I have no choice but to climb back in the taxi to hell. So we're driving and the military sees me holding my door shut and the man on the other side holding his door shut, so we get stopped. Apparently there's enough laws here that make that illegal. Our driver gets his license taken away. Great ... so now we're stranded forever? Of course we continue, an hour or two later (after breaking down again) we see the military harassing someone else. Our driver pulls over (I forgot to mention, it effing blows to stop the car ... bc each time we stop we have to get out and push to restart) and runs to the military. There's a little bit of fighting, a little bit of bribing, he gets his license back and we continue. We break down again, now it's night with a full moon, and it's scary to be stranded on a deserted road in the dark ... I've heard scary stories of bandits with weapons and such. I'm exhausted and should have been at my friend's town 4 hours ago. We restart. Our driver a few hours ago had kicked some lady out of the taxi because she had too much weight in tomatoes and potatoes so now we could drive fast, so he's BLAZING. All of a sudden a cow runs in front of the car, our driver swerves to miss. We hit potholes (obviously...this is Guinea) and we nearly tip over. The man in the back hits his head on the roof where this giant screw is sticking out and starts bleeding EVERYWHERE. It was a fricking mess. I could go on and on about the time it took 13 hours to get to my friends house because it was the trip from hell. I escaped to my friend's town for a relaxing weekend to de-stress and I arrive and he'd been worried that I was 7 hours late getting there and hadn't called, I was ready to slaughter the driver, and my friend in the backseat had a hole in his head. But it was a great weekend with my friend. And the best part was when I showed up at the taxi stand to go home it was the same crazy driver and the same piece of junk car. But what choice did I have?

So yes, 2 weeks, meeting friends again. Regional house and waterfalls. Taking a taxi, again. Unless I can convince my Leb friend who has more time and money than he knows what do with drive me.

Hope those updates suffice for now! Take care. Miss you all so much!! And I'll be getting mail from Peace Corps this weekend... so if you've sent something I'll get it in a few days. Merci beaucoup :) Love you all.

O WAIT... MOST IMPORTANTLY ... i changed my phone number. 011 224 66 59 76 17. If you've tried calling and haven't gotten through, that's why. Sorry about that. Love.

The Day the White Person Worked in the Market

2009-02-17T11:56:00.002-05:00

I'm here in Mamou! And it is as wonderful as I'd remembered. I love my new house, the organization with which I work, and most importantly, the people. Everything is going well, the biggest problem is the fact that I can't communicate with most of the people here, seeing that they speak a language called Pular. It's a pretty popular language in West Africa, but it's also one of the more difficult to learn. But, every morning I wake up around 8am, make some (not so delicious) instant coffee, and study this shoddy Pular book, drink my coffee, and look out my mountains. It's not half bad. Except there is a well right outside my front door and all the neighbor ladies like to peer into my house and ask me for me bread. Get your own bread, fools! They think I'm like all the other white people (by all the other white people, I mean, maybe the other 2 who I've seen around this "large city") and white people in this country are known to be earning Western salaries ... meaning dollars or euros ... living in the safe confines of their guarded home and driving around in armored cars. So when they see me living on a regular neighborhood street with petty change and talking their language, they get pretty confused. Just today I said hi (in Pular) to this girl and she said hi back ... and then when she realized what had just happened she litteraly stopped, squealed an "EHH!?!" and said "you, a white person, speaks Pular?" I just had to laugh, I told her I am learning, and continued on my way.

So the best night I've had so far in Mamou was two nights ago. You see, 3 days ago I was in the market, which causes a scene in and of itself. A white person has come to buy one tomato? Why doesn't she have her cook get it for her? Wait ... she's asking how much does a tomato cost in Pular? Wait ... she's wearing African clothes and jewelry? WHAT IS GOING ON?! So I'm buying my tomato, eggplant and rice and this woman I'm buying from, in a combo of Pular and broken French asks me why I'm buying this food. Obviously, I'm cooking. "For who?" "Myself." "You eat alone?" "Yes, I eat and live alone. I have no husband, I have no children." (those would be her next questions, so I spared her the effort.) So she tells me to come back the next day at 5pm.

I am new in town. I have no plans ... the next day at 5pm I head over, secretly hoping she'll feed me. So I get there and she's ecstatic to see me. She and all the other market ladies start squealing and laughing and having fun. My new friend starts to pack up for the day and I tell her that I want to help her pack up for the night. Wow ... I can say for a fact that they never, in their wildest dreams, EVER thought they'd see a white person working at the market. I had about 10 ladies coming over screaming in delight that a white person was working. The lady I was helping, my new friend, was beaming with this sort of pride that I was "hers" and I was equally happy, trying to break down this stereotype that I'm some rich kid who doesn't want anything to do with her and her people. I'm pretty sure it worked. The next day I went back just to say hi to her, and EVERYONE knew me, Kiki Barry. O man, it took me 30 minutes to walk from one end of this small place to the other, because everyone wanted to talk to me. Ask me how I was doing. How was my family? And my kids? O, no kids? Well then, how is your husband? O!!! NO HUSBAND?! We will find you a husband!! And just like that ... I've become a small scale celebrity in the market of Mamou. It's pretty fun actually, and more-so fun that I've become a celebrity not because I'm the rich white person (which probably would've happened by next week anyways) but instead because I'm Fatumatah's friend, and helped her close up the market one day. And yes, I did end up getting a nice dinner out of it. A very nice one, consisting of tomatoes and onions, coffee, and a Coke. That's pretty snazzy by Guinean standards. And then after Fatumatah and I ate, I met her kids, then we walked up the hill to meet her husbands family, and then went to meet her extended family. So I met at least 70 people in her family, because there were about 50 kids. So that's another 70 people I know in Mamou. Not too bad for week one, eh?

So yes, that's the latest update. My house is coming along nicely, but it's hard keeping my tile floors clean ... I'm not quite sure yet how to keep it all from getting muddy. I made some cute curtains and a matching bulletin board, all this teal paisley pattern accented with pink ribbons. One of these days I'll get pictures posted. Miss and love you all.

Bisous,

Kiki Barry
(note: Barry is a popular last name here, and people fall over laughing when I tell them my last name. Especially the old men. A white girl? Named Barry? EEE Allah!! I have quite the ability to crack people up over here ... they laugh at everything. I love it, these are my kind of people.)

So What's Really Going On ... followed by the wackest thing I have ever heard.

2009-02-04T19:48:00.004-05:00

Alright, so some of my favorite stories have been updated, the details of what I'll be doing are now online ... but now to answer the question I keep getting: "How are you really?"

