On my first night back in America, I awoke with a start. My room was pitch black, so dark in fact that the darkness stayed the same regardless if my eyes were closed or open. This is a darkness I can only associate with Guinea. No flashing lights, no passing cars, I mean total black darkness. I thought I was in Guinea.
But, where’s my mosquito net? And why isn’t my headlamp in the right upper corner on my bed?
It took me a full minute to remember everything I had fought and cried over the past three days.
I wasn’t the only one exiled. Melissa, another volunteer, was medically separated along with me, and she and I clutched hands on the way to the airport in Conakry. I remember seeing the massive plane, shining a bright white as I walked up to it. There it was, the vessel that so much represented the first world, luxury, something I used to be so familiar with. I had only seen two planes in the sky since I’d lived in a hut without water or electricity, and there I was, standing on the tarmac next to a giant, modern airbus. And then I broke down crying. I didn’t think I could be so moved by an airplane, but there you have it. On the boarding ramp, Mel and I turned around and waved goodbye to Guinea. Then, just like that, my service had ended and readjustment began.
I definitely sobbed and whispered a private goodbye to Guinea as the plane’s wheels left the ground and soared northward. The flight attendants noticed Mel and I holding hands, and asked if everything was alright. I explained our story, and assumed that the attendant thought I was joking (I mean, who on earth would voluntarily live in a hut without electricity or running water?) But given the status of our overall filthy appearances, I think she believed my story. Several rounds of whiskey were served to us, free of charge, as well as a few beers, and as we saw the last lights of Conakry disappear, we toasted to the volunteers we knew were drinking down below at the beach bar.
Every volunteer thinks about what that plane ride home is going to be like—when they will be on it, who they will be on it, and what they will be leaving behind. In my hut, I imagined feeling triumphant over having successfully completed two years, or sad that I just wasn’t up to the task. I felt neither of these emotions because there was no choice involved in my case. And it wasn’t a plane ride home. I honestly felt like I was leaving home all over again, and going somewhere else that was familiar, but certainly not home.
It’s pretty amazing that the plane doors closed on Conakry and re-opened in Paris. The extremes are pretty amazing to witness. I imagine it would also be pretty amazing to witness people accustomed to the extremes of Guinea, interact with the extremes of France. Unfortunately, I don’t have any video footage of myself interacting with these extremes, but I’ll do my best to explain.
I was absolutely intimidated by the automatic sliding doors in the airport. Mel and I stood awkwardly in front of the glass plates, taking slow steps forward, carefully observing the plates move right and then left, worried that the door might close on us. And this was us trying our hardest to look normal. We both literally jumped when the intercom in the airport announced something generic about airport security. I marveled at the automatic flushing toilets and free toilet seat covers, and Mel thought that I’d been singing with an eerie accent when the introductory notes of the intercom came on. We both took giant steps onto the escalator, nervous that our pants/skirts might get caught. I have never felt more like Mr. Bean. Back at home, I tried to light my mom’s Viking stove with matches, I put metal in the microwave and jumped when the toaster had finished its toasting. And I won’t even begin to describe the disaster with the Jacuzzi.
I was generally cold and discouraged with the pace at which people in the “western world” live their lives. Everything is so fast. They even talk faster here! Mel and I both wondered why on earth everyone was walking with such speed once we alighted from the plane in Paris. After all, our plane had arrived on time.
In Guinea, Americans are guaranteed privacy with all their conversations in English (because virtually no one speaks English), such that they are able to speak freely about any topic they wish, even when they’re surrounded by people. As a result, my voice got a LOT louder in Guinea, and it took a good ten minutes waiting in (a real line!) customs, yakking with Mel, to realize that my conversations were no longer private. In fact, everyone waiting in line had been murmuring, probably about us loud Americans. There is definitely line-waiting etiquette I forgot in Guinea. Perhaps it’s because there are no lines in Guinea-- Whoever has the sharpest elbows and the meanest glare usually gets to the front the fastest.
Humans in the western world also tend to ignore everyone around them, which is the complete opposite in Guinea—it’s considered impolite to not say hello to people as you pass them. I took an underground train to my terminal that was jam packed with 15 other westerners, and everyone was trying their best not to make eye contact or confirm one another’s existence. What is the purpose of this? Honestly, a lot of social behavior has a reason behind it and I can’t grasp this. I suppose that it allows you to go from point A to point B faster, or perhaps this common decency disappeared when small communities started disappearing. There just isn’t enough time in a westerner’s day to acknowledge so many people. Pathetic?
Five bladed razors, ten different shaving cream scents, an entire aisle for cereals. I had vertigo the first time I ventured into an American grocery store. In Guinea, I imagined absolute glee over this event. Instead, it was just too much.
For the first two weeks back, I spoke to strangers in French. Well, I started speaking French in my head and then had to translate it back to English. And the number of mirrors in this country is insane. You’re so frequently bombarded with images of yourself that it forces you to be self-absorbed, introspective and superficial. I hate it.
The main adjustment for me was that there was no longer meaning to my life, and I felt that by moving on, I was betraying my experiences and the life I had in Guinea. That took time to come to terms with. Sometimes I wonder if Guinea ever really happened. Nothing in my life here resembles the life I had in Guinea—everything is so far away. This too, shall pass.
No one seems too interested in hearing about my experiences in Guinea. Some people have actually said "Oh, that's nice, what else have you been up to?" when I said I'd been in the Peace Corps. Others don't ask follow up questions, and others act as if I had been away on vacation or at school, not through the freakin' mental warfare Guinea can ignite.
And now, what most of you are reading this for—the medical stuff. I escaped the medical care in Guinea that can at best be described as “distracted”, saw a fantastic doctor in America and got a physical illness diagnosed. It turns out that the adjustment disorder I'd been diagnosed with was only a suggestion for a diagnosis-- it had never been concrete. It blows my mind that they send volunteers home with false diagnoses without admitting that the diagnoses are not, in fact, concrete. My doctor in America sent my new, actual diagnosis to Peace Corps D.C, and because Peace Corps is part of the biggest bureaucracy in the world, I am now registered as having not only the physical illness, but also the mental disorder that they sent me home for. GAH!!!!
I hated that nothing in Guinea ran efficiently, and yes, with bureaucracy comes efficiency. But with bureaucracy there are also quite a few missed steps, mistakes in the process. You’re going to overlook something when you move so swiftly. This is the one time I wish America’s government would be more like Guinea. If only I could joke with a Peace Corps employee and call him a cattle thief and slip him a 10,000 FG bill.
It doesn’t really matter—my condition calls for drugs that the Peace Corps doesn’t allow. So, it’s over. I’ll be healthy eventually, but I had to make a decision and mentally unpack. I got so much out of my eight months in Guinea, and who’s to say that I couldn’t have gotten more out of it.
It’s been fun to reflect on who I was in November of 2007, and think back to how I saw Guinea and Africa. I was so excited and intensely curious about this marvelous foreign adventure I had in my head. I was so excited to feel caught up in an almost Alice in Wonderland-like world, eyes wide with wonder, marveling and excited over so many things. Ha. Guinea was stressful, dirty, frustrating and I was only in the marveled state I’d daydreamed about a handful of times. But I found something else, and that something is what you’ve been reading about for the past ten months. I joined Peace Corps to examine and expand my limits, and I got exactly what I wanted.
I can’t rationalize continuing being such a virtual narcissist in America, so this is the last blog entry. But thanks so much to Liz who wrote that beautiful note on my last entry. My Dad's health is now fantastic and I’m going forward with my plans to become a Nurse Practitioner.
And so, my dear readers, I bid you fondly adieu. Guinea is still all over me in mosquito bite scars and the dirt that my toenails absorbed, but what’s most important is the stuff that happened beneath the surface. I am focusing on what I’ve gained, because it was/is so wonderful.
