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Published: October 28th 2006
Hope you’ve all got lots of time to kill at work! This is the longest update you’re gonna see. It’s broken into topics, so skip around. Let me know if you have any questions or want more details. Enjoy!
BACK IN LABE…
I’ve survived my first month in the African bush, and despite the lack of certain luxuries it’s been a pleasant change from training in the dirty city.
I’m now back in Labe for some shopping, a meeting, and a Halloween party. I left Kourou Wednesday afternoon and biked to Gongoret, where I can catch a taxi. I stayed with Kat that night and we got to the gare early to find a ride to Mamou. We got spots in a “six-place” taxi, which is the size of a compact car. The standard is four passengers in the back seat, two in the front, plus the driver. Ours ended up having ten people in the cab, three on top with a chicken or two, plus a goat and a sheep in the trunk. The car seemed like it would fall apart at any minute, but amazingly it made the three-hour trip to Mamou. Kat and I got dropped off just before Mamou, where the road north toward Labe splits off. We walked up the road a little to flag a ride. Hitchhiking is a far more comfortable, and generally much safer, method of travel. While bush taxis are overloaded jalopies that could break down or crash anytime, private cars are much cleaner and more reliable, and the ride is often free. We were picked up by an agroforestry worker from Dalaba and his son. They were very friendly and took us as far as Dalaba with only the four of us in a clean car that was not on the verge of falling to pieces. In Dalaba we ran into the volunteer there, Murph, who was also on her way to Labe. We climbed in a taxi with her and way too many other people. After hours in the hot car on the windy, bumpy road I glad to be almost there. Yet, just before Labe our driver pulled over. He saw a gendarmes checkpoint up ahead, where they were checking taxi drivers’ registrations. His was apparently not up-to-date, and he decided to try to find us another cab to avoid having to pass through the checkpoint. He tried to flag a car for about a half an hour, before we called the PC office in Labe, where we were lucky to get ahold of a driver who came to pick us up on the side of the road. Despite its shortcomings, I sure miss my 94 Lebaron.
ARRIVAL AT SITE
I was last in Labe during affectation, the time between Stage (training) and moving to the village. I was the last person in my Stage to be dropped off, so I had a prolonged stay in the city while the others slowly disappeared. I finally left Labe with two other new volunteers whose sites are close to mine. We got as far as Mamou that day, and had to stay the night there while the PC car went to resolve some security issue in Kindia. We walked around a while and got some great yogurt (a delicacy only available in certain cities). Like many locally-made juices, you buy it in little plastic bags, bite of a corner, and drink it from the bag.
That night we stayed in a guest house owned by some American missionaries, which was like staying in a little piece of America. There’s a fully-stocked kitchen, a REFRIGERATOR with cold water and coke, couches, a TV/VCR, two bathrooms with hot showers, and two bedrooms. We cooked a fantastic spaghetti dinner and baked peanut butter cookies.
The next day, Kelly and I were finally headed to our sites, after a week of waiting around and delays. We got back into the PC land rover, piled high with all of our stuff, and headed off of the paved roads and into the bush. The road was rough but the view breathtaking - you could see miles and miles of grassy valleys in every direction, dotted with tiny villages.
We arrived in Poredaka around noon, and as Kelly’s stuff was unloaded I went to her market for some last-chance grocery shopping since I’d missed my market day. Therefore, I got back into the Land Rover cradling 15 eggs in a plastic bag, hoping most of them would make the bumpy ride.
On my map of Guinea, the largest roads are marked in red - they go from Conakry to Labe and Kankan and are the only paved roads in Guinea. Even these are completely eroded in some areas so that sizeable stretches of the route are nothing but extended potholes. The next largest roads are marked in yellow; they are the “good” paved roads, generally passable all year. Then there are the roads marked in white: lousy dirt roads, often impassable. The road from Poredaka to my village is marked by - what? A black dotted line??
As the car fumbled down the trail of bare rock that seemed to keep going down one hill, across a stream, and up another hill, the driver just kept saying, “This…is not a road…” That would explain why there are no bush taxis that go to Kourou - I have to hike or bike to Gongoret or Poredaka if I want to leave town.
We made it to Kourou without any major problems, and we were graciously welcomed by the families in my concession. The kids helped carry my stuff over the fence and up the path to my house. I had a few really heavy bags and I was really impressed to see a kid smaller than me carrying a giant suitcase on his head. I didn’t get a chance to show him that it had wheels. As soon as the car was unloaded, we said goodbye and the PC car rolled off - like that I was on my own in the village.
