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!”

Can I do it?

Written during Monsieur Diallo’s class at l’ecole primaire, 20 avril 2008

After working in a school like Legacy Private Academy where there are high learning standards to fit the WASC accreditation and wonderful support from the parents and community and coming to a school like this: 60+ kids in one class, a horrible female to male ratio, and no apparent curriculum one thing comes to mind. Life is so unfair.
It’s almost perfect to start out at a school like Legacy because it truly is the opposite end of the spectrum. I’ll be pushed, tested, and challenged to form something that seems impossible. To raise awareness in a community that has been trying to jump over the foundation. Jumping to cell phones and satellites where there aren’t land lines or running water.
I want to yell and cry out about how unfair life is as I look at the crumbling, poor excuse of this institution of education. I remember walking through the warm halls of Legacy and looking up at the crystal chandeliers and I wake up to this. A place that the teachers don’t even show up on time or at all.
Can I do it? I doubt myself and feel overwhelmed. But then I find a little courage to look out into a sea of dark faces and as my eyes meet theirs I see light. That light is all I need.
“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate, our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, “Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous?” Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us. It is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear our presence automatically liberates others.” -Nelson Mandela

Five a Day

I have to face the fact that this place is not America but I can’t help but coin certain activities and places comparing them to the “land of opportunity.” My days are really simple and I laugh a lot but this American labeling to African daily life has put a real appreciation to the things I took for granted.

Everyone is extremely friendly always greeting “I ni sooma” which means “good morning” and “tana ma si?” which means “did you sleep without evil?” My favorite is when someone says your last name and you’re supposed to answer back in affirmation. I always get “Kouyate” and I respond “nse” because I’m female which means “I am able.” It’s like if someone yelled “Ignacio” and I said “Yeah, you know it!” Since the majority of my village is Keita I have a high chance of this working. Villagers love it when I say, “ Keita yay sondedi” which means “Keitas are thieves!”

There is this one rice bar that serves the best rice and sauce en ville. Katalina, my closest PCV friend, and I decided it was deserving of the label “sushi.” After we get sushi I like to get “Starbucks” which is the frozen tamarind drink that is served in a plastic bag. The seeds inside my tall sweetened “Starbucks” remind me of espresso beans. I often sip, or rather I often suck on my “Starbucks” while strolling through the market aka “the mall.”

But sometimes there is no need to go to the mall because the vendors selling anything from pocket mirrors to red palm oil will pass right by your hut. I like to think of this as “Ebay” because of the price wars that take place. My bargaining skills have been sharpened since I’ve been here, with my routine starting out with me asking for the Guinean price and ending with the vendor laughing after I sing the one song I know in Malinke.

I see my concession of huts as this really upscale apartment complex that would overlook some beautiful landscape like Central Park. The location is priceless being one of the closest to the Niger River. Also my hut has two doors which are key during the dry season and it has its own latrine pit.

Rain here is like going to watch a show at the Pantages Theatre. The thunder cracks throughout the entire sky and rolls as if there were stone walls for them to bounce off of and stadium seating for all to experience. However, I think this is better than the theatre because I don’t have to dress up and the price of all of messini would never add up to the value of this spectacle.

This act of relabeling is my way of coping with missing my life in the states. Hanging out with my girls has been replaced with sitting among Muslim men. Playing with my nephews has been substituted with spinning dirty faced little boys by their arms. Going to the gym can be satisfied by my hour long run that ends with a cool down along the Niger river. Watching American Idol with my mom can be the same as watching the village mask dances with N fa Mou. My love for driving has been replaced by riding my bike, and trying to eat at least 5 fruits and vegetables a day has been replaced by eating 5 mangoes a day.