Usually? Awesome. Some parts of Guinea suck, but for the most part, I love. Amazing people, these Guineanas. So welcoming, they love Americans. It would be impossible to do PC here in this place if these people weren't lovers of all-things American. That includes Obama, and fortunately, me too.

However, this last week of training was the worst week by far. A lot of things in Guinea are terrible. For example, there complete and total lack of a culinary tradition. How can you be a population of people for 100s of years and have 3 meals to show for it? (Those 3 meals are, by the way, rice with green sauce, rice with red sauce, and rice with brown sauce. And there are always rocks and fish bones in your food.) So that's just a maddening thought. Like Mexico's a poor country, but their food is bomb. Guinea? Not so much.

Another thing that was awful this week was that my demon of a host sister padlocked me inside the compound, and when I called her to tell her to let me out, she did nothing. Needless to say, by the time I escaped, was in tears and ran to the Peace Corps office hyperventilating "I hate my host family, I hate my host sister!" But, because I have completely lost control of all my emotions, and know I'm being ridiculous, I am also hysterically laughing through these tears. I don't think the two lovely teachers who calmed me down have ever seen a scene like me. I'm still laughing about it.

Another thing that sucked about this week was that my neighbor, a beautiful 3 year old girl, died. Why? We'll never know. They blame everything on malaria. But one day she was there chasing me through her yard, and the next day, gone. It's so sad. And the worst part is that when I went to offer my condolances to her family (which, not knowing a language, is harder to convey than I thought) the look in the family's eyes was just one of "yes, we are in Guinea. anywhere else in this world, my daughter would be alive, but not here, and it sucks." I mean, they don't even do funerals for kids because this type of thing is so common.

And yet another thing that I hate about Guinea is this Femal Genital Mutilation. I meantioned that 99% of women currently have it done (that's the stat we learned) and basically these girls that are 7 or 8 years old get carved up with a dull blade. I feel like I can't go into too much detail, but the WORST part is that I was having a conversation with my host-sister about it (she's circumcised) and she believes these lies like "Girls who are not circumcised are promiscuous" and worse yet, "Girls who are not circumcised will never be able to enjoy sex." It breaks my heart hearing her in all her ignorance, and knowing she fully believes these things. And how do I tell her that the information she is given is completely wrong? And that you are now missing certain organs that serve no other purpose BUT TO give you certain sensations. I think I am going to have to develop a way to tell people the truth that won't leave them feeling hopeless. That's hard. And it's also hard to tell people what they've been told their whole life is a lie. Not to mention, these covnersations aren't even in my language. Ohhhh that's a task I'm thankful I have two years to master.

On a funnier side, my same ignorant host sister was telling me all about devils here in Guinea. There are good ones and bad ones. And sometimes they change forms ... like into boys who puruse women with gifts and jewlery. Hmm... have I met a few of those? Just kidding. If you call out someones name at night the devil will find them and kill you. If you go to the well at night the devils will push you in and kill you. But the greatest part was this: according to Oumou, you can meet and fall in love with a good devil. But no one can see him, and no one can know about him. You can even have sex with him and have babies. Yes, devil babies. But no one will know you are pregnant, because you won't gain weight or anything. Ohhh Oumou. She is telling me this, never for a second even considering I think this is by far the wackest thing I have ever heard.

Okay, that is a lot of updates for today. Shout out to Claire and Dad for the packages. I actually live package-to-package ... it's my morale to get through bad days. "At least there's a package in the mail." Not to mention the granola that increases my protein intake about 500%. In case you weren't aware, rice and green sauce does not contain protein. Shout out to Corinna's mom for sending me a special something. And thanks to Darchuk/Kristi/Christine for the phone calls. And Amy/Uncle Robby & Aunt Indiana/Michelle/Cara/Leah/Katy for the letters, newspaper clippings, crossword puzzles and pictures. Thank you all so much. So so so so much. Really, it means the world.

I'll be writing soon, and more often. I forgot to mention this, but in Mamou I have my own office. With internet. And two computers. 100 computers in this country, and two are for me. And I have chauffers, too. Peace Corps sure does have it's advantages...

Ballin' in Pineapple Fields & I Don't Think You're Ready for this Jelly

2009-02-04T19:02:00.004-05:00

Again, taking this from another journal entry ... January 26, 2009 :

So for training us 12 "small enterprise development" trainees we were each given a good deal of Guinean money, assigned teams, and told to find a way to generate income. My partner Ben and I had the brillant idea of making pineapple jelly. No, we'd never actually made jelly before, but we watched someone else do it the day before. And no, our town does not have access to pineapples.

So on Saturday Ben and I hopped into a taxi to drive to a town not too far away where we heard a pineapple plantation existed. Being my usual self, I had no other plan than to "show up, find pineapples, buy them, and figure out how to get home." I have a very strong faith in a lot of things, including the mantra that "things will always work out." So we're driving towards this town in a bush taxi, Ben and I sharing the front seat (that's just how its done here, 3 in front, 5 in back) and when I begin seeing pineapple plants on the side of the road I turn to the driver and tell him that he can just let us out here. Ben and I walk up to what we think is the plantation entrance and find this guy ... explain we want pineapples. He points us to this sad sole woman accross the street who's selling like, 5. We wanted 25 kilos of fruit. This would not do. As I begin explaining that we're Peace Corps Volunteers who want to buy some serious fruit, our friends/competitors Paul and Mike who decided they'd bike an hour to the same village, arrive. They are planning on buying 60 kilos of pineapples (that's like 60 pineapples) and BIKING BACK HOME WITH THEM, and selling them just as pineapples. They, unlike Ben and I, had done some prep work and had a phone number of someone. Meanwhile, just beacuse we're Americans, a commotion has stirred and, as if by magic, a guy who claims to be the owner of the plantation pulls up in a car and tells Ben and I to hop in. Do we know him? No. Do I want pineapples? Hells yes. Do we get in? Of course!

