Sent via e-mail 8/10/08
Dearest friends and family,
Next time work seems long and boring, a stack of exorbitant bills arrives in your mailbox, and you get stuck next to a smelly hill-billy named Icharus on your 30 minute subway ride to work, just remember: you are NOT a woman in Guinea. It could be worse.
As I've mentioned in previous emails, so, so many women in Guinea lead a tragically difficult and underappreciated existence. Women are expected to do 90% of the manual labor in a country whose infrastructure resembles that of mid-19th century America: They wake up at dawn, scrub the house clean, get water from the well, do the day's laundry with buckets and a washboard, cook lunch over an open fire in a pot resting on three rocks, serve lunch, clean up after lunch, wash the dishes, cook dinner, serve dinner, clean up dinner, turn in and get ready to do it all over again the next day. Many women also have fields and crops to tend to, or small "boutiques" (read: tables with some piles of onions, tomatoes, or dried fish) where they sell goods to help support their families. Almost all the middle-aged women I've seen have a host of children to look after (like cooking and cleaning, taking care of children is viewed as the travail des femmes, or women's work; NOT men's); many perform all the above tasks while pregnant or with babies tied to their backs.
As a thank-you for all their hard work around the house, women are oftentimes treated as second-class citizens. Polygamy, as I've mentioned, is a widespread practice: Most respectable men in Bouliwel have at least two wives (of course it could never work the other way—a wife having many husbands, I mean) (I asked about that the other night and was answered with a host of clucks and chuckles, even from the women).
A friend of mine, an employee at the health center, just married for a second time. When I asked him what his first wife thought about it, he said he never asked her. When I pressed him, he said, "It doesn't matter what she thinks. It's not her business whether or not I want to take a deuxieme femme." Sad but true. Ah, Guinea.
With an outlook for most women as bleak as this, you can imagine the many hurdles that girls must face on their path to womanhood. Education is largely the domain of men; Boys are expected to study, girls are expected to stay home and do chores. This year's 9th grade class at the Bouliwel middle school (we don't have a high school) consisted of 33 boys and 6 girls; the 10th grade, 15 and 2. Girls are often given in marriage at age 14 or 15 to men twice their age. Imagine if, for your sweet 16th, you were kicked out of your house and sent to live with a man of 35 who already had two wives, both of whom resented your presence in "their" foyer? One volunteer calls the practice of underage marriage—pardon the term—institutionalized rape.
It is in the middle of this culture that we Volunteers are thrust; they give us a bicycle and a local language notebook and tell us to have a positive impact. In light of the difficulties faced by women in Africa and all over the developing world, Peace Corps Volunteers worldwide make empowering women a top priority. Here in Guinea, we organize an annual Conference des Jeunes Filles, or Girls Conference, a three-day seminar where every Volunteer invites a girl from their village to learn about a whole range of issues, from women's rights, to excision, to gender roles, and public speaking.
We just had this year's conference last week!
Imagine this: Your name is Fatoumata Binta Sow. You are a 15-year old girl from a small village named Tountouroun, in the Fouta Djallon north of Labe. You are one of seven children, the oldest child your mother has had and the oldest girl in the family. You have left your village only twice in your lifetime, both times to go to larger towns for family reasons. You are very bright—indeed, you have the second highest grades in the 7th grade in your village middle school. When many of your girlfriends are out dancing, you light up the family's one kerosene lamp and study biology or French.
One day a random white girl shows up in your village! Nothing quite this exciting has happened in Tountouroun since before you can remember. Everything this porto does is exotic and funny and strange. She wears pants and lives by herself (she says she's 24 and she's not married yet!) and frequently travels in a shiny white Land Rover. She (allegedly) even wipes her butt with paper!
Slowly but surely, you introduce yourself and get to know her. She is really nice, and even though she does stuff that most women NEVER do, like eat with the men and smoke cigarettes, you grow to like her and look up to her quite a bit.
One day the porto girl invites you to go all the way to Mamou, five hours by bush taxi, to participate in something she calls a "Conference des Jeunes Filles." This seems like something you might dismiss as a "strange porto thing," but she seems serious. She even talks to the village authorities and worse, your dad, who tells you that you have to go. Yikes.
Turns out this "conference" is crazier than you thought. You show up in Mamou—your first visit to the "big city"—and are taken to a forestry school where they have electricity, cold cokes, and these metal tubes sticking out of the wall in the bathroom. All you have to do is turn a knob and water comes out! Insane. There's a lot of other girls here from all over Guinea—places like Boke, and Kankan, and Siguiri. You only know Pular and some French, but a lot of these girls speak languages you've only heard of, like Susu, and Kissi, and Malinke. One girl apparently spent 7 years in Liberia and even speaks English! Every girl has a porto with them as well, although none of them are quite as cool as yours. You've never seen so many white people in one place at one time. Heck, you've never seen this many white people in your whole life.
The next few days they talk to you about all sorts of things, like education (they all keep saying it's really important, so you're glad you're trying really hard!), and HIV/AIDS (you definitely don't want that!), and how to say no to boys (silly garcons). The third day a bunch of what the portos call "professional women" come and tell you all their stories about how they grew up and became educated and found jobs and stuff. They all speak really good French, which was kind of intimidating, but then when you got to talk to them after, they were really nice! You want to be just like one—her name's Odette—and work for the Peace Corps when you grow up.
By the end of the conference you've made 23 new best friends and got all the numbers of the cute porto guys. You are determined to finish middle school, to go to high school, maybe even try to go to the University in Conakry like Odette did! You are ready to tell your parents you don't want to get married until you're done with school, and you even want to start a Girl's Club in Tountouroun to encourage other girls to take their studies seriously. You cry when the Peace Corps car comes to take you back to your village but you're excited to go back and tell everybody what happened! You are going to talk about the Conference des Jeunes Filles for years!
This, my friends, should hopefully give you an idea of what happened here in Mamou this past week. To sum it up in a few words: Lots of portos, lots of deer-in-the-headlights Guinean girls, lots of silly skits (I played a Guinean woman twice), lots of estrogen. Good times!*
Thank you for reading, and please, keep the plight of Guinean women in your thoughts and prayers.
Much love,
Andrew
* Yes, I've changed, Karina Arrue. I think estrogen is cool now. Sorta.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Zoomy and the Forestiers
Sent via e-mail 7/30/08
Hello dearest friends and family,
A number of you have asked if I've been able to find a church to go to regularly here in Guinea. The answer, after long last, is yes. Yet the experience of finding a solid church (or any church ;) and attending a solid church is so hilariously different here that it makes me chuckle out loud just thinking about it (making the girl working on the computer to my left shoot me a strange glance and shuffle uncomfortably in her seat) (I shall compose myself).
Please let me explain.
Both before my departure and during my time here as a Volunteer, I've constistently prayed that God would guide me to some sort of Christian community for support and spiritual growth. As I've mentioned many times before, Guinea is a wonderful, beautiful country full of wonderful, beautiful people-- 90% of whom happen to be Muslim. My whole village of Bouliwel is unquestionably Muslim; of course, as with any religion in the world, certain people practice more devoutly than others. This can, as you might imagine, lead to some areas of tension or ill-will. It seems that the older you get in Bouliwel, the more religious you tend to be-- you settle down, you do your prayers, you stop dancing and drinking, etc. My counterpart, M. Diallo, and the other Health Center staff are all by-the-book Muslims and take their faith seriously. As soon as we finish our rice and sauce for lunch, they do their ablutions (washing their hands, feet, and face in order to be clean and respectful before God), roll out the prayer mat, take off their shoes, and recite their prayers, replete with Allahu Akbars ("God is great" in Arabic) and touching-their-heads-to-the-floor. They spend a few minutes bowing, kneeling, and saying "God is great," and then sit and count off 99 times on their rosaries. This is repeated five times a day-- 5am, 2pm, 5pm, 7pm, 8pm-- and is standard practice for any orthodox Muslim anywhere in the world. And Bouliwel, while not exactly what I imagine a place like Saudi Arabia is like, certainly plays home to many orthodox Muslims like Diallo, Sow, and my other friends in the village.
This is the environment into which I have been thrust-- a situation so wildly different from anything I have ever known. I love my village and my Muslim friends and "family" and soak up the opportunities to learn about a new culture and religion, yet it does not come without challenges. My faith in Christ, or I should say Christ himself, has played a huge role in guiding and sustaining me through cultural adjustments, loneliness, isolation, and daily experiences of suffering, some of which I've already relayed to you in previous emails. At the same time it has been exhaustingly difficult at times to pray alone day after day, to have the entire village-- jokingly or otherwise-- tell me I need to become Muslim, or to talk about my faith and receive blank stares or worse-- intolerant rebukes. This may help explain the persistence and consistence of my prayers for Christian community.
To try and find said community, one of the first Sundays during my service in Bouliwel I walked out to the main road, held out my hand, and yelled "Dalaba, Dalaba, Dalaba" as the bush taxis went by.
(Funny side note: I received a letter from a friend yesterday that said, "we'd like to know more about the church you've been going to. Apparently you go by taxi? We weren't aware there were taxis in your village." Um, if you mean taxis like New York City taxis, well, there certainly aren't any of those. But the one paved road in the Fouta Djallon runs right through the middle of Bouliwel and there are frequent occasions to catch a ride in a rusted-out 6-man Peugeout with 9 people in it. Just hold out your hand and hope there aren't too many goats stuffed in the trunk-- it makes for a less smelly ride ;)
Sunday being the market day in Dalaba, it was pretty easy to catch a .75 cent ride into town. Once there, I got out and started asking people "ko honto eglise woni"-- where's the church? They pointed me up the hill, where I discovered a decent-sized Catholic church with a friendly, colorful congregation of Guineans from the Forest region of the country, where Christianity is more widespread. I enjoyed the mass there and met some cool young people who were in Dalaba studying at the Institut du Medicine Veterinaire-- the Vet School in town. I was encouraged to meet other Christians and to experience singing, praying, and worshipping together in a community, and went back for several weeks.
