Saturday, June 13, 2009
View from the Top
This is the view from my front porch. You can see my private "yard" that is landscaped with trees to cover up the wall. It's safe ... no one can climb over the wall and I have guards 24 hours a day to protect me. And you can see why I love drinking coffee sitting on my front steps and looking at the mountains. Mamou is the most gorgeous city in the most gorgeous region of arguably the most gorgeous country in West Africa. Love Life.
Proof that I actually do live over here.
Okay ... from the top:
1. last week my friends were like "kiki ... sunday morning at 8am, we have a surprise for you." I wake up, and they take me on a surprise picnic into the woods. Adorable. We made tea all morning and a delicious tomato/avocado salad. I love these guys.
2. one of the pictures from my birthday party, inside my house.
3. a group shot of a bike ride we took out to some gold mines back in december. this was before we instructed that in case of an emergency, we were to bike under the cover of darkness to the Sierra Leone border.
4. me and sacha, another volunteer, during our party after our swearing-in ceremony. theme: dress up like a movie character. presenting: Juno & Bleaker.
5. me and some pcvs that live nearby. no, we don't always look so snazzy. but it was the morning of our swearing-in event ... we had to keep it klassy.
alright, i know, 5 pictures is kind of weak after 6 months of living over here, but this has taken nearly 3 hours. enjoy :)
Conakry: once you can get past the military tanks & sewage, it's kind of a nice place.
I walk into the Peace Corps house in Conakry and sit down on the couch, next to a bunch of volunteers I’d never met before. We do the introductions. Name. Where we live. What we do. Why we’re in Conakry. My name is Caitlin but they call me Kiki. I live in Mamou. I work for World Education. And I’m here on a business trip, we’re discussing potential micro finance projects to implement in the Mamou prefecture and my role in them.
Oh cool, so did you used to be a Peace Corps Volunteer?
No. I’m a volunteer here now. I just got here.
Once again, God has taken life, picked out all the best parts of it, and threw them at Kiki Barry. So while everyone else is Conakry for broken teeth and picking up friends from the airport, I’m here on official business. Yes, I’m staying in a luxurious apartment. In this apartment I’ve seen my first Guinean elevator, I have not only running water but running water that can get hot (I completely forgot that we can have hot showers in normal-life). I have electricity, with AC. I have a TV, and I can watch more than just the Guinean news on it. There is a kitchen. There is a refrigerator. And when I thought it couldn’t be any sweeter, I get a laptop with internet. Damn. These next 7 days may be spent in a city that terrifies the life out of me, but they will be spent in luxury.
I’ve been here twice before, both times safely barricaded in the Peace Corps compound. But other than the two times I’ve been babysat by the Peace Corps (when I landed in this country and again when I swore in), the only times I’ve heard about Conakry would be in tidbits of the following conversations:
“oh, the Coup d’Etat just happened. Not any serious danger, but military are running around Conakry shooting bullets in the air” or
“…there’s a tank parked outside of the US Embassy in Conakry, facing its guns towards the front door. But no serious danger,” or
“today the national football game is being held in Conakry, the air is really intense. And if we win, steer clear, rioters will be everywhere,” or
“we had a beautiful palace in Conakry, but during some turmoil rioters tore it down and burned parts of it.”
So basically, Conakry: guns, militia, tanks, riots, burning buildings. Go alone? Business trip? No problem.
But I’m here. I’ve survived two nights. And it’s not so scary anymore. I mean, they have 3 grocery stores. I will withstand anything to set foot into a grocery store. So in addition to going to grocery stores and working at World Education’s main office, I’ve gotten to acclimate to Conakry, watch episodes of The Office on a friend’s laptop, and watch the sunset over the ocean sitting at the Beach Bar. (Not to mention it’s nice being a little bit more anonymous in this big city, there aren’t 50 people I have to stop and greet and ask about the wife/kids/evil/peace/house/and health.)
So Conakry: not scary anymore, a glimpse of the modern world, and I sometimes I even see white people.