So Ben and I get in the car (Mike & Paul thought they wanted to go somewhere else, but eventually end up rejoining us later because the dude we found was the right one) and we drive 10 minutes into this huge plantation. We learn that this owner actually worked with the Peace Corps Volunteers last year and knew many of them well, he had studied business and had recently begun exporting his pineapples to Morocco and Paris. In sum, the random plantation I had decided to get out at was legit to the extreme. A rare find in Guinea, mind you. So as we being walking the fields, this ballin' Guinean starts ordering field workers to cut fruit for us, so we're eating the most delicious and fresh pineapples ever, learning about the different varieties, and basically having a hella good time. I mean, I arrive, say I'm a Peace Corps Volunteer, and instantly get treated like royalty. I'll hand it to the Guineans- they are unbelievably hospitable. I will be a better human being after learning from these folks. So after we get a really long tour of this guy's plantation, I'm thinking that I'll just be like "85 kilos of pineapples s'il vous plait" and be on my merry way. Nope, not at all. Instead he says he wants to show the 4 of us his friend's plantation. So back into the car we go, and he drives us a few minutes down the road to this HUGE plantation ... like 80,000 hectares huge. Apparently Libya send this dude over and it's his first crop. So we drive to this guy's house first and it's BEAUTIFUL. Oil money spent well. We're sitting on nice couches outside under this pavillion with a great view, drinking cold bottled water in glasses. (Note: nice couches, cold beverages, and glasses were all luxuries I had thought were inexistant in Guinea up until this point). We sit for a while, shoot the breeze, and then this mega-baller's servant-girl tells us that the mega-baller himself is ready for us. Ready for us? We approach this million dollar mansion, remove our shoes, and enter inside. So now sitting down on more nice couches, in air conditioning, are the Guinean plantation owner, me, Ben, Mike, Paul, this Libyan mega-baller and his translator. There are these super sexed Iraqi music videos playing on the flat screen TV in front of us, and we are served a huge array of nice coffee and cookies. I am taken back ... this was all done, for us? Again, we shoot the breeze some more, but things got a little serious. I mean, we're 4 Americans new to Guinea, all relying on my French skills, and conversation is getting translated into Susu and then Arabic. English, Susu, Arabic, French. Pretty baller. We're talking about economics, and the conversation is smoothly guided into the real reason we're here: We want some pineapples. The atmosphere becomes a little more rigid. It's business time. The price per kilo begins at 2.000 FG, but we quickly and easily negotiate it to 1.500 FG. Business is done, and we go back to talking about world markets and other interesting topics of conversation. There is this whole sense of surrealism as the backdrop to this whole day, because I feel like I get to play a very unique role in all of this. Being the only girl in a country that hardly recognizes women would normally place me in a non-important position. Furthermore, Paul has already started and managed his own business, Mike's lived all over the world working for really cool organizations, and here I am, this kid who just graduated with a Finance degree and has never had a real job. So the situation would normally dictate me to a position of "watch and learn" but because I speak the best French out of any of us, I become the integral piece to all of this. The translator, the negotiator, and person who cracks the jokes at the right time to ease any tension. It's awesome.

Anyways, after some stealth negotiating, we get a tour of this mega-baller's plantation and learn SO MUCH about agriculture in Guinea and pineapples in general. All facinating. So now at the close of the tour, I'm thinking "awesome ... get pineapples and leave." Wrong again! Now we get back into the car of the Guinean plantation owner who drives us to his family's house so we can eat lunch with his family! This is crazy! After another meal of rice and sauce with him and his family, we make our way back to the original plantation, and he then directs his workers to harvest 85 kilos of pineapples. After the transaction of pineapples for francs we load the pinapples to his car and he kindly drives Ben and I back into town to the taxi station and has a friend try to get us spots on the next taxi home. But by now it's gotten late, like nearly 5pm. Ben and I are tired, have probably 90 pineapples with us including the free gifts we were given, and decide that "today was such a ballin' day, let's just go all out and rent out the whole taxi" so we do just that. We're a part of this super competition where controlling costs and turning profit is the name of the game, but we decide to live it up regardless.
(and we didn't let our friends bike home with 60 kilos of pineapples ... I offered to take them from them and transport them. and then they paid us. sweet.)

So Sunday was jam making day. Ben and I had grand plans to make lots of jelly, but here's a problem we didn't forsee: you can't buy things like JARS in countries like Guinea. So that kind of back fired, after 2 days of scouring the market we were only able to come up with four old mayonaise jars that were being sold. But, pas de probleme. We made four jars of jelly, which turned out AWESOME. Absolutely delicious. Good news for all of you back home: my time here is going to make me a professional jelly maker, and you will be the beneficiaries. So we sold our 4 jars of jelly, sold off the rest of the pineapples, and made a ridiculous amount of money. We killed the competition so hard no other group came close, renting out taxis and all. It was fun balling out in Guinea and still dominating ... it was a throwback to some of the good old days in Colli Park.

Television Appearance by Yours Truly. And Other Details You Might Want to Know.

2009-02-04T18:27:00.003-05:00

Alright, so since some crazy things happen and I have no way to call you all or write you all a letter that you'd get by next year to tell you all about it, I write in a journal. So the following is more or less from a journal entry from January 11th ... we all left our training site to visit our new towns/homes/jobs. I am in a beautiful town called Mamou. This was on day one:

So this morning Soylemane (who is the Guinean guy who I will be working closely with these next 2 years and I LOVE this man) and I are driving around and he's explaining to me that the new governor in charge of the city (who was installed by the military following the coup d'etat) has declared this morning a time to clean up. All the citizens of Mamou have to clean the entire place, no business can be open, trash is burning everywhere. Then as we pass by the gas station we see 50 people, mostly women, around all these military men, singing, dancing, cheering and waving brooms. We get out of the car (note: when there are crowds of people surrounded by scary military men, leaving the safety of a vehicle goes against primal instincts) and before I know what's going on Souleymane begins introducing me to people, including one of the infamously scary red berets (special type of military guy ... red beret = don't mess). These military men turn to the mob and the governor begins to introduce me, Kiki, to the town and explain I'm going to move here for two years. Everyone then gets very excited and begin cheering wildly, and then start shaking, then grabbing my hand. They're arguing to shake it. One lady even reaches out to touch my face- I felt like Mother Theresa. I was a serious celebrity. Then the governor shouts out "someone! give her a broom!" and all the women in the mob throw up their brooms (which, I should add, are like a bundle of straw tied together with string at one end). The governor gives me a broom and tells me that I can help clean the city. Then the crowd really begins to go nuts. Not going to lie ... I wasn't excited at the idea of cleaning up trash on this particular morning. Especiallywith all these people staring at me. But then I realized it was just a symbolic gesture ... and I had just officially been declared and welcomed as a Citizen of Mamou. After I was given the broom (and visibly overwhelmed by this dancing cheering mob of broom-laden women) these scary military guys pull me over towards them and decide they want to do a photo shoot with me! Please, will you, imagine these tough badass dudes with guns and dark sunglasses posing with me, and being like "oh, Kiki, try holding the broom like this." LOVE IT. The whole time this one guy with a camcorder circa 1992 is taping, and as I'm walking away from one of my favorite moments of my life Souleymane turns to me and goes "Kiki, you will be on TV tonight!"