I'll leave you with three quotes that helped me through some of the more challenging times in Guinea---
“Nothing is hopeless; we must hope for everything.” --Euripides
“Life is a series of evolutions.” -- unknown
“I am not myself; I am the potential of myself.” – Anna D. Smith
Love,
Katie
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Medical Separation
Well, it’s been a few days now and I haven’t wanted to write about the last week because that would require acknowledging that all this has actually happened. It’s a bit bizarre to be writing this blog to both my friends and family in the US and my friends and family in Guinea. I’m going over the details of my case for you PCV’s in Guinea, because I know that no one is allowed to disclose my own medical information but me, and I want you guys to understand everything that has happened. Ugh, so here goes. This is going to be a monster blog.
On July 17th, I was medically separated from the Peace Corps. Medical separation means that I have been sent home permanently due to medical reasons. I can contest this decision, and I will, but my hopes aren’t exactly sky high considering the quality of decision making that must have been involved in my medical separation.
I started experiencing physical symptoms (details which I will spare you from) a few days before New Years Eve and called the PC doctor for advice. Over the next seven months, my symptoms decreased greatly, by at least 92%, but it was still a problem I didn’t want to have to deal with. I credit myself entirely for this improvement—the only medical attention I was awarded over 7 months was a course of antibiotics and a course of general drugs that fight tropical afflictions, and none of these drugs made any marked improvements. I did, however, prescribe myself a healthy diet, an hour of cardio every day, at least 7 Nalgenes full of water to drink, and journal writing to let loose my frustrations about the medical care I’d been receiving in country. While my symptoms began improving in late February, I started developing secondary symptoms as a result of having this health problem go on for so damn long.
Because of the limited technology Guinea has, the doctor couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. I was told that the American doctor would be coming to Guinea to meet with us PCV’s sometime between May and July, and that I would be able to have an appointment with him to discuss my options, when he did come.
Due to Guinea’s instability, this American doctor’s visit kept being postponed, until July, when I was told that there was no longer a month set for his visit. This is when I broke down crying in front of the PC doctor in Guinea—which is what I wrote about in my last blog entry.
I was offered a therapy session on July 11th with an American therapist over the phone, which I explained that I didn’t need—my only emotional issues were with the medical care I’d gotten in the country. I eventually accepted the session because nothing else was being offered to me at that point. The woman I spoke with was great, very understanding, and she awarded me a positive review, calling me “highly functional, well-adapted, enjoys her site.” Five days later, I was called into the PC doctor’s office and was informed that I was being medically separated for, and I quote, “Adjustment disorder with anxiety”.
This diagnosis is incredible (or just incredibly ridiculous) considering the fact that it was based on a SINGLE conversation over the PHONE that reviewed me as someone quite the opposite of someone suffering from an Adjustment disorder. It truly is a slap in the face, considering how well I’ve adapted to my life in Guinea, and after all the months good medical attention was denied to me. I went through so much being sick for so long, on top of being a productive and adaptive volunteer, and for Peace Corps to send me home with a label of having a mental disorder is beyond infuriating. And what gets me even more is that NO ONE could explain to me how they came to this diagnosis!
My symptoms don’t even match the criterion for the disorder in the DSM IV TR. It is also important to note that I never once mentioned the word “anxiety” or anything that could be reasonably interpreted as such to the therapist.
I am not a doctor, I am not a therapist, but, I am an intelligent woman that can tell when two and two don’t add up.
I am also a woman that will be contesting this decision. I sent the Office of Medical Services a letter stating my case this past Friday, and I’m calling them tomorrow to follow up. At the very least, perhaps I will be provided an explanation as to how they came to this conclusion about me.
After giving so much of myself to Guinea and Peace Corps, it isn’t acceptable to me to be so unceremoniously dumped. I did not want to leave.
I’m nervous that a mental diagnosis was fabricated because they couldn’t figure out what physical illness I had. I don’t know why Peace Corps didn’t send me to Senegal or another country with better medical resources to discover what really was the problem, fix it, and then return me to Guinea.
That’s one thing that Peace Corps went on and on about—that they would take care of their PCV’s. If I really do have an adjustment disorder, then, yes Peace Corps absolutely made the right decision. Someone with such a disorder should not be in the Peace Corps—they could be a liability.
Perhaps I’m wrong, but I’ve lived in several countries-- I am not maladaptive. Living in Guinea is hard and stressful, but I enjoyed it, and I’m angry that the life I built for myself in Guinea has been taken away from me.
I am so thankful for the eight months I had in Guinea. They were incredible and I’m trying to focus on what I’ve gained and not what I’ve lost. I wouldn’t be this upset had I not enjoyed them so much and I’m angry because my time was cut short for reasons that were not adequately (more like remotely) explained.
Under normal circumstances, a volunteer is given 48 hours to leave the country after being med-sep’d. Peace Corps Guinea allotted me an extra 48 hours on top of this, and for that I am extremely thankful. Not only did they give me four days, they also allowed me to return to my site to say goodbye to my host family and friends and pack up my hut, using a Peace Corps car and driver. Usually the regional coordinator would pack up my hut, and my belongings would be shipped to me. So, thank you Peace Corps Guinea for allowing me to say goodbye.
I am still very much a fan of the Peace Corps program, I want that to be clear. I’m just upset over my individual case. Perhaps I won’t be upset after everything is explained.
This isn’t over, and if you would like to comment on this blog entry, I ask that you send your comments directly to my e-mail (Katieinguinea@gmail.com).
Forgive me if I take awhile to respond to them; it turns out that a mass 9 cm in diameter had been found in my Dad’s right lung, and my family is waiting to hear the results of the biopsy. The timing of my being sent home has been uncanny in correlation with my dad’s health. Everything happens for a reason, I suppose.
I think about Guinea at least once every five minutes, and about what my fellow PCV’s are doing at any given moment in time. I miss you guys almost every moment of every day.
This isn’t my last blog entry—I’ll write about my last days in Guinea and what it was like arriving in America (my first two conscious thoughts were “it’s cold,” and “why is everyone walking so fast?!”) , when things at home have calmed down.
All for now, stay tuned.
On July 17th, I was medically separated from the Peace Corps. Medical separation means that I have been sent home permanently due to medical reasons. I can contest this decision, and I will, but my hopes aren’t exactly sky high considering the quality of decision making that must have been involved in my medical separation.
I started experiencing physical symptoms (details which I will spare you from) a few days before New Years Eve and called the PC doctor for advice. Over the next seven months, my symptoms decreased greatly, by at least 92%, but it was still a problem I didn’t want to have to deal with. I credit myself entirely for this improvement—the only medical attention I was awarded over 7 months was a course of antibiotics and a course of general drugs that fight tropical afflictions, and none of these drugs made any marked improvements. I did, however, prescribe myself a healthy diet, an hour of cardio every day, at least 7 Nalgenes full of water to drink, and journal writing to let loose my frustrations about the medical care I’d been receiving in country. While my symptoms began improving in late February, I started developing secondary symptoms as a result of having this health problem go on for so damn long.
Because of the limited technology Guinea has, the doctor couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. I was told that the American doctor would be coming to Guinea to meet with us PCV’s sometime between May and July, and that I would be able to have an appointment with him to discuss my options, when he did come.
Due to Guinea’s instability, this American doctor’s visit kept being postponed, until July, when I was told that there was no longer a month set for his visit. This is when I broke down crying in front of the PC doctor in Guinea—which is what I wrote about in my last blog entry.
I was offered a therapy session on July 11th with an American therapist over the phone, which I explained that I didn’t need—my only emotional issues were with the medical care I’d gotten in the country. I eventually accepted the session because nothing else was being offered to me at that point. The woman I spoke with was great, very understanding, and she awarded me a positive review, calling me “highly functional, well-adapted, enjoys her site.” Five days later, I was called into the PC doctor’s office and was informed that I was being medically separated for, and I quote, “Adjustment disorder with anxiety”.
This diagnosis is incredible (or just incredibly ridiculous) considering the fact that it was based on a SINGLE conversation over the PHONE that reviewed me as someone quite the opposite of someone suffering from an Adjustment disorder. It truly is a slap in the face, considering how well I’ve adapted to my life in Guinea, and after all the months good medical attention was denied to me. I went through so much being sick for so long, on top of being a productive and adaptive volunteer, and for Peace Corps to send me home with a label of having a mental disorder is beyond infuriating. And what gets me even more is that NO ONE could explain to me how they came to this diagnosis!
