In a land where men have no fire:

 

In case you’re still with us here at Guinea Ginge (us being Kelsey, Arnold the mouse and various monstrous caterpillars lurking around in dark corners), here’s a little update for you!

Last week, my neighbor Dawan, came to Ditinn to pay me a visit.  (He’s only 26km away… that’s child’s play in Guinea!)  It was a wonderful surprise to peep outside my classroom and see a fellow volunteer smiling back at me.  We took a trip to the Ditinn waterfall, which I am happy to report, is nearly tame enough to frolic about in!  Here are some pictures for your viewing pleasure…

Everyone, meet Dawan. 

Hi, Dawan!

And we all know this crazy ginger...



There is many a river to be fjorded here,

even in the dry season.

 

And now, here's a video for you...

 

We fancy, huh?

Along our route, Dawan and I discussed many a topic, including but not limited to Guinean history, U.S. vs. Guinean teaching methods, future plans, the natures of romance and marriage, and livestock.  Which brings me to my next point: 

If ever there was created an official scale of stupidity based on animal behavior, the basest insult you could ever sling upon another human being would be to compare them to a sheep.

      I’ve seen goats eat plastic bags. 

         I’ve seen cows stare down oncoming semi-trucks. 

            I’ve seen moths fly straight into open flames repeatedly. 

Let me assure you, sheep take the fattest slice of cake that there is to be had.  (You know, it’s one of those pretty plastic and Velcro kinds of cake that you used to play with as a kid, but at least you knew better than to eat something with a Fisher_Price label on it?)   

A car legitimately ran over a sheep the other day (it was unharmed, I assure you) because the animal plain old didn’t feel the urge to move.  This evening I had my moment of epiphany, however.  As I was cooking dinner (bean, lentil, potato, patate, okra and peanut soup!  Sounds questionable.  Tastes delicious.), I heard a noise in my yard.  Now, as stated before, I had a fence recently erected to keep animals and unruly school kids from traipsing into my house.  As you can imagine, I was a little anxious to see just what in the blazes was making the racket.  I poked my head out the window and saw a sheep there, just… staring off into space.  My gate was shut and there were no gaping holes to speak of in the fence, so, although puzzled, I decided to let the situation develop on its own.  A few hours passed by, and the sheep didn’t budge, except to stick its head through a crack in the fence.  Once night fell, I decided to help it out.  I opened the gate and made some shooing noises, and what did the sheep do?  It looked at me and plunked its head right through the fence again. 

So I chased it away from the hole. 

It ran a couple circles around the fire pit, then headed towards the gate. 

“Yes!”  I thought.  “Victory is at hand.” 

But instead of going through the huge opening directly in front of it, the sheep thought it better to ram its noggin right back into the crack in the fence.  Now, faced with a waggling sheep posterior and a herd of bleating livestock gathering to witness this spectacle, what’s a girl to do but laugh?  This whole process repeated itself for a few minutes, but happily, after a tense stare-off, the sheep turned around and (accidentally, I’m certain) made its way through the doorway to be reunited with its fellow peanut-brained family members.

Speaking of brains…

Mine is practically burstin with Pular.  Aliou has turned out to be a super resourceful tutor, and I’m having a wonderful time employing (read: embarrassing myself in) the language around Ditinn.  Why, the other day, I was walking down the path from school to the center of town, when I found my path blocked by a sheepling (A ewe?  Sheepling sounds better…).  I tried going around it, but saw that it was, well, drooling uncontrollably.  Not a good sign in sheepdom, I gather.  A tantie (older lady) passed by and greeted me in French with a “Bonjour, Aicha! Ca va?”  She then turned to the sheepling and said “Eh!  Mbaali.  A nowni buy!!” which means, “Sh**, you’re one sick sheep!!”  Which I understood!  IN PULAR!

So, good news: I’m improving little by little. 

Bad news: I have no idea if there’s a vet around these parts.  Poor sheepling.

This not so neatly segues into my next topic: PULAR blunders.

I’ve been trying to acquire some quips to use in the big cities when taxi-moto drivers make crude remarks to us volunteers.  So far I can say “What do you want?” and “You lookin’ at me?”  While useful, they’re not exactly what you’d call zingers.

So I asked my friend, Juliette for some help.  She said she had the hardest time trying to master the phrase “Are you blind??”, meant to be used if someone on a moto/taxi cuts you (or your taxi) off, or runs over your foot, or smooshes your pile of vegetables/fruit/bread/fish/sunglasses/flip flops on the ground.  It translates to “You have no eyes?!”

