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/

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

Rice, toothless men, and malaria (or, my first month in a village in Africa)

Sent via e-mail 3/16/2008

Hello dear friends and family,

So it has been quite awhile since my last email. Sorry. I've been living in a rural African village, pulling up water from the well every morning for my bucket bath, eating rice off the floor twice a day, and going to the bathroom in a hole. Wireless technology hasn't exactly made it's way to this part of the Fouta Djallon...

That said, I am in Labe for the weekend and have taken advantage of the internet cafe to get off an email with some thoughts and experiences from my first full month at site.

This last month has been unlike any other in my entire life. I am truly, truly -- tigi tigi­ as they say in Pular-- the only white person in the whole Sous-Prefecture. I am somewhat of a local celebrity. I often catch grown men and women just staring at me as I sit in the health center studying Pular, or as I buy bread at the marketplace. Most women in town have either offered their daughters or themselves to me in marriage-- offers which I invariably accept, with a grin, and assure them that in my culture, men cook and do dishes all the time. It's like a dream come true, right? Although at this rate, I'm piling up enough wives that people might start to talk, even here in Guinea (after all, the Koran says you're only supposed to have four-- after that you're in trouble). Still, part of me wonders, isn't it weird to be offering a 20-something guy your 5-year old daughter as a wife? Ahhhh, Guinea.

The pace of life in Bouliwel is slower than Shawn Kemp running the fast break in his so-called "pudgy" days as a Cav. Most men spend the day like this:

--get up, pray
--go sit outside your house/ hut
--walk to the market
--sit there for awhile
--walk back to your house/ hut
--eat the food one of your wives prepared
--pray
--nap
--sit around and talk
--pray
--sit around and talk
--pray
--sit around
--pray
--eat dinner that the other wife prepared
--sit around, maybe listen to the radio
--go to sleep

Even Shawn Kemp might get bored after awhile with that schedule, but most men here don't seem to mind. (Women, on the other hand, work harder in a day than I've ever worked in my life: Cooking, washing the dishes, cleaning the house, getting water from the well, tending to the needs of the men... In Guinea, all men are not created equal, sadly enough-- and no one seems to question it) (except me, who receives laughs or blank stares as responses to the "why don't men get water from the well every now and then?")

There is so much more I could tell you. I taught three guys poker-- texas hold 'em, mostly-- which we play with scrabble tiles as poker chips and biscuits as money. Remember the scene from Ocean's Eleven when Brad Pitt is teaching the teeny-bopper movie stars how to play poker (Joshua Jackson confidently lays down his five cards: "All reds.")? Yeah, it's kinda like that. I got some care packages last week on the mail run (thank you thank you thank you mom and Julia Maxwell and Northfield Presbyterian Church!) and wow, an alien could have beamed down a foreign object of some sort for all the kids in my neighborhood were concerned. Fritos? Cracker Jack? The Atlantic Monthly? The likes of these have never been seen in Bouliwel, ever.

This may give you a tiny glimpse of what life is like here in My Random African Village.

On a more serious note, two weeks ago a little girl died of malaria in the health center. It was an emotional day and took some time to write down some thoughts, which I thought I would share with you here. This will make this email excessively long, for which I apologize. Still, it seems important to communicate the reality of suffering here in Guinea. Anyway, here's my journal entry (edited slightly for brevity), written that night:

2/27/08 Dr. Diallo's Porch
'It has been a crazy past couple of hours and I wanted to get down some thoughts while everything was still fresh. I spent nearly four hours today at the stream washing clothes with Rugiatu and Lazare. It is amazing how long simple stuff like doing laundry takes here! When I came back, I ducked into the Health Center to see what was up there, and I found Dr. Diallo and Mr. Sow tending to a young girl, who was lying on the cot with her mother. She had an IV in her arm and was moaning and moving around. I didn't think much of it for whatever reason-- I may have been more worried about acquitting myself for spending all morning at the river (or perhaps, I was wondering about lunch)-- and I was told to go next door and have my rice. I ate and then went back to the house and laid down for a nap.
When I emerged from the house after an hour and a half with my National Geographic, I noticed a small crowd of men in boubous and women in headscarves gathering outside the Health Center. Sow walked by and told me that the girl who had been in the Health Center had died.
"La petite fille-la est morte," he told me. [the little girl is dead]
"Morte?!" I asked, surprised.
"Oui," he said matter-of-factly. "Palu grave." [serious malaria]
"Oh, wow..." I said, somewhat stunned.
"Tu connais le palu?" he asked. [do you know about malaria?]
"Ouais, ouais," I responded, dazed. Of course I know about malaria.
The next hour and a half or so passed by slowly, crawlingly, confusingly. The whole village seemed to turn out, men lining one side of the dirt road, women on the other. I sat outside the health center for awhile, the young white Westerner dressed in slacks and a button down jostling for position on the bench next to old gray Africans in their boubous and skullcaps.
One of these things is not like the other.
Sitting there, I listened to the women across the way wailing and crying, performing their all-too-familiar ritual to mourn the passing of a child of God. Soon enough I noticed the sages of the village gathering, talking lowly and rapidly and exchanging money, and I immediately went to ask Dr. Diallo if it was appropriate to give some. He said sure and I grabbed a wad from the house-- 50,000 francs-- and went over asking what might be an appropriate amount to give.
"Deux mille. Donne deux mille," he said, [give 2,000 francs] looking at my wad of 5,000s. I wonder what he was thinking, really thinking, at that moment. I gave him 10,000. A little more than two bucks.
Upon delivery of the money, all the old men of the village came up and shook my hand. Maybe I imagined it, but it even seemed that their eyes were wide; In surprise, in thanks, in scrutiny; I couldn't tell.
I received their thanks ungraciously, shaking my head and frowning.
It's nothing.
De rien.
No really. It's nothing. Two measly bucks for a woman who's just lost her ten-year old daughter to malaria--a preventable disease-- when I've got a stack of bills just sitting in a trunk in the house.
And it was probably the largest contribution of the village.
And "I'm not rich."
Je suis pas riche.

After they loaded the body (wrapped in a prayer mat) onto the roof of the bush taxi (5 men sitting on the roof flanking it as they drove off), I went inside and ran into Dr. Diallo.
"Merci." he thanked me. "Vraiment, merci. T'as vu, tous les vieux sont venus pour te saluer." [Did you see, all the old men of the village came over to thank you]
We went into his office; he closed the door.
"Vraiment, c'est gentil." [seriously, it's very nice of you] The man just watched a small girl die in his hands--in his care-- and for some reason he thinks I want to talk about my contribution of two damn dollars.
This is not about me.
"Docteur, vraiment, vraiment, c'est RIEN. C'est deux dollars americain." [it's nothing-- it's two American dollars] I could feel the flood of emotion welling up, the tears beginning to flow. Couldn't help it. After all, I was lying in my bed reading Nat'l Geographic-- reading about oil, and pygmies, and AIDS-- when next door a little girl died of a preventable disease.
"Il faut pas faire ca," he said, [you shouldn't do that] and I couldn't tell if it was with reproach, or compassion, or condescension. Perhaps a little of everything.
"C'est la volonte de Dieu," he went on [it's the will of God], "Il y a beaucoup de gens-- beaucoup-- qui meurt tout le temps du paudisme grave, du malnutrition, des choses comme ca. Personne peut savoir pourquoi Il fait ceci ou cela." [lots of people--lots-- die all the time from malaria, malnutrition, things like that. No one can know why God does what He does.]
Hmmm. It's the will of God that children die of preventable diseases? It's the will of God that here in Africa, people die all the time, whereas back home, in the world of stuff, children get sent to hospitals to get treated by real doctors with real medecine in real facilities. We don't even have malaria there.
Yet it's the volonte de Dieu.
I don't know. Is it God's will? Or was He with weeping with those women, wailing at the injustice, the suffering, the heart-rending normalcy of it all?
Does God dream of something different?
If so, I want to be a part of seeing that Dream come about. God, make manifest your dream here—on earth—as it is in heaven.'

Well, that's the whole entry. A bit emotional, melodramatic perhaps, but it's what I was really thinking and feeling at the time.

And with that, the only people who are left reading this are either my mom or people with way too much time on their hands. But seriously, thank you so much for taking the time to read about life here.

Til the next time,
Much love,
Andrew

Boring email (no poop sorry)

Sent via e-mail Saturday 2/9/2008

Bonjour mes amis,

So it's official. I have finally achieved the goal that I came to Africa to realize. All that planning, all the preparation, the arduous application process, the hand-wringing over the country placement, the frequent bowel movements once here, the lack of running water, the lack of electricity, the lack of virtually anything nice: it was all worth it.