My symptoms don’t even match the criterion for the disorder in the DSM IV TR. It is also important to note that I never once mentioned the word “anxiety” or anything that could be reasonably interpreted as such to the therapist.
I am not a doctor, I am not a therapist, but, I am an intelligent woman that can tell when two and two don’t add up.
I am also a woman that will be contesting this decision. I sent the Office of Medical Services a letter stating my case this past Friday, and I’m calling them tomorrow to follow up. At the very least, perhaps I will be provided an explanation as to how they came to this conclusion about me.
After giving so much of myself to Guinea and Peace Corps, it isn’t acceptable to me to be so unceremoniously dumped. I did not want to leave.
I’m nervous that a mental diagnosis was fabricated because they couldn’t figure out what physical illness I had. I don’t know why Peace Corps didn’t send me to Senegal or another country with better medical resources to discover what really was the problem, fix it, and then return me to Guinea.
That’s one thing that Peace Corps went on and on about—that they would take care of their PCV’s. If I really do have an adjustment disorder, then, yes Peace Corps absolutely made the right decision. Someone with such a disorder should not be in the Peace Corps—they could be a liability.
Perhaps I’m wrong, but I’ve lived in several countries-- I am not maladaptive. Living in Guinea is hard and stressful, but I enjoyed it, and I’m angry that the life I built for myself in Guinea has been taken away from me.
I am so thankful for the eight months I had in Guinea. They were incredible and I’m trying to focus on what I’ve gained and not what I’ve lost. I wouldn’t be this upset had I not enjoyed them so much and I’m angry because my time was cut short for reasons that were not adequately (more like remotely) explained.
Under normal circumstances, a volunteer is given 48 hours to leave the country after being med-sep’d. Peace Corps Guinea allotted me an extra 48 hours on top of this, and for that I am extremely thankful. Not only did they give me four days, they also allowed me to return to my site to say goodbye to my host family and friends and pack up my hut, using a Peace Corps car and driver. Usually the regional coordinator would pack up my hut, and my belongings would be shipped to me. So, thank you Peace Corps Guinea for allowing me to say goodbye.
I am still very much a fan of the Peace Corps program, I want that to be clear. I’m just upset over my individual case. Perhaps I won’t be upset after everything is explained.
This isn’t over, and if you would like to comment on this blog entry, I ask that you send your comments directly to my e-mail (Katieinguinea@gmail.com).
Forgive me if I take awhile to respond to them; it turns out that a mass 9 cm in diameter had been found in my Dad’s right lung, and my family is waiting to hear the results of the biopsy. The timing of my being sent home has been uncanny in correlation with my dad’s health. Everything happens for a reason, I suppose.
I think about Guinea at least once every five minutes, and about what my fellow PCV’s are doing at any given moment in time. I miss you guys almost every moment of every day.
This isn’t my last blog entry—I’ll write about my last days in Guinea and what it was like arriving in America (my first two conscious thoughts were “it’s cold,” and “why is everyone walking so fast?!”) , when things at home have calmed down.
All for now, stay tuned.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Sojourn to Saladou
The Fourth of July was awesome—much fun was had and many, many beers were consumed. We had a potluck, which included a pig that had been artfully slaughtered and prepared by fellow PCVs. It’s always such a pleasure to eat meat that isn’t mainly bone.
As I write this, I am sipping cooled water from a plastic baggie labeled “pure and legendary mineral water,” listening to music on Pandora online radio. I was supposed to be on the mailrun ride up to Kankan today, but I had a little breakdown in front of the Peace Corps doctor. It was eventually my friends that decided that I was not fit to head back to Mandiana, and I’m grateful to them that they recognized this and were so decisive for me. I’ve been sick in this country for almost seven months now with no cure in sight, and I’ve hit a wall. Hopefully I demonstrated this effectively by crying for like three straight hours. So I’m still here in Conakry, and we’ll see what happens.
There are a few things I neglected to write about due to time constraints and the number of volunteers jostling for the four computers here, but I have this room all to myself now, so I figured I’d fill you in.
On June 24th, I went on my first outreach trip. As volunteers, we’re supposed to work in our communities and also in areas surrounding them. The head of the DPS had to make a visit to Saladou, an outlying pre-fecture (which is roughly the equivalent of a county) in Mandiana state to settle a dispute in one of its health centers. There was space in the car, so I leapt at the chance to do a little outreach work. Saladou is on the border with Cote D’Ivoire and it was quite the adventure to get there.
For example, one hour into the journey, we had to cross the Sankarane river. Now, because this is Guinea, there was no ferry to shuttle our large SUV-truck to the other side. All I could see was a pirogue (canoe), but the DPS staff didn’t seem bothered at all. When I asked Mr. Le DPS what we could possibly do with a canoe, he said “Pas de probleme!” My thought: What on earth could transport this huge car across a river so large and apparently deep?
Well, my internal musing was soon ended when a middle-aged man came floating down the river in another pirogue, guiding it along using a long pole.
This man moved his pirogue next to the existing pirogue and hopped onto our shore, grabbed two large planks of wood and sat them atop the two parallel pirogues. He then secured them with pieces of fishing net he found lying on the riverbank, and motioned us onto this flimsy watercraft.
You guessed it, all the Guineans hopped back into the car while I just stood there shocked.
One other guy with a long pole showed up, and we and our several tonned vehicle were guided safely across the river, with a man pushing our craft across the river with a pole on each side of the watercraft.
Djameelah (my translator) smiled at me and said “Il y a les crocodiles ici!” (There are crocodiles here!). She often says stuff like this to get a reaction out of me. I usually respond with comments that just make fun of hers, such as, “Well, in America, we ride crocodiles across rivers. We don’t have fancy boats like this one.” She just laughs.
Once on the other side of the river, we drove for another six hours through the beautiful bush. About two hours into this scenic ride, we ran over a squirrel. In America, one might say “sorry, squirrel!” and keep driving. In Guinea, apparently, one stops the car and runs to the squirrel to inspect if it’s in good enough condition to eat. This squirrel was in A-OK condition, and the man who hopped out asked if anyone had a knife on them so that he could cut out the dead squirrel’s innards. Of all people, Djameelah rifled through her purse to pull out a knife with a seven inch blade! She actually carries this knife with her at all times, for occasions such as these. Oh, Guinea.
When we finally arrived in Saladou, the health center wasn’t ready to receive us, which meant the village elders hadn’t yet congregated to have this meeting with us. So, we traveled further east to the last village before the Cote D’Ivoirian border. Like most Guinean villages, there wasn’t much to see, so we all clambered out of the car and searched for a good place for me to give my malaria sensibilization. We settled on a tea house (read: wooden shack with a fire to heat water for the tea) and then corralled villagers over to it. It turns out that the group of fifty or so men was mainly refugees from the still unstable northern regions of Cote D’Ivoire. So I thought that was cool.
Usually, when I give my malaria sensibilization, at least someone in the crowd knows something about malaria. Nope. No one even knew any myths about it (many Guineans believe that you get malaria from eating mangoes). So, I enlightened them and they were so appreciative of it! Most aid groups don’t reach such outlying villages, and I felt proud that I was able to do something for this village. I doubt they’ll actually start sleeping in long sleeves and pants (no one can afford a mosquito net), but at least the information is now out there.
After the sensibilization, we returned to Saladou and located the meeting. Twenty-three of the village elders sat in wooden chairs in a circle under the shade of a huge Acajou tree. Four seats nearest to the trunk were left open, and we sat in them. All of these elders were men, and they were each dressed in their long, billowy religious clothes. It’s for moments and images like these that I love Guinea so much.
The council was mainly conducted in Malinke, but from the limited French spoken, I was able to gather the gist of what was going on. I had originally understood that the reason the DPS team had come to Saladou was to reprimand the health center chief for not doing his job. It turns out that he had been doing a little too much—the health center chief had been giving the town’s women abortions. This greatly upset the village elders because abortion is against both Guinean and Islam law. I believe strongly in a woman’s right to choose, but I kept my mouth firmly shut for the entirety of the council—it wasn’t my place to say anything. I really wanted to congratulate the poor guy that was being berated for delivering this service to women that are denied access to effective forms of birth control, education, and pretty much everything else. But I would have been overstepping my boundaries as a female volunteer. Trust me, it was hard.