My house was pretty much set up from the volunteer who left in June, so after a few days of me versus the cobwebs I had the place relatively clean and organized. People who live in the concession came by to introduce themselves, and the kids poked their heads in my door to get a glimpse of the new white woman (the last volunteer was an Oriental man, so I guess I’m still a sight to behold). As I sat at my large kitchen table enjoying rice and my Neene’s leaf sauce, looking out the windows of my lovely little house at shady mango trees and distant mountains, I felt rather spoiled.
THE SET-UP
My house is one of several in a large concession, a fenced-in area where one or several families grow crops such as potatoes, okra, peanuts, and corn. They also raise chickens, goats, sheep, and cows.
Inside the concession there are several circles of houses. Some are cement houses with corrugated tin roofs, like mine, and others are mud huts with tall, conical, thatched roofs. In the middle of my circle is a gravel area with an orange tree for shade, and around it there are crops and trails to the other huts and houses. The village is basically a collection of concessions like this, mostly farmland so the houses are spread out. The closest thing to a downtown is just outside my concession, occupying a hilltop. There is the school (elementary and middle), and across from the school is a house where teachers from out of town stay during the school year. Next to the school is a house where the principal of the elementary school lives with his family. Next to that is a building which I’m told is being turned into a store, which would be exciting. After that is a large tree - the market tree. The market is held under the tree on Thursday afternoons; the commercants lay out squares of colorful fabric on which to sell their produce. On non-market days, however, there is nothing but shade under the tree and “downtown” is silent. There are one or two other houses nearby, and a small sort of covered stage or pavilion; I don’t know what that’s used for. Other than that there is the trail that goes to the village of Donde, and a trail that goes to Margaley, the residence of a “grand patron” (really rich guy). Near there is an area called Pampa, where I’m told a few more people live. Kourou is very spread out and rural, and many of the kids who come to the school walk in each day from tiny villages in the bush.
My pretty little house belongs to Monsieur Boubacar Biro Diallo, who spends most of his time in Conakry. It is like a duplex, where I live in half and he and his family stay in the other half when they visit. It has a covered wraparound porch with a beautiful view over rolling green hills. Inside it is lavishly furnished - multiple couches, a large dining room table and chairs, a double bed, and a large armoir. The floor is completely tiled and the walls are all painted white, which reflects candlelight well at night. It’s a luxurious PC house and it was certainly very generous of M. Diallo do loan in to Peace Corps.
To get drinking water, I take a couple of bidons (20L plastic jugs) to a concession next to mine, where there is a water pump. Pump water comes from deep wells and is the cleanest water available. I have a PC-issued water filter, constructed of two plastic buckets, one on top of the other, with a carbon filter in between and a spout on the bottom, like a Culligan. Drinking water gets filtered and treated with bleach. I’ve been collecting rainwater for most of my washing needs, but the rainy season is ending and I’m gonna have to find another option for the dry season. There are two wells in my concession, but I’m told they dry up during the dry season. Already they’re getting low and the water is murky. There are no rivers or lakes nearby, just a few streams that will almost certainly be dry in a couple of months.
I do my cooking on a Coleman-style camp stove, which has worked out well. Thanks to the PC Guinea cookbook, I’ve leaned to make some tasty meals from the ingredients available. I’ve even baked banana bread in a Dutch Oven (that’s right, Greg). A Dutch Oven is just a big pot with a lid. You prop up the baking pan with some rocks or tin cans, the burner heats the air in the pot around the pan and voila, you’re baking.
To light the place at night, I have a kerosene lamp, but it gives off black smoke and kerosene is expensive, so I mostly use candles. The last volunteer left me a number of creative candle holders - old aluminum cans taped together into towers. Turns out when you put candles up higher in the room, you get a lot more useful light out of them.
THE MARKET.
I buy groceries at the weekly market, which completely fits under one tree. Most of the time there is nothing there but a pretty view of the mountain, but on Thursdays women come from all around and lay pagnes on the ground to display little piles of tomatoes, okra, and other produce. There are a couple of men who set up tables with some dry goods from town - candles, canned milk, matches, batteries, canned tomato paste, etc. There are also a few women who make gateaux (balls of fried dough, like doughnut holes). Lately it’s been easy to find things like tomatoes, onions, bananas, guavas, bread, rice, flour, yeast, peanut and palm oil, sugar, hot peppers, dried fish, and peanuts. One time I saw beans, but overall the smallest marked I’ve yet seen. I do appreciate that no one seems to up their prices for the stranger in town.
