Today I went to the internet place and it wasn't a scary ordeal!

Today it’s rainy, which, if I were back home would be an absolutely horrible thing because it’s the end of September and the leaves are turning and the grey skies really put a damper on things.  But here it’s beautifully relaxing.  The sky, even though it’s covered with clouds and there’s no blue to be found anywhere, it’s really wonderful because it’s blocking the sun just enough to make it a not super-hot day.  Just a hot day.  I’ve been here three weeks and the heat still surprises me.  It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before, and it’s been a struggle adjusting to life where the sun shines bright and hot from dawn till dusk, and even after sunset, the heat still lingers.  I know I talk about it a lot, but the heat is a lot.  At times it’s oppressive, and we often hide in the house for a few hours every day after lunch and nap or read or just sit and talk, because it really is too hot to do anything.  But enough about the heat, because even though it’s constant, there’s a lot more going on also.

Yesterday we went to a local wood carving studio and the men at the studio showed us around and talked to us about their work, about the masks and figures they created, both “traditional” and “modern.”  I use these words in quotations because there are modern things about the traditional works and traditional things about the modern works, and these categories are not exclusive.  They are categories that the men themselves use, but just being there, in the midst of such a mélange of different cultures and different means of expression, it is hard to say that one thing is traditional and one thing is not.  The influences for these masks and sculptures are from local cultures and local expressions, but they are mostly produced for the tourist art market (they have a small boutique and they also sell to venders in Conakry and Bamako, as well as other cities nearby).  This mix of “tradition” and “modern” has challenged my perceptions of these terms normally presented as opposite, because the work these men do blends the lines and challenges the separateness of these two categories, as well as the connotations that comes with each of them.  So many aspects of life here have been this way, and while it’s a constant struggle to embrace both simultaneously without trying to fit things into my preconceived notions of how thins “should” be, it’s been a blessing to be able to see how beautifully people here mixed these colors, have woven so many aspects of life together, that the duality of “tradition” and “modern” gets lost in everything else. 

I am extremely thankful for my time here thus far, and I’ve only been here for three weeks.  I’ve been challenged in so many ways, and with moving in to my host family next Monday, there are more challenges to come.  Sometimes I look back on the path that lead me to here and I can’t believe everything happened as it was supposed to (even with a few bumps and bruises along the way), and that I’m now here in West Africa.  Part of me is still in disbelief, shocked at the simple fact that I am here, and overwhelmed by the love and support that has brought me to this place.  I feel like my journey here is still in its beginning, and every moment something new arrives.  Through all the struggles and all the triumphs, I go to sleep exhausted every night, and wake up in the morning to the rising sun, ready or not, more attuned them ever to the rhythms of the earth and the rhythms within me. It’s not always easy, but every moment is worth it. 

Yesterday's thoughts, today's internet access...

September 25, 2013

It’s hard to believe that I’ve been here for almost three weeks already.  Exactly three weeks ago I was running around the house getting last-minute things taken care of and trying to conceal the worry and fear that was beginning to seep in to my carefully put-together attitude.  Three weeks ago I was terrified about setting out for this journey, and three weeks later, I’m still nervous and worried about what’s to come.  On Monday we move out of our group residence and in with our host families.  We got to spend last Sunday afternoon with our host families, and while it helped ease a great deal of tensions, it also made me aware of how little I knew of both Maninkekan and French, and how overwhelming it is to be in an environment where nothing is familiar.  Throughout all of this, though, there is a strange comfort that has begun to grow within me.  I’m still trying to figure out where it has come from and why being in totally over my head is comforting, because it really isn’t comfortable when you don’t know how to sit, don’t know how to eat, don’t know what to say, don’t know how to say it, don’t know where to go, don’t know what’s going on, don’t know how to act, don’t know anything.  It’s not comforting; it’s awkward and overwhelming and the minutes move so slowly and I have no idea what is expected of me, much less what is normal, and I just wish I knew, for once, what was going on or what was being said or what people wanted me to do, and yet I’ve found a weird comfort in all of it.  Because when you don’t know what’s going on outside, it’s really important to understand what’s going on inside, what I’m thinking and feeling, how I’m doing in this strange new world. 

