things i'll miss

yesterday was a day that could have been unremarkable. but it wasn't. maybe because my mind is dwelling on the idea of leaving and what that finally means. so beyond thinking about the future and how terrifying it is, besides stomach-churning at the idea of trying to find a job that i won't hate and the sinking worry that i may not be able to get into grad school, i've started to wonder what it will be like to leave guinea. it's different leaving here. you leave high school and college knowing that those friends you'd like to stay in touch with are there at the end of a phone or computer line. guinea isn't like that. although phone reception is spreading, it doesn't exist in santou yet, and even after it gets there i don't know how many people will have access to it. so when i leave, i may never hear from or see any of my guinean friends again. it's easy to imagine their lives going on exactly as they do now, following seasonal patterns of work and rest, most days much like the ones before and after them. but it's also easy to imagine them getting sick and waiting too long to get inadequate medical help. just since i've been there i have known three cases where people died on their way to the hospital in telimele. more than a year ago now it was my best friend dying in the back seat of a taxi while i was away on a trip. death is always present and always possible.
and so certain moments are starting to seem more significant. yesterday i visited the national museum and on the way back we met some liberian women who have been here as refugees from the war. one had been in guinea for sixteen years. they are going home sometime around april. imagine what that feels like, to have been away for sixteen years while your home is being torn apart by war, and now to be about to return to a country where things are finally looking up. i asked them what they thought of their new president. unanimously, they declared that they loved her. i hope that this is the beginning of a real recovery for them.

anyway, rattling on. but those are some things that i'll miss.

dry season

nov. 19

The first thought I had this morning was to look out the window opposite my bed at the sky to see what the weather was like. Then I remembered that the rainy season was over and that the sky will look the same every day for a long time now -- even until I leave Guinea and start looking out on a different landscape. Every day the sky will be ugly, barely blue, and hot. Not to be pessimistic, but it's true. Not a cloud breaks it up. Sunrise is a moment of orangish reflection, after which the blank canvas rolls down again. So the days will be ugly and hot from now until next May, the sky empty and unfeeling, begrudging not a single second of respite or a passing shadow of cloud. Change will come only when the Harmattan winds sweep down from the Sahara, bringing all the loose dust of the desert with them. I always think that Harmattan is such a beautiful word and should name something lovely, but the heavy, hazy reddish air that settles in and hovers above the land is not. But once the day is over, sunset -- the same brief orange moment as at sunrise-- and THEN the night ceiling comes over us, and it is beautiful. Maybe to make up for the ugliness of the days, the nights are dazzling-- cool, clear, and hung everywhere with stars.
And so for now we will have vicious days and gracious nights. When the rain comes again, it will be reversed: dramatic, fast-moving clouds will dominate the days and throw down merciful rain, leaving the nights to be empty, stars all hidden behind the layers of thick vapor, and very dark. It could be that life is a deal struck with the sky.

piano lessons

I always wanted piano lessons when I was a kid. (Every Good Boy Does Fine) And my grandma wanted me to have them. And she had a piano. So I'm not entirely sure why it didn't work out. Maybe because Dad held a grudge against the younger sister who used to rush to "practice" her piano lessons whenever it was time to wash dishes.
Then in fifth grade came my chance to make up for this missed opportunity and join the school band. Deep down I probably wanted to play the clarinet like all the other girls, but I didn't want to look girly or foolish among the cooler females in our class. So I decided to pick something else and landed on an unlikely instrument for our small school: the French horn. I loved its clear pure sound and the gleaming circular shape.
But then Mom had a brainstorm, and I ended up playing the trombone because we already had one. Hung onto and packed away somehow from the days when her older brothers were in school band. I guess in case anybody in the next generation should want to play the piano.

pedestrians

nov. 7

Today and nearly every time I ride my bike in Guinea, the confusion and miscommunications that result seem a good metaphor for the bigger picture:

Everyone involved starts with the best of intentions. My intention is not to hit anyone. The pedestrians' intention is to stay out of the way (i.e. not to get hit). That seems compatible enough. And yet, approached from both sides at once, it doesn't quite work. My deeply ingrained habit is to weave around them, leaving as much space as possible and only calling out when there is no space to pass. But here in Guinea, not getting hit is the pedestrian's responsibility rather than the driver's. Hearing me coming, a person on foot steps aside. Unfortunately I had already steered around her former position and so have to swerve now that she has stepped directly into my new path. So if I see that the old lady in front of me (old ladies are always the worst) does not hear me coming, I am torn between wanting to call out so as not to startle her and wanting to weave around her quietly to avoid all the useless dodging back and forth. But if she hears me at the last moment, even worse! Several times I have nearly run down old women on the path to the market. If I could only change my strategy to match the average Guinean's, we could avoid our clumsy ballet. Instead of weaving, this would require me to steer straight through on the smoothest part of the path and make obnoxious noise whenever my way was blocked, then trust the pedestrians to take care of themselves. Somehow I can't do this. Similarly, the old village women can't bring themselves to trust me to weave around them. And so most days we brake and dodge and nearly collide, but so far everyone's still in one piece.