Not being a big fan of the dried fish scraps at the market, I was counting on eating lots of eggs for protein and was disappointed to learn you can’t buy them in my village. There are a million chickens but no eggs somehow. Looks like I’m forever doomed to buy eggs in town and cradle them in my lap on bumpy bush taxi rides. Last week I managed to package 15 eggs well enough that they all survived the rocky 12km bike ride from Gongoret. Otherwise, I’m stocking up on dried beans and lentils, and considering getting a hen.
Most of the grown women in the village do not speak any French, evidence that they likely never went to school. The few phrases of Pulaar I managed to remember took me a long way at the market. Pulaar is complicated and difficult to learn, and I think it will be a while before I can have a real conversation with most of the women, but I’m trying. Everyone seemed impressed with the few phrases I did know - if I say “good morning” correctly people are usually filled with delight and declare, “Ee! Porto waawi Pulaar!” (the white person speaks Pulaar!)
THE FAMILY.
The patron who owns my house is M. Boubacar Biro Diallo. He holds a bunch of public offices and lives in Conakry, but visits his family in Kourou on holidays. I met him for the first time this week when he came in for Ramadan, and he is one of the nicest people I’ve met so far. Very friendly and willing to help with anything I need. He offered to give me his flashlight and extra batteries, after checking to make sure I had plenty of everything - candles flashlights, a quality water filter, a shortwave radio (because it’s important to keep up on the news). I had hired a carpenter to build a gate around my porch, because I don’t know how sheep can defacate so much in the same place, and M. Diallo oversaw the work and paid for it. He also brought me gifts from the city: fresh bread, canned milk, cheese, a nice surprise.
My landlord’s brother, Elhadj Ibrahima Diallo, lives year-round in the house next to mine. His three wives and their children live in the other huts and houses in the circle. His first wife is Hadiatou. She is older and either doesn’t have kids or they’re grown. She’s always around, cooking, working in the fields, doing other chores. She doesn’t speak much French but she’s always willing to teach me a few words of Pulaar.
The second wife is Halimatou, who is also among the nicest people I’ve met. She has three kids: Mamadou, Thierno Nima, and Hadja Bobo. She lives in the hut across from me, and comes by every day to say hi and chat. She is also a very good cook and had been bringing me food every night. Between raising three small children and having the role of second wife, Halimatou ends up doing more work around here than anyone. Preparing a meal over a standard three-rock cooking fire easily takes all afternoon, yet she manages to do that and wash clothes and dishes, harvest peanuts and potatoes, milk the cows, take care of the kids, and go to the markets. Because our market is only once a week, she will often walk to the market in Donde, 7 km down a mountain. The women who go there from Kourou walk back with several days worth of food for them and thier families in big bundles on thier heads, 7 km back up the mountain. All while not eating or drinking during the day because of Ramadan.
The third wife is Idiatou. She is younger and has two small kids: Elhadj Badenba and Hadiatou. The youngest, Badenba, is about three. He is a cute kid who encouraged me to learn the imperative in Pular, as he is always running in my house and climbing on things. I quiclky learned to say “get down” and “go outside.” As for Idiatou, I don’t think she’s well-liked by the other wives, then again I’m told that multiple women sharing a husband are never the best of friends. At first she seemed to be the one most likely to regard me as a rich spoiled American who must have plenty of money and should be giving her gifts. I’ve let her down enough times now that she seems to have lost interest in demanding presents from me.
Other people in the concession: Boubacar, a 10th-grader who I’m told has been a star student and a close friend of the last volunteer. He’s been helpful in showing me around the village, pointing out important things like the one big pile of gravel you can stand on to get cell phone service. There are a few other teenage boys and a lot of little kids. There are several older women who live other parts of the concession, and I don’t know they’re names but they’re always excited to see me come by.