And I mean this in the most beautiful and complimentary way.  I love the strangeness, love the beauty that challenges my idea of beauty, love the work that makes me understand and appreciate difference, love the difference that opens my eyes to similarity, to humanity.  I didn’t expect this semester to be easy, but I also didn’t expect it to be this hard.  Yet, like the gardens outside our compound where the vegetables and plants are growing with no rhyme or reason to me, there is some kind of order, some kind of pattern that makes sense to someone, even if I’ll never know.  But it’s there, and even not knowing what it is, just knowing that it exists is enough.  The comfort that has strangely found its way into my time here may also be like that.  I don’t know where it came from, it’s certainly not from the food (though it is delicious) or the daily activities (if you need water, the well is right over there) or the weather or the personal hygiene practices (toilet paper? It doesn’t exist) or the familiar faces (ha) or the language (haha) or the classes or the sounds (was that a rooster?) or the sights or the smells (incense or burning trash pile?), but it’s there none the less.  And even if I’m not sure where it’s coming from, it sure makes me smile at the end of the day, because I zip-up my bug tent and know Papa’s right there with me.

internet, oh internet

I knew I wouldn’t have much access to internet, but I was hopeful I would be able to use it more than what actually exists currently.  The internet is an expensive commodity here, and in the midst of everything else going on, it’s kind of a chore to walk downtown to the internet café (a forty minute walk), try to talk to the people there (in a mixture of French, Maninkekan, and gestures) to tell them I need access to the internet for an hour, and then wait as the internet loads, which I thought took a long time at home (sorry, mom), but it’s nothing in comparison to here.  Which, is really great.  I didn’t come to Guinea to live as I would back in the states, and getting used to the internet here is one of those things that is just different here.  All of this being said, I am going to try to update my blog weekly, but the update will (hopefully) contain thoughts from multiple days and multiple times, as I have electricity to write them on my computer.  I apologize in advance for the lack of consistent communication, but alas, when in Guinea, do as the Guineans!  But if that were the case, I would never go to the internet café (and I also wouldn’t wear pants ever).  So I guess what I’m trying to say is that my life here is a weird mixture of luxuries from the states (like electricity and running water), and things from here in Kankan, like fresh bread every morning and delicious food, and unexpected kindness from so many people.  Life is always a surprise, always finding ways to show me new things, and to teach me more about myself and the world around me than I ever could have imagined. 

a little time to think, to breathe

I’ve been here just over a week now, and I’m still in awe of this place.  As I sit on the roof and look out over the river valley, with the houses scattered among the trees and the clouds floating as they may in the sky, I feel overwhelmed and comforted at the same time.  Nick is speaking French to Bakari, our Manikekan teacher (the local language), and the children outside the compound shout back and forth to each other in Maninke; the roosters continue to crow, the goats occasionally join in, and five times a day, the call to prayer sounds at the mosque next door.  Sometimes it’s hard to believe I really am here.  I often need to remind myself to  pause every now and then, to close my eyes and take a deep breath.  My fingers feel strange on the keyboard, using up precious battery life on my computer.  We’ve been three nights now without electricity, and while I absolutely love how the stars look without the interference of the houselights, it would be nice to charge things like my computer and my phone.  But what can you do?  Things work differently than we’re used to, and everything comes with its positives and negatives.  I've found it’s best to enjoy these good things while they’re here, and leave the worrying to Papa.

