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.