Girl’s Conference…

was a blast. As an Agroforestry volunteer, I did things I never thought I would do like: a condom demonstration, blowing up condoms to stuff pertinent questions inside for a game of hot potato or hot condom if you will, or teach “ Head, shoulders, knees in toes” in three different languages as an energizer. The only thing I could think of that had anything to do with Agfroforestry was the wood in the wooden penis. No wait…I used bananas for the condom relay race!
I probably would’ve been more suited to be a public health volunteer given my studies and work experience but my volunteer work with farmers in Tanzania solidified my decision to be a tree hugger. Really most people are bewildered as to why this LA/Cali girl likes to her hands dirty and the answer is simple: women. Being the only female volunteer in the Sustainable Agriculture program in Tanzania ended up being amazing despite my initial doubts.
All the farmers were women. My broken Swahili didn’t stop them from wrapping me in their congas, traditional fabric worn in the fields. They showed their appreciation when I joined them, elbows deep in fresh cow manure for composting, especially when the guys refused. Their singing brought tears to my eyes and their hard work inspired me. They are why I am here.
I honestly believe the women of Africa, specifically Guinea are the strongest women in the whole world. With all odds against them like over 80% of females are excised, early marriage and bride price, expectations of bearing lots of children, and lack of education they can still do it all. I see it in my Guinean sisters when they get home from school juggling their studies with chopping wood to start dinner. Their brothers who go to the private Franco-Arab schools get to play soccer before tying up the goats, cows, and donkeys.
It’s unfair because it’s life. But these girls don’t complain because they know feeding their family of 10 is a priority. They don’t show emotion when they are called stupid by the teacher in front of the class. They don’t say anything. Most girls just don’t have the confidence.
Each volunteer was allowed to bring 2 girls from their village. Over the course of 4 months I had to encourage girls that their French was better than mine and the Peace Corps’ Girl’s Conference was an excellent opportunity. I ended up bringing Kane, a beautiful, smart, but shy girl and Aicha, a loud, trouble making mother who used little Mamydy as an excuse to her inappropriate behavior. She slept during the 1st day of the conference and was disrespectful to some of the volunteers.
Our sessions were held in the American Reading Room at the University of Kankan. There were 6 volunteers, 15 girls, and 8 members of a health related NGO which were made of all Guineans from different villages throughout the region. The 3 day conference was exhausting but worthwhile. Some sessions were harder to do than others like the session I did on why women are more susceptible to contracting AIDS on a social and cultural context. And others were more light hearted like the benefits of Moringa oleifera-the tree of life, which Alison and David held.
The girl’s favorite session was on excision surprisingly. There was no need for translation during the Guinean NGO’s knee slapping skit. Us volunteers were lost by the fast Malinke but we were just so happy the girls enjoyed themselves. Let’s just hope they really talked about excision and not about Islam.
I was a part of the last session of the conference called “Planning for our Futures.” Adam and Dr. Trian (Peace Corps Medical Officer) held their part indoors while I had to take mine outside because as I mentioned earlier, I like to get my hands dirty. When the girls came out I split them into 2 and had the girls compete for a prize (all the girls got nail polish at the end). The goal was to think of and write 50 jobs a woman can do. Because of time restraints neither team got to 50 but it got their minds running. I held a can of blue paint and told them that blue represented them the girl. I talked about the Guinean girl and her responsibilities at home, school, and to her peers. Next I held a can of red paint saying it represented their dreams, aspirations, and hard work. Well most people know what red and blue yields but the girls were blank which ended up being a good thing because what Adam and I ended up with was a bluish black color. I improvised our mistake saying, “Noir est jolie” and described what the bluish black represented. It represented the woman doctor, woman teacher, woman governor, the woman mother, the woman inside of them that can do anything
I pre-titled nice sheets of paper with “Les Femmes peuvent tout faire-Women can do everything.” I invited each girl to dip their hand in the paint and think about what they wanted to be when they grew up. Underneath their handprint they wrote their name, date, and the job they chose. There were 8 doctors, which I know most were just copying their friends but I was impressed to see journalist, engineer at the gold mines, and NGO worker.
There were many problems at the conference regarding logistics like having the girls wait for hours for water to bathe with as well as their lodging being a long walk, well planned sessions due to lack of resources at the villages, and using French as a bridge when neither party had it as their native language. But I could tell the girls took good things from it too like new friendships with girls from different villages. For many of the girls it was their first time to leave their village. What I took from it was 15 new friends and the understanding that the best thing I can do is give them confidence by showing them women really can do everything.

