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!

...cause I've got angels watching over me

''Jesus loves you"-Noah, my 2 year old nephew's response to the story I'm about to tell.

Once I felt the slightest bit better Katalina and I decided to leave Conakry in a hurry so we could meet the new stage. Our excitement helped us face the dreaded 15 hour voyage in a bush taxi that lay ahead. We got out to find a taxi to take us to gare by 5:30. It was still dark and I was grateful that the security guard was willing to help me flag down a taxi. 20 minutes went by with a couple of cars passing, some really nice private cars and some really shady ones transporting ladies of the night. The day forebode the events I'm about to tell.
Finally around 6:15 a car stopped and I asked the driver if he could take us to the gare for Kankan. He said he could and it would cost 70,000 FGN. I informed him that I know what the real price is and that he should just go instead. After discussing the price with the help of the security guard, the real price was finally agreed on of 20,000 FGN.
My heart rate was so high causing my recovering stomach to ache. While I listened to Katalina argue with the man about his mischievious attempts of ripping off people. The more the man talked, the more I wish I would've spotted the signs of his substance abuse before getting into the car. He didn't know where he was going and abruptly stopped claiming he needed to fix a flat. While he was outside seeing to the repair we decided it best to get another taxi, and to avoid any conflict we would pay him half the fare even though he didn't fulfill the contract. As I settled the fare with the 2nd taxi I look over to the commotion and see Katalina being shaken like a rag doll by the drunk. She was screaming in French and cursing in English causing a crowd to rush in attempts of stopping her attacker. Once the man was detained, he fabricated a story that a fare of 100,000 FGN was agreed on. The crowd was quick to pick up on the man's chemically altered state and helped us escape using the 2nd taxi.
I got away with the uncontrollable shakes and Katalina got away with a torn dress. Our condition was quickly calmed by the friendly Malinke people at the Kankan gare. Just as I thought we were in the clear, the crazy man blocks our moving car with another car full of his friends. He starts yelling how we owe him 100,000 FGN while hitting the car. My shaking fingers manage to call Ousmane, our safety and security director. Ousmane did his magic and we drove away around 8:00.
I'm still shaking when our car gets stopped again. But this time it's in a busy intersection by the police accompanied by the crazy entourage. It's been over an hour of praying to stop me from crying and at this point I lose it. Katalina loses it too, which still blows my mind because she never cries. My prayers were answered in the form of an angel who happened to be in the car with us.
Her name is Diaka. She told us she knew somebody who worked for the Peace Corps and that we should call him. In her perfect English she said we should call Ousmane, our director whom we just got off the phone with. All throughout the police investigation she was there mediating,talking to Ousmane and the police, and giving me courage. I can still hear her saying, "Don't show them you're scared. God is with you."
God is always there, but it seems like it's only during times of desperation that we recognize Him. God was there giving me the courage to stare in the devil's eye when he told his lies to the police. God was there in the nice police man who said,"not everyone is like that man, we are not all corrupt." God was there providing us a competent driver to handle the rain slicked, windy, and broken roads. God was there in Diaka.
I don't believe in coincedences, so I delighted in God's grace. I told Ousmane's favorite student that God sent her to me and she laughed. Her laughter stopped when I told her I was Filipino. She works for the Philippine Consulate in Conakry.

Reforestation Round 1

My village held it's first round of the reforestation project us AGFO volunteers are in charge of. Seeing that the rainy season is just starting, the ground is prime creating a perfect environment for my well nurtured babies I planted back in March. Le groupement des eleves, approximately 20 garcons helped plant over 600 trees in less than 4 hours. We went along the Niger, starting at a grove of trees that the Guinea-Mali NGO planted bout 20 years ago (good omen-inshallah!) and ended just past l'ecole primaire. Seeing the positive, well-informed, high spirited youth, the wise president of the district, my homologue the village griot, and a few other prominent village elders unite in their efforts calmed all my fears. People are aware of the importance of reforestation and will step up to make their community better. It excites me knowing that we addressed an area that needs it, which is basically my backyard. Now I can keep a close watch on which goat I'll be eating for dinner given that it touches one satiable leaf on my precious, fire-resistant Gmelina.

PERPECTIVES

"It's the closest place you can get to heaven-minus the trash."
- my little sister, Cerisa, after spending a week at my site.

I'm in Conakry right now, recovering. Recovering from what you may ask? Stress and the usual case of Giardia, Schisto, or Salmonella. I'll find out exactly what from the PCMO tomorrow when my results get in. But since I, like so many other volunteers live with the runs or live running from them (pardon if you just ate dinner), the last 3 cases are not out of the norm. For me, it was the stress that brought me to this wonderful refuge called Conakry.

It was here that I was reminded about the kind of person I am. I am a perfectionist. And being that type of person in a country like Guinea, where the protectors of law are the ones breaking them, things don't quite...well how do I say it? Ca marche pas! I've been so happy and healthy with my situation here because I love my site. It is here that I've been able to find my niche by forming strong relationships, feeling a sense of belonging within my community which leads into finally making a strange place into a home. I always believed that you can't be homesick when you're at home. It's when you leave home that you get sick and vomit everything you put into your body for 6 days straight!

I am so tired and I shouldn't be surprised considering that I sleep only 2 hours a night when in my home that I speak so highly of. It's so funny because I've been so at ease at my site that it becomes easy to forget that being an insomniac is unhealthy. If I were in the states getting that little rest I would be livid and I would have immediately done something about it. But no...something about Guinea makes you forget to take care of yourself. Maybe it's because there are so many other things to take care of that seems of greater priority.

Whether you're a fellow G15er or a certain best friend working in a big cooperate office please take this to heart. Remember yourself. It's not being selfish. It's being smart. Take care of yourself first.

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.