Fish Fete

Here are a few pictures of this holiday of fishing. I can say that this easily makes it up there with my top most amazing festivals I've participated in. It succeeds "Running with the Bulls" because I couldn't actually participate in "running" due to the state I was in from the night before. And because there were absolutely no tourists/foreigners except a handful of us PCVs.

I'm a little blogged out so I will brief what a "Fish fete" entails: a fair like atmosphere with really greasy food and hiked up prices on random items, lots of entertainment with carnival looking costumes and props, dancing under the stars while inhaling red earth and loving every sweaty minute of it, singing "Down by the Bay" for half an hour with fellow PCVs in hopes of amusing the hundreds of children fascinated by the tubabus (white people), racing into knee deep muddy water at the sound of a shot gun and using very archaic fishing devices from wooden cages to mesh tank tops.

C'est la vie

Yesterday started off well. After my run I decided to choose the best Moringa from my tree nursery and plant them in the school garden along with some sisal. The day was beautiful until I heard a woman start wailing as I was taking my bucket bath. Automatically knowing there was another death my heart sank, as it always does when one finds out bad news. N fa Mou calls for me and I tell him I’m bathing. He remains at the door for a second and yells that a baby has died and I need to come and sit outside to pay my respects.
As I walk up to the house I see two groups of men and women and I place my chair among the women facing the men. Somewhere in the midst of benedictions, mothers’ wails, and bouts of silence I start to hear my own heavy breathing followed by sniffling. I started balling over a death that I don’t even feel like I should have been so worked up over. I didn’t even know them!
I’ve cried a lot in my life but I’ve never had to hold back the fury that I held back within me yesterday. Not like that, because I have never felt so many shameful things at once. I was not only disrespecting the will of Allah by being a woman shedding a tear but I never felt so scared with the unfamiliar. I felt anger too like where the hell am I…God doesn’t want babies to die. I felt embarrassed with N fa Mou sitting among the men trying to get me to stop sulking, while speaking in Malinke. I felt confused and sure of what I was being told because language is universal in times of desperation. I felt detached from my body while watching N fa Mou carry the tiny body in goat skin away to the river. I felt relief that I won’t be blind because washing my tears with water was the advice given by the woman sitting closest to me and no matter how silly you know the superstition to be you follow it because it’s motherly.

Save the Arts!

I love Peace Corps. Honestly, the opportunity to do what we do is a once in a lifetime chance. I am so lucky to know what its like to love your job. It doesn’t feel like work because it’s so fun. I found my niche working with l’ecole primaire. The students don’t speak French well but I found that with a little initiative and a ton of patience it’s possible to get the wheels turning in their heads. You see Guineans were taught to write beautifully but slowly, to memorize but not comprehend, to follow good examples but not foster an imagination.
It wasn’t until I came here that I realized the importance of the arts. I remember always hearing about art programs being the first to be cut in the states and me not giving a care in the world because it didn’t affect my science classes. I like the sciences because there was always a concrete explanation, an answer, a means to an end. But I took for granted that my other half of the brain was free. An individual has all the power to create that means to an end by drawing a picture, dancing, or even writing a blog entry.
Upon starting environmental clubs at the school I decided to get them excited by giving them a chance to beautify their school by painting a mural regarding environmental awareness. I sketched 3 examples to give them the idea that a mural’s most important attribute is the message. I returned the following day only to see that every single blank piece of paper had the same theme I portrayed in one of my examples minus a message. The one exception in the class of 50+ sixth graders was Namoury, the star student. His drawing was beautiful portraying a farmer carrying a basket full of fodder but my hopes diminished once I realized he had traced the picture.
My hope continued to diminish when I made up a reforestation game using a piece of cardboard depicting their village and 30 toothpicks each representing a tree. I asked questions before I had them cut down wood to help them see the importance of trees. I asked what types of trees were in the village. The first student says “le mangue.” Ok, we’re on a good start even though the better answer would’ve been “le mangier.” So I continue to ask and everyone repeats the same answer-MANGO. Yes, trees provide fruit to eat but what else are they used for? Blank stares. How does your mom cook mango sadi? Blank stares. What do the goats, cows, and donkeys eat? Blank stares. Where do all the boys sit while preparing the tea or all the girls sit while braiding hair? Blank stares.
After 20 minutes of probing I was able to show most of them the importance of trees. Once I could see their eyes fill with understanding I stated that I was hungry and there was a soiree in the village so we needed wood to cook with. I sent them out to chop wood (aka pull out a toothpick). Once every toothpick was gone the children saw the difficulties of deforestation and its impacts on the future of their village. I have hope that somehow that piece of cardboard reflected the mothers of the village and their long treks in search of wood. My saving grace was when one student yelled out, “ that’s why we have to reforest!”