Outside of my concession, there are the vacation homes of several rich and important people that I have yet to meet. I did meet the chief Imam (muslim version of a priest) and his family. He’s a cute little old man of great respect in the village, who was very friendly and welcoming to me. I don’t know if it’s my being a foreigner, an American, or just a guest, but in meeting people and at social functions I am always treated with the utmost respect. In this particular circle, my principal, the Imam, the Imam’s wife and daughter, by all social standards the Imam is the person of greatest importance, followed by the principal, and finally the women. Yet there was only one chair on the Imam’s porch, and he insisted I sit in it while he and the principal crouched on small stools made for women’s work and thanked me for being a volunteer in the village.
My principal was just replaced - the boss in the city just sent a new principal to the village. At first that did not go over well; the acting principal refused to give up his position. A few days later another message came from Mamou saying that the old principal was being transferred to a school in another village. I can’t say I mind the switch; the old guy seemed nice but I wasn’t so sure about him. I understand he did not have a good relationship with the last volunteer. He also seemed to covet my cell phone and I think he may have stolen it when he left (long story) Anyway, I’m happy with the new arrangement because the new guy seems really cool. Relaxed, practical attitude, very helpful to me with everything from learning Pulaar to finding a carpenter. Oh yeah, I’m working on getting the cell phone back.
THE FLORA AND FAUNA
I don’t remember which one, flora or fauna, means plants and which means animals, and I also know very little about all the creatures here. But here are a few things I’ve learned so far:
*Either baobab or formaggier trees. They grow to be HUGE and have smooth gray bark with wide trunks and twisty branches, like they’re pulled right out of a fairytale. They seem to grow much larger in the low-lying areas than they do here, but they’re still cool looking. The market tree is one.
*Orange trees - the peels are green even when the fruit is ripe; when they turn yellow they’re too ripe
*Mango trees - provide a lot of shade but no mangoes yet
*Breadfruit trees - also called sour sop or sop sop. Big prickly green fruits, about the size of a football. Inside the flesh is light green, very soft, juicy, and sweet.
*Palm trees
*Okra - grows tall stalks with big yellow flowers
*Peanuts - lots of little yellow flowers, low to the ground
*Hibiscus floweres - used to make bissap, a red juice
*Sheep and goats - raised for meat
*Chickens - lots but no eggs available??
*Cows - kept for meat and milk. Milk is made into Kosan (soured milk), since there’s no way to keep it cold. I guess you just milk the cow and leave the milk in a bowl. It separates and congeals into a white solid and clear liquid. Good with a little sugar.
*Lots of birds that I don’t know yet - there are doves and weaverbirds that sing a lot. Weaverbirds are bright yellow, the size of a sparrow, and they weave pouchlike nests that hang from the branches of palm trees. The male builds the nest to impress the females, and will even search out pretty things to weave into it. The female then finds a nest she likes and moves in. (Info courtesy of Geoffrey, bird expert, filling time on an 85 km bike ride from Forecariah to Moussiah and Faremoriah)
*Bugs. Looking forward to having screens put on my windows. The mosquitoes are not so bad, but the flies!!! During the daytime there are tons of flies, and sometimes they seem to have nothing to do but land on your face. (Anyone seen the Family Guy episode when the news anchors were African? “And up next - Flies on your face: How many is too many?)
Other than that, I get bees and wasps the size of small aircraft. They don’t do much harm but they’re so big that they’re just really loud. If a bee comes into any part of the house, the buzzing will drive you nuts until you shoo the thing out.
The big spiders on the walls don’t bother me except that they seem to be really lazy about eating the other bugs. I’ve only had small cockroaches in this house, a huge improvement over Forecariah, where if I turned on a flashlight at night the paint on the walls appeared to scatter.
*Army ants. Evil. When you’re walking down a path you’ll see a thick black line cutting across the trail. The ants are crossing the path and no one’s gonna get in their way. They march in perfect, tightly packed rows, and there are even certain ants designated to stand on the edge of the path and guard the others. An interesting sight, but you can’t stop to observe, or even slow your pace, because they’ll attack you. You feel a little prick on your foot or ankle and then immediately ten or twenty more all over your legs, then you know to move. Once they sting you they remain attached to your skin; you have to pull each one off individually. Really freakin’ aggressive. I’m told that lizards and snakes don’t cross the ant’s path because they’ll get killed.
*Monkeys and chimps. I’m told chimps live on the mountain, but I haven’t seen one yet. One of my students had a pet monkey he brought to my house. It was just a baby and made cooing noises like a person baby. I fed it crackers and it was cute.