So for a couple months, Juliette was sassing right back at the motorists, saying “A maraa yiitee?!” where it was deserved.  She was confused by their reaction, which always seemed to involve patting their shirt/pants pockets, then shaking their heads “no!”

Finally someone kindly informed Juliette that the word for eyes is “giitee”, and that “yiitee” means fire.  She’d been unwittingly asking haphazard motorists for a light all this time, yelling  

 

“Have you no fire??”

It’s way too easy to mix these things up.

You better watch out...

 

Ladles ring, are you list’ning?

Against marmites, with sauces glist’ning.

A beautiful sight, we’re happy alright,

Basking in a Fouta Wonderland.

     In the morning, you feel like a snowman,

     With your breath a’whisping through the air.

     Then by noon you think to yourself, “No, ma’am!”

     This Porto’s lost it, it’s hotter than he- (you-know-where)!

Later on,

We’ll perspire,

As we cook

Rice on the fire.

We’ll face unafraid 

The end of the day,

There's tons of candles in this Fouta Wonderland.

 

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!

Christmas in Labe!

While it’s strange being away from all of you back home, I want to assure you that Christmas is turning into a bonafide festive time here in Guinea.  My friend, Sarah is visiting from the Basse-Cote, Adrienne has come all the way from Haute Guinea, and a bunch of others have convened in Labé to celebrate together.

Here are some things I’m thankful for this year:

1. My health (*knock on wood*) has been very good since arriving at Ditinn.  I continue to be an adventurous eater, but with more control over my normal intake of food, I’ve had far fewer GI woes to contend with.

* Interesting fact: In Pular, the word for diarrhea literally translates to “the runs.”  Aliou tells me this is because it has you running to the bathroom constantly.  I think he was being polite and wanted to spare me the graphic details…  It’s amazing what things are understood universally, though, isn’t it?

2. Bonding with my students and fellow teachers.  Perhaps at this point they think of me not only as that whacked-out white lady, but as someone they can talk to and laugh with.  For whatever reason, people have been very patient and open with me.  It’s been nice to move past the perfunctory “Hi, how are you?  My name is Aicha, what’s yours?” conversations.

3. I’ve moved from my fortress on the hill to a quieter and more secluded spot near the center of Ditinn.  I’m with a wonderful family who jokes with me, teaches me useful Pular phrases so I can haggle with the market vendors who give me the “Porto Price” (generally quite a bit higher than the local “Ditinnois Price”), and even teach me how to cook from time to time.

It’s heavenly.

4. I’m getting a puppy :)  I will post pictures for you soon.

5. Increased stamina!  I biked to Bodié to visit Stephanie the other week.  It’s 32 km on an unpaved, up and down road, and I did it in 90 minutes exactly!

6. Friends.  Both volunteers, my Guinean neighbors, and you.  I’m not exaggerating when I say that I feel blessed to know the people that I do.  You have made this ginger a better person, and I hope that I can pass along your many kindnesses and pieces of wisdom in the future.

Here’s wishing you many happy thoughts, useful/AWESOME gifts, and an all-around holly-jolly Christmas and Happy New Year!

Much love,

K

We fell in love in a hopeless place

Now, you may be asking

1. Why Rihanna?
2. Kelsey, don’t you hate Rihanna?

Answers:

1. Because Rihanna is given “royalty” status in Ditinn.
2. I’ve seen the error of my ways and now wish to listen to Rihanna almost every waking moment of every day.

There are two reasons for this.

Reason the first:  I miss American music.  There are so many wonderful songs in this wonderfully musical world, and yet it seems that only 5 of them are played regularly in Guinea (mostly on mix-tapes or on phone ringtones).  They are as follows:

   1. She shup my money” (courtesy of an English Creole singer from Sierra Leone)

   2. Something I’m calling the “Arabic Britney Spears” (literally ¾ of all Guineans have this as their ringtone)

   3. "I’ve got a secret to share”

   4. “Make you my wife” (another Sierra Leonean song)

   5. "Welcome to Fouta”

Though I know all the words and sing these songs constantly, “Welcome to Fouta” is quickly becoming my favorite, as I hear it (on constant repeat) nearly every time I’m in a taxi in the Fouta Region.  The song consists of listing different villages and the names of various female names.  

Fatoumata Binta Barry is the most memorable, I think perhaps it's because I have at least 3 Fatoumata Binta Barry’s in my classes.