Declared an offical citizen on day 1 AND make it on national television? Needless to say, I fell in love with Mamou.

My house is beautiful. It's big, clean, lots of natural lighting (ha ... what other kind would there be? ) and is a soft yellow on the inside. It's got a great front porch with big steps to sit on, and when you do sit on them you have a great view of the mountains. It is such a cheerful place. --i forgot to mention (as it's so normal now) that there is no running water. And electricity is for a few hours every other day. but another big bonus is a well right outside my front door. Ballin'!!! O, and I have guards 24 hours a day too. Yes, just for me.

So you now know I love my city, I really love my house, but what I can't even begin to describe is how much I love my new job. I have been seriously hooked up with what I am willing to call my dream job. Granted, I had to come to Guinea for it, but if it turns out how I think it could, Guinea is worth it. So, I'm working for an American NGO based in Boston called World Education. www.WorldEducation.org . Check them out. Their overriding mission is to help people in the 3rd world receive an education so that they can rise up and change their country, from the inside out. They're in a few spots in Guinea, doing different projects, whether it's helping illiterate people learn to read, stopping child traffiking & putting kids in school, or other sorts of badass things. I get to help out on two fronts. The first is working with young people and educating them on all sorts of things ... it could be about how to get started in businesses here, or it could be HIV/AIDS awareness. I'd love to even do something about educating the youth on the dangers and consequences of Femal Genital Mutilation (fact: 99% of females here have been circumcised. it's pretty awful & terribly sad). The second sphere in which I'll be working is with these groups of women who are all mothers. The goal is that these mothers can somehow earn enough money to supplement their husband's income so that their children can go to school- otherwise they're stuck in the market/tailor shop working crazy long hours. So World Education does micro finance, and I'm going to get to be involved in lending these women money, and getting it repaid at a super low interest rate. Micro credit. It's genious. And it almost always works. But, it's not easy working with groups of women and money when accounting doesn't exist, especially when it can't because they're illiterate and can't count. So creativity has to come in ... and maybe I'll be teaching them how to repay back loans with pictures or colorful rocks instead of numbers. So I'm lending micro credit. BUT ON TOP OF THAT, I get to be on the receiving end of those funds, with the women, and teaching them how to best utilize the money. What should they sell in the market? How much should they charge? How should they do marketing? Where should they be purchasing their supplies? All sorts of really cool things. Income generation/cost benefit analysis/interest rates/credit/inventory ... all the stuff I tried to run away from by joining the Peace Corps? It's back! Only it's so much more "my style" over here doing business eating rice and sauce with my hands than in a fancy business suit in an office. I'm happy with this.

So that, in a nutshell, was my site visit to Mamou. I can also add that my 5 friends who came to sleep over the last night learned I'm a screamer when Jason walked into my bathroom and saw A GIANT RAT. I was curious so I ran to see, and then stood frozen, screaming. But wouldn't move. And actually got in the way as they tried to catch it. They knocked a chunk of concrete out of my bathroom wall in trying to catch Splinter (shout out to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!) with a giant bucket. They were successful, although I'm still getting made fun of for the screams. But seriously, who WOULDN'T scream if a giant rat was running around your bath/bedroom?

Slaying Chickens and Dodging Bullets

2009-01-01T09:22:00.003-05:00

I'mmmm backkkkkkkkkkkkk!!

No, not in America. But to the only place in the country that I believe has internet. So, now I have to cram a month's passings into a blog post? I'll try.

I received an email that made me fall out of my seat laughing from Anne and Tiffany, asking me questions about Africa. I'll just post the answers up here:

Dearest Caitlin,
Hello from the homeland! This is Tiffany and Anne, we are in our English class right now and "working on our rough drafts for our research papers". Our teacher Kip Dynamite is sitting in the row of computers behind us...clueless. Mehehe. We just wanted to say hello, we miss you, we haven't heard that you made it okay so if you could PLEASE let us know you're alive, that would be a little nice. Also a few mandatory questions:

1) HOW IS AFRICA? Africa is flipping amazing. I love it and wake up every morning happy to be here, and then laugh because I live in a town that I can guarantee none of you even knows exist. But c'est la vie.
2) DO YOU FEEL LIKE A MINORITY? In terms of skin color, most def. There isn't a white person not affiliated with PC that I've seen yet. That said, I also feel like a celebrity. All the kids in my town (and women/men too) all know me because I made up a ridiculous African name for myself (Kiki) so everywhere I go people love to chase me down screaming "Kiki! Kiki! Ca va?"
3) HAVE YOU SEEN ANY LIONS YET? Negative. Hope it stays that way.
4) DOES THE AIR SMELL THE SAME? It smells like burning trash. But after being here for a month, the PC volunteers will agree with me that it smells like BBQ. Mmmm.
5) WHEN IS YOUR INAUGURATION TO THE OFFICE OF OFFICIAL GUINEA PRINCESS HAPPENING? That date is TBA, but I'll keep you posted.
6) HAVE YOU TAKEN APART A TV AND PUT IT BACK TOGETHER AND PRETENDED TO BE THE INVENTOR OF TELEVISION YET? No, because if I touched the TVs of these people they'd commit suicide. Prized posession, to the max.
7) HOW ARE THE DREAD LOCKS COMING ALONG? Decided against dreads, sadly, in the interest of making friends.
8) HAVE YOU TAKEN A BUCKET SHOWER YET? (WE WON'T TELL IF YOU HAVENT....) Considering there is NO running water where I live, I do it every day! It's actually my favorite part of Guinea so far, no lie.
9) HAVE YOU EATEN SAHARAN DIRT YET? Not on purpose...
10) IF NOT YOU SHOULD TRY IT I HEAR ITS TASTY, LIKE WITH A LITTLE LEAF ON TOP It actually tastes more like feces.
11) ARE YOU EVEN NEAR THE SAHARA DESERT? No.
12) HAVE YOU MADE ANY "GUINEA PIG" JOKES YET? I think someone tried ... I try to keep my coolness status higher than that. I'll send those off in private emails to you...
13) SUCH AS, "HEY, WHERE ARE ALL THE HAMSTERS? OH I FORGOT, THIS IS GUINEA!"
14) HOW DO YOU FEEL WHEN YOU HEAR THE PHRASE: HILARY CLINTON-NEW SECRETARY OF STATE? I forget what she looks like. And I hear a reporter threw a shoe at Bush? That's probably old news for y'all ... but for me, I'm still laughing over here!
15) WHAT IS YOUR NAME IN THE GUINEAN LANAUGE? Kiki!! Yes, sometimes it does make me feel like a stripper. But Guineans can't pronounce Caitlin, so I tried getting them to say Cait, but that didn't work either and all that was coming out of my 30 bro/sisters mouths was "Ki Ki Ki Ki" so I went with it and am now officially Kiki.
16) HAVE YOU HEARD ANYONE SPEAK IN CLICKS YET? Do grunts count?
17) WILL YOU PLEASE BECOME FLUENT IN THE CLICK LANGUAGE BEFORE YOU COME HOME? Send me the book on CD and consider it done. After the big swear-in ceremony on Feb 6 I'll have 3 months alone in a village to pick up all sorts of new hobbies.
18) WHY IS THE SKY BLUE? Because anything blue made in Guinea bleeds when you wash it with a wash board in some buckets. Something about indigo ... so when God first made the sky he let Guinean indigo bleed all over it, to match the color of any previously white clothing I had.
19) HAVE YOU MADE ANY FRIENDS/LOVERS/ENEMIES? Well, my 23 year old brother (yes Claire, your email was accurate) was my friend. Then he tried to become my lover in a very creepy story, so I told him that I would never love him. To which he tried comparing our love to that of Jack and Rose from Titanic. To which I said he was ridiculous. To which he said he was going to become sick and not sleep well. To which I then said that if he didn't sleep well tonight, he wouldn't sleep well tomorrow night, or the next night, or any other night for the rest of his life because I will never love him. So now he avoids me in a 15 year old girl dramatic kind of way. Does that count as enemies?
20) WHY DON'T YOU BUY US TICKETS TO THE WORLD CUP/YOUR HUT? Because I'm making a few dollars a day. However, you will always have a place to stay in Guinea.
21) HAVE YOU MET A XXXXX IN GUINEA? Cannot answer.
22) CAN HIS NAME BE FOUND ON THE PERIODIC TABLE OF ELEMENTS? Sadly,no.
23) HAVE YOU MET SIMBA YET? (WE HEAR HE RESIDES IN GUINEA ON VACATION) Searching...
24) WOULD YOU LIKE US TO SEND YOU CHEESEBURGERS IN THE MAIL? Coming from a girl who doesn't even eat red meat, YES! The baguettes and rice diet is getting a little old.
25) HAVE YOU SEEN THE RARE TYRANNAYUATI? IT IS AN ANIMAL NATIVE TO GUINEA AND ONLY COMES OUT AT NIGHT. PLEASE ASK LOCALS ABOUT IT.
(just kidding this animal does not exist)
WE LOVE YOU!!!!!