RAMADAN
Last Monday officially ended the Carem, the muslim month of fasting. For thirty days adult Guineans did not eat or drink water from sunrise to sunset. When I inquired as to the religious signifiance of this, most people shrugged and told me to ask someone else. Still working on that. After the evening prayer, they would gather around bowls of rice and sauce to break fast together (men and women separately). Usually before the standard meal of rice and sauce, people eat bouille, a porridge made from flour, sugar, and water. When there were leftovers, my Neene (wife #2, Halimatou) would bring me a bowl. Very tasty, especially if you add a lime.
In Guinea the rules of the Carem are so strict that people aren’t allowed to swallow their saliva. My students would have to get up during class to spit out the window. Children don’t fast and neither do menstruating women (they’re not allowed to “participate” in the fast because they’re “unclean.” They’re supposed to make up the days later.).
Monday was the last day of fasting and Tuesday was Ramadan. My family begged me to come to the fete and take pitures. Around eleven in he morning, people came to the center of the village from all over Kourou and the surrounding villages. They seemed to wander out of the bush from all directions, dressed in their finest robes and complets. Most wore white, the men in boubous and hats and the women covering thier hair with large scarves draped around thier shoulders. The young girls had all prepared the day before by freshly braiding each other’s hair.
The adults gathered in what seemed to be no particular spot in the meadow. They layed out prayer mats in rows, facing Mecca, men in front, women in back, kids hanging out off to the side. I was standing off to the side and watching this take place, when a woman I’d met once asked me if I had a mat to pray. When I said no and that I really didn’t know how to pray, she layed out her mat and invited me to share it with her. I thanked her, took of my shoes, and followed the people around me in the prayer.
After the prayer the crowd moved toether to the residence of the head of the village, who owns a beautiful piece of land with panoramic views of the valleys below. I was pulled anlong with the crowd as my Neene introduced me to everyone under the sun, who then insisted I take their picture. I spent the day shaking hands, exchanging Pulaar greetings, hearing people’s delighted “Ee! Porto waawi Pulaar!” (Ee! The white person speaks Pulaar!), telling them I only spoke a little-a little, then snapping a photo of everyone who crowded in front of my lens.
Around the compound, circles of men or women were eating from large bowls of rice, a few vendors sold candies and gateaux for the kids, and everyone made a point to greet everyone they knew. I met Monsieur le President du CRD, took his picture, and was shown around his house, where colorful bowls full of rice were being prepared and distributed to people crowded in the rooms.
After chez le President, we stopped home to eat lunch before heading to Margaley, the residence of the “grand patron” Alpha Amadou “Kourou” Diallo. He got the nickname because apparently he’s been putting some money into the community - paid to build the mosque and the school, among other things. Margaley is Pulaar for “hiding place” and was originally built during the colonial period (so somewhere between 1898 and 1958). As Europeans were moving through the area, they were taking people’s livestock. Margaley is tucked into a remote valley, and the Fulani brought their families and livestock there to hide. Now it is a great, walled compound with several houses and a large mosque, whose four teal tours can be seen poking out of the trees when viewed from the hills above.
We did some more greeting people and shaking hands, and I waited while Neene went to the mosque for the 2pm prayer (or the building next to the mosque, I forget the name, where women pray - they aren’t allowed in the mosque). With no escort, a pack of curious kids formed around me with big eyes, holding on to each other , not sure what to make of me but afraid to make any sudden movements. I greeted them in Pulaar and waved, which only heightened their interest. I finally placated them by pulling out my camera and taking their picture.
When my Neene returned she led me around the compound and into the main house, constantly greeting more people in brightly-colored robes, shaking more hands, taking more pictures. In the house was a group of women, and I was offered a chair. They were about to eat and insisted I join them, so I took a stool around the bowl of rice and sauce. It was an honor to eat with these women, for it was a group entirely of village elders. They are the most respected women in the village, and they showed me great respect. I marveled at this fact and at the same time cringed at the fact that I had just shaken hands with a hundred people and was now eating rice out of my right hand, after rinsing it in a little bit of not-clean-to-begin-with water that ten other people had just rinsed their right (and left) hands in, each having shaken hands with a hundred other people. If I’ve picked up amoebic dysentery, I should know in a week or so.