We got back to the banks of the river at around ten PM and took the truly African watercraft back across to the other side. Once on dry land, the driver had the wacky idea of taking a “shortcut” through the African bush. Everyone (but me) thought this was a great idea, so we drove through grass that was eight feet tall—no trail, no stars to follow—the driver just drove. I was imagining myself sleeping in the car with these guys in this grass, lost, after driving for hours on end. But, as things in Guinea eventually do, it all worked out and I arrived safely back at my hut at midnight. Starving, I fixed up a camping meal, inhaled it, and collapsed into bed.
Other highlights:
--I’ve started praying every night with my Guinean family. It’s a really moving experience for me because it’s the first time I’ve truly felt like a part of their family. The Dad recites passages from the Koran on a sheep skin in front of myself, Fanta, and the four kids. Together, we bow on all fours and touch our foreheads to the ground just like you see in the movies. They know I’m not Muslim-- I tell them I’m Christian because Guineans really don’t respect you if you say that you don’t believe in any God. Maybe one day I'll share my true beliefs with them.
--In Kankan last week, four bats flew into our regional house, causing complete pandemonium. The women screamed, “AHHH!!! EBOLA!!!” or “AHHH! RABIES!!!” as they ran outside to evade the bats that were dive-bombing above their heads, and the men chased after these bats with…baseball bats. Alex actually hit a bat with the bat and killed it. David eventually caught the other three with a pagne (bolt of fabric) and let them free outside.
As I write this, I am sipping cooled water from a plastic baggie labeled “pure and legendary mineral water,” listening to music on Pandora online radio. I was supposed to be on the mailrun ride up to Kankan today, but I had a little breakdown in front of the Peace Corps doctor. It was eventually my friends that decided that I was not fit to head back to Mandiana, and I’m grateful to them that they recognized this and were so decisive for me. I’ve been sick in this country for almost seven months now with no cure in sight, and I’ve hit a wall. Hopefully I demonstrated this effectively by crying for like three straight hours. So I’m still here in Conakry, and we’ll see what happens.
There are a few things I neglected to write about due to time constraints and the number of volunteers jostling for the four computers here, but I have this room all to myself now, so I figured I’d fill you in.
On June 24th, I went on my first outreach trip. As volunteers, we’re supposed to work in our communities and also in areas surrounding them. The head of the DPS had to make a visit to Saladou, an outlying pre-fecture (which is roughly the equivalent of a county) in Mandiana state to settle a dispute in one of its health centers. There was space in the car, so I leapt at the chance to do a little outreach work. Saladou is on the border with Cote D’Ivoire and it was quite the adventure to get there.
For example, one hour into the journey, we had to cross the Sankarane river. Now, because this is Guinea, there was no ferry to shuttle our large SUV-truck to the other side. All I could see was a pirogue (canoe), but the DPS staff didn’t seem bothered at all. When I asked Mr. Le DPS what we could possibly do with a canoe, he said “Pas de probleme!” My thought: What on earth could transport this huge car across a river so large and apparently deep?
Well, my internal musing was soon ended when a middle-aged man came floating down the river in another pirogue, guiding it along using a long pole.
This man moved his pirogue next to the existing pirogue and hopped onto our shore, grabbed two large planks of wood and sat them atop the two parallel pirogues. He then secured them with pieces of fishing net he found lying on the riverbank, and motioned us onto this flimsy watercraft.
You guessed it, all the Guineans hopped back into the car while I just stood there shocked.
One other guy with a long pole showed up, and we and our several tonned vehicle were guided safely across the river, with a man pushing our craft across the river with a pole on each side of the watercraft.
Djameelah (my translator) smiled at me and said “Il y a les crocodiles ici!” (There are crocodiles here!). She often says stuff like this to get a reaction out of me. I usually respond with comments that just make fun of hers, such as, “Well, in America, we ride crocodiles across rivers. We don’t have fancy boats like this one.” She just laughs.
Once on the other side of the river, we drove for another six hours through the beautiful bush. About two hours into this scenic ride, we ran over a squirrel. In America, one might say “sorry, squirrel!” and keep driving. In Guinea, apparently, one stops the car and runs to the squirrel to inspect if it’s in good enough condition to eat. This squirrel was in A-OK condition, and the man who hopped out asked if anyone had a knife on them so that he could cut out the dead squirrel’s innards. Of all people, Djameelah rifled through her purse to pull out a knife with a seven inch blade! She actually carries this knife with her at all times, for occasions such as these. Oh, Guinea.
When we finally arrived in Saladou, the health center wasn’t ready to receive us, which meant the village elders hadn’t yet congregated to have this meeting with us. So, we traveled further east to the last village before the Cote D’Ivoirian border. Like most Guinean villages, there wasn’t much to see, so we all clambered out of the car and searched for a good place for me to give my malaria sensibilization. We settled on a tea house (read: wooden shack with a fire to heat water for the tea) and then corralled villagers over to it. It turns out that the group of fifty or so men was mainly refugees from the still unstable northern regions of Cote D’Ivoire. So I thought that was cool.
Usually, when I give my malaria sensibilization, at least someone in the crowd knows something about malaria. Nope. No one even knew any myths about it (many Guineans believe that you get malaria from eating mangoes). So, I enlightened them and they were so appreciative of it! Most aid groups don’t reach such outlying villages, and I felt proud that I was able to do something for this village. I doubt they’ll actually start sleeping in long sleeves and pants (no one can afford a mosquito net), but at least the information is now out there.
After the sensibilization, we returned to Saladou and located the meeting. Twenty-three of the village elders sat in wooden chairs in a circle under the shade of a huge Acajou tree. Four seats nearest to the trunk were left open, and we sat in them. All of these elders were men, and they were each dressed in their long, billowy religious clothes. It’s for moments and images like these that I love Guinea so much.
The council was mainly conducted in Malinke, but from the limited French spoken, I was able to gather the gist of what was going on. I had originally understood that the reason the DPS team had come to Saladou was to reprimand the health center chief for not doing his job. It turns out that he had been doing a little too much—the health center chief had been giving the town’s women abortions. This greatly upset the village elders because abortion is against both Guinean and Islam law. I believe strongly in a woman’s right to choose, but I kept my mouth firmly shut for the entirety of the council—it wasn’t my place to say anything. I really wanted to congratulate the poor guy that was being berated for delivering this service to women that are denied access to effective forms of birth control, education, and pretty much everything else. But I would have been overstepping my boundaries as a female volunteer. Trust me, it was hard.
We got back to the banks of the river at around ten PM and took the truly African watercraft back across to the other side. Once on dry land, the driver had the wacky idea of taking a “shortcut” through the African bush. Everyone (but me) thought this was a great idea, so we drove through grass that was eight feet tall—no trail, no stars to follow—the driver just drove. I was imagining myself sleeping in the car with these guys in this grass, lost, after driving for hours on end. But, as things in Guinea eventually do, it all worked out and I arrived safely back at my hut at midnight. Starving, I fixed up a camping meal, inhaled it, and collapsed into bed.
Other highlights:
--I’ve started praying every night with my Guinean family. It’s a really moving experience for me because it’s the first time I’ve truly felt like a part of their family. The Dad recites passages from the Koran on a sheep skin in front of myself, Fanta, and the four kids. Together, we bow on all fours and touch our foreheads to the ground just like you see in the movies. They know I’m not Muslim-- I tell them I’m Christian because Guineans really don’t respect you if you say that you don’t believe in any God. Maybe one day I'll share my true beliefs with them.
--In Kankan last week, four bats flew into our regional house, causing complete pandemonium. The women screamed, “AHHH!!! EBOLA!!!” or “AHHH! RABIES!!!” as they ran outside to evade the bats that were dive-bombing above their heads, and the men chased after these bats with…baseball bats. Alex actually hit a bat with the bat and killed it. David eventually caught the other three with a pagne (bolt of fabric) and let them free outside.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
The Wanton Fowl Guide: Mandiana
Felipe (my sitemate) is at the end of his Peace Corps service and just wrote this gem about our town, Mandiana. I absolutely HAD to post this for you to enjoy. He's a hilarious writer and as shocking and crude as the following accounts may sound, it's all true.