I began to make it a routine of going to Dalaba on Sunday mornings for church, and I appreciated and enjoyed the community that I had found at the Catholic Church. At the same time, I had heard rumors that there was a Protestant Church somewhere in Dalaba but they didn't have a building yet. Apparently it was small but thriving and had several western missionaries involved in it somehow. Being a bit of a protester myself, I was curious and eager to find this church and check it out. I asked some of my Catholic friends but they weren't sure where it was. Hmmmm, I thought. Hmmm.
One week I began to pray in earnest about finding that silly Protestant church. I asked God to help me find it somehow, even though I didn't really know where to start. Earlier I had thought about asking the Priest at the Catholic Church but then I got kinda nervous and didn't. Praying in my house in Bouliwel seemed much safer, I suppose. Anyway, later that week I talked to my girlfriend Rene and lo and behold-- she had run into some missionaries in Nigeria who had some friends who were missionaries in Dalaba of all places! She gave me the name of this guy Bill and told me to look 'im up.
That Sunday I got out of the 15-person van I had ridden up in (me and 24 other people-- nice and cozy ;) and began asking everyone where the eglise protestante was. They all pointed me up the hill to the Catholic church, at which point I stated, slowly and clearly, that that was the catholic church, and where was the protestant one? Blank stares. D'oh. At one point I had a guy who was sure he knew where it was and sent me off walking to the other side of town. I was beginning to think I was on a wild goose chase when all of a sudden, wham! A car drives by me with the words "Eglise Protestante Evangelique de la Guinee" written on the side.
Whoa! I started scurrying, in a dignified kind of way of course, after the car. They would have long left me behind and gone over the hill except that one guy stopped and wanted to buy some chickens. So I caught up, and asked them if they were involved with the eglise protestante. Yup, they said. I asked them if they were going to church that morning. Yup. I asked them if I could go with them. Yup. Sweetness.
So I hopped in their car, shook a few hands, and got shuttled off to the protestant church (which, I might add, was on the totally OPPOSITE side of town from where that one dude was sending me ;). Apparently the guys in the car were the pastors from Labe and Mamou who were in Dalaba for an administrative meeting of some sort. They were gracious and helpful in inviting me to come join them for worship and meet the members of the community there.
The eglise met in the upstairs room of a large house on the hill opposite the marketplace. I was warmly welcomed and given a place upfront next to this one forestier (term denoting a person who is from the forest region of Guinea) (like the Catholic church, most of the people involved with the protestant church were from the forest) (Donnie Stuart thinks that terminology is funny and it makes him think of forest-dwellers or something-- whatever that is) (silly Donald) guy.
I was sitting there chatting him up when this porto walked in, and I was like, "deeeh, what's a white person doing here?" Exactly like that.
Turns out it was Bill-- you know, the guy Rene told me to look up? How cool is that? Bill is this late 50s Canadian-Scottish dude who has lived in Guinea for 11 years. He's a little awkward to talk to at first and his hands are a little shaky but it was so nice to see another Westerner. He invited me over for lunch at his place the next day, which was truly amazing. He and his wife both live in Dalaba long-term along with another older couple and a single woman who are both with his same mission. They hung out with me, sang with me, prayed with me, and encouraged me in my work in Bouliwel. And they gave me amazing food-- I mean, brownies? Insane. And real coffee. Funny the things you really miss when you're stuck in a podunk African village for two years.
Anyway, I was really grateful to make the connections with Bill and the folks from his mission. He and his wife are in Canada right now on home service, but will be back in February and have promised to bring more coffee. Oh, and, you know, be Christians with me.
Oh, and the church? Awesome. Really vibrant. Imagine a decent-sized, kinda drafty room with some wooden benches and a wooden pulpit. Now imagine a few songbooks and a drum. Now imagine that room is filled with noisy Africans singing and dancing and shaking hands and you've got this church. I've been going regularly now and am so thankful for the community and spiritual support that I get there. I've made some solid friends with some of the guys there, many of whom study or work in Dalaba but are really forest-dwellers (Donald).
The one forestier dude's name is Zoomy. Seriously. Last Tuesday Zoomy did the presentation of his memoire (basically his doctoral dissertation at the vet school), and he invited me to go, so I biked up to Dalaba and watched. He talked about parasites and chimpanzees. It was great.
Anyway, all that's to say-- this is absurdly long, again-- but I've found a sweet church and made some great connections there. Thank God. I've also planted a garden full of beans and basil and moringa trees and started to look into doing a couple funded projects. More on that in the future.
'Til next time,
Thanks for reading, Mom and Sophie Aubry. You guys rule.
Much love to all,
From Africa,
Aboubacar
Hello dearest friends and family,
A number of you have asked if I've been able to find a church to go to regularly here in Guinea. The answer, after long last, is yes. Yet the experience of finding a solid church (or any church ;) and attending a solid church is so hilariously different here that it makes me chuckle out loud just thinking about it (making the girl working on the computer to my left shoot me a strange glance and shuffle uncomfortably in her seat) (I shall compose myself).
Please let me explain.
Both before my departure and during my time here as a Volunteer, I've constistently prayed that God would guide me to some sort of Christian community for support and spiritual growth. As I've mentioned many times before, Guinea is a wonderful, beautiful country full of wonderful, beautiful people-- 90% of whom happen to be Muslim. My whole village of Bouliwel is unquestionably Muslim; of course, as with any religion in the world, certain people practice more devoutly than others. This can, as you might imagine, lead to some areas of tension or ill-will. It seems that the older you get in Bouliwel, the more religious you tend to be-- you settle down, you do your prayers, you stop dancing and drinking, etc. My counterpart, M. Diallo, and the other Health Center staff are all by-the-book Muslims and take their faith seriously. As soon as we finish our rice and sauce for lunch, they do their ablutions (washing their hands, feet, and face in order to be clean and respectful before God), roll out the prayer mat, take off their shoes, and recite their prayers, replete with Allahu Akbars ("God is great" in Arabic) and touching-their-heads-to-the-floor. They spend a few minutes bowing, kneeling, and saying "God is great," and then sit and count off 99 times on their rosaries. This is repeated five times a day-- 5am, 2pm, 5pm, 7pm, 8pm-- and is standard practice for any orthodox Muslim anywhere in the world. And Bouliwel, while not exactly what I imagine a place like Saudi Arabia is like, certainly plays home to many orthodox Muslims like Diallo, Sow, and my other friends in the village.
This is the environment into which I have been thrust-- a situation so wildly different from anything I have ever known. I love my village and my Muslim friends and "family" and soak up the opportunities to learn about a new culture and religion, yet it does not come without challenges. My faith in Christ, or I should say Christ himself, has played a huge role in guiding and sustaining me through cultural adjustments, loneliness, isolation, and daily experiences of suffering, some of which I've already relayed to you in previous emails. At the same time it has been exhaustingly difficult at times to pray alone day after day, to have the entire village-- jokingly or otherwise-- tell me I need to become Muslim, or to talk about my faith and receive blank stares or worse-- intolerant rebukes. This may help explain the persistence and consistence of my prayers for Christian community.
To try and find said community, one of the first Sundays during my service in Bouliwel I walked out to the main road, held out my hand, and yelled "Dalaba, Dalaba, Dalaba" as the bush taxis went by.
(Funny side note: I received a letter from a friend yesterday that said, "we'd like to know more about the church you've been going to. Apparently you go by taxi? We weren't aware there were taxis in your village." Um, if you mean taxis like New York City taxis, well, there certainly aren't any of those. But the one paved road in the Fouta Djallon runs right through the middle of Bouliwel and there are frequent occasions to catch a ride in a rusted-out 6-man Peugeout with 9 people in it. Just hold out your hand and hope there aren't too many goats stuffed in the trunk-- it makes for a less smelly ride ;)
Sunday being the market day in Dalaba, it was pretty easy to catch a .75 cent ride into town. Once there, I got out and started asking people "ko honto eglise woni"-- where's the church? They pointed me up the hill, where I discovered a decent-sized Catholic church with a friendly, colorful congregation of Guineans from the Forest region of the country, where Christianity is more widespread. I enjoyed the mass there and met some cool young people who were in Dalaba studying at the Institut du Medicine Veterinaire-- the Vet School in town. I was encouraged to meet other Christians and to experience singing, praying, and worshipping together in a community, and went back for several weeks.
I began to make it a routine of going to Dalaba on Sunday mornings for church, and I appreciated and enjoyed the community that I had found at the Catholic Church. At the same time, I had heard rumors that there was a Protestant Church somewhere in Dalaba but they didn't have a building yet. Apparently it was small but thriving and had several western missionaries involved in it somehow. Being a bit of a protester myself, I was curious and eager to find this church and check it out. I asked some of my Catholic friends but they weren't sure where it was. Hmmmm, I thought. Hmmm.
One week I began to pray in earnest about finding that silly Protestant church. I asked God to help me find it somehow, even though I didn't really know where to start. Earlier I had thought about asking the Priest at the Catholic Church but then I got kinda nervous and didn't. Praying in my house in Bouliwel seemed much safer, I suppose. Anyway, later that week I talked to my girlfriend Rene and lo and behold-- she had run into some missionaries in Nigeria who had some friends who were missionaries in Dalaba of all places! She gave me the name of this guy Bill and told me to look 'im up.
