A Typical Day of Ramadan

4:20- My alarm titled Inshallah (God willing in Arabic) lulls me awake from my Mefloquine dreams. They’re horrifying, vivid dreams with an example of one being where Alex, another PCV, and I are stoning people to death and feeling justified.
4:25- After lighting two candles I set the table. In actuality I place two coffee mugs with two spoons on the floor. I set up our thermos filled with tea, a can of condensed milk, sugar, and a French baguette next to the mugs.
4:30-N fa arrives with our meal of either rice porridge and curdled milk or meat and sweet potatoes. I prefer the rice porridge for two reasons: 1) because I don’t have to prepare it. 2) because my stash of Rolaids is running low and meat and potatoes that early in the morning is never a good idea.
5:00- The meal is over and N fa leaves to go back to sleep. Since my real dad engrained his superstitions of sitting straight up for proper digestion after eating, I follow his words of fatherly, comforting wisdom. I sit straight up and read the Bible.
6:00-9:00- food coma
9:00-10:00- Clean up: I take my dirty dishes to the well and wash them. I return from the well with my clean dish water and fill my watering can. I use it to water the sunflowers and sisal that I planted around my hut and N fa’s hut. I sweep my hut and organize for the day.
10:00-11:30- I either write letters, write in my journal en français, or work on sensibilisations for l’école primaire all while listening to BBC on my shortwave radio.
11 :45- Famoury comes by to escort me to my English class which I hold in Famoury’s hut where he has a big black board.
12 :00-14:30- I teach anywhere from 1-5 Guineans English. But I also use this time to practice my French by asking questions I have regarding the culture which usually gets really heated. Peace Corps Goal #3 executed : cultural exchange.
15 :00-16 :00-I’m starving and try to keep my mind busy by various activities like helping villagers chuck corn, sitting by the river, or visiting friends despite their mockery of my obvious struggles with fasting.
16 :30-18 :30- I cook meat and potatoes African style. Yes, I pride myself in that I can cook for my family of 10. I go to the market and buy the ingredients speaking in Malinke, I come back and cut the fresh beef with the help of my little sister Moseke. Since there are no cutting boards it’s necessary to have two people : one to hold while the other saws through spinal cord and stomach lining.
18 :40- take the 2 minute walk to the mosque and do the prayer to break the fast.
18 :50- run back, like all the other villagers, while gulping down on my ginger drink in a bag. N fa and I are head to head and he yells, « Fadima contre la moni » which means me against the corn porridge I have grown to love which is called moni.
19:20- If I manage to finish the moni I yell out to N fa, “J’ai gagne!-I won” or if my stomach hurts I admit defeat. I walk with N na to the mosque for prayer.
19:30-20:10- prayer/work-out. As I reflect on the day and pray for forgiveness I am sweating bullets. I get light headed from all the bowing, up, down, up, down. I mumble the little Arabic n fa taught me and try to focus on its’ meaning. I forget about the stifling heat and mosquitoes feasting on my ankles and cherish the one time I am regarded as the same as everyone else.
20:30- N fa and I go to our café where we sit every night. N fa’s best friend owns the shop and never charges us for the tea we drink or for charging our cell phones. It’s always a good time of making fun of each other.
22:30-N fa and I are back in my hut ready to eat again. It’s always rice and sauce. We switch from listening to the local radio station to my BBC. But we always interpret what the news is saying to each other. We love talking about Barack Obama.
23:00-24:00- Finally, reading time. I love reading. I allow myself to read before bed and only during that time. It’s so easy to get caught up in a good book but I don’t want to look back on my service and remember my favorite passages from books. I want to be the storyteller.

Running Face First Into a Brick Wall

September 2nd, 2008 5:30 AM

As I’m lying naked under a pile of mud, bricks, and sheets of corrugated tin, I feel like Allah must be upset with me. He could be upset that I’m choosing to drink water during the month of Ramadan or He could be thinking I’ve sinned a lot this past year so the first day should start out in a manner such as this. I’ve been anxious and excited for the holy month of fasting to commence. Anxious because I know the challenges of fasting, but not to the extent of 30 days. Excited, for the opportunity to learn about a different religion through participation rather than from literature.
I’ve been preparing for today since I first got here by talking with n fa, asking Francophone villagers questions, and going to the mosque on Fridays. That’s why I wasn’t surprised to hear a knock on my door at 4:30 this morning. It was time to eat before the sun rose. N fa comes into my hut wearing a drenched raincoat, carrying our meal. The rain is pounding so we have to shut my door completely. I’m less than excited to eat the rice and sauce from the night before, only because the sauce leaves an oily film on my hand. However, I am appreciative of the warm meal in this gloomy weather.
N fa finishes before me as he always does meaning the water remaining in the wash bowl is not going to really help rid the oil from my right hand. So by ritual, rain or shine, I take the bowl out to my open air brick latrine area to wash my hands thoroughly with soap. However, today I opt to go outside wearing no clothes instead of putting on a raincoat. I wish I chose the latter.
But looking back I’m glad no one could hear my cries through the thunderous rain. Sure, wearing clothes would have protected me more from the damage, but bruises and cuts heal, and seeing a naked tubabu could mortify a Guinean for many years. I was shocked at my misfortunes. I could not believe that every volunteer’s nightmare of their latrine breaking while they are in it, just happened to me. Why did the wall have to collapse during the 20 second window I decided to go out there? To look on the brighter side at least I didn’t fall in it, it just fell on top of me.
But I was still scared because I couldn’t tell if I was bleeding from all the mud covering me. I grabbed the back of my head and felt a bump the size of a baseball. I also felt a bump on my forehead the size of a golf ball, but no skin broken. I was worried about my mud encrusted back which was sending off stinging sensations. After climbing out of the disaster zone, I manage to carefully wrap a towel around me and yell out of my hut for my counterpart. “N fa, pouvez vous m’aider!!! Je suis blessée!”
N fa runs over and tries to see if I have any major cuts. He tells me I have to bathe because the mud formed a thick cake on my back. He observes that there are some rocks cut into me. I feel a little relief crying while I bathe with my loofah and hibiclens antimicrobial wash. I scrub ferociously determined to not have to go to Conakry where our medical unit is located.
My one minute cry session of fear turns into chuckles of disbelief. Around 6:00 I am able to vent to Raven, another PCV. She somehow always calls when I need comforting in English. She is also fasting with her village and was only calling that early to wish me luck. We share laughter over how walls of houses or huts seem to be commonplace in Guinea during the rainy season. I ask her what she thinks Allah is trying to tell me. Her response is, “He’s trying to tell you to take the first day easy and to stay in bed.” I think He wants me to do that for the whole month!