Trained. Wrecked.

So we’ve finished our training, and we’re all ready to Swear-in and take charge, as the photo depicts:

Among his many talents, I do believe Jason was once the Michigan State back-up punter.  A coveted spot, no doubt.  

For the past many weeks, since December 8th, myself and the rest of the trainees here have lived in a smaller city not far from Conakry called Forecariah.  There, we underwent the first phase of training, which mostly entailed language instruction, cultural competancy, and technical sessions related to our sectors.  So now, by the end of training, I can safely say that in Guinea I can perform the most basic tasks essential to survival, such as speaking French, haggling, finding rice and sauce, using a bush taxi, and crapping in a latrine without falling over.  These are no meagre accomplishments.  As far as agroforestry is concerned, the more we learned the more I realized I don’t know.  That wasn’t so much a surprise as a validation. 

While in Forecariah, everyone lived with a host family.  I lived with the Toures. 

Mariama (my maman in Forecariah) and Mama Aissata preparing diner

Technically Mariama was my host mom, but the in the family there were two moms, eight children and an untold number of cousins.  (A modest sized family by Guinean standards.)  While Forecariah sits firmly in the Susu dominated coastal region of Guinea, and both of the mothers in my family are Susu, my papa in Forecariah, Mikhail Toure, is Malinke.  He has lived his whole life in Forecariah, but the Toure family comes from Haute Guinee, the large Northeast region of the country that borders Mali and is more culturally and geographically similar to the latter than other parts of Guinea.  The point I was trying to get at was that even though everyone in my family speaks French, the language in the house is Susu (with a little Malinke tossed in there to spice things up). 

Oh, and you were wondering about the whole “Mikhail” thing.  Well, in 1958 Guinea declared its independence, and unlike every other remanant of French West Africa, Guinea leapt right into independence by snubbing any French efforts to ease the decolonization process.  The relationship soured and Guinee, led by Sekou Toure (no relation that I know of), became closely aligned with the Soviet bloc.  You can still feel the close relationships in many ways.  Two of the language trainers working for Peace Corps Guinea speak Russian. 

But the affairs of history didn’t feel very close as I sat in my light-less room:

Misquito net, LED lamp, water filter, and BBC on the short-wave; or every other night in Forecariah

 One night, I heard over the BBC a story about inconsistent electricity in Nepal.  Sometimes they lack electricity for 10 to 14 hours per day.  In that dry, unconciously condescending tone that BBC reporters use, I learned that the Nepalese children who huddle around candlelight to do their homework get it twice as often as the schoolkids in my house. 

I faintly remember someone from the State Department telling us how the electicity system works in Guinea.  It was a wild tale and I only remember sparse details.  One that sticks out well though was that much of the electicity for major towns, especially in the dry season when the electric dams decrease in output, comes from enormous petrol powered generators.  And not a large number of these.  For some reason 14 sticks out in my mind.  Regardless, if the BBC was trying to get me to feel sorry for people who get twice as much electricity as I did, they sent their signal to the wrong short-wave. 

When we do get electricity, my family tends to build a makeshift theatre out of the front courtyard where the father and perhaps another deserving gentleman from the neighborhood will sit in plastic chairs front and center before a small TV as the rest of the family and neighborhood children (petits) form a semi-circle behind them.  Usually, my family watches West African hiphop/dance videos or these very odd comedies that seem to have been made with a handicams and no plots to weigh down the hijinks. 

In the days after the Christmas Coup 2008, as it has been dubbed, there was an incredible spike in the number of hours of electricity per day in Forecariah, up from just 6 to nearly around the clock for a couple days.  I couldn’t help but think that some brilliant Guinean realized that if you left the electricity on in a complete political power vacuum, most Guineans will take the opportunity to have a movie marathon rather than take to the streets.

 

The Obama/Conte sign on Barack Obama Boulevard in Forecariah, Guinea

Well, I suppose I’ve mentioned it so I might as well keep going on about it — it being the coup d’etat.  Everyone, included us trainees, knew that Lansana Conte, the man who has been president of Guinea since 1984, has been very ill for the past several years.  By the time his death was announced, there had appatently begun rumors that he had been dead for weeks.  All I know is that on the morning his passing was announced, my family told me rather sombrely that the presient had died, and then they went along with their day somewhat apprehensively but as though nothing had changed.  The floor still needed to be mopped.  The rice needed cooking.  The water fetched, etc.  In general, this is how Guineans have reacted to the change.  They are apprehensive about the possibility of violence and simultaneously too preoccupied with their own affairs to be more than spectators to the extra-constitutional governmental transition. 