That Sunday I got out of the 15-person van I had ridden up in (me and 24 other people-- nice and cozy ;) and began asking everyone where the eglise protestante was. They all pointed me up the hill to the Catholic church, at which point I stated, slowly and clearly, that that was the catholic church, and where was the protestant one? Blank stares. D'oh. At one point I had a guy who was sure he knew where it was and sent me off walking to the other side of town. I was beginning to think I was on a wild goose chase when all of a sudden, wham! A car drives by me with the words "Eglise Protestante Evangelique de la Guinee" written on the side.
Whoa! I started scurrying, in a dignified kind of way of course, after the car. They would have long left me behind and gone over the hill except that one guy stopped and wanted to buy some chickens. So I caught up, and asked them if they were involved with the eglise protestante. Yup, they said. I asked them if they were going to church that morning. Yup. I asked them if I could go with them. Yup. Sweetness.
So I hopped in their car, shook a few hands, and got shuttled off to the protestant church (which, I might add, was on the totally OPPOSITE side of town from where that one dude was sending me ;). Apparently the guys in the car were the pastors from Labe and Mamou who were in Dalaba for an administrative meeting of some sort. They were gracious and helpful in inviting me to come join them for worship and meet the members of the community there.
The eglise met in the upstairs room of a large house on the hill opposite the marketplace. I was warmly welcomed and given a place upfront next to this one forestier (term denoting a person who is from the forest region of Guinea) (like the Catholic church, most of the people involved with the protestant church were from the forest) (Donnie Stuart thinks that terminology is funny and it makes him think of forest-dwellers or something-- whatever that is) (silly Donald) guy.
I was sitting there chatting him up when this porto walked in, and I was like, "deeeh, what's a white person doing here?" Exactly like that.
Turns out it was Bill-- you know, the guy Rene told me to look up? How cool is that? Bill is this late 50s Canadian-Scottish dude who has lived in Guinea for 11 years. He's a little awkward to talk to at first and his hands are a little shaky but it was so nice to see another Westerner. He invited me over for lunch at his place the next day, which was truly amazing. He and his wife both live in Dalaba long-term along with another older couple and a single woman who are both with his same mission. They hung out with me, sang with me, prayed with me, and encouraged me in my work in Bouliwel. And they gave me amazing food-- I mean, brownies? Insane. And real coffee. Funny the things you really miss when you're stuck in a podunk African village for two years.
Anyway, I was really grateful to make the connections with Bill and the folks from his mission. He and his wife are in Canada right now on home service, but will be back in February and have promised to bring more coffee. Oh, and, you know, be Christians with me.
Oh, and the church? Awesome. Really vibrant. Imagine a decent-sized, kinda drafty room with some wooden benches and a wooden pulpit. Now imagine a few songbooks and a drum. Now imagine that room is filled with noisy Africans singing and dancing and shaking hands and you've got this church. I've been going regularly now and am so thankful for the community and spiritual support that I get there. I've made some solid friends with some of the guys there, many of whom study or work in Dalaba but are really forest-dwellers (Donald).
The one forestier dude's name is Zoomy. Seriously. Last Tuesday Zoomy did the presentation of his memoire (basically his doctoral dissertation at the vet school), and he invited me to go, so I biked up to Dalaba and watched. He talked about parasites and chimpanzees. It was great.
Anyway, all that's to say-- this is absurdly long, again-- but I've found a sweet church and made some great connections there. Thank God. I've also planted a garden full of beans and basil and moringa trees and started to look into doing a couple funded projects. More on that in the future.
'Til next time,
Thanks for reading, Mom and Sophie Aubry. You guys rule.
Much love to all,
From Africa,
Aboubacar
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Another Sad One
Sent via e-amil 7/5/08
Hello dear friends and family,
Here's a head's up before you read: I wish I could have all my emails be funny and light-hearted, but it wouldn't be a truthful reflection of the reality of life here. This one recounts some community events that occured last Sunday-- please have a read but I warn you: it's a little heavy.
Last Sunday morning-- my first Sunday back in Bouliwel after being on vacation seeing Rene-- I went through my normal routine, excited to be back in my village after long last. I woke up, made some coffee in my newly purchased French press (glorious.), had some prayer time, took my shower, changed, and headed out the door to get a taxi to Dalaba for church. As I walked up the dirt road towards the main carrefour [intersection], greeting people and shaking hands, a car suddenly roared over the hill heading towards the health center, towing a wake of distressed and screaming women and children in its wake. I had to get out of the way to avoid getting hit, and, puzzled, asked one of the men nearby what was going on.
"Il y avait un accident sur la route la bas," he said frankly. There was an accident on the main road my my village's marketplace.
"Un accident?!" I asked. "Qu'est-ce qui s'est passe?" What happened?
"Une petite fille etait tape par un taxi," he said. A little girl was hit by a taxi.
A wave of goosebumps washed over me as I heard that. Oh no. I pressed him for more information-- how bad was it? What was she doing in the road? Whose fault was it? -- but he didn't seem to know much more than that. I turned and joined the crowd of people heading down the road to the health center where they had taken the girl.
When I got there, there was a huge crowd of people already gathered outside: Men, women, children-- all milling around, some yelling, others crying, still others having heated discussions about the unacceptable practices of Guinean taxi drivers. I pushed my way through and went into the health center.
The little girl was in one of the sick rooms. I walked in, expecting to see her being attended to by the health center staff, yet they were nowhere to be seen (turns out M. Diallo was seeing a patient and M. Sow was in Mamou for the day). When people noticed the porto had appeared in the health center they all turned to me, imploring me to do something to help her.
Oh no, I thought. I'm not a doctor, nor am I qualified or comfortable giving this kind of care. Yet there was nothing else to do, so I approached the girl's bedside and walked through my tried-and-true CPR techniques. Was she coherent? No. She was in a state of shock, unconscious, and coughing up blood. Did she have a pulse? Yes, thank God. Was she breathing? Yes, ragged, bloody gasps. She must have had some kind of internal bleeding.
I called her name several times: Safiatou! Safiatou! Her older brother-- a friend of mine-- was next to me, shaking his head and saying we ought to take her to Mamou, where they have a bigger hospital. I just looked at her and said a prayer: God, please let this girl live.
The next moment a consensus seemed to have been made: take the girl to Mamou. I grabbed the brother and another guy and we lifted her carefully off the bed, out the door and into the waiting taxi. As we brought her out the crowd just gasped and chattered, women crying and children staring wide-eyed. We put her in the taxi and it zoomed off to the regional hospital. I just stared after it, watching it go and praying under my breath.
The day passed normally after that: Church in Dalaba, hang-time with the Volunteers there, and a trip to the weekly marketplace. That night, back in Bouliwel, the honks of a car announced the bad news: the girl had died.
Two cars came screeching into Bouliwel in front of my house, and soon the wailing began again, this time in unison, declaring the sadness and pain of another loss.
The arrangements were made quickly and efficiently: the burial was done the next morning and all the proper procedures were followed.
Ah, Bouliwel! So much suffering, so much pain. If only people would drive more cautiously, think with more common sense, act with more care!
My heart just aches sometimes for the suffering of this village that I have come to love. If you have read this, thank you showing compassion (suffering alongside) for a few moments.
Much love,
Andrew
Hello dear friends and family,
Here's a head's up before you read: I wish I could have all my emails be funny and light-hearted, but it wouldn't be a truthful reflection of the reality of life here. This one recounts some community events that occured last Sunday-- please have a read but I warn you: it's a little heavy.
Last Sunday morning-- my first Sunday back in Bouliwel after being on vacation seeing Rene-- I went through my normal routine, excited to be back in my village after long last. I woke up, made some coffee in my newly purchased French press (glorious.), had some prayer time, took my shower, changed, and headed out the door to get a taxi to Dalaba for church. As I walked up the dirt road towards the main carrefour [intersection], greeting people and shaking hands, a car suddenly roared over the hill heading towards the health center, towing a wake of distressed and screaming women and children in its wake. I had to get out of the way to avoid getting hit, and, puzzled, asked one of the men nearby what was going on.
"Il y avait un accident sur la route la bas," he said frankly. There was an accident on the main road my my village's marketplace.
"Un accident?!" I asked. "Qu'est-ce qui s'est passe?" What happened?
"Une petite fille etait tape par un taxi," he said. A little girl was hit by a taxi.
A wave of goosebumps washed over me as I heard that. Oh no. I pressed him for more information-- how bad was it? What was she doing in the road? Whose fault was it? -- but he didn't seem to know much more than that. I turned and joined the crowd of people heading down the road to the health center where they had taken the girl.
When I got there, there was a huge crowd of people already gathered outside: Men, women, children-- all milling around, some yelling, others crying, still others having heated discussions about the unacceptable practices of Guinean taxi drivers. I pushed my way through and went into the health center.
The little girl was in one of the sick rooms. I walked in, expecting to see her being attended to by the health center staff, yet they were nowhere to be seen (turns out M. Diallo was seeing a patient and M. Sow was in Mamou for the day). When people noticed the porto had appeared in the health center they all turned to me, imploring me to do something to help her.
Oh no, I thought. I'm not a doctor, nor am I qualified or comfortable giving this kind of care. Yet there was nothing else to do, so I approached the girl's bedside and walked through my tried-and-true CPR techniques. Was she coherent? No. She was in a state of shock, unconscious, and coughing up blood. Did she have a pulse? Yes, thank God. Was she breathing? Yes, ragged, bloody gasps. She must have had some kind of internal bleeding.
I called her name several times: Safiatou! Safiatou! Her older brother-- a friend of mine-- was next to me, shaking his head and saying we ought to take her to Mamou, where they have a bigger hospital. I just looked at her and said a prayer: God, please let this girl live.