After eating and hanging out a bit, we headed to the quieter compound next door, whre a small group of family friends was sitting under an orange tree drinking attya, a hot, sweet tea. The group chatted until the kids were tired and it was time to head back home to Kourou Citee.
FIRST MONTH AT SITE
So I’ve been in the village for just about a month. What have I done so far? Nothing too productive...
*Explored the roads (trails? Rocky pathways?) that go from Kourou to other villages. I learned the road to Gongoret, where there is another volunteer, and the road to Donde, where thiere is a market on Tuesdays. Quite a few things available in Donde, even a mechanic that replaced a bike cable for me for a good price.
*Took a trip to Gongoret and Poredaka. I biked to Gongoret on a Saturday and spent the night in Kat’s hut. We had a dinner of rice and Kosan with the family. The kids in her concession are a lot different from the kids in mine. We had planned on staying after dinner to play cards with them, but they weren’t allowed to because they hadn’t yet finished their evening Koranic studies. We watched them for a while, five or six kids working by candlelight, copying verses from the Koran in Arabic letters onto wooden tablets. Most kids in Guinea go to Koranic school when they’re very young, before beginning regular school. They learn to read and write in Arabic, and they practice on wooden tablets such as these. When finished, the ink is rubbed off with a special type of leaf that’s like sandpaper, leaving the surface smooth and clean for reuse, the edges darkened from kid’s hands. The kids in my conession, on the other hand, do their Koranic studies in the morning and pass their evenings be peering in my window or running screaming into my house and climbing on things.
The next morning we took a taxi to Poredaka, where we met up with Kelly and went to her huge market. Kelly seemed to be doing well, though I was a little jealous that her school had started classes and I still didn’t know which grades I was to teach. As we wandered throught the market we collected more and more staring petits, all overwhelmed by the sight of not one, but three, white women. They dropped whatever it was they were doing to spend the morning following us, not speaking, just gazing at us with a baffled expression as if they were watching three martians who just stepped out of their flying saucer.
We had a little time to catch up and meet some of Kelly’s friends before climbing back in the taxi. In Gongoret, I strapped my purchases to the back of my bike and headed down the rocky path to Kourou. I was expecting to break a few eggs during the trip, but we packed they all survived. Yay!
*Met the kids. The petits in my concession were immediately curious about me. They poked their heads in to stare shyly, not knowing what to think. I had a coloring book and crayons I’d brought from the States, so I invited a bunch of them in to color. This was a big hit. They’d color a page and I’d have them write their name on it, then I’d hang it on my wall. They were so proud to write their names and have their work displayed that they’d come back the dxt day with friends and family to show off thier work and color some more. It was a great way to meet the kids and their families, and to learn names. Not to mention I gained a wall full of exquisite loal art.
*Took a trip to Donde. Donde is a village about 7km from me, down a mountain in a valley. I went there on the local market day to see a mechanic about a broken bike cable. The principal of the elementary school in Kourou offered to show me the way; he was going there by motorcycle. So I headed out with him, flying down the steep rocky mountainside all the way to Donde. I would have stopped just before the village to throw a skirt over the capri pants I was biking in, so I could look a little less strange. However, following the moto, I didn’t have that option. The market began as a cluster of cooking huts along the path, then the trail crossed a large stream to the center of the market on the other side. I followed the moto and rode through the streatm. Trying to keep enough momentum so I wouldn’t get stuck in the middle, I sent up a wall of water, marking my enterance like a grand firework display. As I pedaled through the crowd toward the mechanic, I was met with blank expressions and people frozen in place, able to move out of the way of other bikes, but not mine.
The principal introduced me to the mechanic, who kindly fixed my bike for next to nothing. I was surprised that he spoke only Pulaar, most men have had some formal schooling and know some French. As he fixed my bike, I once again accumulated a crowd of petits, staring and whispering to each other. After my bike was fixed I explored the market and found that there is a lot of good stuff available there - peanut butter, calabash bowls, fabric, etc. Most people did not know a word of French, but were patient as I fumbled with Pulaar. I bought some peanut butter, bananas, and bread, then packed up my repaired bike to start the ride back up the mountain as the sky threatened rain. I was hoping the storm would miss me but halfway through the trip I got dumped on. The road turned to a river and as it got steeper it became too slick to pedal. I pushed my bike up the hill through the floodwater, alongside a group of women walking back to Kourou with bundles of their purchases on thier heads. The women seemed annoyed by the rain but kept walking, drenched. The rain stopped just as I reached my house. I was soaked and muddy but my bike was fixed and my bread stayed dry.