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.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Kiki Barry meets Happy Gillmore
High school. Just thinking about high school brings back a slew of emotions where I was acutely aware of my surrounding and overwhelmed by insecurity. Pretty enough? Cool enough? Smart enough? And are my friends pretty, cool, and smart enough? But four years later, you’re out the door and you’re done with all that nonsense. Unless you follow one of two paths: Young Life leader or Peace Corps Volunteer. Lucky me, I’ve managed to follow both, yet no matter how “done” with high school I am according to that diploma, I keep coming back for more.
Which leads to yesterday afternoon.
My friend Souleymane had invited me along to go see his school and scope it out. I was excited at the prospect of seeing the empty campus, meeting the principal, and seeing where he spends his day. But when he comes to get me at my house he’s wearing his backpack.
“Souleymane, what’s the backpack for?”
“My notebook.””Why would you need a notebook just to visit school?””Oh, Kiki, did I forget to tell you? We’re going to my economics class.”
And then all of a sudden, I had no option, but to grab my own notebook and pen and head to class.
Standing around a cluster of worn-down cement buildings, awaiting the teacher who showed up to class 30 minutes late, the aura of high school insecurity was tangible. Even myself, who has already graduated from high school AND college was suddenly painfully aware of ‘what others might be thinking.’ I guess some things don’t change no matter how rich or poor you are. But then I caught myself worrying about my coolness level and laughed- because as a PCV I have no hopes of fitting in; either I’m rockstar cool or devastatingly an outsider. Or perhaps both at the same time. Anyways I decided to aim for the “rockstar cool” route and started chatting up the students. There was an overwhelming majority of boys, and the students in the equivalent of “senior year” of high school ranged from what looked like 17 to 27 years old. I met the philosophy teacher who was wearing a psychedelic lime green and navy blue patterned suit, dragging on his cigarette as he taught his class. And then before I knew what was going on, I heard a stampede. Running. Screaming. Fighting.
What the heck? All of a sudden about 100 self-conscious crazed adolescents start charging one of the buildings. You would have thought they were handing out 50 Cent concert tickets. But no, the professor had finally arrived and unlocked the classroom. Well shoot, I’m trying to fit in too so I start elbowing and shoving my way into the classroom and then I find out what we’re fighting for: seats. In this classroom are crammed together tables and benches, built for two, sat in by three. I share with my 2 friends. And before everyone is stuffed into this cement block of a classroom the professor starts mumbling some mumbo jumbo and people are frantically writing down every word. For lack of anything better to do, I also took notes. And this is how it went: the professor showing up half an hour late comes to class and spews out in less-than perfect French a lesson he had written. And students copy it down verbatim. And I’m talking verbatim. So when Souleymane has to go pray the 5:00 pm prayer, Abdoulaye takes notes, and then they switch off. But in all the frenzy, they’re lucky they can catch up and recopy from me and other students. Literally, it was 90 minutes of frantic chaos. And nothing was explained, just dictated. Apparently the teacher will explain the lesson next class. But what kind of system is that? Maybe because they don’t have text books, they have to write their own text book one day and then study the next? I don’t know, it’s crazy. And the classroom was so hot and uncomfortable that it takes a true devotion and willingness to be there. We don’t realized how spoiled we are in our own personal desks with pretty illustrated textbooks and air conditioned classrooms. I mean, I feel utter shame at how I habitually skipped classes at the plush R.H. Smith School of Business with fold-down padded chairs in a beautiful auditorium with microphones and beautiful lighting and air conditioners and projection screen televisions. These kids would die for something like that.
Anyways, I got to be in high school again yesterday and it was painfully awkward and uncomfortable at times, but what is high school if it’s not like that? Not to mention I learned how the Bretton Woods System impacts the structural adjustments of Guinea. Whatever that means … I guess I’ll have to go back to class to decode my scribbled down notes.