The next moment a consensus seemed to have been made: take the girl to Mamou. I grabbed the brother and another guy and we lifted her carefully off the bed, out the door and into the waiting taxi. As we brought her out the crowd just gasped and chattered, women crying and children staring wide-eyed. We put her in the taxi and it zoomed off to the regional hospital. I just stared after it, watching it go and praying under my breath.
The day passed normally after that: Church in Dalaba, hang-time with the Volunteers there, and a trip to the weekly marketplace. That night, back in Bouliwel, the honks of a car announced the bad news: the girl had died.
Two cars came screeching into Bouliwel in front of my house, and soon the wailing began again, this time in unison, declaring the sadness and pain of another loss.
The arrangements were made quickly and efficiently: the burial was done the next morning and all the proper procedures were followed.
Ah, Bouliwel! So much suffering, so much pain. If only people would drive more cautiously, think with more common sense, act with more care!
My heart just aches sometimes for the suffering of this village that I have come to love. If you have read this, thank you showing compassion (suffering alongside) for a few moments.
Much love,
Andrew
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Ten Things I Hate (Love) About Guinea
Sent via e-mail 6/24/08
Hello all,
So there's a popular girl movie, Ten Things I Hate About You. I saw it once, and vaguely remember hoping that the general chick-flickishness of the film would make one of the two girls I went with develop instantaneous crushes on me. While leaving the cinema, I think I may have mentioned that the plot of the movie is taken from a Shakespeare play (it is, n'est-ce pas?). Middle school not being the age when looking knowledgeable about Shakespeare is cool, I fear this may have tanked my hopes.
Needless to say, Ten Things I Hate About You randomly popped into my head today as I was riding in a taxi in downtown Conakry. I was en ville, en route to the bank. This was my first day being in Guinea after a beautiful, heavenly, 10-day vacation visiting my girlfriend Rene Marshall in England and N. Ireland, and thus was making a few mini-adjustments being back-- firmly-- in the heart of the developing world.
As the chauffeur passed me the car's one handle to roll down the window, I shook my head distractedly at a young man earnestly trying to sell me cheap plastic belts and reflected: "What are ten things I hate about Guinea?"
As soon as I thought that, it seemed like a dumb question. A much BETTER question would be, of course (cue an image of Meg McFadden, sitting across the table from you, holding a mug of tea and looking very interested in what you were about to say):
"What are ten things I love about Guinea?"
Having given it a little thought, here are ten things, in no particular order:
1. Big, beautiful, majestic baobab trees. They line the main streets in Conakry and provide shade, serenity, and splendor.
2. Clearing cows off of my yard in order to reach the latrine where I do my business.
3. Being mobbed by a horde of children every time I return to my village after a trip away (looking forward to that tomorrow evening!).
4. Knowing and being known by every single person in my village.
5. Bartering for everything. You walk to the marketplace-- there are no price tags here! 95% of the vendors can't even read. You approach a woman; let's say you want her tomatoes. You don't, of course, simply ask her how much the tomatoes are. First you ask her how her family is, her children, her work. You both laugh as she compliments you on your ragged attempts to speak her native language. You glance at the tomatoes, then, and venture the question: Ko jelu? [how much?] Let the fun begin! She names a price-- you act deeply offended and make disapproving noises with your tongue. You propose a lower price-- she dishes back the 'tude, complete with tongue noises. You do this for a while, faces stony, until you eventually agree on a price. Whoop! That was easy. Smiles return, tomatoes go into the bag held by one of your eager child helpers, you wish one another well, and continue on your way. Just like shopping at the Acme, right? ;)
6. Bike rides, at sunset, in the foothills around my village.
7. Children here are so helpful-- I can grab any child, at any time, and send them off on an errand. Need water from the pump? Hello, Siradjo! Need bread from the marketplace? Bonjour, Alphadjo! This isn't exploitation, this is cultural assimilation! It's just what people do here. And the kids are generally happy to help. Plus they know that the porto [me] gives out good rewards: candy, piggy-back rides, and old Sports Illustrateds.
8. Teaching children silly things like how to shuffle cards the American way (you know, with the waterfall) or sing properly all the words to the chorus of Akon's "Don't Matter."
9. Meeting up with other Peace Corps Volunteers after a long two weeks at site and enjoying the ease with which the English you speak rolls off your tongue. Wow-- I can actually say what I mean and be understood!! Glorious.
10. Eating bucketfuls of juicy, sweet mangoes.
So there you have it. Guinea (and I) enjoyed the presence of Donnie Stuart for 8 days at the beginning of June. Have questions? Comments? Concerns? Please toss them my way (or his!). It is a pleasure to share little slices of my life here in Africa, and I hope and pray that these little emails would encourage others to deepen their vision and understanding for the forgotten countries of the world.
Til the next time,
Love you all!
Andrew
So there's a popular girl movie, Ten Things I Hate About You. I saw it once, and vaguely remember hoping that the general chick-flickishness of the film would make one of the two girls I went with develop instantaneous crushes on me. While leaving the cinema, I think I may have mentioned that the plot of the movie is taken from a Shakespeare play (it is, n'est-ce pas?). Middle school not being the age when looking knowledgeable about Shakespeare is cool, I fear this may have tanked my hopes.
Needless to say, Ten Things I Hate About You randomly popped into my head today as I was riding in a taxi in downtown Conakry. I was en ville, en route to the bank. This was my first day being in Guinea after a beautiful, heavenly, 10-day vacation visiting my girlfriend Rene Marshall in England and N. Ireland, and thus was making a few mini-adjustments being back-- firmly-- in the heart of the developing world.
As the chauffeur passed me the car's one handle to roll down the window, I shook my head distractedly at a young man earnestly trying to sell me cheap plastic belts and reflected: "What are ten things I hate about Guinea?"
As soon as I thought that, it seemed like a dumb question. A much BETTER question would be, of course (cue an image of Meg McFadden, sitting across the table from you, holding a mug of tea and looking very interested in what you were about to say):
"What are ten things I love about Guinea?"
Having given it a little thought, here are ten things, in no particular order:
1. Big, beautiful, majestic baobab trees. They line the main streets in Conakry and provide shade, serenity, and splendor.
2. Clearing cows off of my yard in order to reach the latrine where I do my business.
3. Being mobbed by a horde of children every time I return to my village after a trip away (looking forward to that tomorrow evening!).
4. Knowing and being known by every single person in my village.
5. Bartering for everything. You walk to the marketplace-- there are no price tags here! 95% of the vendors can't even read. You approach a woman; let's say you want her tomatoes. You don't, of course, simply ask her how much the tomatoes are. First you ask her how her family is, her children, her work. You both laugh as she compliments you on your ragged attempts to speak her native language. You glance at the tomatoes, then, and venture the question: Ko jelu? [how much?] Let the fun begin! She names a price-- you act deeply offended and make disapproving noises with your tongue. You propose a lower price-- she dishes back the 'tude, complete with tongue noises. You do this for a while, faces stony, until you eventually agree on a price. Whoop! That was easy. Smiles return, tomatoes go into the bag held by one of your eager child helpers, you wish one another well, and continue on your way. Just like shopping at the Acme, right? ;)
6. Bike rides, at sunset, in the foothills around my village.
7. Children here are so helpful-- I can grab any child, at any time, and send them off on an errand. Need water from the pump? Hello, Siradjo! Need bread from the marketplace? Bonjour, Alphadjo! This isn't exploitation, this is cultural assimilation! It's just what people do here. And the kids are generally happy to help. Plus they know that the porto [me] gives out good rewards: candy, piggy-back rides, and old Sports Illustrateds.
8. Teaching children silly things like how to shuffle cards the American way (you know, with the waterfall) or sing properly all the words to the chorus of Akon's "Don't Matter."
9. Meeting up with other Peace Corps Volunteers after a long two weeks at site and enjoying the ease with which the English you speak rolls off your tongue. Wow-- I can actually say what I mean and be understood!! Glorious.
10. Eating bucketfuls of juicy, sweet mangoes.
So there you have it. Guinea (and I) enjoyed the presence of Donnie Stuart for 8 days at the beginning of June. Have questions? Comments? Concerns? Please toss them my way (or his!). It is a pleasure to share little slices of my life here in Africa, and I hope and pray that these little emails would encourage others to deepen their vision and understanding for the forgotten countries of the world.
Til the next time,
Love you all!
Andrew
Saturday, May 31, 2008
"Andrew, what do you actually do? You know, for a job?"
Sent via e-mial 5/31/2008
Hello everybody,
So as you all will no doubt remember, my last soul-less, industrial mass email kicked off a new series of Andrew's Guinea emails titled: "Answers to random questions you may have about my life here in Guinea."
This week's installment:
"Andrew, what do you actually do? You know, for a job?"
Great question. To answer, I will take you inside the planning, preparation, and execution of my latest health sensitization at the local ecole primaire* [please refer to the appendix at the bottom of the page if necessary] in my village.
As I've mentioned in previous emails, malaria presents an enormous problem here in Guinea. As the primary cause of death in the prefecture* where I live, malaria claims the lives of men, women, and children on an almost daily basis, particularly during the first few months of the rainy season (May, June, July). Although it is heavily over-diagnosed in local health centers (due to poorly-trained staff and/or the oversimplification of symptom diagnosis by the Ministry of Public Health here) and thus the numbers tallying the total of malaria patients are almost always inflated, the disease nonetheless continues to be an serious issue-- one made all the more tragic because of its preventability.
With this in mind, two weeks ago I set to work organizing a series of health sensitizations to be given in the local primary school discussing the topic of malaria: what it is, its symptoms, what to do if you get it, and most importantly for my work, how to prevent it.