The Wanton Fowl Guide: Mandiana
by Felipe Munoz
I could not leave my post without attempting to write a new tour guide for Mandiana, which was suspiciously left out of The Rough Guide and Lonely Planet. Of course, in and around Mandiana might be a more appropriate designation, or often Guinea in general. I have decided to name this guide after our beloved Guinea fowl, whose sweet intonations remind of us of wasted talent and unintelligent design.
Aromatic Promenades
Just as the patriarch longs for those who squatted to defecate near the "Hindu market" in Gabo's insomniac autumn, the avenue of public defecations in Mandiana even has its explosions of joy - or poop street trumpets, in another turn of phrase. These professional poopers are mostly children - as children are useless, therefore, the practice does not really exist. This creative toiletry seems less absurd every time I drink bissap, the most delicious drink that will make diarrhea a lifestyle.
The Public is Well- Informed
I once asked for the local news on territorial disputes in Niani, on the Malian border. I received stories about sorcerers with mirrors, slaughtering entire regiments. On another occasion the tale of Lansana Conte's wife was related to me. Legend has it that she opened a cannibalistic suitcase, with sundry fetishes inside, and went "folle...de" (basically she became a cuckoo-bat, looking for gold in the most secret of suitcases). I have been asked whether cows and ducks exist in America, and if we are able to see the stars in the sky; although my initial answer would be "no", I am still open to the possibility of cows, ducks and stars existing in my own country.
Nightly Film Festivals Offer the Finest
Silvester Stalone fans will be reassured that the propaganda has replaced reality. Many Guineans crowd into huts to watch DVDs banned for bad taste from the West: Now Rambo is the proto-type of Western culture. When you are a Westerner you have the privilege of immunity to bullets, and creating explosions on the most impossible occasions.
Exotic Transportation Options
The display of at least one Osama Bin Laden or Madonna sticker (or both facing each other) on the back of a bush taxi is more crucial than tires or floorboards. Doors have never been necessary, but know that your driver and apprentices care about safety - on one occasion my door was hammered, quite literally (with a hammer, no joke), into place, after attempts to tie it with, you guessed it, rubber. I have never been trained in auto-repair, but I am willing to guess that hammering on the engine is an unconventional method of restarting a stalled vehicle. In other countries, sometimes food is served on air-conditioned buses, in Zambia, for example. We are a little more extreme and eco-friendly in our en route alimentary and climatic luxuries. You can be vomited upon by children in the back or grandmothers sitting next to you, and you will be surprised at how quickly rocks and dirt can be mistaken for bursts of ac.
Free Zoos and Public Parks
No civilization today could be authenticated without a zoo. Zoos in Mandiana are limited to a few interactive options: goats and sheep eating trash, and overactive monkeys tied to mango trees. Again, continued from the first section, a park is not exactly where you sit down and enjoy a picnic. We would need to redefine it, but in terms of sitting, you do squat to leave organic traces of your past, or what has passed through you. If there is a Defense d'uriner sign anywhere near the park, it actually means the contrary - urinate here as you will. The goats and sheep from the zoo will show up later to keep the parks as clean as they can by recycling the public's charity. Communal life has never been more Utopian.
Public Welfare and Tolls
Corruption is really quite progressive, if I might try to persuade some of you. Wearing a military uniform or several different types of uniforms with all combinations of mixed ranks (my favourite option includes discordant epaulets, which might stripe the soldier a general on the left shoulder, and an aerobics instructor on the right) means that you can operate a toll both anywhere, even when anywhere is in the middle of nowhere. If your identification is in English, the soldiers will pretend to read it and then possibly fine you for improper luggage storage, if you are lucky, as sacks of rice into the air and two goat heads peering out from below is a safety hazard worth paying for.
Mobilized Yorgurt
According to reports from some of our most savvy journalists, a man from the forest rides around on a bicycle with a cooler strapped to the back full of yogurt. He is from the forest, which is apparently a qualification to understand the principles of on-the-go refrigeration. I have yet to benefit from this convenient door-to-door yogurt.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
MY HUT
Before I give you the tour of my hut, I'd like to preface it with a photo of what it looked like when I first arrived in Mandiana. Behold a prison cell/murder scene/crack den.
This is what the same wall looks like now. There are weird splotches on the wall because I made my own wall patch (thanks, you can call me Martha) out of dirt and paint to cover the holes in the wall. This is what you see as soon as you walk through the door. The metal trunks are very Guinean-- I keep my electronics locked in the larger one, and I keep my special American food in the one on the right. The pink and purple "rug" is a plastic prayer mat, which Guineans generally use as sofas, and, obviously, something to pray on.
Further to the right, I have my "deux-place" bed and book/clothing shelf. The plastic tarp above the bed is to prevent debris falling from the thatch roof during high winds. I hanged the red and yellow fabric over the plastic tarp so that I could have something prettier to look at as I fall asleep.
My bed, with a twin mattress (for visitors) leaning on the wall by my bed. The three yellow containers on the right are "bidons"and they hold all of the water I drink. Underneath the bed you can find my many cans of bug spray, Peace Corps papers and toilet paper.
This is what the same wall looks like now. There are weird splotches on the wall because I made my own wall patch (thanks, you can call me Martha) out of dirt and paint to cover the holes in the wall. This is what you see as soon as you walk through the door. The metal trunks are very Guinean-- I keep my electronics locked in the larger one, and I keep my special American food in the one on the right. The pink and purple "rug" is a plastic prayer mat, which Guineans generally use as sofas, and, obviously, something to pray on.
Further to the right, I have my "deux-place" bed and book/clothing shelf. The plastic tarp above the bed is to prevent debris falling from the thatch roof during high winds. I hanged the red and yellow fabric over the plastic tarp so that I could have something prettier to look at as I fall asleep.My bed, with a twin mattress (for visitors) leaning on the wall by my bed. The three yellow containers on the right are "bidons"and they hold all of the water I drink. Underneath the bed you can find my many cans of bug spray, Peace Corps papers and toilet paper.
This is my front door. It isn't actually hot pink-- the camera flash makes it look much more fluorescent than it actually is. To the right of the door is my kitchen shelving which is covered by a pagne (piece of fabric) I bought at the market. PCV's encouraged us to cover our belongings with fabric so that Guineans don't see all the stuff we have. The big plastic white thing is my water filter, and the hanging basket is for food I don't want mice or ants to eat. My walls are crumbling in, mais c'est la vie en Guinee.
And then further to the right is my kitchen table complete with my gas powered stove. In the photo is Annelise, my old boss, preparing food with my new boss, Yvonne, in the blue in white. This photo connects to the first photo I uploaded.
This is my hut! This is where I go to sleep and wake up and cook every single day. I went for reallllly bright colors because life can get pretty lonely way out in the boonies of Africa. Hope you enjoyed the tour : )
The Wedding
So, last I left off, I was prepping to leave for Tokono for a Peace Corps employee's wedding.
The teacher's strike didn't turn out to be a big deal, however, the military AND the police started protesting. Eventually, they ended up fighting ONE ANOTHER in the streets of Conakry. No one is getting paid, and they are angry about it! I don't know why the police and military were street-fighting...but hey, this is Guinea. Never a dull moment here.
But because Peace Corps Guinea staff is so awesome, we were permitted to leave for the wedding. They even gave us a satellite phone to use so that we could check in with them every day we were in Tokono.
Condé, the groom, was thrilled that we could come. He kept saying "Il sera l'ambiance non-stop!" (It's going to be a non-stop party!) On the morning of the 17th, Amy, Alison, Felipe and I boarded a deplaced mini bus (deplaced means that Conde rented the bus) to Tokono, which is four hours south of KanKan. We volunteers were very impressed with the fact that we each had a seat to ourselves! This is very un-Guinean; almost all vehicles are crammed full of people.