So Anne and Tiff, there you go. Hope everyone else got a little sneak peak into what else is going on here. Also, where I live, there is no running water, electricity for 6 hours every other day, and definiately NO internet. So I get a lot of emails all at once, and don't have time to reply to them all because 28 other volunteers are ready to fight for computer time, so I'm going to try and hit on the main points.

1. The Military Coup
Yes, I can now say that I have been involved with a military coup. YOLO, right? So, here's the lowdown. Guinea had this whack president who did nothing. He was super sick. He died ... he may have actually died 3 weeks before news was even let loose. Fortunately or unfortunately, there was no Vice President (Sarah Palin, anyone?) so I was in a country on Christmas eve where there was no one in charge. So then this military captain punk took over and said "I'll be prez!" and threw out the constiution. However, the Guineans handled the 3 day period with grace, patience, and peace and welcomed this new guy. Amazingly, he is NOT one of the 3 major ethnic groups, which is great because that means that there won't be ethnic tensions. He's also a Christian in a Muslim country, which is also crazy that he was able to take over peacefully. Guineans like this new guy, and after much "happy gunfire celebration" and nation wide curfews, all is back to normal. I have hope this guy can make a difference here ... already I have seen a dramatic increase in the amount of hours we've been receiving electricity AND a 3rd beer is now in circulation here. Things are looking up.

2. Christmas
Christmas was awesome. Christmas Eve I was unable to come back to the capital due to the coup d'etat, so we stayed at the Peace Corps compound in our training-town. We celebrated there and dodged gun fire from drunk/celebrating military. No, the guns were not being aimed at people. Just in the air. But what goes up must come down, hence the dodging bullets. Again, YOLO.

3. Chicken Slaying
I can also now say that I know how to bargain a good price for, slaughter, prepare, cook, and eat a chicken. Unless I've seen that chicken been killed in front of me, it's pretty safe to say that I've gone vegetarian here.

4. Family
I'm living with a host family until the end of training. One husband, 3 wives, and between 15-30 kids. I really can't tell. It's been difficult trying to figure out the family dynamics, who's kid is whose, who likes who, who's my cousin or sister or aunt or brother. Basically, I've given up trying. All the little kids love me, I get tackled every day when I come home from school by kids screaming "Kiki! Kiki!" I have taught them the power pound (JrNYLC shout-out!) and it's been quite the hit. I have one sister who "takes care of me" but my friends and I have determined we don't like her. It's pretty funny how not-nice she is. But I have a king-size bed, so I don't care :) My brother and I hit a rough patch last weekend because he is deeply in love with me, but as it turns out, my French is good enough to solidly end relationships. Relationships, mind you, that never even began.

5. Mail
Beacuse Guinea doesn't really have a post office system, I've been sending mail back home with travelers going to the US. However, good news, I can receive mail! When all the volunteers came back to the capital last night for New Years I felt so lucky to have gotten 2 cards and 1 package. And I felt really sad for the volunteers who didn't get anything. They were sad too. So, what I'm saying is, please don't let me be that volunteer. Sending a letter, 94 cents. The happiness that washes over me, priceless. Also, I love all the blog comments/emails. Thanks everyone, I love you all!

So I gotta bounce, grab my backpack and pile into the Peace Corps vehicles (we have this awesome motorcade of white PC vans/SUVs) to head back to my town. Hope you all have a VERY happy new year!! I will be back here in Conakry (read: civilization) on Feb. 6 for my big swear-in as an official volunteer!! So, that is the next time y'all can expect updates. Love you all and miss you lots! Oh, and if you want to call me, I got a phone!!

011-224-67-20-99-68

It costs me the equivalent of 10 lunches to talk to you for 5 minutes, therefore I sadly cannot call you on my "salary." But calls ARE free for me! I'd love a call. Talk to you all in about a month, much much much much love!!!!

N xili Caitlin. That's grunt-speak for "my name is Caitlin."

2008-12-07T07:28:00.003-05:00

Bonjour from the motherland!!