I, and all the other volunteers, freaked:

Worrying that Santa has been hit by celebratory gunfire

Conte had consolidated so much of the state that it was entirely invested in his person.   He also kept from deciding on a successor, possibly for fear that the successor might try to jump the gun on him.   As soon as Kadija, the 17 year old sister in my host family, told me Conte was dead I knew I was living in a country that had no government.   The scenes on the street in Forecariah were made much more surreal as it was the first day of school vacation and the usual ocean of uniformed school children had disappeared from the streets, replaced by men walked intermittently and holding radios to their ears for the latest updates.   Anyone who has been in Guinea long enough will tell you that nothing happens quickly here, nothing except cell tower construction and now – apparently – coups des etats. 

By Christmas Eve a group of military officers led by Moussa Camara began saying that the constitution was no longer valid and that their junta had appointed M. Camara to be head of state.  Over the course of the next few days (my timeline isn’t very good) there was essentially a game of capture the flag between the President of the national assembly (who was interim head-of-state according to the constitution) and Camara whereby the Presidency could be had by the man best able to maintain possession of the presidential palace.  Camara won.  For us trainees, this meant that our Chistmas trip to Conakry was cancelled.  We spent the evening together at the training center in Forecariah, huddling beneath solid cover when occasional bursts of celebratory gunfire errupted, wondering if and when we might get evacuated over the border to Sierra Leone, and just generally having a grand ol’ time looking like this:

Are you here to take me to Sierra Leone?

During this whole escapade, Ousmane Diallo, the training manager/heart/soul of Peace Corps Guinea sat chuckling with us through the night.  So adept are his skills that from his chair in Forecariah, crutches at his side, during the most tense period of the coup he orchestrated the purchase and shipment past roadside checkpoints of our cell phones (an errand we trainees were to have done in Conakry over Christmas) from Conakry to Forecariah just so we could call home on Christmas Day.  A Pere Noel if ever there was one.

After a few days, the new president seemed to be accepted, everyone was happy that no one was hurt in the process, and life resumed to normal. 

The fact that power changed hands so peacefully here makes complete sense when you consider how incredibly open and friendly Guineans are.  A normal meeting on the street will last several exchanges as they ask how you, your family, and your health are fairing in a slew of various ways.  On one of my first bush taxi rides, a 4 hour trip from Kindia to Telimele (a distance of 130 km), the taxi driver stopped without exception at every occasion he could to saluate another bush taxi driver.  I had just learned enough Pulaar by this time to be able to navigate my way through a couple cycles of salutations and it was clear that no specific information was being transfered during these roadside interactions. 

Take a Peugeot station wagon, jack up the rear suspension with springs made of melted down scrap metal and you can take any amount of cargo on any type of road.

A Jarrama.  Hey.  A Jarrama.  Hey.  Tana Alaa? Is there evil?  Jam Tun.  Peace only.  No Marsude?  How’s it going?  Seeda-Seeda.  Little-little.  Tana alaa ton?  Is there evil there? Jam tun.  Peace only.  En Ontuma.  Later.  En Ontuma.  Later. 

Mix and match these phrases (and the ten thousand additional Pulaar greetings) until an actual conversation begins or one person walks away, and then you have started to become Guinean. 

Bush taxis themselves, like pit latrines and eating rice and sauce with your hands,  fall into that realm of things here in Guinea that totally astound you when you first come into contact with them but after a couple weeks are fairly passe.  As you can see, the taxis here are mostly old european-style station wagons.  One like the taxi pictured above would not leave the taxi-gare until it has at least 8 of its 9 inside seats paid for (that doesn’t include the driver).  Inevitably, people pay the driver to be able to ride on the roof with the luggage too. 

The people who ride on the roof are not amateurs.  They know what’s up.  On a hot day, when the chauffeur assumes the radiator has run dry (he must assume because the guages generally don’t  work), he pulls up to a roadside stream.  Someone from up top leaps off and grabs a spare motor oil bottle, dips it in the stream, tops off the radiator, and if he’s feeling especially parched he might top himself off too then offer the rest of the taxi an invitation. 

When you see that for the first time, it blows you away, like why would someone knowingly (and of course they know the risk) put themself at such risk by drinking surface water.  If you consider that to get clean water requires going to a pump, using expensive bleach to clean it, and then on a trip having something to carry it in, the cost of availability for most people becomes too much to outweigh the risks of a stomach parasite that they might get from other vectors anyway.

Bush taxis are also incredibly fun.  On real rough roads like the 3 hour, 60 kilometer ride from to my site from the nearest large city, a bush taxi feels more like a slow, bumpy rollercoaster.  A rollercoaster that has support bars ramming into your butt and a sweaty, coughing man smushing you into the door.   

One of the first excursions we took during train was to a diamond mine outside Forecariah.  First off, we looked for diamonds for ourselves:

Jason looks for diamonds

The diamond mines were once a somewhat major operation, run by an international organization.  But for the last several years, since the mining company has left, the mines have been frequented by people who are essentially freelancers. 