Well, this impression did not last long. Just as we left KanKan, the minibus stopped and we picked up a four piece band AND their instruments, which included a large (western) drum set and several guitars. Oh, Guinea.
We arrived in Tokono four hours later to a massive welcoming. At least 300 children were waiting for us at the center of town and stormed the bus screaming words of welcome. We felt like movie stars! They all wanted to shake my/our hands, which I did begrudgingly because children are SO DIRTY. In my defense, this isn't just a "me thing"-- almost all other volunteers hate shaking children's hands.
No one in town seemed to know where we were supposed to sleep, so we were ushered to a series of houses, all of which turned out to be other guests lodgings, and not ours. Eventually our small group of Americans was intercepted by a member of Condé's family, who showed us the way to the family compound for dinner.
In the center of the compound sat a little table with four chairs. We were each told to take a seat and then handed a big bowl of (surprise surprise!) rice and sauce. All of Condé's extended family (about 40 people) stood around us, watching us eat, which was awkward. Eventually, the onlookers were handed plates of food to share with one another, but they weren't given spoons, a table or chairs. Their plates were placed on the floor and they sat on little stools on the ground. Every meal we ate in Tokono was like this.
After dinner, we were showed our lodgings, which were clean. Except, there was no toilet, so we all had to go to the bathroom outside in the woods.
The following morning, the "ambiance non-stop" commenced! We were given another plate of rice and sauce for breakfast, and a Griot visited the compound after we finished eating.
A Griot (pronounced guh-ree-oh) is a must-have for any major occasion in Guinea. It is essentially a man or woman that owns a megaphone, and they sing loud songs about people's last names into the megaphone at parties. They ask you for your last name and then sing the song about your family name's history and you have to get up and dance in front of everybody. Being Americans, we were the focus of most Griots. To throw the Griot a curve ball, Felipe told the Griot that his last name was "foroto," which means chili pepper in Malinké. So, the Griot had to make up a song about the chili pepper family.
In this photo we have Felipe (my sitemate) in the orange bandanna, me in the white polo and Amy in the blue dress, dancing to the Griot's music in front of a crowd.
This hammock procession eventually ended up in front of the courthouse/mayor's house. The civil ceremony took place here, which is needed to make a marriage legal in Guinea.
Afterwards, the ambiance non-stop commenced! The Griots showed up in their bright clothes and made us dance to live music in front of at least 1,000 on-lookers. To give the Guineans more of a show, we performed an electric slide/macarena combo which had them yelling with delight. In this photo: Zach and Amy dancing with a Griot (in hot pink).
This is Condé on the left, sitting next to his new (and second) wife, taking in the ambiance non-stop.
It was a really fun day. We all headed home the following day. The minibus broke down about four times, but aside from that everything went smoothly.
The teacher's strike didn't turn out to be a big deal, however, the military AND the police started protesting. Eventually, they ended up fighting ONE ANOTHER in the streets of Conakry. No one is getting paid, and they are angry about it! I don't know why the police and military were street-fighting...but hey, this is Guinea. Never a dull moment here.
But because Peace Corps Guinea staff is so awesome, we were permitted to leave for the wedding. They even gave us a satellite phone to use so that we could check in with them every day we were in Tokono.
Condé, the groom, was thrilled that we could come. He kept saying "Il sera l'ambiance non-stop!" (It's going to be a non-stop party!) On the morning of the 17th, Amy, Alison, Felipe and I boarded a deplaced mini bus (deplaced means that Conde rented the bus) to Tokono, which is four hours south of KanKan. We volunteers were very impressed with the fact that we each had a seat to ourselves! This is very un-Guinean; almost all vehicles are crammed full of people.
Well, this impression did not last long. Just as we left KanKan, the minibus stopped and we picked up a four piece band AND their instruments, which included a large (western) drum set and several guitars. Oh, Guinea.
We arrived in Tokono four hours later to a massive welcoming. At least 300 children were waiting for us at the center of town and stormed the bus screaming words of welcome. We felt like movie stars! They all wanted to shake my/our hands, which I did begrudgingly because children are SO DIRTY. In my defense, this isn't just a "me thing"-- almost all other volunteers hate shaking children's hands.
No one in town seemed to know where we were supposed to sleep, so we were ushered to a series of houses, all of which turned out to be other guests lodgings, and not ours. Eventually our small group of Americans was intercepted by a member of Condé's family, who showed us the way to the family compound for dinner.
In the center of the compound sat a little table with four chairs. We were each told to take a seat and then handed a big bowl of (surprise surprise!) rice and sauce. All of Condé's extended family (about 40 people) stood around us, watching us eat, which was awkward. Eventually, the onlookers were handed plates of food to share with one another, but they weren't given spoons, a table or chairs. Their plates were placed on the floor and they sat on little stools on the ground. Every meal we ate in Tokono was like this.
After dinner, we were showed our lodgings, which were clean. Except, there was no toilet, so we all had to go to the bathroom outside in the woods.
The following morning, the "ambiance non-stop" commenced! We were given another plate of rice and sauce for breakfast, and a Griot visited the compound after we finished eating.
A Griot (pronounced guh-ree-oh) is a must-have for any major occasion in Guinea. It is essentially a man or woman that owns a megaphone, and they sing loud songs about people's last names into the megaphone at parties. They ask you for your last name and then sing the song about your family name's history and you have to get up and dance in front of everybody. Being Americans, we were the focus of most Griots. To throw the Griot a curve ball, Felipe told the Griot that his last name was "foroto," which means chili pepper in Malinké. So, the Griot had to make up a song about the chili pepper family.
In this photo we have Felipe (my sitemate) in the orange bandanna, me in the white polo and Amy in the blue dress, dancing to the Griot's music in front of a crowd.
After the dancing, we attended the makeup ceremony, which is just when you go watch the bride have her hair, nails and face done up for the wedding. FIVE Griots showed up for this ceremony, so we each had to dance for them as well.
Then, we all changed into our wedding complets. Here I am, the definition of Haute Couture. In Guinea, women usually have complets made out of the same fabric as their friends for special occasions, so we all bought the same white/blue fabric.
Felipe and I in a prom pose. (Check out Felipe's socks underneath his flip-flops! He wears socks ALL THE TIME. And no, we are not dating.) 
All the volunteers that attended the wedding. From the left we have Alison, Amy, Felipe, Zach, Jess, and me. Zach and Jess met up with our group that morning.
The ceremony was conducted in two places-- a mosque for religious purposes and then a pseudo mayor's house/courthouse. We women had to use the back entrance and sit at the very back of the mosque. Men and women aren't allowed to sit together in a mosque-- not even a bride and groom at their own wedding!
Everything was conducted in Malinké, so we didn't understand what was being said. But it was a cool experience. After the religious ceremony, the bride was whisked away in what I can only describe as a covered wagon- type thing with a hammock attached underneath it. Four men carried her all over town and the crowd followed her everywhere they went.
The groom was transported in a black Mercedes Benz from the 1980's.
In the photo is the contraption and procession I've just described. You can see the bride's white dress peeking out in between the two men in the front.
This hammock procession eventually ended up in front of the courthouse/mayor's house. The civil ceremony took place here, which is needed to make a marriage legal in Guinea.Afterwards, the ambiance non-stop commenced! The Griots showed up in their bright clothes and made us dance to live music in front of at least 1,000 on-lookers. To give the Guineans more of a show, we performed an electric slide/macarena combo which had them yelling with delight. In this photo: Zach and Amy dancing with a Griot (in hot pink).
This is Condé on the left, sitting next to his new (and second) wife, taking in the ambiance non-stop. It was a really fun day. We all headed home the following day. The minibus broke down about four times, but aside from that everything went smoothly. Saturday, June 14, 2008
In Three Words/Phrases
Well, I finished my third month at site, which can best be described with the following words: military mutiny, child trafficking and sensibilizations.
Just another month in the life of your friend/relative Katie.
Guinea has been a bit crazy recently. I don’t know if you read about this in the news, but the Prime Minister of Guinea was fired, which set off a series of protests all around Guinea. Guineans were furious because he was one of the few government officials people actually liked. Most major cities in Guinea saw large protests, however none of them were violent. A ton of car tires were set on fire, but that’s about it. Even Mandiana had a protest on May 29, and I somehow managed to be right in the middle of it when it happened. Oops.