*School finally started. The official start date was Oct. 3, the day after Guinean Indepandance Day. I went to the school that morning only to learn that my principal was not yet in town, nor were any other teachers. I was told that when the principal arrived he would come to my house and let me know my schedule. I had been warned that school never starts on time, so I went back to my house and waited. Checked back a couple of days later, still no word, then it was the weekend. On Tuesday my principal finally appeared, who is also the French teacher. No other teachers had arrived, so we started working on a schedule where the kids would start classes in math and French, but each day when a few kids would wander in from the bush in school uniforms, the teacher would have them sweep the classrooms or do other chores. That weekend the other teachers finally arrived and classes began on Monday - two weeks late. I was given 8th and 9th grade math and was happy to finally get started.
Not all of the students have arrived yet, since not everyone knows school has actually started. So my classes are small so far - 25 or so in 9th grade and 35 or so in 8th grade. I seem to have some kids that really know their stuff and others who really should be in lower grades. But so far they’re attentive and they make an effort. Maybe they’re just tired from fasting and interested in staring at their strange white teacher. Some would slip and call me “Monseiur” out of habit. I asked them if they’d ever had a female teacher before. They said that there are female teachers, just not in the bush so much. There was one at the elementary school once, but she left.
My classes are about half girls and half boys. Some of the girls seem to have more time to take education seriously, and others seem to wander into class only when they’ve finished work at home, which may be several miles away. One of my 9th graders, who looked about 14, came in with her baby strapped to her back. She would write down about half the lesson and spend the other half comforting or nursing the baby. Other teachers and students didn’t seem to find this too unusual.
That Thursday was a holiday - a celebration of almost the end of Ramadan. In the evening young boys from the area marched from door to door collecting gifts and singing songs of thanks. The village is so quiet at night that you could here them from far in the distance. Because of the holiday, there was no school the next day. Monday was the alse day of fasting and Tuesday was the fete, so there was no school for the week. So in my first month of the school year I have managed to teach for one week. Welp. (shrug).
HOW ARE YOU TREATED?
Someone wanted to know more details about how people treat me here. I haven’t written about this topic yet because I ahd trouble making generalizations on it - people’s behavior toward me varies as much as the personalities of the individuals themselves. There are certain universal preconceptions about white people - we’re assumed to be educated and exceedingly wealthy.
With that comes certain expectations. Here, often one person in a family of 20 has a job to provide money, food, shelter, and clothing for all of the others. Wealth gained is redistributed without thought. Therefore, being rich often implies you should be giving presents. Some people, seeing you have something they like, don’t consider it rude to demand you give or lend it to them. If you’re riding a bike and they don’t have one, people will often yell, “Hey! Give me your bike!” Those people aren’t usually serious and it’s fine to laugh or just say heck no, but occasionally there are awkward situations in which people you don’t want to upset will demand things from you. Some people will come in my house and gaze eagerly at all of my things, searching for a present they can choose for themselves (it’s important to keep anything expensive out of view). For example, I had an emergency supply of bottled water, which was visible for a while. I had several people come to my door and demand I give them water to drink. I’d tell them I get my water from the pump like everyone else, and I’d bring them some filtered pump water. They’d look grimly disappointed and not ask again. I’ve been able to deflect most people’s demands for gifts so far but sometimes it’s been awkward. Also, not everyone does this; most people do make a distinction between sharing food to get a community through hard times and childishly demanding unneeded presents.
On the other hand, being assumed to be rich and educated marks you as a member of a higher social rank. I feel that in general I am treated with great respect, though I’ve done nothing to earn it. It’s funny for people to see me washing my own clothes and cooking my own food. When people see me carrying my own water, they rush to give me a hand. When visiting people I am always offered the best chair, while respected men will sit on stools or mats. In this way I also seem to be exempt from some of the sexism that is part of the culture, which is interesting.
I also find that there are huge differences in how people treat me in the my village and in Forecariah, the city where we had training. I’m now in the Fouta Djallon, where most people are of the Pheul tribe, while Forecariah is in the Basse Cote, where people are mostly Sousou. The Pheul people are comparatively quiet and religious, while Sousous are louder and more likely to yell random things at you. Also, in a small village I can get to know everyone and their families, so people are more polite. In Forecariah, most people seemed to know that there was a group of Americans in town for a short while and they would sometimes see them pass by. This atmosphere is much more conducive to yelling random things at the foreigner and trying to charge them ridiculous prices. See the discussion of “FOTE” below.