The process went through several phases:
Phase # 1: Asking and getting permission
So very little gets accomplished in Guinea outside of the traditional, top-down heirarchical structures that are in place. If someone wants to organize a project in the village, they must first talk with the sous-prefet*, the village sages* and the authorities responsible for the sector in which they want to work (in this case, the directeur de l'ecole primaire*). To not do so would be a significant breach in protocol and cause all sorts of silly problems that would hinder one's progress.
Trying hard to be a good culturally-sensitive volunteer, one day last week I went to the sous-prefet's office and told him I wanted to do some presentations on malaria in the primary schools. Fine. No problem. Then, later that day at a baptism, I tracked down the directeur of the primary school and told him I wanted to do some presentations on malaria in the primary schools. Fine. We'd love to have you. I let M. Diallo, my counterpart know, and he told me to go for it.
Perfect! That was the easy part.
Phase # 2: Preparing visual aids
Yeah, here's the hard part. So as I may have previously mentioned, the illiteracy rate in Guinea must be well over 50%. I think there may be one grown woman in Bouliwel who can read and write a little, if that, and the non-fonctionnaire* men aren't much better.
"Well Andrew," you might say, "surely 5th and 6th grade kids ought to be able to read, right?"
Hm. Well, not necessarily. Education in Bouliwel (and the vast majority of Guinea) really stinks. Classrooms are dirty and ill-kept, teachers are poorly trained and poorly paid, kids are often forced to stay home to do chores or work in the fields, and overall a nasty, oppressive system of rote-learning keeps most kids from learning anything significant. All of which is made even worse when you only go to school for 2 hours a day, 4 days a week and your own parents are inalphabets* (as is the case with most children).
So all this is to say, whenever I want to do a health sensitization, I need to have pretty, pretty pictures and not much writing. (Imagine, for a moment, what life would be like if, every time you looked at writing all you saw were black lines and circles and the occasional dot) Which for me is not easy because I stink at art. Oh Mom, how hard you tried to raise your little children to be artsy, and cultured! And how hard we refused, and decided to play sports instead! If only we had known...
Anyway, I needed to make a bunch of posters with mosquitos and sick people and mosquito nets and stuff on them, and I knew I blew at art, so I grabbed my health manual and copied over a bunch of images* from my paludisme* workbook onto some big flip-chart paper. This took me several mornings of work, but after many painstaking hours of tracing and coloring in the health center ("what is that crazy porto* doing today?" people ask), I finally emerged-- victorious-- with three big beautiful malaria posters. Joy.
Phase # 3: Figuring out what I'm going to say
This part was pretty simple. I just looked over my malaria notes, gathered my thoughts, put myself inside the head of a Guinean 5th grader (what would I want to pay attention to during the half-hour before recess?), and trusted in my tried-and-true motto: Just wing it 'cause if you try and overplan it it's just gonna get screwed up anyway. And if it's really bombing just say something in Pular and they'll all laugh. Great motto.
Phase # 4: Actually giving the thing
So obviously this was the most important step, and I thought it went well. I showed up at the ecole 15 minutes early, greeted the 5th grade teacher, M. Sidibe, taped my posters onto the blackboard, and sat quietly at the back of the class, about as inconspicously as a large tapir charging down a group of small children (My approach to dealing with stares, whispers, and giggles varies: sometimes I just ignore it, sometimes I smile back or say hello, and other times I do something really weird like snort, make faces, or pick my nose (although, in retrospect, picking your nose here isn't weird at all ;) ah Guinea). When the kids got done with their exercise, M. Sidibe called me to the front and let me know that the floor was mine. Suh-weet!
To start, I made them all stand up and then I taught* them "heads, shoulders, knees, and toes," just to lighten the atmosphere and make a complete fool of myself to loosen 'em up a little bit. The salle* officially chauffed*, I then launched into my malaria shpiel, explaining that the illness is caused by a pesky blood parasite transmitted by sonsolis*, that you can only get it by way of mosquitos, and if anybody tells you you can get it from mangoes or the sun (common misconceptions) they are wrooooong. Very wrong.
I speak in slow, basic French with a smattering of Pular, looking to Sidibe during moments of confusion for a more detailed Pular translation. There were about 40 kids in the class.
They seemed mostly attentive, laughing at my occasional manhandling of their native language and responding at all the right intervals. They followed me through my symptoms explanation, facilitated, of course, by my beautiful visual aids (although I had this one picture that was supposed to be of a kid sweating, because that's what happens when you get malaria sometimes, and they all thought he had an outbreak of warts. Ehh). When I got to the Comment Eviter le Palu?* section, they latched onto the visual aids, and seemed to absorb really well the importance of mosquito nets, of long pants and long sleeves at night, of filling in or covering up stagnant water sources (mosquitos reproduce in stagnant water like puddles or wells), and several other key preventative measures. I encouraged them to take the issue seriously, recounting briefly the story of the little girl we lost to malaria two months ago in the health center-- a girl who could have easily been in 5th grade. They nodded and seemed to get it.
After probing a little for questions or confusing material, they all seemed ready for a little Porto tomfoolery, so I performed a hearty rendition of "I'm a little teapot" and called it a day, thanking Sidibe and his class.
Phase # 5: The follow-up
Yeah, so this guy seems a little less structured, and in fact, I'm still figuring out how to do it. For now, I mostly corner small children around the village and interrogate them: Can you get malaria by being out in the sun too long? Will you ask your dad to put screens on your house windows? Arrgh. Stuff like that. I am going to continue my series of malaria sensitizations with the other grade levels in Bouliwel-centre and hopefully get out to the primary schools in the districts as well. I'm also working closely with M. Diallo to monitor the number of malaria patients we see at the Health Center on a weekly basis. And, in conjunction with my Health Director and some other Health Volunteers, we're looking for ways to make mosquito nets cheaper and more accessible to everyone who needs one. As they say here in Guinea, "little by little, the bird makes his nest." Good stuff.
That's all for now! Donnie Stuart and his studly pectoral muscles are flying into Conakry on Monday night to visit for a few days, and after that I am taking a brief vacation in N. Ireland to see my beautiful girlfriend, Rene Marshall! Your prayers are much appreciated as Conakry has seen a few issues with some disgruntled military officers recently.
Love you all!
Andrew
Appendix:
*primary school (grades 1-6)
*like a region or state
*the guy who's in charge of the village and all the districts in the local county
*all the gnarled old men who walk around in big boubous and who command lots of respect
*you can figure this one out guys
*fonctionnaires are the state-assigned skilled workers in the village-- usually teachers, health workers, civil servants, and others. Bouliwel-centre has around 20 (there are many more when you take into account all the outlyign districts). My counterpart, M. Diallo, is a fonctionnaire, for example
*illiterate people
*you can figure this one out too, I'm pretty sure
*malaria
*white person in Pular
*when I say "taught," I mean I sang and told them to repeat after me, which went something like this: "OK kids, 'heads, shoulders, knees, and toes, knees and toes.'" (beckon for them to repeat) "Haads, blah blah giggles blah blah giggles." Good times.
*room
*warmed up
*mosquito in Pular
*How to avoid getting malaria
Hello everybody,
So as you all will no doubt remember, my last soul-less, industrial mass email kicked off a new series of Andrew's Guinea emails titled: "Answers to random questions you may have about my life here in Guinea."
This week's installment:
"Andrew, what do you actually do? You know, for a job?"
Great question. To answer, I will take you inside the planning, preparation, and execution of my latest health sensitization at the local ecole primaire* [please refer to the appendix at the bottom of the page if necessary] in my village.
As I've mentioned in previous emails, malaria presents an enormous problem here in Guinea. As the primary cause of death in the prefecture* where I live, malaria claims the lives of men, women, and children on an almost daily basis, particularly during the first few months of the rainy season (May, June, July). Although it is heavily over-diagnosed in local health centers (due to poorly-trained staff and/or the oversimplification of symptom diagnosis by the Ministry of Public Health here) and thus the numbers tallying the total of malaria patients are almost always inflated, the disease nonetheless continues to be an serious issue-- one made all the more tragic because of its preventability.
With this in mind, two weeks ago I set to work organizing a series of health sensitizations to be given in the local primary school discussing the topic of malaria: what it is, its symptoms, what to do if you get it, and most importantly for my work, how to prevent it.
The process went through several phases:
Phase # 1: Asking and getting permission
So very little gets accomplished in Guinea outside of the traditional, top-down heirarchical structures that are in place. If someone wants to organize a project in the village, they must first talk with the sous-prefet*, the village sages* and the authorities responsible for the sector in which they want to work (in this case, the directeur de l'ecole primaire*). To not do so would be a significant breach in protocol and cause all sorts of silly problems that would hinder one's progress.
Trying hard to be a good culturally-sensitive volunteer, one day last week I went to the sous-prefet's office and told him I wanted to do some presentations on malaria in the primary schools. Fine. No problem. Then, later that day at a baptism, I tracked down the directeur of the primary school and told him I wanted to do some presentations on malaria in the primary schools. Fine. We'd love to have you. I let M. Diallo, my counterpart know, and he told me to go for it.
Perfect! That was the easy part.
Phase # 2: Preparing visual aids
Yeah, here's the hard part. So as I may have previously mentioned, the illiteracy rate in Guinea must be well over 50%. I think there may be one grown woman in Bouliwel who can read and write a little, if that, and the non-fonctionnaire* men aren't much better.
"Well Andrew," you might say, "surely 5th and 6th grade kids ought to be able to read, right?"
Hm. Well, not necessarily. Education in Bouliwel (and the vast majority of Guinea) really stinks. Classrooms are dirty and ill-kept, teachers are poorly trained and poorly paid, kids are often forced to stay home to do chores or work in the fields, and overall a nasty, oppressive system of rote-learning keeps most kids from learning anything significant. All of which is made even worse when you only go to school for 2 hours a day, 4 days a week and your own parents are inalphabets* (as is the case with most children).