Yes yes yes, I am here in Guinea. After some hotel fun in Philly we made the journey through Senegal to arrive in the capital of Guinea, called Conakry. For the past few day's I've basically been in a Peace Corps frat house living in bunk beds covered with mosquito nets and just being ridiculous and having fun with the other volunteers. We're on the beach (no, you can't swim in the ocean- gross.) but there is a Beach Bar where we've been going to at night. Imagine sitting in plastic beach chairs in the sand, looking up at the moon, Venus and Saturn, kicking back a Guinean beer and listening to the Guiean cars blast their reggae while they drive and park in the sand. I love this stuff.

We've been doing training too though, so no your tax dollars have not gone to a pure vacation fund. We've had some people from the US Embassy come and basically scare the living daylight of us, telling us about corrput military and a president people are waiting to die. And if he doesn't die soon, we might have a military coup. Awesome. They evacuated PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteers) a little over a year ago from here, but we're back now. But forreal don't worry. The people here are incredible and welcoming. I love it so much, and feel so thankful to be here.

A few current volunteers have come back to help us with our training and they've been such a wonderful resource to talk to. Apparently Guinea is in the "top 3" of hardcore PC countries. Basically, I will not have electricity. And have a 99% chance of using a latrine for the next 27 months.

Today I got a crash course in one of the local languages. It's called Susu.

N ng xili Mary. My mom's name is Mary.
Volontaire na n na. I'm a Peace Corps Volunteer.

I'd teach you some more of 1) I remembered it and 2) Computers existed with some crazy characters. It's a lot of grunting. No clicking, but grunting is much more practical.

Monday's some holiday so tomorrow we get to lay low. I think I'll leave the PC compound and learn to explore markets. I'm excited and a little bit scared, so let's get going! (Brian Fellows, anyone?) because this country is nuts. I'll let you know how it is. NOTHING like I have ever seen. And I've seen a good deal.

O, fun fact: Guinea is one of the only countries in the world whose capital city (Conakry) doesn't have relilable electricity. It might be the only. It goes out all the time, like during last night's dance party.

Okay well Tuesday I'm moving to live with a host family and won't have internet access/phone until I come back here for Christmas. So, send letters and packages. It's less than $1 for a letter. And I'll get them frequently through Feb 6. So s'il vous plait, write me.

Friends and Family, I love you all and am thankful for your support. I'm lucky to have people like you behind me every step of the way.

Last Night in Ijamsvile

2008-12-02T00:46:00.002-05:00

Alright, here it is. In about eight hours I'm getting in a car, saying goodbye to the fam, and meeting the PC crew.

So many emotions are pulsing through my veins, mostly excitement, and a little bit of apprehension because the magnitude of what I'm about to do has not hit me at all. Yet. I have been so nonchalant about this entire event- I never even read through all of the material. I'm just so confident in knowing that I am supposed to start service in Guinea right now that I figure I'll get there anyways- whether or not papers are read or if I packed the right things.

Yes, bags are packed. One rolling duffel and a hiking backpack. Not as bad as I thought, I'm happy with how smooth packing went. I went overboard on toilettries like good shampoo and face wash. But I want to smell good while living in the bush.

My last day in Ijamsville was a great one. Amanda came over and her and Claire made me pancakes for breakfast. Well, Claire continued cranking out CDs for the journey. DJ C-murda cranked out a total of 12. Needless to say, between all of my friends I will never be short of any music for any occasion. I ran some errands with dad and then convinced a stubborn cold-hearted lady at CVS to sell me 16 passport photos for $9 instead of $25. I came home to make some tofu for lunch (I am going to miss tofu), packed my bags with no problems, then went to go see Four Christmases, a new Vince Vaughn movie, with the family. The movie was pretty mindless, but good for the occasion. Enjoyed some Starbucks afterwards and came home to enjoy a last veggie burger with the sister. First I thought I would be missing "American" food like Chipotle and burgers. But no, it's definitely going to be tofu and veggie burgers. I think I'm more apt to find burritos in West Africa than soy protein.

Anyways it is time to sign off. Next time I'm on here I will be in Africa. Here we go :)

Packages & Love Notes? Check this out first!

2008-11-25T08:30:00.004-05:00

Guidelines for Mail

Hey folks, there is no doubt that what I'm about to do is going to be hard. And there is also no doubt that your support has gotten me this far. And there is ALSO no doubt that your continued support, especially in the form of notes/packages will help keep the morale up when I'm feeling down. Please write often and send packages when you're feeling the love. In a place with few comforts, a box of things from home will seem like Christmas any time of year (and no matter how hot it is!).

Also note that I stole all of the following from one of my fellow G17ers (my "group") so thanks to Dorian for typing this.

MY ADDRESS:

Caitlin Mulligan, PCV
Corps de la Paix Americain
BP 1927
Conakry, Guinea
WEST AFRICA

The way mail works in Guinea is that the only place that actually has a mail system is the capital, Conakry. This is where our PC headquarters is located. All mail should be delivered to PC HQ, and then they do a monthly mail run out to my site to give me everything I have received. During training (12/4/08 – 2/6/09), I may receive mail more frequently.

Something you send could take up to six weeks to actually get to me, and outgoing mail is no better. But PLEASE send letters and packages as often as possible. They will keep up my morale!

LETTERS:

When you send letters, number them clearly at the top and put the date. Also, make a photocopy of the letter before you send it in case any get lost in the mail, so we will still have it if it never gets here. Cara taped a picture of OBAMA to her letter and I got it, because these Guinean's don't mess with The Man.

Good things to send with letters are photos, comics, and news clippings. NEWS ITEMS will be especially important, as I will have almost no access to news from the US (I will need to know how Barack is doing!!). Due to budget cuts, Peace Corps recently canceled the Newsweek subscriptions they have provided to volunteers since the beginning of the Corps. Do not send money or anything valuable as oftentimes the edges of letters will be clipped to see if there is anything of value inside.

If you’re sending a postcard, put it in an envelope. The pretty pictures are likely to end up posted on some Guinean’s wall instead of mine. Lame.

Be sure to write “AIR MAIL” and “PAR AVION” on the envelope.

PACKAGES:

1. Print the address label from a computer if possible to make it official-looking. I have read that packages with labels printed by hand have not made it to their destination.

2.

3. Number and date your packages so I know I am receiving them.

4. If there is something super-important you really want me to get, put it inside an empty tampon box – apparently no one will touch it.

5. Mail is less likely to be tampered with if it’s addressed in red ink. Them Guineans are superstitious.

6. It’s also less likely to be tampered with if you draw crosses and write religious phrases on it (in French) such as “Dieu regardez-vous” or “Dieu merci”. (meaning 'God is watching you' or 'Thank God'). I wouldn't bust up a package that told me Allah was watching me. Then again, I wouldn't bust up a package.