Home for the Holidays

You know a holiday is near when the Super-Walmart has dedicated aisle after aisle stocked with Easter baskets, Costco’s hydraulic bustle is accented with display Santa’s ringing a Christmas tune, or the normally vacant parking lot is bursting of pumpkins, hay stacks, and children. I love the holidays so having mine interrupted to come here was hard. But I thought it would have been harder.

I was distracted by the obvious: new surroundings, new friends, new family, new language, and didn’t have the reminders of white icicle lights or Starbucks advertising my favorite “gingerbread lattes.” Instead I had a semi-cold beer while watching the sunset over Conakry’s murky coastline and wished Jesus a Happy Birthday.

I look back and can’t believe that was almost a year ago. It didn’t occur to me that I didn’t have a real Christmas. I felt like I finally got to celebrate Christmas last month with the celebration of the end of Ramadan. After the head imam in Conakry declared the fast to be over I knew I was in for a treat when I took a chair and headed to the entrance of the village. I sat among the griots (my family) in a newly constructed concession of huts and played a cowbell for over an hour while N fa beat the taama, N na sang out of a megaphone, and my brother (a famous griot) played the balaphone. We called the whole village to celebrate under the blanket of night illuminated only by our flashlights. The old ladies managed to get me to join them to dance which is normally not a hard feat, but old lady dancing is very intimidating. Picture lots of billowy fabric and a rendition of “The Excorcist.” The women look like they are possessed as they flap their arms frantically, often being escorted to the sidelines for fear of over exertion but more to just be part of the act. I did my best impersonation while laughing, playing in my head the part of the movie where Emily Rose spins her head in a full 360 degrees. My 30 second performance wasn’t worthy of a nomination but I did get 500 GNF (approx. 10 cents) thrown at me! As we headed back N fa told me we would be drumming again tomorrow morning at 7 AM in our concession. I felt like it was Christmas Eve that night.

But instead of celebrating the end of Ramadan I opened my door to 20 silent Kouyate (my last name) men facing Mecca. I was confused expecting drums and singing like the night before but instead received a somber atmosphere. Something happened and I already know before N fa approached my hut. As I sat with the mother who just delivered the dead baby ( her second infant mortality this year) I was shocked that she was sitting up in her bed crying but seeming physically strong. I gave what benedictions I knew in Malinke like, “May Allah cool the earth of the recently buried,” and sat rubbing the mother’s back while women of the village made their rounds. There would be no music and dancing today.

But there was praying. Instead of going to the mosque the whole village went to my favorite spot. There is a huge clearing surround by mango trees that overlooks the vast Niger River. But what makes it even more special is this grand Baobab tree that has to be over hundreds of years old. Before my morning run I walk to the tree and touch it reminding me of my purpose here. It’s here the whole village has congregated, dressed in their finest, facing the bright river’s sun touched ripples. That memory will always be a special one during my service here.

The rest of the day was spent eating lots of meat, giving money or candy to kids saying, “I Sali ma fo,” and listening to their laughter as they chased the man who sings the call to prayer throughout the village. All the kids were clean wearing their new clothes and I realized that this was a day for the kids just like how Christmas has become for my family back in the States.

Gifts become less important as you grow older. What matters is being together with the ones you love. It’s about mom’s extravagant taste in decorations and dad’s unwillingness to flood his simple home with 4 ft. nutcrackers, it’s about Russ and Christian competing for the biggest man title by trying to out eat each other, it’s about my sisters’ and my doubts of breaking out the karaoke machine knowing we’ll fall asleep to my mom singing “Phantom of the Opera” (yes, we’re Asian). It’s about indulging in Cerisa’s surprisingly healthy pumpkin chocolate chip scones or Charmela’s not so healthy honey basted croissants straight from the oven. Oh the eating. It took me a week to resume my normal eating habits. I would come back from the market with bananas and set them on my table and stare at them until I realized they were game. I never enjoyed eating during daylight hours so much!

Ramadan was a really good experience despite how it started. I learned a lot about this culture and a lot about myself. There are times when I walk around and forget I’m not black which has pros and cons. It’s good because I feel comfortable and well integrated but bad because I don’t want to take this experience for granted. That’s why I remind myself of my past life and create commonalities like the holidays. Ramadan was my Easter, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year. No matter how different cultures appear to be there are the same themes of fasting for forgiveness, trick or treating/I Sali ma fo-ing, showing gratitude through gifts, celebrating life and death, and creating resolutions. Finding the universal truths of life shows me how to be at home in any situation by keeping family close in your heart. You can’t be homesick when you’re at home. Or better said by my Guinean friend Moussa who learned English in Ghana, “ Da house of someone YOU love, it tis nevuh fa!”

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.