So all this is to say, whenever I want to do a health sensitization, I need to have pretty, pretty pictures and not much writing. (Imagine, for a moment, what life would be like if, every time you looked at writing all you saw were black lines and circles and the occasional dot) Which for me is not easy because I stink at art. Oh Mom, how hard you tried to raise your little children to be artsy, and cultured! And how hard we refused, and decided to play sports instead! If only we had known...
Anyway, I needed to make a bunch of posters with mosquitos and sick people and mosquito nets and stuff on them, and I knew I blew at art, so I grabbed my health manual and copied over a bunch of images* from my paludisme* workbook onto some big flip-chart paper. This took me several mornings of work, but after many painstaking hours of tracing and coloring in the health center ("what is that crazy porto* doing today?" people ask), I finally emerged-- victorious-- with three big beautiful malaria posters. Joy.
Phase # 3: Figuring out what I'm going to say
This part was pretty simple. I just looked over my malaria notes, gathered my thoughts, put myself inside the head of a Guinean 5th grader (what would I want to pay attention to during the half-hour before recess?), and trusted in my tried-and-true motto: Just wing it 'cause if you try and overplan it it's just gonna get screwed up anyway. And if it's really bombing just say something in Pular and they'll all laugh. Great motto.
Phase # 4: Actually giving the thing
So obviously this was the most important step, and I thought it went well. I showed up at the ecole 15 minutes early, greeted the 5th grade teacher, M. Sidibe, taped my posters onto the blackboard, and sat quietly at the back of the class, about as inconspicously as a large tapir charging down a group of small children (My approach to dealing with stares, whispers, and giggles varies: sometimes I just ignore it, sometimes I smile back or say hello, and other times I do something really weird like snort, make faces, or pick my nose (although, in retrospect, picking your nose here isn't weird at all ;) ah Guinea). When the kids got done with their exercise, M. Sidibe called me to the front and let me know that the floor was mine. Suh-weet!
To start, I made them all stand up and then I taught* them "heads, shoulders, knees, and toes," just to lighten the atmosphere and make a complete fool of myself to loosen 'em up a little bit. The salle* officially chauffed*, I then launched into my malaria shpiel, explaining that the illness is caused by a pesky blood parasite transmitted by sonsolis*, that you can only get it by way of mosquitos, and if anybody tells you you can get it from mangoes or the sun (common misconceptions) they are wrooooong. Very wrong.
I speak in slow, basic French with a smattering of Pular, looking to Sidibe during moments of confusion for a more detailed Pular translation. There were about 40 kids in the class.
They seemed mostly attentive, laughing at my occasional manhandling of their native language and responding at all the right intervals. They followed me through my symptoms explanation, facilitated, of course, by my beautiful visual aids (although I had this one picture that was supposed to be of a kid sweating, because that's what happens when you get malaria sometimes, and they all thought he had an outbreak of warts. Ehh). When I got to the Comment Eviter le Palu?* section, they latched onto the visual aids, and seemed to absorb really well the importance of mosquito nets, of long pants and long sleeves at night, of filling in or covering up stagnant water sources (mosquitos reproduce in stagnant water like puddles or wells), and several other key preventative measures. I encouraged them to take the issue seriously, recounting briefly the story of the little girl we lost to malaria two months ago in the health center-- a girl who could have easily been in 5th grade. They nodded and seemed to get it.
After probing a little for questions or confusing material, they all seemed ready for a little Porto tomfoolery, so I performed a hearty rendition of "I'm a little teapot" and called it a day, thanking Sidibe and his class.
Phase # 5: The follow-up
Yeah, so this guy seems a little less structured, and in fact, I'm still figuring out how to do it. For now, I mostly corner small children around the village and interrogate them: Can you get malaria by being out in the sun too long? Will you ask your dad to put screens on your house windows? Arrgh. Stuff like that. I am going to continue my series of malaria sensitizations with the other grade levels in Bouliwel-centre and hopefully get out to the primary schools in the districts as well. I'm also working closely with M. Diallo to monitor the number of malaria patients we see at the Health Center on a weekly basis. And, in conjunction with my Health Director and some other Health Volunteers, we're looking for ways to make mosquito nets cheaper and more accessible to everyone who needs one. As they say here in Guinea, "little by little, the bird makes his nest." Good stuff.
That's all for now! Donnie Stuart and his studly pectoral muscles are flying into Conakry on Monday night to visit for a few days, and after that I am taking a brief vacation in N. Ireland to see my beautiful girlfriend, Rene Marshall! Your prayers are much appreciated as Conakry has seen a few issues with some disgruntled military officers recently.
Love you all!
Andrew
Appendix:
*primary school (grades 1-6)
*like a region or state
*the guy who's in charge of the village and all the districts in the local county
*all the gnarled old men who walk around in big boubous and who command lots of respect
*you can figure this one out guys
*fonctionnaires are the state-assigned skilled workers in the village-- usually teachers, health workers, civil servants, and others. Bouliwel-centre has around 20 (there are many more when you take into account all the outlyign districts). My counterpart, M. Diallo, is a fonctionnaire, for example
*illiterate people
*you can figure this one out too, I'm pretty sure
*malaria
*white person in Pular
*when I say "taught," I mean I sang and told them to repeat after me, which went something like this: "OK kids, 'heads, shoulders, knees, and toes, knees and toes.'" (beckon for them to repeat) "Haads, blah blah giggles blah blah giggles." Good times.
*room
*warmed up
*mosquito in Pular
*How to avoid getting malaria
Saturday, April 26, 2008
What the heck I eat
Sent via e-mail 4/26/08
Hello loved ones,
So many of you have asked me questions about my experiences here in the Peace Corps--"What's Africa like?" "Do you have electricity or running water?" "What's it like seeing poverty everywhere?" "Do you play soccer a lot?" "Do you really go to the bathroom in a hole in the ground?"
My responses are as follows: Friendly. Yes, No. Hard, but not in the ways I expected it. Yes, but not as much as Forecariah. Yes.
Hope that clears up a few things.
I may spend the next few emails trying to respond to some of these in a little more depth, however. Today's question is this:
QUESTION # 1:
"What the heck do you eat?"
I eat rice and sauce usually about 10-12 meals a week. Picture this typical evening scenario:
The sun is setting over Bouliwel. I am riding my bike, careening through the backroads in the hills over the village, relishing in the speed of the bike and the cool breeze that dries the sweat on my forehead and chest. I stop in Hoore Lopi, the small village two km outside of Bouliwel, greeting the Peuhl women sitting by the side of the road on their stools and mats. Each is selling fruit-- papayas, oranges, mangoes, bananas-- arranged in little piles on the ground or on low wooden tables. I need some bananas for my peanut butter-and-banana baguette (PB&BB) tomorrow morning.
"On djaraama, neene! Tana alaa gaa?" Good evening, mama! Are there no problems here?
I smile winningly and enjoy their titters and exchanged glances-- the porto's speaking Pular, after all. That's hilarious.
"Banaanas, ko jelu?" I ask the price.
"Jowi mille francs," the woman responds, gesturing to a bunch of fat green ones. Five for 1,000 francs (1,000 francs= 25 cents). It's a good price, so I hand her the money and put the bananas in my pack, mounting my bike with a word of thanks: "Albarka nani!"
I turn to go, smiling inwardly at the snippets of Pular I pick up from the women chatting behind me ("he speaks Pular!?" "his name's Boubacar Barry, he lives in Bouliwel"). So the Pular studying is starting to pay off a little.
The descent into Bouliwel is the best part of the ride: straight down hill on the paved road. The wind rushes by me as I wave to some kids at the water pump ("Andre! Ca va?!").
Pulling up at my house at last, I greet Mme Diallo, the wife of my official counterpart, the doctor at the health center. Slapping hands with the kids who crowd around me ("Andre, ca va bien?!"), I unlock my door and put away my bike. I strip off my sweaty clothes, grab my towel and my shower sandals and head out back to the well.
"Andre, ko honto yahataa?" the kids ask. Where are you going?
"Mido yahude lootagol." I'm going to wash myself.
I grab my bucket, open the hatch to the well, and lower the rope and bucket down. One bucketful usually does it for an evening bucket bath-- amazing when you think of how much water I used to use taking showers in the States.
Water obtained, I walk over to my douche, a tiny little stall with a wimpy supply of smelly-girly things: A bottle of shampoo, razor, gel, and a bar of soap. I usually deal with lots of smelliness, not much girliness.
I close the door and pick up my goblet, a small cup that facilitates the bathing operation. I dip it into the water and count to three. On three I dump the water over my head. The initial shock is a little jarring, but the three minutes after that have to be the most refreshing of the day. I lather up and rinse.
Having finished my "shower," I head back inside and get dressed. I turn on my little shortwave radio and tune it to the BBC World Service (oh, what a life saver!)-- turns out Zimbabwe is imploding, Barack and Hillary are neck and neck, and a Brasilian priest has accidentally drowned by attaching himself to 1,000 ballons and floating out to sea.
I walk next door and greet Mme Diallo again. M. Diallo, M. Sow, M. Kamano the principal of the Bouliwel school district, and Ousmane the stagiaire are all at the mosque saying their final prayers of the day. I sit next Thierno Mariama, M. Diallo's 8- yr old girl, and shoot the breeze in my broken Pular. She's in the fourth grade and still can't write her name, so of course, conversing in French is not possible. We play the game where one person holds their hands out palms down over the other person's hands palms up and person #2 tries to slap person #1's hands. You know what I'm talking about. This lasts for a few minutes until the men come back.