I have finally updated my "facebook: where I've been" map, and put it so that now it says I've lived in Africa. It was a big moment for me and the other volunteers in the computer room; if we had had champagne I'm sure we would have toasted the occasion. As it was, I had to settle for a big pat on the back from my friend Astrid. I could have gone for a butt tap, but there were no male PCVs present, and as you know, I am not an equal opportunity butt tapper.

So there's something else that's happened to me that's also somewhat official, but far less momentous and exciting: I am now a bona fide Peace Corps Volunteer. No more of this trainee business. After two+ months of training, numerous language and technical classes, cross-cultural sessions, lots of "francais massacre," many long talks with my cousins and Guinean friends, basketball games (including an "all-star game," fotes vs. fores, to celebrate our time in Fo-cah), soccer matches (including the intra-Peace Corps cup championship won-- sadly-- not by Team Public Health, but by the Guinean language instructors) (it's not fair-- they're African), and a sad farewell ceremony in Forecariah (replete with tears), yesterday we were all sworn in as Volunteers.

The ceremony was amazing, actually. Speeches were made by the Peace Corps Guinea Director, the US Ambassador to Guinea, the Guinean Minister of Public Health, four different trainees (each doing a speech in one of the four languages we've been learning--French, Susu, Pulaar, and Malinke), and this dude Tom Gallagher, a US Consul who was a member of the first Peace Corps group ever, commissioned in 1962 by JFK himself. He served in Ethiopia, and gave an amazing speech. After the speeches we all swore in, raising our hands and pledging to defend the Consitution and serve faithfully as PCVs here in Guinea. Then we all shook a lot of hands, got a lot of "felicitations," and headed for the buffet table, where they had croissants and--get this-- cold orange juice. Amazing.

So there's much much more to tell, of course: I am in Conakry for the weekend and head off to Boulliwel by way of Labe on Tuesday morning. On the 15th I will be officially installed at my village and will begin my service! These next few days are for shopping, R&R, prep for site, and familiarization with our not-so-beautiful capital city. I will try to get out another email in the vein of the last one I sent before I leave on Tuesday. But, more importantly, I am also putting up PICTURES! It takes forever here, but when I get a decent number uploaded I will send them out via snapfish. Then you can finally get to see a little slice of life here in crazy, noisy, smelly, beautiful Guinea.

More coming soon.

Much love,
Andrew

P.S. When you send letters now, make sure to put Andrew Haile, PCV, not Andrew Haile, PCT. Bully for officiality (word?).