Otherwise, things here are great. My friends surprised me Sunday morning by taking me on a picnic to the woods. And then got a hold of my camera and did a photo shoot, again. But this time they busted out the model poses and were even taking off their shirts. If GQ got a hold of these guys, they’d be receiving a sure ticket to America. They’ve got the looks, the walk, and the poses. How am I so lucky?
Also... HAPPY BIRTHDAY CARA!!!!!! Miss and love you tons, thanks for the beautiful letter and Kiki's Kicks CD. Having not gotten any new music for 6 months and utterly sick of everything I own, this CD has been on replay and will probably wear out by the end of the week.
Love you all. Peace.
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.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Keeping Bees, Raising Chickens, and Mom Sent Leopard Print Rain Boots
and With Peace Corps, your first 3 months at site are for observation. So up until now, I have been laying back, learning the ropes of Mamou, and adjusting to the physical demands of the Guinean lifestyle. After 3 months, there’s this big training, and you get sent back to your new home to change the world.
Last week during the training I woke up one morning and boarded a bus, drove out to the bush, and met with a group of Guineans to learn (and teach) some beekeeping skills. So I’m standing there in the bush, in a dress and converse sneakers, surrounding by honeycombs and African bees, which are much more vicious than their American cousins (if mom asks, Yes, the EPI-pen was in my purse the whole time). I learned about different types of beehives, honey harvesting techniques, and how to attract bees to the hive. Unfortunately, being in a city, I don’t think the neighbors would like it if their American PCV started putting up beehives around the neighborhood. Afterwards, we took aside a few of the group members and showed them how they could earn some money with the beeswax. We showed them how to make hand lotion and we discussed other other options. The president of the group overheard me talking about beeswax candles (I was actually griping about how Guineans use POS fast-burning imported paraffin wax candles and would be much smarter and more economical if they used slow-burning beeswax candles from natural resoruces) and he turned to me and asked me if I could show him how to make beeswax candles. Now, you might be thinkng, that growing up in the suburbs of Maryland and studying Finance I wouldn’t know the first think about candle making. And under normal circumstances, you might be correct. But I had this intense flashback to a business trip dad took the family on to Colonial Williamsburg, VA about 12 years ago and I vividly remembered Claire and I taking turns dipping opposite ends of a wick into bubble cauldrons of wax with the aid of a woman donning 18th century garb. So I turned back to the President, noticed I had a mini audience, and proceded to tell this man just exactly he could make economical slow-burning candles from the materials he readily had at his disposition. Kiki: one point.
After a hearty meal of rice and sauce (note: sarcasm) I laid down for a nap. Cell phone wasn’t charged because there was no electricity so my alarm couldn’t go off for my next training session. I wake up and realize the conference center is empty. Crap, they all left to go somewhere (where?) without me! Someone tells me they went to a chicken farm down the mountain, I can walk there. So I pull on my dress and start running down a mountain that 6 months ago I wouldn’t have even tempted without hiking boots, passing half-dressed children and mud huts on my way. And all the kids are crying out to me “Hello white person! Is there any evil in your home?” and I’m replying back, trying not to fall face first into the rocks and simultaneously looking at the breathtaking view “No, there’s peace only, thank you!” all the while trying to catch up with the group so I can learn how to raise chickens and profitably sell eggs. And then it hit me: Peace Corps is awesome. And I’m so happy to be here. (and the chicken/egg raising training session was awesome- how cool would it be to start a chicken farm?! and it's profitable too!)
So my first 3 months are over, the real work has begun. I managed to convince the office to install internet on my computer in the office (so I now have one of the 10 connections in the country) and I taught my first English lesson Monday to my friends, helping them prepare for their SAT-equivalent. Only they’re 24 years old. One thing at a time, right?
Take care and much love! Thanks to Trieste, mom, Claire and dad for the awesome packages. I now can plant cantaloupes in my garden wearing leopard print rainboots (yes, mom was thinking ahead ... rainy season coming up!), catch up on real-life with a TIME magazine, all the while doting some Bonnebell lip gloss and new makeup. LOVE IT.
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.
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