"Bonsoir, Aboubacar," says M. Diallo warmly. "Comment allez-vous? Vous avez bien peloter?" Did you have a good bike ride?
"Tres bien, merci." Very good, thanks. In fact, it was amazing.
The other men and I exchange greetings and M. Diallo calls everybody inside to eat.
"Aru namen!" Come, let's eat!
We all go inside, taking off our sandals, and pull up stools on the floor. M. Camara, the Sous-Prefet Adjoint, or Vice Mayor, pokes his head in and is immediately invited to come join us.
M. Diallo grabs the large metal platter and sets it in the middle of all of us. We are eight: Mme Diallo, Thierno Mariama, M. Camara, M. Sow, Principal, Ousmane, M. Diallo, and me. Every night it's like that-- meals are very communal. I love that.
M. Diallo empties the pot of rice onto the platter and pours the sauce over it, making sure to get every corner covered-- nobody wants to be shafted with a spoonful of plain rice. Tonight it's fish sauce with potatoes, and when we say fish, we mean whole fish. None of this removing-the-head-and-bones business.
When the sauce is applied, everyone digs in, the men with spoons and Mme Diallo and Mariama with their hands (by choice-- not discrimination). There is little talking while eating. Everyone holds to their little wedge of the platter-- to reach across and take some potato out of someone else's corner would be a major faux pas.
In five minutes the platter is mostly picked clean. I am usually one of the last ones to get up, either because I'm a fat American or because, as M. Diallo says, I'm a "child" and need to eat more than "old farts" like him and Sow.
I spoon up the last bits of the rice and thank Mme Diallo for her good home cooking: "Albarka!" Thank you and God's blessings.
"Barka Alla," she replies. Thanks be to God.
Rice and sauce twice a day is surprisingly enjoyable-- it's easy, it's quick, and it fills you up. Cooking here can be a huge pain; There's no ovens, there's no refrigerators... If you want meat you have to kill something, which can be fun, but is mostly just a huge hassle. So I stick to my PB&BB in the matin and eat rice and sauce for lunch and dinner. When I really do feel like a change, I'll whip up some spaghetti or ramen that I picked up at the Lebanese store in Conakry. Wild, I know.
And that's pretty much it. Very long answer to a very short question, but I figured I'd try and paint a picture to let you see what it's like.
And with that, this is the end of installment number "I'm not sure" of Andrew's Guinea/ Peace Corps chronicles. Thanks to everybody who's responded to these emails in the past and for all who've written. You guys are awesome! And a special shout-out to CMOB and Aunt Debbie for the packages last month. I've taught the kids in my neighborhood Pass the Pigs and been officially commissioned to teach Bouliwel how to make girl scout cookies. Not sure if that's gonna be possible... But you never know ;)
Love you guys!
Andrew
P.S. Check out my pictures too if you get a chance. Alrighty.
Blog poster note: You can also check out the Wiki which has a link to all past messages from Andrew at http://andrewsadventure.wikispaces.com/
Hello loved ones,
So many of you have asked me questions about my experiences here in the Peace Corps--"What's Africa like?" "Do you have electricity or running water?" "What's it like seeing poverty everywhere?" "Do you play soccer a lot?" "Do you really go to the bathroom in a hole in the ground?"
My responses are as follows: Friendly. Yes, No. Hard, but not in the ways I expected it. Yes, but not as much as Forecariah. Yes.
Hope that clears up a few things.
I may spend the next few emails trying to respond to some of these in a little more depth, however. Today's question is this:
QUESTION # 1:
"What the heck do you eat?"
I eat rice and sauce usually about 10-12 meals a week. Picture this typical evening scenario:
The sun is setting over Bouliwel. I am riding my bike, careening through the backroads in the hills over the village, relishing in the speed of the bike and the cool breeze that dries the sweat on my forehead and chest. I stop in Hoore Lopi, the small village two km outside of Bouliwel, greeting the Peuhl women sitting by the side of the road on their stools and mats. Each is selling fruit-- papayas, oranges, mangoes, bananas-- arranged in little piles on the ground or on low wooden tables. I need some bananas for my peanut butter-and-banana baguette (PB&BB) tomorrow morning.
"On djaraama, neene! Tana alaa gaa?" Good evening, mama! Are there no problems here?
I smile winningly and enjoy their titters and exchanged glances-- the porto's speaking Pular, after all. That's hilarious.
"Banaanas, ko jelu?" I ask the price.
"Jowi mille francs," the woman responds, gesturing to a bunch of fat green ones. Five for 1,000 francs (1,000 francs= 25 cents). It's a good price, so I hand her the money and put the bananas in my pack, mounting my bike with a word of thanks: "Albarka nani!"
I turn to go, smiling inwardly at the snippets of Pular I pick up from the women chatting behind me ("he speaks Pular!?" "his name's Boubacar Barry, he lives in Bouliwel"). So the Pular studying is starting to pay off a little.
The descent into Bouliwel is the best part of the ride: straight down hill on the paved road. The wind rushes by me as I wave to some kids at the water pump ("Andre! Ca va?!").
Pulling up at my house at last, I greet Mme Diallo, the wife of my official counterpart, the doctor at the health center. Slapping hands with the kids who crowd around me ("Andre, ca va bien?!"), I unlock my door and put away my bike. I strip off my sweaty clothes, grab my towel and my shower sandals and head out back to the well.
"Andre, ko honto yahataa?" the kids ask. Where are you going?
"Mido yahude lootagol." I'm going to wash myself.
I grab my bucket, open the hatch to the well, and lower the rope and bucket down. One bucketful usually does it for an evening bucket bath-- amazing when you think of how much water I used to use taking showers in the States.
Water obtained, I walk over to my douche, a tiny little stall with a wimpy supply of smelly-girly things: A bottle of shampoo, razor, gel, and a bar of soap. I usually deal with lots of smelliness, not much girliness.
I close the door and pick up my goblet, a small cup that facilitates the bathing operation. I dip it into the water and count to three. On three I dump the water over my head. The initial shock is a little jarring, but the three minutes after that have to be the most refreshing of the day. I lather up and rinse.
Having finished my "shower," I head back inside and get dressed. I turn on my little shortwave radio and tune it to the BBC World Service (oh, what a life saver!)-- turns out Zimbabwe is imploding, Barack and Hillary are neck and neck, and a Brasilian priest has accidentally drowned by attaching himself to 1,000 ballons and floating out to sea.
I walk next door and greet Mme Diallo again. M. Diallo, M. Sow, M. Kamano the principal of the Bouliwel school district, and Ousmane the stagiaire are all at the mosque saying their final prayers of the day. I sit next Thierno Mariama, M. Diallo's 8- yr old girl, and shoot the breeze in my broken Pular. She's in the fourth grade and still can't write her name, so of course, conversing in French is not possible. We play the game where one person holds their hands out palms down over the other person's hands palms up and person #2 tries to slap person #1's hands. You know what I'm talking about. This lasts for a few minutes until the men come back.
"Bonsoir, Aboubacar," says M. Diallo warmly. "Comment allez-vous? Vous avez bien peloter?" Did you have a good bike ride?
"Tres bien, merci." Very good, thanks. In fact, it was amazing.
The other men and I exchange greetings and M. Diallo calls everybody inside to eat.
"Aru namen!" Come, let's eat!
We all go inside, taking off our sandals, and pull up stools on the floor. M. Camara, the Sous-Prefet Adjoint, or Vice Mayor, pokes his head in and is immediately invited to come join us.
M. Diallo grabs the large metal platter and sets it in the middle of all of us. We are eight: Mme Diallo, Thierno Mariama, M. Camara, M. Sow, Principal, Ousmane, M. Diallo, and me. Every night it's like that-- meals are very communal. I love that.
M. Diallo empties the pot of rice onto the platter and pours the sauce over it, making sure to get every corner covered-- nobody wants to be shafted with a spoonful of plain rice. Tonight it's fish sauce with potatoes, and when we say fish, we mean whole fish. None of this removing-the-head-and-bones business.
When the sauce is applied, everyone digs in, the men with spoons and Mme Diallo and Mariama with their hands (by choice-- not discrimination). There is little talking while eating. Everyone holds to their little wedge of the platter-- to reach across and take some potato out of someone else's corner would be a major faux pas.
In five minutes the platter is mostly picked clean. I am usually one of the last ones to get up, either because I'm a fat American or because, as M. Diallo says, I'm a "child" and need to eat more than "old farts" like him and Sow.
I spoon up the last bits of the rice and thank Mme Diallo for her good home cooking: "Albarka!" Thank you and God's blessings.
"Barka Alla," she replies. Thanks be to God.
Rice and sauce twice a day is surprisingly enjoyable-- it's easy, it's quick, and it fills you up. Cooking here can be a huge pain; There's no ovens, there's no refrigerators... If you want meat you have to kill something, which can be fun, but is mostly just a huge hassle. So I stick to my PB&BB in the matin and eat rice and sauce for lunch and dinner. When I really do feel like a change, I'll whip up some spaghetti or ramen that I picked up at the Lebanese store in Conakry. Wild, I know.
And that's pretty much it. Very long answer to a very short question, but I figured I'd try and paint a picture to let you see what it's like.
And with that, this is the end of installment number "I'm not sure" of Andrew's Guinea/ Peace Corps chronicles. Thanks to everybody who's responded to these emails in the past and for all who've written. You guys are awesome! And a special shout-out to CMOB and Aunt Debbie for the packages last month. I've taught the kids in my neighborhood Pass the Pigs and been officially commissioned to teach Bouliwel how to make girl scout cookies. Not sure if that's gonna be possible... But you never know ;)
Love you guys!
Andrew
P.S. Check out my pictures too if you get a chance. Alrighty.