Sifting for diamonds and letting the soil wash away

Most are Guinean but many spill over the border from Sierra Leone as well to dig 8 to 10 foot holes into once arable land in order to find tiny nuggets that they can sell back in town for usually 50,000 Guinean Francs (or, about $10 USD) depending on the quality of the rock. 

Diamond miners breaking their backs for 10 bucks a month and disturbing soil levels for years

The economic cycle of these kind of diamond miners seems to follow that goldrush path where they get a find and live large on the cash until it runs out and they return to the diamond mines for the next find.  Not only does the process to mining for diamonds in this manner degrade the soil by baking it, removing the organic matter and mixing topsoil levels with all other soil levels, but the land would be much more profitable if it were repaired to its arable state and farmed. 

Such a proposition suns up against two major problems in Guinea.  Firstly,  Guineans often see the land as a gift from Allah that is either living or dead rather than a system that can be maintained and even restored.  And secondly, no one thinks longterm.  There is so much uncertainty in West African life that longterm plans are often unfeasible.  Planning much past a growing season or two is often too far ahead.  So, attempting to convince people first that it’s possible to restore degraded lands to agricultural production is one thing, then getting them to actually follow through on the process is even harder – especially when that 50,000 GNF comes in every once in a while. 

Back in Forecariah, by chance, I had the opportunity to talk to one of the midlemen that buys diamonds from the freelancers.  He wanted me to sell his diamonds in America and tried convincing me that he was a very well-connected dealer by mentioning all these Canadians, Brits, and Australians he works with by their first names.  He was a very insistant fellow, but from what I could gather the certainty of his occupation was just about as stable as that of the diamond miners who supply him. 

Cooking smoke

One project that takes little pre-planning, few material costs, and almost no risk happens to be mudstoves.  At the top of the post you can see how most Guineans cook.  They place 3 rocks together and build a fire between them.  Often in the rainy season this occurs in an enclosed cooking hut.  As you can see they put out a lot of smoke, but they also loose a lot of heat and thus waste time and fuel.  In fact, the drastic increase in fuelwood due to population increases is the driving factor behind a lor deforestation in Guinea.  By using a mud compound made from clay and cow poo, one can easily make a far more efficient model. 

My host father showing off his dandy new mudstove

Mudstoves not only use less wood, cook faster, and look awesomer, they free up a lot of time for women who would otherwise be attending cooking related tasks. 

As far as the Peace Corps is concerned, volunteers are facilitators.  It is not our job to come here and just give and make, but rather to teach by giving, making, facilitating, and delegating until our hosts are independent of our guidance and passing on their knowledge.  Or something like that.  Well, take a gander at this:

Mikhail and his newest mudstove

On a Monday I taught my family how to make a mudstove, and on Tuesday, while I was away, they used the excess material to make a second on their own.  DONE.  Difference Made.  Plane ticket back to America, PLEASE.

Another pretty nasty cause of deforestation in West Africa are brush fires.  Sometimes unintentional, but usually field burnings that get out of control, brush fires wreak havoc not only on the air and forest size, but since the burned fields are not left to fallow for long enough due to increase production demands they provide very little benefit to offset their destruction. 

Just a lazy Sunday afternoon

But again, this is a hard practice to counteract as burning fields is not only less work intensive than other methods of clearing fields, but it  also enjoys the luxury of legacy. 

I suppose I must conclude at somepoint, so I might as well wrap up this post with a word on Guinean children, or petits, as they are called.  In the social hierarchy where father is at the top, petits form the base of child labor upon which father stands.  Petits are enlisted to all sorts of tasks, from cleaning to food prep, selling items in the market, and finally their schoolwork.  But even with their full docket of work they still summon the energy to freak out whenever a white person is around.  In Susu, they yell, “Fote!,” (white person or rich man) with a sing-song rythm that lingers on the “o” sound for a beat and a half before droping that “te” on the last half beat.  Even if you are only in eyesight, they will scream out to you for you to respond.  And if petits are lucky enough to have a Fote near them, the petit will sprint to the fote with the kind of intent reserved for on the the most urgent of messages.  Then he or she, or more likely, the group of 4 to 8 petits will fall dead silent and wide eyed.  They’ll reach out their right hand to touch the fote and ask as though they don’t know entirely the meaning of the words coming from their mouths, “Fote.  Comment tu t’appelle?” 

Barbara (second from left) and Bouba (Right) playing me the Fote song

The above photograph is pretty representative of petits.  As a parting gift, here are some some sound clips from the event:

hmm.  I seem to be having technical difficulties getting the audio up so I’ll get back to that later on.  Here are some pictures to tide you over:

Dorian making her way through the Telimele market

 

My new house at site

Inside my house

Inside my house looking th other way

All of these bathroom elements work as they are supposed to because I have gravity fed pump water plumbing

See, I'm already helping Africa