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.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Candlelight Dinners and Taxis from Hell
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The Day the White Person Worked in the Market
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 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.)
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
So What's Really Going On ... followed by the wackest thing I have ever heard.
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...
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
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.
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.
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