I had just walked into the tailors to pick up a skirt when I saw locals running down the street as if they were fleeing from Godzilla or King Kong. Market ladies and vendors were throwing their merchandise inside their stores and ran inside, slamming the doors shut behind them. Then I heard a bunch of shouting and screaming. My first thought was “Oh crap.” I turned to the tailor and asked what on earth was happening and he said “It’s a protest. Stay inside.”
I’d never been in a situation like this before, and there I was, waiting out the protest with the tailor in the middle of town, which is exactly where I shouldn’t have been. Protests in Guinea can get pretty violent—that’s why all volunteers were evacuated last year, so I was definitely nervous.
The protest occurred on the street right by the tailor and lasted only five minutes, but I stayed inside the tailor’s little shack for another ten minutes, just in case the military decided to retalliate.
I called my parents an hour later to explain what had happened and that I was okay. Due to a bad phone connection, all I could get across to them was me yelling “I’M SAFE!!! DON’T WORRY!!!” before the phone lines in Mandiana died altogether. I’m sure this probably made them worry even more. Sorry guys.
It turns out that this protest had just been a joke put on by local students, and other prank protests had occurred in other cities. ????? Prank protests? To be honest, I believe that these protests were real, but the students backed out at the end, saying that they hadn’t been serious, in fear of reprimand from the military.
Then, a week later, the military mutinied against the government. This was because no one in the military had been paid for over a year-- I’m surprised they didn’t throw a fit sooner! To retaliate, the military took over the airport in Conakry, the only airport in Guinea equipped to accommodate a plane larger than a mini-van, and shut it down for two days. They also fired their guns in the streets and attacked gas stations for some bizarre reason. Because of this, most gas stations closed down and it was impossible to buy fuel, which meant no transportation. And now, the teachers in Guinea have banded together to strike because, they too have yet to be paid. This has all happened in the last two weeks. None of these strikes have been related to the other, but it’s just been action packed.
I was really anxious about the military mutiny because Mandiana has a huge military presence with two military offices and one training camp. There was definitely an increase in the number of the military officials who wear black, which are the officials you just don’t mess with and they patrolled my neighborhood, their USSR-era guns in arm (Actually, I think they were guns from the USSR).
On a non-protest related note, apparently Mandiana is having a bit of trouble with child trafficking. The American embassy is sending out a few employees to Mandiana this coming Monday to investigate the problem. Mandiana has two roads into Mali and one road to Cote D’Ivoire, so children are smuggled into and out of Guinea using these roads. What kind of town am I living in!?
I gave my first sensibilizations in Mandiana and they went pretty well. They were all on le Paludisme, or, Malaria, because it’s the rainy season right now and mosquitoes are everywhere.
On June 3, I donned my indigo fabric complet and marched over to the hospital with my charts in hand, pumped and ready to give my first sensibilization. Unfortunately, everyone seemed to have forgotten that I was going to be there and that I needed a translator to translate my French into Malinke. The Agent PEV (the resident vaccinator whom I despise) ended up translating for me, which was pretty bad because he can’t understand my French American accent. My accent is actually really good—I don’t roll my “Rs” like the French do, I roll them like you do in Spanish, which is how they speak here. It’s just that precious few Guineas are accustomed to hearing a foreign accent and don’t know how to decipher it.
So, I had to repeat myself a lot and delivered the sensibilization all the while the Agent PEV was giving me looks that conveyed his opinion of my apparent stupidity for being unable to speak a French he could understand. Then, in the middle of the presentation, he just walked off and left me standing in front of thirty or so women. I gave a sheepish grin and tried to keep going in my limited Malinke. Example: “Soso, a mine yi!” (Mosquitoes, they are bad!) Oh, it was ridiculous, and hilarious. Needless to say, I will not be using the Agent PEV’s “skills” as a translator ever again.
After this sensibilization, I walked to the DPS keen on finding a better translator who could do another sensibilization with me that day, because I didn’t want to end the day on that note. So, my counterpart introduced me to a woman named Djamilla (pronounced Jah-meela). She appeared to have no trouble with my accent and seemed excited at the prospect of translating for me. I told her I wanted to give a sensibililzation at the market to the market ladies. Apparently, she misunderstood my desire to give one sensibilization at the market, because I ended up giving four others—one at the back entrance to the market, one at a hairdressers, one at a tea house frequented by young men and another café patronized by middle aged and old men. So, I hit a variety of target age groups which was good, but it was exhausting shouting over the din of the market ladies and dealing with the younger men teasing me for my French American accent, and, of course, the marriage proposals.
I now respond to marriage proposals with jokes, saying things such as “Oh, gosh, I’ll have to ask my other three husbands and see if they approve” or “I’ll marry you when you’re the president of Guinea.” The men usually laugh and I get an easy out.
The owner of the café gave me a shot glass full of sweet, strong mint tea as a thank you for giving the sensibilization. I felt pretty triumphant walking back home, having just finished the fifth sensibilization in one day. I felt triumphant, that is, until I arrived home, when I promptly threw up. I’m sure it was a mixture of the strong tea, hunger, exhaustion and being completely overwhelmed after five sensibilizations. So, I heated up some Ramen and collapsed into bed with my iPOD and watched an episode of Desperate Housewives. All was right with the world again in no time. I love having these episodes on my iPOD—they allow me to teeter a little into my old life for forty minutes at a time.
The rainy season has officially begun, which means cooler but much louder nights. The wind blasts above my hut, so loud that I can’t hear anything else over it, except thunder. Some rolls of thunder have been so loud that the water in my Nalgene bottle vibrates with it (Whenever this happens, I’m reminded of the scene in Jurassic Park when a character looks into a glass of water and sees ripples, knowing that a T-Rex can’t be too far behind). My hut is illuminated with bright flashes of lightning. Sometimes these veins of lightning are so strong that you can actually feel them connect with the earth.
And then there’s the rain. It goes from the first drip drops to a full and smashing downpour in ten seconds. The only warning of the oncoming rain is the wind and the very distant thunder. It reminds me of Singapore’s storms, but these storms seem more intense to me because my hut’s roof isn’t attached to the walls—it just sits atop it, so I feel each blast of wind and I can see every bolt of lightning in the space between my walls and roof. These storms are really intense, and, definitely a little scary.
Other highlights:
-This past month, both Jessica and Amy came to visit me from Gbangbadou and KanKan, respectively and it was wonderful to play host for a few days. Amy, Alison and I each bought gris-gris in the market, which are strings of small beads you tie around your hips. Most women and children in Guinea wear them because they protect you from evil at night.
-I took a pirogue down the river that runs right by Mandiana with Felipe, which was fun, and funny because the driver of the little water-craft kept ramming the thing into rocks and trees.
-I’m teaching English three times a week to a twelve year old boy named Mory Bah. Well, I’m not really teaching him anything because he’s already fluent, but it’s been awesome to speak English with a Guinean. This kid has even seen the Sound of Music, Shrek and Finding Nemo! Just two days ago, we sang “Favorite Things” together. (I know, I'm a nerd)
-Speaking of English, on one of my walks back from Faralako when I was in a grumpy mood because it was especially hot, one man on his motor bike greeted me, saying “Good evening, sir!” It made me laugh and I felt a lot better.
-I attended a baptism, which turned out to be a Muslim Naming Ceremony, watched two goats get sacrificed and almost everyone there made fun of me for my crazy orange complet.
I'm in Kankan until Tuesday for my monthly visit. Then on Tuesday, I'm traveling down to Tokono to attend the Haute Guinee chauffer's wedding. This will be his third wife. Four other volunteers are going and we've all bought matching fabric to make dressy complets. I'm excited to see the other volunteers and I'm also excited to observe my first Guinean wedding. I may not be able to go though because the teachers strikes are set for this coming Tuesday. Wait and see. I miss you and love you all!
Just another month in the life of your friend/relative Katie.
