Now What Does that Mean

The summer vacation from school has brought visiting relatives, friends and high government officials back to their old stomping grounds. New life has been breathed into Lelouma and with that comes more 1st time sightings of the white woman in the village. 99.9% of all coversations follow the following script (M=Me and T=Them)

T-What is your name?
M-My name is Mariama Diallo. (to the Uof Kentucky Mary’s, how could I not take a form of our name)
T-Are you French (said with disgust and thoughts of colonization) or American?
M-American
T-(Sigh of relief!) What are you doing in Lelouma?
M-I am a PC Volunteer working with small and medium businesses
T-(muffled laughter) Small and medium businesses in Lelouma (untone with all of 12,000 people in Lelouma) What does that exactly mean?

Well, in the last few weeks it has meant:
-Planting “the miracle tree” Moringa for the leaves to be eaten in a sauce and the chilren, women and families to be norished with more viatmens than their bodies are used to in one week.
-Carrying 8 HEAVY trees in large plastic “bags” filled with soil in a bowl on my head for about a mile to reforest the land
-Shelling over 750 peanuts with the family across the street that I often eat with to make into peanut butter using their handheld grinder
-Playing soccer with the kids while waiting to carry the trees
-Having a meeting a day about projects actually related to my work only to learn that I might be able to commence them after Ramadan.

My Months Medical Mania

There are 2 types of healthy, Guinea helthy and everyday all is functioning well healthy. Before last month I prided myself on the fact I was truely healthy. After experiencing a few days of sharp pain commencing at one tooth and radiating throughout my mouth I took advantage of the fact that I was in Conakry and went to see the Chinese dentist. The Guinean dentist would have just pulled the tooth because that is what you do here when you have pain in your mouth. Well, my Chinese is almost all but forgotten and she definitely did not speak English. So we resorted to French, the official language of Guinea. One does not learn the word for cavity, root canal, slight dull pain when you tape that metal instrument on that tooth in French PC language class. Only slightly better than the Guinean dentist, after 5 minutes I walked out with a perscription for some drug and a promise to pull the tooth in 10 days if the anitbotic did not cure the “infection” in my mouth. I spent over 20 some days popping 3 pills a day. So you are thinking they must have taken all of my teeth out, not so. I am a girl of variety.

Also while in Conakry I knew I was pretty sick when I could not finish conversations with loved ones without having to hand the phone to a friend for a few minutes while I did the 200 yard dash to the bathroom. The medical units soultion to this is for us, PCVs, to poop in a cup and if we are lucky it is lab day and we hand them the fresh stuff to look at under the microscope. Luck was not on my side so I got to transfer a small portion into a vial filled with something to preserve it just until they had a chance to examine it.

Sitting in my house 2 ½ weeks later PC comes for the month mailrun. A sprecial treat was in store for me which was easily identified by the brown paper bag that is unique to only the PC medical unit in Guinea. I quickly ripped it open and learned from the letter in big bold letters that I was the proud owner of “Entamoeba Histolytica Cysts (“Amoebas”) and Blastocystics Homlais (“a closely related parasite”). To complete the care package was 10 more days of drugs, rehydration salts in case of “modified stools and /or persistant diarrhea” and the chance to poop in a cup after finishing the treatment to ensure all of my friends had left me.

Not sure what made me think my medical luck would change when my trip back to Lelouma started with a scene out of the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Appartently, the all healing Windex of Guinea is perfume. After the SUV/taxi stuffed with 20 people and kids broke down for 3rd time between Labe and Lelouma (37 miles) I decided to take advantage and snuck off intothe woods to relieve myself. Trying to be discreet, I went to great efforts to camoflague myself and be modest, too great it turns out. I came back with a few deep scrapes on my arm. Of course I was not the 1st to notice. My neighbor muttered something to me as he must have noticed the pool of blood that had accumulated on his bag resting on his lap. He kindly offered me some perfume. Now, I did not shower that AM but I was a bit offended that he thought I was the one stinkinig up the sardine-mobile. Seeing the hurt in my eyes, he pointed out the cuts. At this point, I knew I must not have understood his French and what he was really offering me and why. Now it was his turn to shoot a hurt glare at me with the perfume bottle in hand. Thinking I rejected his certain brand, others began digging in their bags for a “fresher scent”. Cultural confusion strikes again! Apparently, perfume made it to Guinea before the NGO first aid kits.

Racing Towards Ramadan

By the time you read this, Ramadan will probably have started (Sept. 24th) but as I write it is still 10 days away. Villagers are beginning to speak of the month of Ramadan when 99.9% of my village will not be eating or drinking anything from sunrise to sunset. In addition, women will contine to work in the fields, clean the house and prepare the evening meal to be eaten at sunset, midnight and 3AM.

The questions have already started as to whether I will be fasting because the volunteer before me did. The best answer I have heard to this is question came from a missionary through another volunteer, “that is between me and God.” It has become painfully obvious that I will not be able to do trainings, teach classes or in fact work with people that are hungry (if they are anything like me when I am hungry). I am in the process of putting together a plan to occupy myself during this month. Orginally, I through I could work with the students but found that children from ages 10-15 fast on a rotating schedule that they determine themselves. Also while learning the rules of Ramadan I discovered that pregnant and nursing women who choose not to fast must do “make-up time”. In addition, I was become so curious as to why I was receiving so many wedding invitations. Appartently, it’s bad luck to start the year (Ramadan) without a wife. Therefore, girls as yourn g as 15 are getting married in my village.

