random thoughts

It’s weird being an American woman and yet not being in America, and yet I’m not a Guinean woman even though I am in Guinea.  There is a range of experiences and definitions of “Guinean women” and while “African women” and “Guinean woman” hold very different connotations than what I hold as an American woman, there’s lots of room within those categories for difference.  The women in my compound, while each of them very strong and loving women, have taken very different roles in the day-to-day goings on of the family.  My host mother, the first afternoon I was there, spent the evening complaining that the embroidery on the 26 new pairs of clothing she had had tailored (for herself and for other members of the family) weren’t intricate enough, while another women sat beside her folding back up the clothing and trying to console her, and two other women sat around the fire cooking baby formula for the youngest son.  I thought the clothing was beautiful, but apparently it wasn’t up to her standards.  I relate none of this as a way of mocking or judging at all, but rather an interesting experience of the multiplicity of experiences even within my compound.  I’m still trying to find where I am in all of this, because I’m treated as a guest, but very much feel closer to the other women who go about their lives in a much more simple, content, and lighthearted way. 

In all of this, too, I’m finding out what it means to be myself, to be who I am in this new place.  I love my independence, being able to be out of the house and doing (mostly) my own thing.  I like walking downtown, through the markets, to buy bread and jam as a comfort snack, and going to the internet place to connect with those of you not with me here, and hanging out with friends in their different compounds.  And yet I also very much value the time I get to spend with my host family, greeting the women in the morning and laughing with the kids and talking about traveling with my host dad.  There’s so much going on in-between these times, too, of learning and trying and failing; of picking myself up and brushing it all off and letting it go; of reminding myself that it’s ok, that it’ll all work out in the end, that there’s something more to all of this, that each experience is valid and important and different; that there’s no way to do everything in three months and that even in Guinea challenge by choice is a thing.  There’s so much going on, new and different and challenging and rewarding, that every day feels like a rollercoaster.  It’s such a beautiful and difficult thing. 

October 4, 2013

Week one at work complete and I think I’m finished with my first piece on the loom!  I’ve got the easy part down, and today I even got to do weave a design into the fabric.  Monday we’re going to take what I have finished off, and my mentor, Vincent, is going to work with me and teach me how to set everything up.  He thinks we can do it in a day.  But he also said that he could complete a piece on the loom in about a day, too, so we’ll see what happens Monday.  It might take all week to get all the string cut and laid out and threaded correctly, but I’m excited to see the whole thing from start to finish (he had the piece I was working on already set up when I got there), and to be able to start a new project so soon (although soon is relative here also). 

I’m weaving almost every day, Monday through Friday; Saturday we have class at the university and Sunday is an off-day.   I wish I could tell you what an average day is like, but I’m still figuring out what is “normal” and “average” and all those fun things that go into a daily schedule.  Breakfast is sometimes bread, and sometimes my host dad takes me to his restaurant and we eat lafidi, a type of rice and sauce dish.  I try to get to work between 9 and 9:30, and I set up the loom outside under the Grapefruit and Mango trees (though neither are in season currently) and I weave until lunch around 1 or 2, that is if we’re not taking a coffee break at the restaurant next door, or trying to communicate directions in broken French, or trying to learn small Maninkekan (the local Mande dialect spoken in Kankan) phrases from the guys that wonder over from the restaurant, or taking a break to rest my hands and wipe the sweat running down my legs.  Lunch is mostly rice and sauce, but Thursday I had Toh and sauce, which is another staple food to the Maninke diet that is made from maize, but it’s consistency is gelatinous, like what happens when you mix ground flax seed with water.  I really like the rice and sauce, but I had to fight some serious gag reflexes with the Toh.  I’m just glad there were no fish bones in it, also.  People here eat lots of fish, which is absolutely delicious, but they make these things that we’ve named “fish balls” which is like a meat ball made of fish and a local green that’s kind of like spinach or kale, and it’s good, but the amount of fish bones in it makes eating it really hard.  After lunch, I weave for another hour or two, and then put everything away and go…  hang out with the women inside and learn how to use a treadle sewing machine (that was Monday), or downtown to the internet place (that was Tuesday), or to the house to hang out with friends (Wednesday), or to the bakery (the only one in town) for an informal debrief of the week with the group (Thursday), or to language class (Friday).  I get back to my compound around 6:00 or so, and then hang out with the family for the evening, and eat dinner, and then crash early and go to bed; the first night I made it to 10:15, but last night I was falling asleep at 8:00, and since I couldn’t keep my eyes open, I explained I was really tired (or at least really tried to) and went to bed early. 