However cheerily I tried to adapt to this new music, when I found myself humming the tune of the Guinean national anthem while I cleaned my floor, I knew I was going through musical withdrawal.  I stuck my itty-bitty solar charger outside (THANK YOU wonderful parents) for a couple of hours, and then charged my iPod.  That night I had myself an epic solo dance party.  

Friends, it was glorious.

Reason the second: Rihanna reminds me of Machine nights with my Boston posse.  In an effort to get out more and socialize with my host sisters, I went out with them to a night club in Dubreka.  I repeated this experience in Ditinn, and the two nights were eerily similar…

Upon entering Club Serima, the DJ yelled into the microphone to announce my arrival.  At various points throughout the night, he would again speak into the mic to call attention to the fact that “Foté peut dancer!”  (The white girl can dance!)  

Here's a sample of the type of song generally playing in the nightclubs...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AqpcdsacZlw&feature=related

I sat down after a while to scope out the place.  Imagine my surprise when I found a very pale redhead looking back at me from across the room.  It took me much longer than I’m proud to admit to figure out that it was a mirror, and that nearly every wall and banister was composed entirely of mirrors.  It was then that I witnessed the most peculiar Guinean phenomenon; SO many people here love to watch themselves dance.  In the club, there was a line of men and women of all ages, dancing alone, in front of a mirrored wall.  Not once did they seek a partner, not once did they look around to see if anyone was paying them any attention – they were just boogying down with their bad selves. 

My giggles soon gave way to genuine appreciation.  In the U.S., I took for granted the fact that I could look at myself whenever I fancied.  Heck, I was berated with images of myself even when I didn’t want to be subjected to them (thank you, Facebook).  We have mirrors in our bathrooms, on our walls, by our doors, in our living rooms, in our cars, our purses, in our offices – even building windows are sometimes just as reflective as a mirror.  At clubs, it seems that a lot of us will do everything in our power to escape our own image and sense of individuality (I know I enjoyed the anonymity), and just sink into the crowd.  Here, mirrors, cameras, computers, camera phones and, heck, windows are in short supply.  If I didn’t have the luxury of self-image awareness you’re darn tootin’ I’d want to dance with myself when given the chance.  

Who knows, perhaps I’ll get to that point after a few more months here.

I miss you all beaucoup, and wish I could bring you over here for a quick trip.  Life is insane, dizzying and wonderful all at once.  For now, I’m going to take solace in my ability to draw the curtains and dance up a storm every once and a while.  

If you want to join me in spirit, just put your iPod on “Where have you been all my life?”

It’s quite appropriate I think, given the circumstances.

Much love, and until next time!

-K

Unintentionally Hipster Guinean

* * All credit for this idea goes to Dante, one of my wonderful education volunteer colleagues. * *

It's become clear to me that the origin of the hipster movement in the U.S. has its roots  in Guinea.  

In Boston, I'd be walking down the street and I'd see a 20-something guy walking his fixie bike along, sporting a skin-tight pink unicorn shirt with plaid shirt over it, pants that follow the "If you've got it (it = legs as thick as pencil-sticks), flaunt it" rule, huge Raybans with clear lenses, and a pair of fancy-looking brown leather boots.  Oh, and he'd definitely have a handle bar mustache or mutton chops.

He could've looked like this, maybe you've seen him:

  

In Mamou, one of the largest cities near Ditinn, I saw a 20-something guy rolling down the main drag on his fixie bike, wearing a tight black hoodie with "Nasty Gurrrl" across the chest, a pair of tight, purple girl's jeans (I say "girl's jeans" because they had sequins on the rear, and I'm certain that a girl at my elementary school wore that exact pair on casual Fridays).  He was rocking a gigantic pair of  red, plastic aviators and a pair of pointy, white pleather shoes (very popular in Guinea).

ATTENTION HIPSTERS: he wasn't even trying to look alternative.  Isn't that ironic?

* If you're not familiar with the term "hipster", follow these links *

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=hipster

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o8G3T-E4rYU&noredirect=1

My student, for instance, accessorized his white shirt/blue pants uniform one day.  He wore a pencil-thin blue tie, a studded snakeskin belt, and red and white leather sneakers with plaid print on the backs.  Like this:

He looked, well... 

...fly.

Whilst on the topic of hipsters...  One evening I send a message to my friend, Juliette, saying:

              The #1 way to stave off  

              boredom in Guinea: play 

              hide-and-go-seek with 

              mouse in house.

Arnold really is terrible.  Generally, I’ll be eating dinner or working on a lesson plan, when he’ll start rustling around.  I’ll quickly shine my flashlight on him and he’ll freeze, thinking I won’t see him if he doesn’t move.