It's good being a Griot

I insist to google "Griot" and you'll see the culture I'm immersed in as well as indulge in one of the many things I miss--the search engine. The Griots are known as the professional storytellers of West Africa. They are masters of the balaphone which I like to regard it as a sort of piano/drum made out of wood. They have been known to stop wars because of their smooth talking. However, in present day I see them as a sort of DJ after attending weddings and celebrations of life aka funerals. It's expected that all ceremonies have a griot present.
My counterpart is the main Griot of my village and I feel so lucky to be working alongside such a respected individual. He is so respected that he gets gifts of money randomly throughout the day. I made him teach me the phrase "I want to be like you" so that everytime he gets a gift I can humor him and say it in my best Malinke accent. I swear if I got a penny for everytime he received a gift I would be a Guinean millionaire and buy my very own cow. But the tide has turned and I'm starting to get gifts that makes my dad's gifts look like chump change. A certain petit tailleur named Amara Keita has taken interest in me and has been giving me gifts of oranges, avocadoes, money, his mom's rice and sauce, and even phone cards. I feel bad because he has spent so much money but my dad says I must take it. I'm also embarassed because he's really cute, has a great smile, and has a steady job...too bad he's 13 years old. The only other thing is he doesn't speak French so I'm back to the pointing, guessing, smiling, laughing, and nodding. He usually comes to my hut after dinner and I sit reading while he colors Disney pictures by candle light. I remember the first night I showed him the colored pencils and coloring book. My heart sank as I watched him perform a task he's never been given the chance to do. The opportunity and the necessity to excersize his creative mind. However, he quickly caught on and now is starting to show some courage by creating patterns on Goofy's hats.
Speaking of Goofy, my counterpart resembles his dark, lanky exterior. Fortunately, his character is not at all like the akward Disney dogs'. His name is Moutaga Kouyate, but everyone in the village calls him n'fa Mou. It sounds like umfah moo and it's short for father Moutaga. Not only is he the respected griot, but he also has worked with other PC volunteers and NGOs so he knows what he's doing. He is motivated and truly cares about his village. Since I've been here we've established a tree nursery in his garden of 1300 trees of 9 different species good for land reclamation and agfo practices such as live fences, firebreaks, fodder and human consumption. This would not have been possible if the former volunteer in a village across the river didn't collect, properly store, and give the seeds to n'fa Mou. It felt like Christmas when I saw his gift of two buckets full of every AgFo volunteers dreams. Thank you Rob wherever you are!
In a couple of months the rainy season will commence and I'll start giving sensibilizations getting the villagers involved to plant the trees. In the meantime I've been attending l'ecole primaire trying to make good relations with the youth and the teachers. I have aspirations of starting an Environmental Education Club, garden, and tree nursery there. I also am playing with the idea of starting a speech contest in the region concerning environmental issues. What better way to publicize and urge sustainability but to have the next generation talking about it. I want to hold sensibilizations on building mudstoves, solar dryers, the benefits of Moringa oleifera, and venture into the public health sector by helping nearby volunteers. This is just a short list of the many things I'm thinking of but I've been given the advice to do things little by little or how a Guinean would say it "small, small."

Bonne Fete!

March 14th was officially my first month at my site. Now only 23 more months to go! The Peace Corps staff and former volunteers all said that the 1st month is the hardest and I believe that statement now that it has passed. I'm at a place where I'm not doing a countdown when I will return to the states. I feel more like how am I going to do everything I want to do in such little time.
We are not allowed to do any projects the first 3 months at site, making integration within the community a priority. So far, the village is starting to recognize me as Fadima Kouyate (my Guinean name) and not as tubabu (white person). I am able to fool people into thinking I speak their local language, Malinke, by knowing a few salutations. I am able to find my hut in this maze of huts after recognizing landmarks such as the big mosque, the marche, and the video club. I can wash my clothes in the Niger River in less than an hour depending on factors like load and number of petites fighting over my underwear.
However, there are some things I don't think I'll ever adopt or get accustomed to. I don't think I'll ever get comfortable with the sounds of crying children or the natural tone of hostility in the Malinke women's daily conversation. I don't think I can ever swim in the river topless like all the other women...especially when seeing how they react to the skin color of my back! I doubt I will ever come to terms with a women's role in a predominant muslim culture.
I have learned so much about myself since I left the states. The experiences one has here are truly once in a life time opportunities, aka self evaluations. This is what I have discovered about myself in 4 months:
*I think it's a contradiction when the nice primary school teacher holds a whip while teaching his students
*I don't mind getting my water from a pump or a well
*I can eat with my hands and don't see utensils as necessity
*I prefer the water method and my pit latrine
*I get frustrated learning 2 languages and release that frustration in English profanity to whomever is present
*I cry to my best friends about being sick and/or homesick
*I vomit immediately after witnessing donkeys mating (not a joke)
*I pinch every child's cheeks regardless of how dirty they are
*I love filling bags with improved soil for a tree nursery
*I don't mind sitting quiet for hours among muslim men speaking in Malinke
*I bond with the crazy women best by learning their hysterical dances around the fire
*I get annoyed when men do the finger poke while shaking your hand insinuating they want to sleep with you
* I find hope that a project can be sustainable through my villages' gardens
*I get sad about the female to male ratio in the overcrowded private schools
*I still shave my legs and underarms as well as paint my toe nails
*I can't believe I can make little kids cry and run away in fright just by the sight of me
The list goes on and will only continue to grow. I imagine the next time I write I'll be able to describe my increased understanding of the muslim religion which I have expressed interest in participating in by going to the mosque every Friday. Allowing myself to be open has given me the strength and patience needed to do what I'm doing. But I promise you that I remember everyday who I am and where I come from in order to experience this. I am happy. Je suis Fadima Kouyate.

My new home

(Taken from my personal journal because I'm too tired to think of another way to describe my site)