7. Please tape the box up really, really well after you seal it so no one can easily reach in and steal stuff.

8. If sending food, please wrap and double wrap in plastic bags (ziplocs preferably, since I can reuse them) to avoid rats and other wonderful creatures from sharing in on my treats.

9. You will also be required to fill out customs declaration form PS Form 2976-A. You can complete this form at the post office or online before you ship at https://webapps.usps.com/customsforms/. Indicate all contents as “Used” on the customs form to reduce the risk of theft.

10. On the Customs form, when listing the contents MAKE THEM LAME. For example, tell them you are sending me pencils or education materials and not expensive chocolate or soccer balls. Just downplay EVERYTHING. If you’re sending books, magazines, DVDs, things like that, you can mark it as “educational materials” (I would say you could even mark that for stuff like soccer balls and stuff for kids), as it is less likely to be tampered with.

11. If what you’re sending is relatively heavy, I suggest sending with the post office’s Priority Mail flat rate international box (same as the domestic box), as the weight restriction is 20 pounds as long as the stuff fits in the box. The rate is $38.95 for the regular box (11" x 8.5" x 5.5") and $49.95 for the larger box (12” x 12” x 6”). This rate is only good for parcels, so DO NOT include a letter inside as you may be charged the letter rate, not package rate, for the whole package. If you want to include a letter, it is suggested that you tape it underneath the address label or to the inside page of a magazine so it is unlikely to be detected. If what you are sending is light, you may be able to pay less than the flat rate. Ask your local post office.

12. If you wish to send money, ... don't send me money. I copied this post from someone else. I don't want yo' bills.

13. There is no method of disposing of trash or recyclables where I will be going (other than burning or throwing on the ground), so please minimize packaging or put things in containers I can reuse, like Ziploc bags, jars or airtight plastic containers/Tupperware.

Be aware that you can do all of this stuff online at www.usps.com, including ordering free flat rate boxes, printing postage, and scheduling a pickup. In fact, you get a 5% discount on the shipping fee if you do it online.

WHAT TO SEND:

I compiled this list based on things I might enjoy and the advice of current and past volunteers.

Short List:
-food (protein laden and dark chocolate will cause tears of joy)
-burned cds
-girly toilettries (not tampons, like fun ones. that smell good.)
-books

Long List from my good pal over here:
-Photos (of you, you with pets, places/vacations, etc…)
-Magazines/Newspapers (Time, The Economist, Cosmo)
-Secret or Degree Clinical Strength Anti-Perspirant/Deodorant
-Body wash/lotion
-Aveeno Positively Radiant Face Wash & Moisturizer
-Q-tips
-Crossword puzzles. Wash Post are awesome. Double points for DiamondBack ones.
-Duct tape
-A jump drive with music and podcasts (even TV shows and movies!) on it (if from iTunes,
include your username and password so I can authorize use)
-Movies/TV Shows on DVD
-Music on CD
-Dr. Bronner’s Peppermint Soap (Trader Joe’s sells this cheap) or other, fancy soap
-Hair shampoo/conditioner (weak shampoo is available in-country, but conditioner is elusive –
try to make it something natural/herbal, as scents can attract more mosquitoes!)
-Foot care items (my feet will get trashed!)
-Undies
-Hair clips/claws/ties
-Stuff kids would like: stickers,
glue, tape, kids safety scissors, colored pencils/pencil sharpener, paper, picture
books, inflatable beach ball world globe, etc…
-Pictures drawn by you for me to hang on my hut wall
-Books (good novels will be appreciated)
-Hand sanitizer
-Vegetable/tree/flower seeds (make sure it’s something that does well in Guinea’s climate)
--Fantastic Foods Vegetarian Sloppy Joe’s Mix (comes in a red box near the Pasta-Roni, but I feel
like you might only be able to find this someplace like Whole Foods – MOM!)
-Dried veggies (http://www.harmonyhousefoods.com/Dehydrated-Vegetables_c_1.html)
-Dried faux-meat (http://www.harmonyhousefoods.com/TVP-Meat-Substitute_c_6.html)
-Dehydrated vegetable soup (http://www.harmonyhousefoods.com/Vegan-Soup-Blends_c_7.html)
-In fact, just check out www.harmonyhousefoods.com in general!
-Soy protein powder
-BeneFiber or other fiber supplement
-Supplements: Acidophilus, iron, Echinacea, etc…
-Peanut M&M’s and other candies and chocolate
-Sugar-free gum (Orbit Spearmint is my fave)
-Hot cocoa mix
-Nuts/Trail Mix (no peanuts please! there will be lots there)
-Emergen-C (vitamin section), Crystal Light, or other drink mix (preferably sugar-free)
-Jiffy Pop popcorn (you know the kind you put on your stove and it pops into this big bubble)
-Granola bars
-Energy/protein bars
-Nutella
-Non-refrigerated cheese (Velveeta, parmesan, Hickory Farms, www.barryfarm.com sells
powdered cheese to make sauces)
-Non-perishable condiment packets (Taco Bell sauces, ketchup, mustard, soy sauce, crushed
red pepper, etc..)
-Spices (garlic salt, cayenne pepper, cumin, taco seasoning, pesto sauce, Ranch powder, etc…)
-'Just add water' cookie mixes
-tea! Esp. Yogi Teas ...
-Any kind of food that will keep and is easy to prepare (i.e. add water, milk, eggs, oil)

Please think of this list as guidelines and suggestions and send anything you think will make it up to 6 weeks en route, as I’m sure whatever you send will be MUCH APPRECIATED! Also, check my blog for any special requests!

EMAIL/INTERNET:

Please send ALL email messages to caitlinmulligan@gmail.com. I will probably only have enough internet access to check one box, so make sure whatever you send goes here. You can also read my blog at www.YOLOinGuinea.blogspot.com.

Please know that I will do my best to answer personal emails, but my internet access will be spotty and limited (most likely, I will only have access to internet when I make it into the capital, Conakry), so my replies will likely be few and far between. Please feel free to share the blog with any other family or friends as well. I will post stories, pictures, package requests, times I will be in phone service, etc…

PHONE:

You can buy phone cards to call or use Skype on your computer, which will allow you to call international cell phones. Go to www.Skype.com and sign up for a free account. You will be using your computer/internet connection to make the call (so you will need a microphone and speakers). It will cost about $.20/min. You put a certain amount of money on there and it will debit from that each time you call.

I look forward to hearing from all of you happily and often! Y'all are amazing.