Juliette told me to get a life.

.

.

.

And to write a book called “Hipster Remedies.”

Chapter 1: Playing games with animals who don’t understand the rules, but you don’t care because it’s completely unique (and perhaps a little disconcerting) that all your friends are rodents and/or livestock.

Chapter 2: Being a vegetarian in Guinea, not because you don’t like meat, but because you have the opportunity to be the ONLY vegetarian in the entire country.

Chapter 3:  Wearing as much gaudy rainbow/glittery/plaid/neon/animal-print clothing as you like because you’ve always secretly wanted to but couldn’t stand the judgmental stares at clothing story check-out counters in the US.

Let me tell you, in an African country where people pair Sesame Street hoodies with “African Annihilation” t-shirts, pretty much any stylistic choice goes.

Without fail, almost every marketplace I walk into has those kinds of shirts.  It’s bizarre.  If I can get a picture of one, I'll send it to you, but for the mean time, look into it. 

Hey cow!

Here's a follow-up on the previous post about

Aliou has become my unofficial Pular tutor, and we meet almost daily just to chat or walk around town.  I've learned to say many things, including:

"The cow is looking at me" 

Naage ngen no yiiyii an.  

(You can tell this has become a common theme)  

"The moon is bright."

Leeru ndun no jalbi.  

"Scram!  I want to eat my mango alone."

Yahu!  Midho faalaa gnamugol mango an ngon min tun.  

"Excuse me, ma'am.  That's my bread."

Acceeneelan, neene.  Ko dhun bireedi an

"No, I don't want to buy a pile of avocados.  They look rotten."

O'owee, mi faalaaka sooduude saadere piiya.  They look rotten.

(I generally don't translate that last part.)

I'd say the lessons are going swimmingly!  Another friend is Alimou, though sadly, he's left to go live in the capital city.  While he was still in Ditinn, however, he was a great conversation partner, and he even took me to a tea bar/convenience store/multi-media teen hangout where we played Mortal Combat and Dragon Ball "Zed" on a Playstation 2.  

It's moments like this that make me wonder - 

Is this REALLY Africa?

My favorite friends are the Madams Diaraye and Kalivogui.  Madam K manages the use of the well near my house.  She's taught me how to make various leaf sauces, and constantly piles peanuts and gigantor squashes into my lap.  It's nice that she makes a point of feeding me, but dear LORD, you've never seen squashes so big.     

Madam D is  a boutique lady that lives in the village center.  She sells all sorts of things, but my favorite is the "gingembre" drink that she makes.  One day she invited me to learn how to make it.  Here's how:

1. Pound some "earth pepper" (literal translation of ginger root in Pular) until you feel like your arm is   about to fall off.
2. Put the mushy ginger into a clean cloth and squeeze it into a huge basin of clean water.
3. Repeat steps 1 and 2
4. Add sugar (like, 5 or 6 handfuls)
5. Add a packet of "vanilla sugar"
6. Add some powdered drink mix (pineapple)
7. Add a couple drops of concentrated pineapple flavoring
8. Stir until everything is dissolved, then put into random bottles that you have
9. Sell for 1,000.00 GF each (that comes out to about 15 cents)

You've got yourself some pure Deliciousness in a bottle.

Madam D also took it upon herself to go to the weekly market to get me a mortar and pestle.  She haggled with the salesperson to get me a good price.  

Conclusion: She's a boss.

Arnold

Nearly a month and a half has flown by at site.  Okay, with the exception of the first 2 weeks, when it felt as though Time just packed up and went on vacation, leaving the poor little minutes and seconds to their own devices.  It seemed that their own devices included competitions to see who could progress at the slowest pace without actually moving backwards.

It was painful at times.

But, I read a lot- some Agatha Christie, Tom Robbins “Still Life with Woodpecker”, Robert Bolaño “2666”, The Impenetrable Forest, The Art of Happiness, Mill on the Floss, Le Tableau Met a la Table (it’s a HITCHCOCK story), and a compilation of existential philosophers – all of which I would recommend to you.  I also wrote quite a bit, and took on home improvement projects here and there (I made a shelf!  A clothes rack!  Hangers!!).  I also developed a penchant for coming up with inconsequential conspiracy theories.  The most important one is that JK Rowling must have read a lot of Alfred Hitchcock, because I found a few familiar faces in “Le Tableau Met a la Table”… voici

- - -

1 - Ron

2 - Harry

3 - Hermione

4 - Neville

5 - Deane

6 - Colin Creevey

 Lucius Malfoy with a cropped hairdo.