Guinea has been a bit crazy recently. I don’t know if you read about this in the news, but the Prime Minister of Guinea was fired, which set off a series of protests all around Guinea. Guineans were furious because he was one of the few government officials people actually liked. Most major cities in Guinea saw large protests, however none of them were violent. A ton of car tires were set on fire, but that’s about it. Even Mandiana had a protest on May 29, and I somehow managed to be right in the middle of it when it happened. Oops.
I had just walked into the tailors to pick up a skirt when I saw locals running down the street as if they were fleeing from Godzilla or King Kong. Market ladies and vendors were throwing their merchandise inside their stores and ran inside, slamming the doors shut behind them. Then I heard a bunch of shouting and screaming. My first thought was “Oh crap.” I turned to the tailor and asked what on earth was happening and he said “It’s a protest. Stay inside.”
I’d never been in a situation like this before, and there I was, waiting out the protest with the tailor in the middle of town, which is exactly where I shouldn’t have been. Protests in Guinea can get pretty violent—that’s why all volunteers were evacuated last year, so I was definitely nervous.
The protest occurred on the street right by the tailor and lasted only five minutes, but I stayed inside the tailor’s little shack for another ten minutes, just in case the military decided to retalliate.
I called my parents an hour later to explain what had happened and that I was okay. Due to a bad phone connection, all I could get across to them was me yelling “I’M SAFE!!! DON’T WORRY!!!” before the phone lines in Mandiana died altogether. I’m sure this probably made them worry even more. Sorry guys.
It turns out that this protest had just been a joke put on by local students, and other prank protests had occurred in other cities. ????? Prank protests? To be honest, I believe that these protests were real, but the students backed out at the end, saying that they hadn’t been serious, in fear of reprimand from the military.
Then, a week later, the military mutinied against the government. This was because no one in the military had been paid for over a year-- I’m surprised they didn’t throw a fit sooner! To retaliate, the military took over the airport in Conakry, the only airport in Guinea equipped to accommodate a plane larger than a mini-van, and shut it down for two days. They also fired their guns in the streets and attacked gas stations for some bizarre reason. Because of this, most gas stations closed down and it was impossible to buy fuel, which meant no transportation. And now, the teachers in Guinea have banded together to strike because, they too have yet to be paid. This has all happened in the last two weeks. None of these strikes have been related to the other, but it’s just been action packed.
I was really anxious about the military mutiny because Mandiana has a huge military presence with two military offices and one training camp. There was definitely an increase in the number of the military officials who wear black, which are the officials you just don’t mess with and they patrolled my neighborhood, their USSR-era guns in arm (Actually, I think they were guns from the USSR).
On a non-protest related note, apparently Mandiana is having a bit of trouble with child trafficking. The American embassy is sending out a few employees to Mandiana this coming Monday to investigate the problem. Mandiana has two roads into Mali and one road to Cote D’Ivoire, so children are smuggled into and out of Guinea using these roads. What kind of town am I living in!?
I gave my first sensibilizations in Mandiana and they went pretty well. They were all on le Paludisme, or, Malaria, because it’s the rainy season right now and mosquitoes are everywhere.
On June 3, I donned my indigo fabric complet and marched over to the hospital with my charts in hand, pumped and ready to give my first sensibilization. Unfortunately, everyone seemed to have forgotten that I was going to be there and that I needed a translator to translate my French into Malinke. The Agent PEV (the resident vaccinator whom I despise) ended up translating for me, which was pretty bad because he can’t understand my French American accent. My accent is actually really good—I don’t roll my “Rs” like the French do, I roll them like you do in Spanish, which is how they speak here. It’s just that precious few Guineas are accustomed to hearing a foreign accent and don’t know how to decipher it.
So, I had to repeat myself a lot and delivered the sensibilization all the while the Agent PEV was giving me looks that conveyed his opinion of my apparent stupidity for being unable to speak a French he could understand. Then, in the middle of the presentation, he just walked off and left me standing in front of thirty or so women. I gave a sheepish grin and tried to keep going in my limited Malinke. Example: “Soso, a mine yi!” (Mosquitoes, they are bad!) Oh, it was ridiculous, and hilarious. Needless to say, I will not be using the Agent PEV’s “skills” as a translator ever again.
After this sensibilization, I walked to the DPS keen on finding a better translator who could do another sensibilization with me that day, because I didn’t want to end the day on that note. So, my counterpart introduced me to a woman named Djamilla (pronounced Jah-meela). She appeared to have no trouble with my accent and seemed excited at the prospect of translating for me. I told her I wanted to give a sensibililzation at the market to the market ladies. Apparently, she misunderstood my desire to give one sensibilization at the market, because I ended up giving four others—one at the back entrance to the market, one at a hairdressers, one at a tea house frequented by young men and another café patronized by middle aged and old men. So, I hit a variety of target age groups which was good, but it was exhausting shouting over the din of the market ladies and dealing with the younger men teasing me for my French American accent, and, of course, the marriage proposals.
I now respond to marriage proposals with jokes, saying things such as “Oh, gosh, I’ll have to ask my other three husbands and see if they approve” or “I’ll marry you when you’re the president of Guinea.” The men usually laugh and I get an easy out.
The owner of the café gave me a shot glass full of sweet, strong mint tea as a thank you for giving the sensibilization. I felt pretty triumphant walking back home, having just finished the fifth sensibilization in one day. I felt triumphant, that is, until I arrived home, when I promptly threw up. I’m sure it was a mixture of the strong tea, hunger, exhaustion and being completely overwhelmed after five sensibilizations. So, I heated up some Ramen and collapsed into bed with my iPOD and watched an episode of Desperate Housewives. All was right with the world again in no time. I love having these episodes on my iPOD—they allow me to teeter a little into my old life for forty minutes at a time.
The rainy season has officially begun, which means cooler but much louder nights. The wind blasts above my hut, so loud that I can’t hear anything else over it, except thunder. Some rolls of thunder have been so loud that the water in my Nalgene bottle vibrates with it (Whenever this happens, I’m reminded of the scene in Jurassic Park when a character looks into a glass of water and sees ripples, knowing that a T-Rex can’t be too far behind). My hut is illuminated with bright flashes of lightning. Sometimes these veins of lightning are so strong that you can actually feel them connect with the earth.
And then there’s the rain. It goes from the first drip drops to a full and smashing downpour in ten seconds. The only warning of the oncoming rain is the wind and the very distant thunder. It reminds me of Singapore’s storms, but these storms seem more intense to me because my hut’s roof isn’t attached to the walls—it just sits atop it, so I feel each blast of wind and I can see every bolt of lightning in the space between my walls and roof. These storms are really intense, and, definitely a little scary.
Other highlights:
-This past month, both Jessica and Amy came to visit me from Gbangbadou and KanKan, respectively and it was wonderful to play host for a few days. Amy, Alison and I each bought gris-gris in the market, which are strings of small beads you tie around your hips. Most women and children in Guinea wear them because they protect you from evil at night.
-I took a pirogue down the river that runs right by Mandiana with Felipe, which was fun, and funny because the driver of the little water-craft kept ramming the thing into rocks and trees.
-I’m teaching English three times a week to a twelve year old boy named Mory Bah. Well, I’m not really teaching him anything because he’s already fluent, but it’s been awesome to speak English with a Guinean. This kid has even seen the Sound of Music, Shrek and Finding Nemo! Just two days ago, we sang “Favorite Things” together. (I know, I'm a nerd)
-Speaking of English, on one of my walks back from Faralako when I was in a grumpy mood because it was especially hot, one man on his motor bike greeted me, saying “Good evening, sir!” It made me laugh and I felt a lot better.
-I attended a baptism, which turned out to be a Muslim Naming Ceremony, watched two goats get sacrificed and almost everyone there made fun of me for my crazy orange complet.
I'm in Kankan until Tuesday for my monthly visit. Then on Tuesday, I'm traveling down to Tokono to attend the Haute Guinee chauffer's wedding. This will be his third wife. Four other volunteers are going and we've all bought matching fabric to make dressy complets. I'm excited to see the other volunteers and I'm also excited to observe my first Guinean wedding. I may not be able to go though because the teachers strikes are set for this coming Tuesday. Wait and see. I miss you and love you all!
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