More on wiping and also, picking your nose

Friday 1/25/2008 via e-mail

Hello loved ones,
So I am now in Labe, the regional capital of the Fouta Djallon (time to break out the maps again!) (or, for the first time, as the case may be) (Kyle Closen), and have managed to steal an hour of internet time at a cybercafe here. The keyboard has the French layout and is super sticky, so please forgive any and all typos as I try to put some more coherent and intelligent thoughts together on life in Guinea. As you may have guessed, life here in Guinea daily contains wildly new experiences and cultural exchanges. I am going to attempt to speak briefly about a few important aspects of life here that are completely new to me:*POLYGAMY*So, you may not have heard, but here in Guinea it's totally cool to have more than one wife. In fact, if you are a well-respectedm, fairly well-to-do older Muslim man, and you only have one wife, many people will think there is something wrong with you. This has been a bit hard to swallow at first, as you might imagine. Most of it is linked to the fact that women and men here have much stricter gender roles than in the west... Very few of the women are well educated due to the fact that they often have to marry at 16, 17, 18, and then immediately start popping out babies. How can you go to school when you are married, have to get water from the well several times a day, make breakfast, lunch, and dinner for your husband and family, take care of the children, collect firewood for cooking, clean the house or hut... Right. Not possible. So women here are often treated as second-class citizens, which is at times painful to observe and be around. And one of the side-effects of that is that many men have two or more wives (but not more than four, because that's prohibited in the Koran). Which leads me to....*ISLAM*So there is obviously so much I could say about all this stuff, but Islam is another massively new slice of culture that I run across every day here. RIght now it is Friday afternoon, and thus most everything in Labe is closed because everyone is at the mosque praying. ******* In fact, I was kicked out of the cybercafe and told to come back at 15h30 because all the proprieters went to the mosque for prayer. Friday afternoon in Labe or Forecariah is like Sunday morning in Montgomery or Grensboro: Everyone gets dressed up and goes to there respective weekly communal religious service. As a follower of Christ, I have not encountered one bit of persecution or bigotry: only ignorance, really. Guineans are very tolerant, and very hospitable, and the type of Islam that is praacticed here is a far cry from that practiced in the Middle East, as far as I can tell. People pray five times a day, if they get around to it. But few have actually read the koran-- how could they when 1) many are illiterate and 2) all the koranic schools (which only boys go to, not girls) teach the koran only in arabic? Thus for the vast majority of Guineans, the daily practice of Islam is only another novel piece of cultural routine: they pray five times a day, reciting what their fathers taught them to say in arabic and doing the kneeling and touching-the-head-to-the-ground thing; they send their kids to koranic school because that's what they had to do when they were kids; they say "Alhamdililah" (praise be to Allah) when asked how their day is going because it is a simple way of answering a common greeting. This may be, of course, an oversimplification-- yet in my experience thus far it seems to ring true. I continue to pray, go to church in Forecariah, and openly confess my faith in Christ without anyone really batting an eye. One vivid picture for you: I generally try and read my Bible while eating breakfast, and my host father usually comes in and greets me ("bonjour, mon fils. Ca va? Vous avez bien dormi?") and then does his morning prayer. I read my Bible, he recites the Koran in arabic. Fascinating, and as you can imagine, deeply thought provoking in so many ways. More on this in the weeks to come. *FARM ANIMALS....EVERYWHERE*So on a lighter note, I was in Forecariah last week, and had lain down in my room to take a nap. I was juuuust on the brink of sleep (you know that wonderful feeling) when all of a sudden: BWAAAAAAA! A freaking goat bleated. Right outside my window. I muttered something innappropriate, turned over, and was juuuust about to fall asleep again, when: BWAAAAAAAA! Ahhh, goats. Ahh, Guinea. So there's animals everywhere: Chickens, sheep, goats, cows... You name it. They just wander around, in and out of people's property, but considering there are no real distinctions here as far as property lines, or yards, or things like that, I guess that last comment doesn't make much sense. Anyway, they're everywhere: in houses, in schools, in latrines, etc. I am particularly struck by the utter laziness of the rooster: it seriously does nothing all day but impregnate chickens and crow, VERY VERY LOUDLY, at ALL hours of the day. No, not just at the crack of dawn, and not just once. THat is a myth. Oh that it were true! It would make naps and pular class go much easier. But alas. Anyway, the point is, tons of animals. *SEVERAL ASPECTS OF GUINEAN CULTURE THAT I REALLY ENJOY:*--People pick their noses in public all the time. It's completely normal here to be talking with someone in public, face to face, and BAM!-- they just dig right up in there and pull out a crusty one. It could be a mom, a dad, an old dude, the village Imam: you name it, they pick it. Even in important meetings. So of course, I have joined in with gusto. First time meeting my village mayor? Picked it. Right before shaking hands with my health center director? Picked it. Good stuff. :)--Guinean dudes touch each other a lot. Don't worry, not in any inappropriate ways, but they like to hold hands in public and grab each other's arms and things like that. Of course, me being a touch-friendly person, I have joined in with gusto. Hold my hand, Amadou Alpha Diallo-- go for it. Papa Toure wants to go for a kiss on the cheek? Well,. that one's a little weird but I'll suffer through. I haven't tried the butt-pat on a Guinean yet but i think it;s coming soon. Well guys, that is all I have time for for now. I had a seriously amazing site visit and am excited about the prospect of being a semi-permanent member of the community of Bouliwell. We are leaving Labe to go back to Forecariah for our last two weeks of training tomorrow, and then, after a week of prep in COnakry and Labe, I'll be officially "installed" at my site in Bouliwell on the 15th of February. I promise I will do my absolute best to get some pictures up for you when I have some down time in Conakry. You gotta see it to believe it, for real.
Til the next time,
Lots of love,
Andrew
P.S. Mom, Dad, and Rene, could we try and have a phone date on Sunday night? This past Sunday I was at site with pas beaucoup de reseau. P.P.S. I was serious about the ole phone dealy: 011-224-64-53-14-00... I should try and keep my phone on in evenings around Forecariah.... Gimme a ring!