HP creeping on (a more modernized) Dumbledore?

Entering the Chamber of Secrets...

Tom Riddle and his charcoal rendering of the Shrieking Shack.

Perhaps a portkey?

...and my personal favorite...

Hogwarts meets Baywatch.

- - - 

Now, I’m happy to announce that Time is back and working like clockwork. (Ha. See what I did there?)  

Last week, all of my 4 classes learned about question formation.  Now, as a native English speaker, you might think what’s so difficult about questions?  All you do is move the verb to the front and/or use Who, What, Where, When, Why, Which, How.

And you’d be justified in that reasoning. 

But, things get tricky when you get past the requisite 

     What is your name?

          Where are you going?

               Who is your favorite singer? (Answer: Rihanna.  It's always Rihanna.)

Try, for instance, explaining what "do/does/did" means in the following:

     Where do you live?

          Does your mother work in the hospital?

               What did you do this weekend?

*Linguistics majors, you're not allowed to help.

See what I mean?  So, I thought the kids needed a good, motivating review.  But what to do?  What makes questions fun?...

The answer struck me like the pincers of gigantic military ant:

The kids LOVED it.  They were yelling over each other to get to answer.  I admit that it may not have been the best reinforcement for orderly classroom conduct, but dang did they enjoy it!

However, I did make one large faux pas, which amused my students to no end.  I didn’t get the joke at the time, but thankfully one of the other volunteers explained it to me later.

You know how sometimes we use a “potpourri” category, when it’s a mix of topics?  Well, in French…

     Pot – bucket/pan

     Pourri – putrid/rotten

Put ‘em together and you’ve got, essentially “the poop can.”

* Note to all those TEFL teachers playing Jeopardy in French-speaking countries.  Avoid POTPOURRI at all costs.

So, school is well underway and I’m getting into the swing of things.  Now that classes are becoming more natural feeling, my “goal list” for the past couple of weeks has looked like this:

1. Sweep floor
2. Buy peanut butter
3. Get water from pump
4. Call Dieng
5. Make friends
6. Plan lessons

The important item is #5, “Make friends.” 

For the past four weeks, my most constant companion has been a mouse that lives somewhere in my house.  At first, I called him The Terminator because a) he must have x-ray vision that he uses to pick out where I’ve hidden my peanut butter, b) he has indestructible teeth that can nibble through anything to get to my peanut butter, and c) because when there’s no peanut butter to be had, he likes to munch on my electronics.  My iPod ear-buds have tiny teeth-marks on them, left behind by my cyborg housemate.  Recently, however, and especially in the middle of the night when I awake to the tell-tale scritch-scratching coming from my kitchen area, I started calling out to him “ARNOLD!! Go to bed!”  The name seems to fit.

I know, mice spread disease.  I haven’t had the heart to buy a trap or poison for it, though.  If Arnold keeps eating my peanut butter, however, I may have to borrow my neighbor’s cat.

My other companions are the goats/sheep that delight in scratching their hind-quarters against my fence every evening.  Last weekend, I realized I’d seen neither hide nor hair of the cows that once swarmed my house at night, due to the fence that I had constructed recently.  It was a welcome change, as I no longer felt like I was being scrutinized every time I went to the bathroom at night.    

While walking back from school one day, contemplating this welcome turn of events, I got the distinct feeling that I was under observation.  I looked at the road behind me, then up ahead, but there wasn’t a soul in sight.  I kept walking, though I still felt like I was being watched.  All of a sudden I heard a sharp crack in the bushes to my left.  I nearly jumped out of my skin, but upon finding the source of the noise, I breathed a little easier.  In reality, this is what it was…

Haha, I giggled nervously and kept on walking.  But when I looked back, this is what I saw…

So I’ve come to the conclusion that I ticked off the association of Ditinn cows for taking away their favorite sleeping space.

Whoops.

If anything, I think the goats have the most to be resentful about.  Here's what they have to put up with...

 The triangle collars (aka "trollars") are designed to keep the goats from entering fields and eating the crops.  A lot of the time the trollars just end up getting flipped around, and the poor animal is left dragging those heavy sticks around as they get caught up on the ground.

- - -

In less crazy news, I have indeed managed to make some human friends here.  

More on that coming soon.

Tu croques, or not tu croques?