maybe life everywhere is like this series of near-collisions, but it seems more so in guinea

the hundred-year-old man

oct. 10

It has not yet rained tonight, and so I did not re-plant my sunflowers, hoed up for the second time by the hundred-year-old man next door. I should have planted them yesterday after it poured rain.
The old man hoed up my sunflowers because he was clearing the dirt around the house of weeds. So of course i cannot be mad at him, not only because he looks to be about one hundred years old -- wrinkly and bent over and constantly dripping saliva -- but also because he did it for me. In spite of all my urgings to leave the manual labor to those of us less advanced in age and decrepitude, her persists in a strange belief that I am his "patron." That could be loosely translated as boss, but what it truly amounts to is that I am an obscurely important foreigner and a guest, so he feels obligated to do things for me. Viewed in all its manifestations, the rigid heirarchy of status here is an unfortunate system that has so far been mostly impossible to subvert. It means everything, and through no virtue of my own I have a very high status. And so we each argue that the other should not work and periodically he hoes up my flowers while I try to do yard work secretly and quietly so that he doesn't come over to help. Then he brings me oranges or peanuts and many thank-yous are said before we argue again about who is happier to know the other.

hot

reflections from journal on the subject of heat:

oct. 16

when it has been raining
it is easy to forget
how hot it is when it isn't
but today it didn't
and so i remember.

and later:

oct. 18

Today at 2:00 I fully understood the inevitability of siesta or something like it. The most thought that could possibly be formed beyond, "God it's hot," was, "Goddamn it's hot."

May 30 -rain

May 30
It is the rainy season again at last. And they are beautiful, the rains and the skies they come out of. Partly, I think, because they are often sudden and violent. The beauty combined with a small inward rush of fear is an experience more intense than the usual. Everywhere thunderstorms are dramatic, but maybe even more so here. I can feel excitement and nervousness gather in my stomach as thunder rumbles and then crack! as the lightning splits the sky, turned abnormal shades of color.
Today as the sound of the storm is slowly building I look up to a sky of a uniform dark, hazy blue. Just a minute later I look up again to find what had been a solid slate of pure color forming into layers of fierce-seeming clouds. The wind picks up and starts lashing the palms back and forth, and finally a few drops start falling. First big, fat drops that you can almost count and see making their individual impressions on the ground, now grown polka-dotted. Then changing into a fine mist, blown strongly, slanting, chasing me farther onto the porch. Steadily gathering strength until now it is pouring down, turning foot-paths into small streams. All occasionally lit up by jagged, pinkish bolts of lightning. Now the rain is so heavy that it is hard to see through, and beyond a certain distance, all is just a grayish light.
Loving it and knowing its general nature, how can a storm still have the power to terrify a little? Maybe just the incredible size and speed, the power of it, is what scares us. Or the way we have been rushed inside out of them, effectively running away from them, all our lives. And the sound of thunder, low and rumbling like a predatory growl, as if we were about to be attacked.

journal entries during strike drama

background:
there was a general strike in february/march that started with contracted teachers and spread to basically everyone, not only government workers but even taxi drivers and store owners. in the bigger towns, life stopped. you could not go anywhere or buy anything. in the villages, life went on mostly as usual except that you couldn't travel. the strike ended with government promises to double salaries.
then in early june, another strike. the government did not double the salaries, and so the teachers union started the whole thing over again. planned to go general on Monday the 5th, it finally did start on Thursday the 8th and went on for 10? days (or so). because end-of-year tests and etc. were not happening, there were student riots in Conakry and the major cities. gendarmes (police) shot into crowds of protesters, killing about 20. over Friday the 16th, with promises (again) of doubled salaries as well as prince controls on gasoline and rice.

June 5
Heard from Rachel that we were on "stand fast" for the duration of the strike, which was supposed to go general today. Tried to radio but no luck. Sometimes I feel as though I'm watching a revolution develop from the inside. Spiraling inflation and civil unrest, frequent turnovers of top government officials. I hope that is the case, that dissatisfaction will lead to some kind of action here rather than continued paralysis.

June 14
Monday night the BBC was saying that at least ten people had been killed in student riots in Conakry. On the radio Ousmane said that 10-14 in Conakry and 4 in Labe. How awful is it that my first emotion was a little thrill of excitement and adrenaline? Even knowing that it is ridiculous, immature and unfeeling to see this situation as romantic or exciting, I can't totally suppress that reaction. Tuesday night the BBC said 17 dead in Conakry but a few stores open again. Today Ousmane says that it seems to be calming down. I only hope that all momentum for change is not lost.

June 17
Mixed reports on the strike -- the principal of the college says it's over while Boubakar insists that it isn't. Not having successfully radio-ed since Wednesday I'm out of the loop. A teacher/photographer gave me the impression that the government has offered concessions but not to be delivered until July 1. This stinks of empty promises made only to get the tests out of the way, so maybe the teachers will not accept? So far the BBC isn't helping me out...