Yet, as much as I try for this ideal, I would be lying to say I adhered to it all the time.  But such is life.  The lights still don’t turn on, and the plumbing doesn’t work, and we still don’t have any furniture, and I never stop sweating, and I “forgot” to do the assigned readings, and living in close quarters with a small group of people is actually really challenging, and Dougo is blown away by the fact that none of us has ever eaten beef heart, and the women in the market smile and laugh at us as we stumble over simple words like yam (koo) and banana (namasa), and we smile and laugh back as the children call “bye-bye” to us as we walk down the road to our house, and the women in the market are patient as we stumble over a mixture of French and manikakan, trying to buy food for breakfast in the morning, and the “Dutch oven” we tried to bake cookies in last night accidentally melted and caught on fire, and Banaby translated the entire lesson last Sunday in church just for me, and you can see the heat radiating from the rooftop, but the rain clouds loom in the distance promising a break, soon, very soon.  They whisper to me and taunt me and when they finally arrive, all will be still again.  Except the rush to bring the clean clothes in from the line, and to get water from the well to wash and flush the toilets with before doing so means getting absolutely drenched, and making sure homework papers are off the porch in case the wind picks up, and……  

I steal a moment to myself before lunch, here on the rooftop, to breathe, and to remember why I’m here; to look out over the trees and the river a little ways away, and the kids and chickens and goats who roam freely outside our compound.  I’m so blessed to be here.  There is so much space here, space that is how it is and does what it does, since before I came here and will continue so after I leave.  Space to think and space to explore, space to make mistakes; space to laugh and play and dance, to move my arms and my legs, as I spin in the slow circle of mummiya; space to breathe, as I set aside my expectations of others and slowly release to the coming winds my own expectations of myself.  With every breath, I slowly relax into the complicated and beautiful rhythms of this place, and as I do so, a smile slowly spreads across my face and love radiates from my heart.  I pray the winds may carry my love to you, where ever you are. 

Guinea!

I like the rain because it reminds me of who’s in charge.  Because it comes whether you’re ready or not, whether you want it or you don’t.   It’s cleansing; the air, the ground, the spirit that moves  around us, within us.  It’s refreshing, reenergizing.  This is the rainy season here in Guinea, and the weather sure lives up to its name.  The thing that they don’t tell you is that in between the rains it’s hot.  Which is to be expected, but nothing I was prepared for after a mild summer on the west coast where I slept most nights in a sweater and long pants.  Most nights here (ok, so the four we’ve spent here so far), I’ve slept in a tent on the porch, trying to catch every little breeze possible because even after the sun goes down, I’m still sweating buckets.  But the rain rinses the sweat off me more effectively than the buckets of water I’ve been pouring over myself to “shower” every day, and so I stay outside as long as I can, until the thunder begins to rumble in the distance. 

This place really is unlike anything I’ve ever seen and further away from anything I could have expected.  Everything is new, and exciting and challenging and amazing.  Sunday we got to ride the “moto-taxi”s for the first time, and went downtown for the afternoon.  We walked through the markets, and bought fabric for new outfits (most our luggage was lost because of flight delays, but will be here tomorrow).  The cloth here is so beautiful, and I can’t wait till we can go back to the tailor to pick up our clothes. 

Language classes are moving quickly and kicking my butt, but it’s so fascinating.  I have to remind myself to take it easy sometimes, but there’s so much to see and so much to do!  Our anthropology and arts classes begin tomorrow with a dance workshop (hopefully! Time here works differently than back home), but we’re staying busy anyways, learning how to do laundry with a wash board, and other self-care things in an environment completely different than what we’re used to.  I’m definitely not sued to the heat and to the sweating and fatigue it so quickly brings about.  It’s different here, that’s for sure, and that’s why I love it; I’m learning so much, about myself, about the people around me, and about the way things work here.  I’m eating well (the food is wonderful), and miraculously have only gotten one mosquito bite, despite not having bug spray (it’s in my luggage still yet to arrive.  Yes, mom, I’m taking my meds and staying safe and healthy, and I’m beautifully and wonderfully happy in this place which a week ago was a dot on the map, and which has now become so full of life and love.