Wiping your Butt in Guinea (or why they eat with their right hand)

Hello loved ones,

So there's a Guinean cultural tidbit I would like to share with you all: Most Guineans do not know what toilet paper is. I had a roll of TP in my hand at my host family house (having just finished some business), and my cousin saw it and legitimately had never seen something like it before in his life. I explained, slowly, what one generally does with toilet paper. It was a nice little cultural exchange, to be honest.

Yet of course this leaves you asking the question:
"How do Guineans wipe their butts?"

Or perhaps,
"Do they wipe at all?"

The answer, my friends, is yes. But not with TP, of course. With their left hands.

"What?!" You may interject.

"Gross!"

Those were my first reactions as well. But no, it's true: Guineans wipe with their left hands. After that, they pour water on their hands to get off any visible residue. But the problem often arises that nobody uses soap. Some problems, as you might imagine, can arise from this practice. This might be one of the main reasons that so many people get sick here, for instance!

Another side effect of this practice is this: in Guinean culture, the right hand is the public hand. You greet people with the right hand, you touch things with the right hand, you eat with the right hand (straight out of the bowl, usually; no utensils!). The left hand is the private hand. You don't greet people with the left hand, you don't touch things with the left hand, and you definitely, definitely, don't eat with the left hand.

All this leads me to an interesting anecdote. Last night, all the current Peace Corps trainees arrived in Mamou, a decent-sized city in the south of the Fouta Djallon, for our counterpart workshop and the preparation for our upcoming site visits. This is a pretty big deal: this is our first chance to meet the Guineans we will be working closely with for the next two years and on Sunday, our first chance to see where we will be living for 2 years! Woohoo!

Yet I digress. Last night, I was sitting at a table, having just finished a delicious dinenr of meat and potatoes. I was sitting next to my good friend Adam Johnson (aka Sidiki Djoubate), another PC trainee, and several Guineans. A kind man cleared my plate for me, yet soon after that, I realized that there was more food to be eaten and that I still had some room. So of course, not one to turn down food, I started eating, with my hands, off Sidiki's plate. It was great! I laughed and told the Guineans at the table that I was integrating, and eating like Guineans do. I was actually pretty proud of myself.

I ate a couple more potatoes-- with my hand-- and didn't think much of it until I looked up, and noticed that the Guinean woman across from me had a horrified look. I looked down, a little self-conscious, and suddenly it came to me: I was eating with my LEFT HAND. Oh no! In the midst of my self-satisfied feeling of integration, I had unwittingly committed one of the worst cultural faux pas. Balls.

I couldn't help but crack up, to be honest. I have not gotten so integrated as to give up my TP, so I wasn't worried that my food would be infected with poop residue. Yet I quickly made sure to lick my fingers (further horrifying my Guinean tablemate, I imagine) and change hands. Sidiki was dying, in the meantime, yet I wasn't fazed-- there was still meat to be eaten.

Amidst all this you might ask, "Andrew, it's been weeks since we've heard from you-- what the heck is up? What are you up to?" And a million other questions.

Briefly, training is going great. I have been assigned my future site: a village called Bouliwel, located not far from Mamou in the Fouta Djallon. It is a smallish village of around 3000, with a health center where I will be working. I am growing much closer with my PC trainee group and have gotten really close with my host family, the Toures. The facility where we are having our counterpart workshop here in Mamou is really nice, by Guinean standards, and they have a couple computers with internet, so I hopped on and thought I would shoot off a quick email.

I have gotten a bunch of letters, which I am so thankful for! Seriously! Please be patient with me as I try to respond well to all of you. There isn't really a post office in Forecariah, so I really need to either go to Conakry to send out mail or give someone who's going there a letter to mail. I must mention, as well, that it is about 10 times cooler getting letters here than in the States! Any news from home is just devoured by all of us.

Please keep me in your prayers as Sunday I head to Bouliwel for the first time. It is exciting (and of course a little scary) to think I will be seeing my home for the next two years!

There is so, so, so, much more I could write, but the line for the computers is (as expected) out the door, so I will end here. I love all you guys and thank you for all your love and support 8000 miles away.

Much love,
As always,
Andre

P.S. I have a cell phone now. My number is 64-53-14-00, and the Guinea country code is 224. (I think) I really can't call home (the price is astronomical), but if you call through Skype the rate is pretty decent: we can talk for and hour for like 10 bucks. So gimme a call! Suh-weet.