Talk about a cultural experience. All the anxiety has been worth this. I loved visiting my site so much. It was so hard driving in a bush taxi and I can't even imagine the experience without Dramamine. They squeeze two to a seat and it's ridiculous how most of the rode is pot-holed making the entire drive seem like the ride "Indiana Jones" in Disneyland except it lasts for 14 hours instead of 2.6 minutes. And I can't forget to mention how unsafe each taxi is...you're lucky if the doors open and/or shut efficiently.
I was so bummed to miss the futbol match because of travelling: Guinea vs. Ghana with Ghana winning. We (Monsieur Kouyate) and I got dropped off on the main road and walked 1 K into my site on a moon-lit upaved road. Even though it was dark the town could tell I was different and the kids were holding my hands and arms naming me Aicha (which is the popular name of the water sachets that I drink).
I'm eating peanuts in my hut with the sounds of the balaphone and hammering in the background. They're attaching a screen door to the rickety metal door on my hut. This culture is rich in music (a drum hanging on my wall), good food (communal eating with the hands), and respect (constant drone of salutations). Last night was a much needed night of sleep. I have a straw/foam sunkend in the middle queen-sized bed with a mosquito net. There is a sewn tarp of UNICEF labeled rice bags that make a pseudo roof to separate my straw roof. My floor is mud and the wall are too. My little broom lays next to a sack filled with white powder which I don't know the purpose for. I have a chair, a squatting stool, and two tables. One serves as my eating table and the other for my belongings.
Last night upon arrival I ate with Monsieur Kouyate some awesome meal of rice and sauce with chicken. I had to wash my hands with this water that I didn't think did the trick to get off the dirt so I was sly and used my hand sanitizer while he was fanning off the hot rice. The sauce had to be squeezed from the rice so you can try to ball it up into your mouth. I was so relieved when my hands could tell it was chicken because my eyes sure couldn't (no electricity in huts!). He made sure I had my fill...maybe to fulfill the muslim saying of angels not being able to take you away while sleeping or he could just want to get me fat like everyone else in this country.
I live in one hut of many in the Kouyate compound. I've met so many kids and older people. The more notable encounter is Monsieur Kouyate's ailing father. He's hooked up to some bright yellow fluid in his bed. I've held his weak hands and I wanted to cry for someone I don't even know. However, the 8 wailing elderly women lining the walls of his room beat me to it.
After the wonderful, peaceful rest I woke up to mom and dad calling, as well as 2 texts from Katalina (PCV 5K away). I ate some bread with Laughing Cow cheese, some tea with evaporated milk and sugar, and some bouille. The bouille was different from my host families' in that corn was used instead of rice and it tasted more sour than sweet. I think I'm acquiring the taste for it. It's like hominy in good sour milk. I can't wait till I understand it all. Some things seem so illogical and others make perfect sense. For example, I love how they eat their oranges here. The rind of the orange is lightly peeled off and a bite-sized top is cut off either with a knife or with a mouth. Next, squeeze the juice into your mouth for a healthy all natural juice box.
My hut is something I joked about living in before coming here but I'm oddly relieved that this joke has become reality. This is the true African lifestyle, something you do see on TV with every child having dirty, crusty faces and flies all over.

Speech for Swear-In Ceremony (English version)

I gave this speech at the Swearing In ceremony on February 8, 2008 (En Francais). My AgFo friend Raven video-taped a small part of it and she said she'll try posting it on YouTube. I was nervous the past couple of days especially when I found out that the American Ambassador was going to be present as well as having the added pressure of being taped for Guinean television. Fortunately, after much thought I decided there was no point in being anxious and I got up there and gave my all. I was relieved to hear laughs, meaning that my French was actually comprehensible. I was also touched to find out that I actually made people cry. There were 3 other volunteers that gave amazing thank you speeches in Susu, Pular, and Malinke to represent the 3 regions of service throughout Guinea. There was more crying during our Country Director's speech, and I'm not going to lie that I was one of many that shed some tears. We were also graced with a beautiful speech from a former volunteer in Ethiopia who served in the first group of Americans sent out ever! I had an awesome time during the ceremony and it made me feel so proud and honored to be a volunteer. Hope you enjoy the English version of my speech!

Mr. Ambassador, Peace Corps Country Director, Assistant Peace Corps Country Directors, Language teachers, Technical trainers, Peace Corps staff, and fellow Peace Corps volunteers:

As we are about to swear in as volunteers I look back and feel very lucky to have been paired with the Haba Family in Maferinyah. Not only did they provide me with the same love and care as my biological family but they also shared the beautiful Guinean culture with a complete stranger. I came to them as a non-French speaking newborn and in just 2 months I'm leaving for another destination as a conversational French speaking adolescent. The Haba family is my family forever and I can't thank them enough for everything they've done for me.

However, I know that I represent all the stagiaires when I say it wasn't just my Guinean family that made stage memorable. It was the first family that welcomed us in Conakry on December 4, 2007. It was you Peace Corps staff. You have taught us to laugh all the time especially when you find a dead rat in your latrine pit, to cry to your nearest English speaking neighbor about the frustrations of adjusting to a new culture, to appreciate drinking a cold coke, and to stay positive even when you have to go to the bathroom every 20 minutes.

My APCD Monsieur Abdoulaye Diallo said it best, " Remember who you are, where you come from, and enjoy this experience to the fullest." Living in Maferinyah has limited my interaction with many of you here in Conakry but I promise that every smile, every "bonjour, ca va?," every kind recognition has made Guinea feel more like a home and less like a foreign country. Without your support , we would never have learned how to be the G15 family we are today. For that I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Now, we are prepared to work throughout three regions of Guinea, and if our new communities welcome us with the same hospitality as our host families and as you Peace Corps staff, then I know that serving for the next 2 years will be a joy.

Thank you very much! Go Guinea! Go Peace Corps! Go the Guinean-American Cooperation!