June 18
At least two people said to me yesterday that if this strike is not settled it will mean a civil war. Obviously that is a bit exaggerated, but eventually if this doesn't work I suppose it will lead to more and more violent protests. But their words, "civil war," stopped me cold. Is that what Guinea is headed for? I've always thought of revolution, the people against the established power. Is that all they mean, a war within the country? To me, a civil war means different groups within the population struggling against each other, most likely exploited and set against each other by various power-hungry leaders. Are there groups that could be used like that in Guinea? At first glance, no. Guineans as a rule are peaceful and forgiving. The largest ethnic groups are so inter-mixed and tolerant of each other. But on closer inspection, maybe it is possible. There are old tensions and resentments far below the surface, mostly between the Peuls and all the other peoples that they pushed out, killed, or forcibly converted to Islam. But are they any more culpable than other groups, who probably did the same thing longer ago? Or are they just the most recent conquerers? (outside of the French)

update: all is calm. couldn't say if that is good or not or if it will stay that way. exams were re-scheduled and happened last week, so at least students are happy.

June 14 - lonely

in case anyone is wondering why some of these sound like they're written from site, it is because they are journal entries dredged up for the blog when i get to the capital:

June 14
Today was a lonely one in the small ways that are hard to explain to anyone who hasn't lived alone somewhere very far from their idea of home. Spending a few hours this afternoon with two sisters that I"m friends with -- maybe I should be flattered, but for whatever reason they have stopped speaking mostly in French when I am around. Certainly my Pulaar isn't good enough to follow most of or contribute to a normal conversation. Bouncing between earnestly listening for the fragments that I do understand and daydreaming when I lose the will to focus... Watching them talk and joke and laugh on a gray rainy day I wanted nothing more than to be somewhere with my own family talking and laughing Just relaxing and communicating without really trying. Sometimes laughing at the things they'e saying and sometimes at the incomparable way that they say them. And understanding each other without any barriers in between, not searching for words or ways to translate experiences while simultaneously censoring them or fishing for small talk that is worth the effort of pronouncing it. I would like to be talking to my brother in some kind of warmly-colored restaurant booth after dark, feeling cozy and companianable.

here comes the rain?

lately whenever it starts to rain the Beatles song "Here Comes the Sun" pops into my head. isn't that ironic, don't you think?

april 25, 2006 - mangos

there is something very satisfying about picking a mango yourself and then eating it. today i found a good mango-picking-stick, a long thin piece of dry bamboo. perfect, light and strong with a split at one end that could be used to grab stems. searching out the most perfect, golden-orange specimens, i nudge gently at their stems. the ripest ones fall easily, each thump on the ground beside me a minor victory. sometimes they are less cooperative and require a nudge and a twist. some of the higher ones are beyond the reach even of my bamboo, and these inspire me to stretch and make little hops that are probably hilarious to the average guinean onlooker (or possibly any onlooker). a particularly loaded branch invites a vigorous shaking that results in a shower of fruit. the last mango is the zen mango. i nudge it gently with the bamboo stick in my right hand and as it falls, without really looking or trying, i catch it neatly with the other hand. a perfect sort of moment and time to go home.

april 20, 2006

it is a kind of lonely evening with a wild wind bowing the end to another market day. not the sad sort of lonely, just the kind that would be nicer with company. it would be nice to have someone to talk to, so i will write another letter. the longer i am at site without going anywhere the more letters i write. rains seem to be coming early this year; today is the fourth in a row.

In Search of God

inspired by a BBC Sunday morning program title:

"This is your roving reporter, Helen Mooney, for In Search of God. I'm talking to you today from Cleveland, Ohio, where God was recently spotted by one of our loyal listeners. According to the eyewitness report, last Tuesday at 3:00 in the afternoon, the King of Heaven was in Heeb's Grocery buying a watermelon. 'The Lord really seemed to know what he was doing, listening with his ear down close to it while he thumped the melon. He thumped purtnear all of 'em before he found the one he liked, and then he sort of nodded and headed on over to the checkout' says Ida Wilson. 'I would have followed him and asked about the Judgement Day and whatnot, but I was already running late for a hair appointment with Louise and she's not a very patient person.'
The store manager observed that the Holy Father not only knows his produce but also has a nose for a bargain. Watermelon was on special last week, 15 cents a pound."

mass-email writer's block

quite possibly the most pathetic case of writer's block yet discovered by mankind. attempting to sum up the last month or so of my life to a small list of beloved family and friends, i cannot find a way to make it sound exciting, interesting, or lacking either of those, even laughable. BLAH! i've got nothing.
for those of you on that list, you already know that i almost died twice on the trip here (here being Conakry, the capital city of the Republic of Guinea). near head-on collisions are slightly less scary in the dark because your depth perception is impaired and you can't tell quite how narrowly you escaped death (or at least horrible maiming). on a side note, i wonder if i am already somewhat maimed. a friend commented favorably on a female's legs the other day. looking over and seeing nothing remarkable in said walking tools, i asked what he found attractive about them. he expressed that it was nice to see a pair of legs so smooth and "not chopped up." as someone who has recently sustained two rather large and permanent scars on my knees i wondered if legs that are a bit "chopped up" will still be admired on the occasion that they are shown off? (which occasion will be some time after i leave this area, it being a place where gratuitous knee display is frowned upon)