My host family is extremely nice, and while communication is still really difficult (no one speaks English at the house and my French is really broken – though improving – and my Maninkekan limited to basic greetings and things), I like living with them.  My host parents are in their mid-thirties and have two young children, approximate ages 2 and 3, and they also have five other women in the house who cook and clean and take care of the children, who range in age from 15 to over 70.  Most of the cooking gets done at the extended family compound just across the road, and since I’m away at work most of the day I haven’t gotten to help cook yet, but it’s on my list of things to ask to help with next week.  I’ve been strangely busy this first week, but I’m hoping as things settle down and I begin to learn more about what’s happening around the home, that I’ll feel more comfortable reaching out and asking to help with things.

Happy Tuesday

I moved into my homestay yesterday, and I have never before felt more alone.  You’d think that being with a family, with lots of people around to talk and laugh and say nice things that I’d feel less lonely, but really it just makes me miss home even more.  Yesterday afternoon though, I was sitting under a tree with the women who were cooking dinner, and I happened to look up at the sky.  It caught me off guard how much it looked like home.  It was the same sky I looked up at when I was a kid, swinging as high as I could on the swings behind the garage; the same sky I looked at from the front porch of my new home, sharing stories with family; the same sky I looked up at from the top of the zip tower, wishing there was some way I could climb higher; the same sky I looked up at from the Quad at college, pretending to do homework with friends, but really just enjoying each other’s company.  I looked up at the same sky this summer, from the top of the stargazer in the meadow, eating pack-out lunch with a cabin of giggling girls.  And now, I look up to the same sky, through the vibrantly colored laundry hanging on the line, through the deep green leaves of the tree over my head, to the white clouds and blue sky high above me.  It’s so far away, and yet it seems to descend upon me, wrapping me up in a soft blanket of cool comfort on another hot day.  

This morning it’s raining, but I’ve moved into my room, into the place I’ll be staying for the next few months, and it’s really a great place.  Honestly, it’s nicer than any place I’ve ever stayed for an extended period of time; I have my own bathroom (complete with a western-style toilet and a tap with running water to wash with) and the main house has a TV with more channels than I have at home (more than 300, though they don’t all always work).  Two curious smiling faces just poked their heads around the door to wonder what the “tu ba boo” (foreigner) was doing in her room alone.  Their open, honest curiosity catches me off guard sometimes, but I have to remind myself how much of a spectacle I am in this place, and that while I’m here to learn about life through their eyes, they can’t help but be curious about what life is like through my eyes.  We seem so weird to each other, so different, so foreign, but we’re learning, slowly and not without difficulty, how alike we are also.  We may live on opposite sides of the world, but the sky above remains the same.  The sky rains when we’re not expecting it, bringing the cool, clarifying winds and breaking the heat after a long day of work (I’ve never had sweat drip down my legs before from just sitting), and yet the sun comes also from the same sky, making the plants grow and providing light to see by.  And in the midst of all of this, the deep blue twinkles overhead, always there, always out of reach.  Just knowing it’s there though, and that as I look up at the sky, you too see it similar, through the windows of your classrooms, or your homes, from the mountains you’ve climbed; from the shores of the oceans to the backyards and parks and places you’ve hanged your hammocks.  

The sky calls to me, calling me home, calling me here, calling me to fly; and yet the tree giving me shade invites me to stay, to relax, to rest a while.  I’ll rest here for a little while, and then I’ll be off again.  My roots hold me strong as the sky beckons me upward, each a place of love, yet with such different things to offer. 

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.