Greetings from Forecariah!

via snail mail arrived 12/27/2007

Dear family, friends, family friends, friends of friends, etc.,

Greetings from Forécariah, Guinea! I have been here in the village for a little over a week now. [Editor's note: this is Andrew's first snail mail, transcribed by his mom, so it was written before the last e-mail you received. Thus some of this may sound a bit familiar… are you confused yet?]

[By the way, a friend here in Ohio has created a blog for Andrew, with some cool links about Guinea and all his e-mails as they arrive, so feel free to check it out and/or pass it on to others who might be interested: http://andrewsadventure.wikispaces.com/. Now back to Andrew's letter…]

I am proud to report that I am entirely integrated, adapted to the local culture and customs, a master of my Public Health field, and a whiz at building proverbial bridges across ethnolinguistic divides. I am almost convinced that I don't need the rest of my Peace Corps training. There are only a few telltale signs that I may be mistaken (no big deal in my book J)…

Like…

Every time I walk ANYWHERE here in Forécariah, I am generally the center of attention. I am frequently greeted or followed by hordes of children chanting "Fooo-té, Fooo-té!" ("White person, white person!") as I cheerily say "Bonjour" and try and herd them away from the road (and, thus, the insane motorcycle drivers).

I know about .00001% of the Susu language, the mother tongue and lingua franca of the vast majority of people here. I know just enough (basic greetings, salutations, etc.) to get groups of people to smile and laugh at me, and provoke long sessions of impromptu Susu lessons that usually go like this:

Andrew: Tana ma feñen. ("How are you" in Susu)
Susu person: Non, non, c'est "tana mu feñen.
A: Tana my feñen.
SP: Non! "Tana mu feñen!"
A: C'est ça que j'ai dit (That's what I said.)
SP: Non, tu as dit "Tana my feñen."
A: Balls. This is a hard language.

And so on and so forth. You get the idea.

I have been given a Guinean name – Aboubacar Touré (pretty sweet, huh – "Bouba" for short) – but am still having trouble responding to it. I tell most everyone to call me André, and have gotten used to that, but when people say "Aboubacar," I just keep walking like a tool.

I happen to think Guinea is the hottest, sweatiest place on earth, contrary to what most Guineans think. Do they not know that it is abnormal to produce a liter of sweat while writing a letter to one's girlfriend? Do they not find this unnatural? Clearly it is up to me to enlighten them.

All in all, these telltale signs might indicate that my cultural adjustment is not quite complete (give it a few more days probably), but I am confident that in a few weeks' time I will be mistaken for a native Guinean very easily. Very easily.

Or maybe not. In all seriousness, my time thus far in Forécariah has been wonderful and trying at the same time. My host family, the Tourés, are hospitable and kind, yet the first day or two I had a hard time eating the food and threw up a couple times. Since then, however, I've managed to keep all the food down and have really enjoyed chatting with Guineans of all sorts. They are very curious about me and my country – the possibilities for good conversation seem limitless. I have already had several requests for English lessons, which are always a good time.

Andrew: "Tu vas à l'école." (You're going to school.)
Sèkou #1: I am the school.
Sèkou #2: No! I going is the school.
Djenab: No. You're both wrong. I am going the school.
Andrew: *sigh* OK, good effort, guys…

(There are about five male names in common circulation here in Guinea: Sékou, Alasan, Mohamed, Ousmane, and Amadou. Thus, I frequently have found myself in a room with several people who have the same name. As a remedy, I just add numbers on the end, i.e. Sékou #1 and Sékou #2. It works. J

I am enjoying my language and technical classes, and have been playing lots of soccer and basketball, fotés (white people) vs. forés (black people), in the afternoons. (Don't worry, no racial tension here – just easy team recognition.) I feel pretty good about my soccer game, but basketball is leaving a bit to be desired. Still, every game we play ends up having like 50 spectators, and the joy that comes with good clean competition is priceless. I anticipate getting in fabulous shape over the next few months.

Well guys, there's so, so, so much more I could write (trying to think about how to describe all this is nearly overwhelming), but I will leave this here, until the next time. If the letter gets through the sketchy ol' Guinea mail system…

Take care and God bless,
Love,
Andrew