Here's how to reach me: 011-224-67-20-99-68
Call me please. I can't afford to call any one for even a 5 minute phone call. It's sad really, because even if it was mildly affordable I'd be blowing all my money just to talk to you guys. But I can't. C'est la vie. On the plus side, I always have cell service.

Frat Party!!!

2008-11-25T08:19:00.004-05:00

I feel like I'm pledging a fraternity with this Peace Corps thing. It's something I've been researching for a while, and finally, I decide I want to go ahead and join, join this network of people across the globe. My (soon to be) fellow PCVs. My brotherhood. So I submit my application, and I "rush" SubSaharan Africa, hoping to get accepted. Bid day came along in the form of an invitation, and now is the pledging. Community is building already online between people in my pledge class (G17, for future reference) and hazing has already begun. No, not hazing in the form of no electricity or rice for every meal. That's a frat-perk. Hazing in the form of emails like "Congrats! Pack everything you need for 2 years in 2 restricted suitcases weighing less than 80 lbs!" and then the follow up email: "Can't wait to see you in Guinea! Don't forget to pack a DICTIONARY and a BIKE HELMET!"

Right, becuase I have room for that? O, tricky tricky.

No worries though, I've seen my friends go through pledging and hazing and all that jazz before in Maryland's greek system, and I've picked up on all the good techniques. I'll pack my helmet, my dictionary, AND a few extra bulky items just for kicks. I've got this one in the bag. Literally.

9 Days!

2008-11-21T00:52:00.002-05:00

October was such a slow month is comparison to November ... how is it already the 21st?! Anyways, I am more excited today than I was yesterday. I don't feel like I've ever been so excited about anything before, not even Paris. Usually I don't stray from my "go with the flow" rhythm, but I think not knowing anything at all about what's going on is probably what has me thinking about this nonstop! I mean, I don't know what my job will be, where I will live, if I'll have a hut, if I'll have electricity or running water, who my friends will be, what food those crazy Guineans eat, what clothes I'll wear, what kind of family I'll be living with during training, what language I have to learn ... it's all completely unknown. But that's how I like things. You know, keepin' it interesting.

A big group of my fellow PCers found me online (incredible stalking skills, I like them already). So to all of you, 'hi' and I enjoy reading all of your messages between each other. See you in a few days!

The funniest thing though, is that at this exact time in 2 weeks I am going to be sleeping somewhere with an African family. haha just thinking about it cracks me up! How do I always get myself into these things?

To everyone who has been sending me CDs, THANK YOU! I love each and every one of them. A lot. I never imagined that I'd get such a positive response, y'all are amazing. It's also been really fun opening the mailbox and getting fun packages on a near-daily basis. Really, I love you all.

18 Days.

2008-11-12T22:28:00.001-05:00

Eighteen days. One-eight. Eighteen days ago I had just finished my backpacking trip with Darchuk (involving a 40 degree sleeping bag in 20 degree weather) ... and that feels like only a few days ago. Maybe because it was. So I am leaving in only a few more days. And the question I keep hearing is "how are you feeling?" My answer, for all to hear ... I am EXCITED!!!

I am beyond excited. I am also beyond ready. I feel like everything that's been going on here at home has been directing me out the door for the next few years. Things like 2 speeding tickets in the same week (when I have never had one in my life!) are God's way of saying "Caitlin, see? Riding a mountain bike on dirt roads for the next two years is the way you should be getting around." So I take these not-so-subtle hints that I'm where I should be. And after a rough two months I have reclaimed my normal happy place in life. I am finally content in Ijamsville, with the way things are with work, friends & family, but am not tied down enough so that I think I'll regret picking up and moving.

What am I most sad about? Leaving behind family and friends. But I know that my relationships are secure enough that 2 years isn't enough to change anything.

What am I most excited about? All the new people I am going to meet! A new country to call home, a new culture to integrate into, and the language. I love French, speaking it carries me to a new level, brings me this cheese ball sensation of happiness. Now, I'm not counting on Guinea-style French to be the same as what I fell in love with in Paris. But, French is French, right?

Packing hasn't really started yet. There's a giant box of "Africa stuff" downstairs, including my backpack, a headlamp, and 3 long dresses. No doubt this will be a night-before packing job.

I also found out a few days ago I'm leaving from Philly. I love the idea of that. To me, Philly was the beginning of America's greatness. It's where America asserted (with the signing of the Constitution, for those that don't follow) her rock-star status and secured her prominence & success in comparison to the other nations in the world. I like to think that Philly, being the beginning of my journey, will be where I assert my rock-star status for the rest of my days.

Also, I have begun receiving CDs as requested from the Peace Corps Jams facebook group. Much love & thanks to those who have sent some ... and for those of you who haven't sent them yet ... please do!! For those of you who don't have facebook, I'm asking that you mail me a CD you make of your favorite music. You see, I'm going to leave behind the beloved ipod since I'm not counting on having electricity (and if I did, dealing with converters/expensive electronics as a white American girl in Africa are things I wouldn't want to deal with anyways) so I'm kicking it circa 1997 with a disc man. So not only are you giving me a music selection, but by sending me a CD I'd have a great way to think about & feel connected to you as I jam out in my hut. So please, mail me a CD this week!!

Home address:

11700 Fairmont Place

Ijamsville, MD 21754

And my Guinean address for all love sent from December 3, 2008 to March 2011 is:

Caitlin Mulligan

Corps de la Paix Americain

B.P. 1927

Conakry, Guinea

West Africa

**and if you send a package, mark it "educational materials" and make it look as boring as possible. Please, no glitter or bedazzles. I mean, even I would steal a package with pink rhinestones on the outside, and I'm not a corrupt postal worker.

What happens when you google Guinea?

2008-10-01T17:31:00.000-04:00

... And to give you an insight of my first attempts at Googling what my new home would be like. Pictures of cute furry rodents came up, a few maps, and then this.

Fortunately, that's a Peruvian dish (according to Google). I think I'll go veg anyways.

YOLO in Guinea, Take 1

2008-10-01T16:16:00.000-04:00

So when I first got my invitation to Peace Corps I Googled "Guinea" to see what I could find. In addition to information about various species of Guinea Pigs, I found hundreds of "blogs" from Peace Corps Volunteers (PCVs) around the globe. Turns out, a blog might be the easiest way to stay in touch with all the people I love over the next 2 years, considering I probably won't have a computer (or electricity for that matter).

I have no idea how such "blogs" work, so I'm figuring this out as I go. All you experts out there, cut me some slack. It's not usually the technological savvy folk who decide to live in huts in the first place.