Decided to take a few people up on the invitations. The traditional wedding that I will describe below is quite different from weddings in the US. For starters, the groom was not there at all the weddings I attended. People rolled in througout the day and were fed as they arrived, heartily I might add. I ate 3 times and was offered over 6 different rice and sauce combos in lesss than 3 hours at one wedding. In the late afternoon, the women formed 2 circles and began to dance the traditional dance of the region. Some women danced, other sang while a few used big aluminum rice bowls (turned upside down) as drums. As the women danced the surrounding women tucked money in the dancer’s headwraps which I belive is gifted to the new couple. It is inevitable that the one white person at the wedding (the only one without rhythm will get pulled into the middle). There was also another small hut whre the young people 8-25 years old danced and sat listening to music. A scene very similar to a middle school dance.

After a few house the bride was carried to her new husbands’s grandparent’s hut. Her arrival was announced by a gun shot and she was then wrapped in white sheets and carried to her new inlaws hut. Friends of the bride followed with rice and various other gifts. Upon arrival, another gunshot into the fields. The final gunshot sounded to “consumate” the marriage as her new family accepted the gifts.

Egg-cellent

Conakry, the mecca of all food that is good in Guinea. Good is a standard that requires definition. Admittedly, my tastes have been altered since leaving the US. Loosely defined, good food for me is something that has not been hit for hours with a wooden stick until it has the consistency of Elmers glue. With all that siad, I find myself wondering why I am standing in front of a market landy in Conakry asking for eggs. Eggs, something widely available in my village which often goes unappreciated by me. Why did I not choose to get ice cream, Chinese food, pizza, fresh fish from the ocean and the list could go on and on. All of these choices unique to Conakry and a must for every capital visit.

I rationalize that I am asking for hard boiled eggs and surely the women in Conakry have a secret receipe for making the best hard boiled egg in Country. I further comfort myself with the fact that this maket lady is Pul and I have not practiced my Pular in days. If I don’t ask for hard boiled eggs in Pular surely FI will forget how to say it when I get back to my village wich would be complely and utterly embarrasking. Moreover, I don’t need a bag so I am saving the environment. I quickly congratulate myself on al of these acomplishments as I stuff the hard boiled eggs in my pockey and use my steller Pular to buy fried sweet potatos.

Sitting on the porch at the Conakry house I am relishing my sweet potatos and praising myself for my good deeds and commitment to learning the local language of my region when I feel something a little damp slide down my leg. Thinking to myself, I don’t remember feeling sick and we have all surely learned our lesson about letting those little one squeek out. I roll up my pant leg for further investigation. It appears I have been slimed like the Ghost Busters. I realize that my good deeds are coming back to haunt me. Yes, maybe my Pular skills are not as superb as I originally estimated and the secret receipe for hard boiled eggs does not in fact require the women to put them in boiling water at all.

Of Mice and Women

After settling in on a cool Fouta night, within hours I was rudely awaken by a sharp pain that commenced at the big right toe and radiated the lenght of the foot. I sprang from my bed, detangling myself from the mosquito netm to see what was the matter. Only to color my cement floor blood red as I searched in vain for a flashlight. Before the light radiated off my tye dye sheets, I discovered a small animal psychotically running the length of my bed.

In my best Nancy Drew saunter, I approaced the bed but the animal seemed to notice and was approching me quickly. Would it like to sample another body part? I lost my confidence (that nevered happened to Nancy in the novels) and retreated to the living room to spend the rest of the night on the other side of 2 closed doors.

After many sleepless hours, a glimpse of morning light and the need to use the bathroom brought new confidence to re-enter and re-claim my space. Slowly, I entered the 1st door and closed it behind me with a small squeek, then the 2nd door only to sight a huge rodent like creature with a long tail training for the 100 meter dash along the backboard of my bed. When it heard and saw me, it looked straight at me and in decoded rodent language it dared me to chase it as it disappeared under my bed. When he chose this location I knew he had won the battle BUT I would win the war. Honestly, where do you hide all your excess items in a quick attempt to clean up your room? He had been studying the ways of the human.

Again, I retreated back to the living room to eat breakfast and nourish my body for the long chase that would follow. Full of oatmeal and confidence, but not too full as to loose my quick step, I began to tear through my house in search the guest that just was not happy with food scraps and prefers body parts. After 30 minutes of destruction my rooom looked as though a hurricane had hit and yet no rodent siting yet. I refoucused my efforts fro the hallway/storage room connecting my living room to my bedroom. I carefully picked up an empty bakpack and something lounged towards me. Reluctantly, I admit that I scread like a 7 year-old child who has just experienced her 1st haunted house and ran for the door. Well, the rodent is on my heels or perhaps the other way around. He takes refuge inside my small portable stove. I grab a stanick from the year to protect me and contine the scavenger hunt. After much coxing, this animal in a hopping/running combo exists my main door. Running after it, I watch as it climbs into the side of the roof of my house seeking shelter from the crazy lady with the stick. As I breathe a sigh of relief I think to myself, does it have an undiscovered entrance?

Some say lightening does not strike the same place twice. Technically, I would agree. The last time I was bit by a rodent it was on the second finger of the right hand in Virginia while hiking the Appalachian Trail. I guess some people have all the luck!