Blog poster note: You can also check out the Wiki which has a link to all past messages from Andrew at http://andrewsadventure.wikispaces.com/
Friday, April 11, 2008
Hard-core kids and cleaning things (and a little barf)
Sent via e-mail on 4/10/08
Hi everybody!
So I'm currently in Labe for my monthly visit and I figured I would profit and hop onto the internet to give you an update on my wild African existence.
I went hiking in a gorgeous canyon near a little village called Douki yesterday with a couple other Peace Corps friends. It was stunning-- truly impressive-- and we enjoyed a pretty solid hike down into the canyon and back up a trail called chutes and ladders , named such because of its waterfalls ( chutes in French) and its system of ladders (tree branches held together by vines that some dudes had put together).
It was amazing, and not a little scary, as we often had to climb 15-20 ft on these rickety wooden ladders to get up this steep ravine. We all felt pretty hard-core after getting up the steepest section, until we ran into these two kids on the trail.
They couldn't have been more than 7-8 years old, yet each was carrying a huge bag full of mangoes on their heads. They had come up the same way we had and were planning on selling the mangoes in Douki and then heading back to their huts on the valley floor that evening. Each was wearing flip flops (not hiking boots like us rogue mountaineers) and possessed the uncanny balance that most Africans (especially women) seem to possess when carrying extremely large objects on their heads. My fellow volunteer Erich and I both decided to give the kids a little break so we relieved them of their burden for a while and tried the old carry-ridiculously-heavy-stuff-on-your-head-over-mountanious-terrain method.
Lemme tell you: Africans redefine hard core. Dang. We went maybe a few tenths of a mile with those bad boys and we were done. Plus I think we bruised the mangoes way more than we should have. Needless to say, my respect for Guinean women and children has continued to rise-- I'd say they're somewhere between George Bowling and Desmond Tutu on the respect-o-meter (and that's saying something ;).
To continue my email, I'd thought I'd share another journal entry from last month about my first planned project in my village. Don't worry, K-money, it's not a tear-jerker!
3/10/08
Salon de ma maison (living room of my house)
So yesterday was an awesome day and I just wanted to jot down a few thoughts to concretize the memory...
So Saturday evening was pretty rough. The whole afternoon I could just feel that sick feeling coming on: gas, burps that taste like puke, excessive tiredness, achiness-- it sucked. Then I went to Aboubacar Bailo's son's baptism and guess what happened? I was told to eat a massive platter of riz gras... Perfect.
I went to bed early hoping I would just sleep it off.
Hah.
I woke up an hour later, rushed outside and ralphed up all the riz gras I could possibly have eaten, plus some rice from lunch and maybe a little breakfast pain. All this came much to the chagrin of Dr. Diallo (my counterpart and next-door neighbor), who rushed over and mothered me a bit, which I appreciated even if it was a bit overbearing. A little more diarrhea emptied me of everything vilain, and I shortly after hit the hay for good, dreading the next morning's proposed initiative: a grand cleaning of the Health Center with the Association de la Jeunesse [youth association].
Thank you God; the next morning I felt a lot better ( Aboubacar, a diki? ) [you feeling better? in Pular]. I choked down a little bread, threw on some work clothes, grabbed my soap and mops and gloves and headed over to the Health Center.
Sow, Ousmane, Dr. Diallo and I all worked pretty hard for the next couple of hours sweeping, sorting through papers, and tossing out old crappy stuff that no longer had any use. By the time 10am rolled around (the time the youths were supposed to show up), we were all pretty tired, Sow and the Doctor were ready to pack it in, and I found myself saying, well, if nobody shows up, at least we swept some stuff.
And we waited, and waited, and two kids showed up, whom I quickly put to work scrubbing (much to their chagrin-- what's this crazy porto want us to do?) (porto= white person. I hear that one a lot).
And then, just when I was ready to call it a morning (and the grand nettoyage [big cleaning] a bust)? Dr. Diallo calls inside, Aboubacar, regarde! [look!]
I walked out onto the porch and looked down the road. And there, walking in 2 groups (guys and girls), were at least 25 youths; each carrying a bidon full of water. I nearly had tears in my eyes just looking at them, and all I could think of was, thank you Jesus.
They came with tons of energy and liveliness. Guys were flirting with girls, they were laughing and screwing around and hitting each other with brooms-- it was just like an LDP outing to Habitat.
And I loved it. Couldn't stop smiling the whole time.
And then they cleaned the place. Inefficiently, perhaps somewhat haphazardly (c'mon, this is Guinea we're talking about-- nothing is orderly) (George would have had a fit if this was Chibougamau clean-up :), but dang, they cleaned it good. M. Diallo came and told me that in his three years here he had never seen this done before. And all I could think of was, thank you Jesus.
It was a great day.
Anyway, there's another taste of life in Guinea!
Love you all, and thank you so much for all who have sent letters and packages! I'm writing back-- it takes forever and the mail system blows but knock on wood, it'll get there someday.
'Til the next time,
Much love,
Andre/ Aboubacar/ Porto
Hi everybody!
So I'm currently in Labe for my monthly visit and I figured I would profit and hop onto the internet to give you an update on my wild African existence.
I went hiking in a gorgeous canyon near a little village called Douki yesterday with a couple other Peace Corps friends. It was stunning-- truly impressive-- and we enjoyed a pretty solid hike down into the canyon and back up a trail called chutes and ladders , named such because of its waterfalls ( chutes in French) and its system of ladders (tree branches held together by vines that some dudes had put together).
It was amazing, and not a little scary, as we often had to climb 15-20 ft on these rickety wooden ladders to get up this steep ravine. We all felt pretty hard-core after getting up the steepest section, until we ran into these two kids on the trail.
They couldn't have been more than 7-8 years old, yet each was carrying a huge bag full of mangoes on their heads. They had come up the same way we had and were planning on selling the mangoes in Douki and then heading back to their huts on the valley floor that evening. Each was wearing flip flops (not hiking boots like us rogue mountaineers) and possessed the uncanny balance that most Africans (especially women) seem to possess when carrying extremely large objects on their heads. My fellow volunteer Erich and I both decided to give the kids a little break so we relieved them of their burden for a while and tried the old carry-ridiculously-heavy-stuff-on-your-head-over-mountanious-terrain method.
Lemme tell you: Africans redefine hard core. Dang. We went maybe a few tenths of a mile with those bad boys and we were done. Plus I think we bruised the mangoes way more than we should have. Needless to say, my respect for Guinean women and children has continued to rise-- I'd say they're somewhere between George Bowling and Desmond Tutu on the respect-o-meter (and that's saying something ;).
To continue my email, I'd thought I'd share another journal entry from last month about my first planned project in my village. Don't worry, K-money, it's not a tear-jerker!
3/10/08
Salon de ma maison (living room of my house)
So yesterday was an awesome day and I just wanted to jot down a few thoughts to concretize the memory...
So Saturday evening was pretty rough. The whole afternoon I could just feel that sick feeling coming on: gas, burps that taste like puke, excessive tiredness, achiness-- it sucked. Then I went to Aboubacar Bailo's son's baptism and guess what happened? I was told to eat a massive platter of riz gras... Perfect.
I went to bed early hoping I would just sleep it off.
Hah.
I woke up an hour later, rushed outside and ralphed up all the riz gras I could possibly have eaten, plus some rice from lunch and maybe a little breakfast pain. All this came much to the chagrin of Dr. Diallo (my counterpart and next-door neighbor), who rushed over and mothered me a bit, which I appreciated even if it was a bit overbearing. A little more diarrhea emptied me of everything vilain, and I shortly after hit the hay for good, dreading the next morning's proposed initiative: a grand cleaning of the Health Center with the Association de la Jeunesse [youth association].
Thank you God; the next morning I felt a lot better ( Aboubacar, a diki? ) [you feeling better? in Pular]. I choked down a little bread, threw on some work clothes, grabbed my soap and mops and gloves and headed over to the Health Center.
Sow, Ousmane, Dr. Diallo and I all worked pretty hard for the next couple of hours sweeping, sorting through papers, and tossing out old crappy stuff that no longer had any use. By the time 10am rolled around (the time the youths were supposed to show up), we were all pretty tired, Sow and the Doctor were ready to pack it in, and I found myself saying, well, if nobody shows up, at least we swept some stuff.
And we waited, and waited, and two kids showed up, whom I quickly put to work scrubbing (much to their chagrin-- what's this crazy porto want us to do?) (porto= white person. I hear that one a lot).
And then, just when I was ready to call it a morning (and the grand nettoyage [big cleaning] a bust)? Dr. Diallo calls inside, Aboubacar, regarde! [look!]
I walked out onto the porch and looked down the road. And there, walking in 2 groups (guys and girls), were at least 25 youths; each carrying a bidon full of water. I nearly had tears in my eyes just looking at them, and all I could think of was, thank you Jesus.
They came with tons of energy and liveliness. Guys were flirting with girls, they were laughing and screwing around and hitting each other with brooms-- it was just like an LDP outing to Habitat.
And I loved it. Couldn't stop smiling the whole time.
And then they cleaned the place. Inefficiently, perhaps somewhat haphazardly (c'mon, this is Guinea we're talking about-- nothing is orderly) (George would have had a fit if this was Chibougamau clean-up :), but dang, they cleaned it good. M. Diallo came and told me that in his three years here he had never seen this done before. And all I could think of was, thank you Jesus.
It was a great day.
Anyway, there's another taste of life in Guinea!
Love you all, and thank you so much for all who have sent letters and packages! I'm writing back-- it takes forever and the mail system blows but knock on wood, it'll get there someday.
'Til the next time,
Much love,
Andre/ Aboubacar/ Porto
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