Oh, The Places You'll Go

I’m becoming more and more convinced that there’s been a mix-up with my placement…

Instead of Guinea, it would seem that I’ve been transplanted in Dr. Seuss’s re-write of West Africa.  We’ve got

smoked fish,

stewed fish,

beaned fish,

bouled fish,

Guinea mice,

            gniri rice,

vaches coronés,

wasps elongés,

Magic poly-wog ponds,

            Branch tooth-brushing wands,

Smoking-dog mountains,

            Pogo-pump fountains,

Foté-Porto-Toubabou mimes,

            And mushroom-topped Fouta pines.

Throw in some Star-Bellied Sneeches, and you’ve got yourself a new children’s book of elephantine proportions.

I’m writing this post during my site visit in the heart of the Fouta Jallon region of Guinea.  Folks, I’ve seen some beautiful landscapes in my 23 years.  Not a one of them has made my jaw drop like this place.  In all seriousness, it feels like I’ve been up and moved to a different planet.  The ride from Mamou (where we had our supervisor/trainee workshop) to Dalaba was a foggy and bumpy two-hours along an intermittently-paved mountain road.  Luckily, I made the journey with another volunteer, Shadassa.  He’s from Oregon, and we agreed that the scenery was eerily similar to that of the Pacific Northwest.  Except, you know, there are monkeys here.  When the fog grew really thick, you couldn’t see beyond the first row of trees (probably best, as I would have been looking directly into a deep ravine), and it felt as though we were driving along the very edge of the earth.

After Shadassa and I parted ways in Dalaba-Centre (he headed North to Fonfoya), my supervisor and I went off the beaten path, East towards Ditinn.  The road was the most vibrant rust red I’ve ever seen, and a good ¾ of the journey was made at a 45-degree angle.  That’s this, folks:

  

Here’s to killer thighs and calves of steel after 2-years of biking legit mountains!  In the distance, there are dense forests (both pines and some nifty dandelion-looking trees are the most common) and rolling green planes, as well as innumerable hills and valleys hiding small, neighboring villages from sight.  From the center of the village, I can see a waterfall that, even at 4.5 miles away, looks like a thick and bushy horse’s tail.  People call it “Le chute de Ditinn”.  After expressing interest in visiting, I was told I’d have to wait until November, once the rains had ceased.  Apparently, there is so much water flowing at this time of year that it can be dangerous to hike there.  My conclusion is this:  If the PNW Cascade Mountain range and Oahu’s road to Hana had a love-child, Ditinn would be it.  I must keep reminding myself that this is Africa.

Today I toured around and met many, many important men in Ditinn.  They showed me my future lodging, the lycée where I’ll be teaching, the market, the Gendarmerie and police station, and the mayor’s house.  I’ve gotten really good at Pulaar salutations.  Here’s how a typical exchange went with my new neighbors:

Neighbor:        On hiirii e jam.                                    Good evening.

Kelsey:            On hiirii e jam                                     Good evening.

Neighbor:        Tanaa alaa tun?                                  Is there peace there?

Kelsey:            Jam tun.                                              Peace there.

Neighbor:        Beynguure nden le?                            And your family?

Kelsey:            Jam tun.                                              Peace there.

Neighbor:        Paykoykoy le?                                     And your children?    

Kelsey:            …Jam tun.                                           …Peace there. (you just go with it)

Neighbor:        Golle dhen le?                                     And your work?

Kelsey:            Jam tun.                                              Peace there.

Neighbor:        On jombaama?                                   Are you married?

Kelsey:            Oo’o, mi jombaaka.                            No, I’m not married.

Neighbor:        EH?? Allah.  On jaaraama, nani!      EH??  Lordy.  Thanks, ya hear!

Kelsey:            On jaaraama.  En jooni!                     Thanks.  See you later!

It’s a different world, folks.  One man, as I was walking down the street to the market one day, pointed at me and said to my supervisor “Ma femme!”  Translation: “My woman!”  It seems that simply having red hair, pale skin and freckles is going to earn me a LOT of attention.  I’m going to start a pool for all y’all: “How Many Marriage Proposals will Kelsey Accumulate in Two Years.”  Place your bets.

Now, I’m sitting around, trying to rest while my supervisor’s family waits to break fast.  Tomorrow is Aed al-Fikr (feast of the slaughter), which marks the official end of the month of Ramadan.  I’m very excited for it, though somewhat triste to be missing out on celebrating with my host family in Dubréka.  Ah well, there have been promises of a trip to a night club with them once I return.  Overall, I have very little understanding of what I’ll be doing for the next 4 days, though I have a suspicion that it will involve much hand-shaking, walking around and awkward first-meeting silences.  

I’ll be sure to keep you posted.