One thing that’s universal is that I’m very different, and often a sight worth staring at, especially for kids. They poke their heads in my window just to stare. Whether I’m cooking, cleaning, or just reading a book, I’m endless entertainment. Think if you saw a chimpanzee in a tree and had never seen one before. You have nothing to do all day, nowhere to be, and you just want to watch this strange thing. “Oh! Look at how it eats! Look at how it walks!” Like that, everything I do is interesting to these kids. Sometimes I’ll ask some kids why they’re watching me like that and they’ll say, “um....nothing...” I tell them it’s weird that they do that, then I think it must be like having a poo-flinging chimp in a tree look at you and tell you you’re weird. Anyway, curtains are a wonderful thing.
Overall, I sometimes inspire strange behavior in people, but I’ve never felt unsafe. I wouldn’t walk around a city alone at night, but in general people are not threatenting, just curious.
FOTE
As there are many languages in Guinea, therea re many words for “white person.” In the Basse-Cote region, where we spent our first three months, most people speak Sousou. There, the Sousou word for “white person,” fote, is heard on the order of 100 times a day.
As you walk down the street, half-naked kids along the side of the road will band together to scream repeatedly, “Fote! Fote! Fote!” Their tone of voice, their intentions seem to vary, some are screaming because they’re just dying for you to turn and wave to them, some seem to be mocking you with a singsong, “Foooooote! Fooooooote!” Some seem to just be stating an observation - as if they’re saying, “Oh look, a tree.” “Oh look, a Fote.” Some are so far away behind the trees and houses that you can’t even see them and they can’t see you, but they’ve heard the alarm sounded by the other children. They have to start screaming and running with all of their strenth toward the road, as if the fate of the world depends on their screaming at the fote.
How does one respond to all of this attention? At first it was cute: Oh, the kids are so excited to see a white person. After a week or two of constant screaming, it ceased to be cute. After a month it could be described as nothing but irritating as hell. There was just no way to silence them. If you turn and say greet them, they say hi, how are you, etc. When you think you’re done and you try to get back on your way they go back to screaming “Fote! Fote!”
When there were clusters of kids I passed frequently, I stopped and taught them all my name. If they wanted me to say hi to them, they had to use my name. When they forgot it I acted hurt and pretty soon they started remembering. Never mind that they thought my name was just another word for white person and they called everyone that.
Other times when kids yelled “Fote!” I would turn and yell back “Fore,” the local word for “black person.” Usually the kid was confused, but adults around would laugh. Some kids were too small to know their own word for “black person,” all they knew was that you yell “fote” at white people. No reason to question that. So sometimes kids would get confused by this response and take to yelling, “Fote! Fore! Fote! Fore!” at any white person they saw. There was one kid who’d yell, “Tefo! Tefo! Tefo!” Apparently he’d heard the word so many times in succession he didn’t know which syllable came first. There was even an albino kid on my street who would point to me and yell, “whitey!”
I often had to bite my tongue and try to remain culturally sensitive and all, but it was difficult to know how to feel about this. For most of the kids, it was just something to do. Like when you see a slug bug, yell the color, and hit someone. No real reason for it but you get big time kid points if you think to do it first. Here you get big time kid points if you yell the loudest and longest, if you get the fote to look at you, or run up and touch the fote’s arm and run away. That shows bravery. After all, their parents tell them that the white people are coming to take them away (a story which I guess is based on historical fact).
I could go on forever with stories about the f-word. There are just so many kids for each adult that the screaming was inescapable. For now I’m glad to be done with Stage and out of the Basse Cote. Now I’m in the Fouta Djallon, and the Pheul people here are much quieter and more polite, and there is no such screaming. And the local word for “white person” is “porto,” so at least I get a change of pace.
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Aunt Judy
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Wonderful Blog Reading
Hi Rose: Gotta say I haven't read anything as interesting in YEARS. That's pitiful, I know,.............but I'm loving your wonderful Guinea blogs. Keep 'em coming, we miss you, but enjoy all this newfound information about your experiences there. Enjoy each and everyday with all of your new experiences, and thanks for writing. Love Aunt J