If I had a penny for every peanut offered to me on the roadside this past month, well, I’d have about 10,000.00 GF.  This is one small aspect of the beauty of the Guinean French language; their verbiage is unparalleled in descriptiveness.  No, no, no, you don’t eat peanuts, you crack peanuts.  And, it is decidedly a bad reflection on your character if you do not crack.  Take it from me.

Peanut butter, boiled peanuts, and cube-o-ground-peanut sustained me along an 8-hour journey from Ditinn to Labe this weekend.   That, and an awesome book I found in French, which is an Alfred Hitchcock story :))))

So, I'm on the roooad agaaainnnn...

Two weeks have passed since I was officially installed at my site.  

I had to say goodbye to my host family in Dubreka, which was a very sad affair.  Here's a picture of my host mom, me, my host sister, a random lady who I just met the day of the "farewell ceremony," and my sis's best friend.

You might be thinking, why, Kelsey, you appear to be rather uncomfortable in this picture...

You would be right.

You see, I'd forgotten that many Guineans just plain old, don't.smile.ever. for pictures.  So when I realized that my grin was a tad... out of place... yeah, I got self-conscious.

...but I still don't know why that other lady looks surprised.

Many tears were shed by Neene (mom), but then I found myself on a bus with all the other volunteers, heading down to Conakry for the swearing-in ceremony.  It was 4-ish days of awesome time spent with friends before we all went our separate ways.

So now, Ditinn is the name, English teaching is the game.  

Here is a picture of what my house looked like when I first visited it in August...

 And here's a picture of the house NOW, after a lot of remodeling...

They're also working on putting up a fence right  now.  This, I hope, will keep curious goat families from stampeding into my living room.

Each week, I teach 14 hours of English to the Douzieme (12^th) and Terminal grades.  Thus far, we have reviewed verb tenses and have touched on some “emotional expressions.”  And, thus far, I have been invited to visit many of my students’ villages, to cook lunch for my fellow teachers and to meet one of my neighbor’s parents after touring his home.  (I’m fairly certain that last guy was asking me out, but I’ve gotten really good at playing the part of “oblivious porto,” so he eventually gave up.) 

A few facts about my life right now:

1.  I go by “Miss Aicha” in class.  My students and all of my neighbors find this infinitely amusing, and make a point to argue over which family I belong to (the Diallos, Bahs, Sows, or Baldés).  As my host family was “Barry,” I’m sticking with that.  At least, until someone makes me a dowry offer that I can’t refuse… but it would take a whole lot of kola nuts and cattle to change my mind.

2.  Every night, hoards of cows pass by my house.  Some elect to plop right down in my front yard for the night.  Sometimes, they decide to rub up against my metal windows, thus creating a frightful racket that sounds to me like a drunken bear is trying to claw its way into my living room.  

Hey.

And, every so often, it would seem that the cows choose to reenact the shower scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s “Psycho.”  I do not know what they’re doing, be it copulation, some crazy cow ritual, or simply letting off some steam at the end of the day, but the noises they make are ungodly. 

But on a less off-putting note, here's a pic of my living room.  There's now a huge calendar that I painted on the wall, and I hope to continue with the impromptu art projects.

3.  I can now make peanut sauce like a Guinean.  My host mom taught me well.  I can also live off peanut sauce and rice for a total of 5 meals before it becomes clear to me that I never want to smell, taste or see peanut sauce ever again.  (I’m certain this will pass.  Peanut sauce really is delicious.  But, please consider coming to Guinea to share some with me.  A girl can only take so many days of leftovers, you know.) 

4.  In case you were wondering, the Hell’s Angels have relocated indefinitely to Guinea.  Everyone, and I mean everyone has a motorcycle here.  Yesterday, I saw an eight-year-old conducting a moto down the hill into town, with his 6-year-old brother and perhaps 5-year-old sister on the seat behind him.  So, actually, I’ve been lead to conclude that American biker gangs would last all of two seconds here.  Traveling these roads is like engaging in a monumentally fast-paced game of “I Spy (the pot-hole/ravine)” and “dodgeball”, only, the balls are now longhorn bulls.  It takes years of practice to master.

5.  Ditinn might just be one of the prettiest places I have ever seen, and my neighbors have been extremely welcoming.  

To send you off with some of my own warm fuzzies, here are some pictures from my trip to the Chute de Ditinn with friendly guides...

The view leading up to the Chute.

Along the trail...

The dude all in red has proposed multiple times.

I'll be sure to send you guys the wedding invitation at least 3 months in advance.  

It should get to you in time.

And, drum roll please...

 the CHUTE.

Happy Halloween and

TTFN!