November 13

Three weeks left before we leave.  For my family back home it’s still so far away, but for my family here, it’s way too soon.  I can’t believe it’s already been ten weeks.  Where has the time gone?  The days last forever and yet the weeks pass by so quickly.  My brain is like fried mush.  I’ve never lived with so much energy before and at the end of every day I’m absolutely exhausted.  And many times before the end of the day.  Because everything is challenging.  

Don’t get me wrong, there are just as many rewarding parts to each day as well, but even the good times are difficult.  Drinking coffee and eating fried plantains, buying beautiful fabric and delicious fresh fruit from the market, just walking down the street to get to class or taking a taxi moto across town to visit friends, it all requires so much energy.  And quiet time?  It hardly exists.  I came home yesterday and no one was home.  The next 5 minutes were the closest thing to peace and quiet I’ve had in a long time.  It just isn’t a thing here.  

And going to the library to do work, or even going to a café… first, you have to explain to everyone where you’re going and when you’ll be back; then you have to get there, either by walking or by taking a taxi, which involves haggling the price and avoiding dumb questions and trying to understand what people are saying; then once you get there, you have to greet everyone there and when you finally settle down to do work (that is, of course, assuming that where you are has electricity and you can plug your computer in) please, make sure you bring your earphones because then you won’t be able to hear everyone talking about you and you might actually get work done.  I’m so ready to just be normal again.  I never thought I’d say that.  

I take that back, I don’t want to be normal, but I would love to be where I knew what was going on, and I wasn’t stared at everywhere I went, and I could do what I needed to do without waiting for people, and I could communicate without being laughed at for not understanding, and I could just sit and watch the sun set and count the stars as the come out without being bitten by a thousand mosquitoes.  Life is great, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.  

I don’t write this as a complaint, but rather as a celebration.  A celebration for every struggle I’ve made it through, every small ounce of courage I’ve gained; every tear I’ve shed for my life back home, for all those whom I love and who return that love more than I’ll ever know; It’s a celebration of the golden sunlight that comes at the end of every day, no matter how long or tiring, the golden sunlight that promises the soft comfort of darkness, and the familiar comfort of my favorite hunter laying low on the horizon.  It’s a celebration of love, of patience, of deep respect; a celebration of the comfort of a simple handshake, even though we don’t agree, we never will, and despite the fact that I’m only 70% sure I understood the words you said.  But the celebration runs deeper than words, because I understood your hopes, your dreams; I understood the struggle to try to find your place in the world, and to make the most of the life before you; the struggle to follow your heart and the wishes of your family at the same time, and the struggle to remain with God through all of this.  

My brain may feel mike mush at the end of the day, but heart sings always for joy, for love, for life. 

October 26, 2013 - a few days ago, but internet.... enough said.

It’s been an interesting few weeks in my homestay.  There are such highs and yet also such times of frustration and confusion.  I’ve been abnormally busy these past few days, and I’ve slowly realized that I can’t actually function on overload for this long.  I’ve never tried to work 9:00 – 4:00 and remain enrolled in 16 credit hours, much less do so while living in a totally new place and trying to learn two languages at the same time.  I say it now and the realization of the impossible gives me the ability to let go, to take a new look, and to re-prioritize.  

We took a week off last week from living with our host families and taking classes and going to work, to explore a new part of Guinea.  I had such a great time, and it was refreshing to spend so much time in nature.  Dalaba, the city we stayed, is one of the most beautiful places; there are flowers and greenery all over.  We ate some really good food and hiked to the most breath-taking waterfalls.  We got stuck in the rain on the last day and had to hike 40 minutes uphill back to the car soaking wet, but we smiled all the way.  We splashed in puddles and waded across the road-turned-river, and when we finally made it back to the car, it was such a relief to be warm again that being cramped together, ten of us in a small car, for the hour ride back to the hotel was a good thing.  It was a great trip to see and do, but it was also great because it gave me time away from my busy life in Kankan to think about all that I wanted to do and get out of these last six weeks, because, believe it or not, we’re half-way through.  Crazy how fast time moves.  There’s a lot to do before I leave, and not lots of time to do it in.  But I have to be careful I don’t get too busy again, because as much as I love it here, there’s a lot going on, and if I want to be able to make the most of it, I need to make sure I make time for myself, too. 

Because there’s been so much stress and emphasis on doing, there just hasn’t been much time just for being.  I’m used to being busy, and I like being busy (or rather, I just don’t like being bored), but Papa whispers in my ear while I run around trying to find Her, “I’m here; I am with you already.”  And even though I hear it sometimes, it seems too good to be true; I keep looking because it really can’t be that easy, it’s not allowed to be easy.  I’m so undeserving, so small; I ignore Papa’s voice because I don’t think I deserve it, because I can’t imagine why She would choose me, why She would want to call me Her own.  I’m so broken, shattered into pieces too small and too distorted to put back together, but all the while Papa whispers to me, holding me together.  I thought Papa would go away if I decided not to listen, but She had other plans.  “I am here,” Papa calls to me, “and nothing you can do can change that.”  Can I believe that, can I know it with my heart?  I feel it in the hands of those who have opened up their homes to me, to feed me a meal and to feed my soul; I feel it in the voices of the many gathered every Sunday night to just be together, to believe through each other; I see it in the smiles of the broken ones, of those who have so many reasons to be sad, and yet stare up at the stars with such hope, such joy, as we walk hand in hand together across the field.  I sense it here, as I look up into the branches of the biggest tree I’ve ever seen, wishing this tree could talk and tell me things, what it’s seen, what it knows. 

Can I accept it?  Can I allow myself to open my heart to the love that Papa so freely gives?  Already there, already waiting, just for me.  The seed was planted long ago, and yet I’ve been searching so hard to find it.  It’s growing, and yet in my hurry and my want to see something else, I’ve overlooked it.  But Papa, I’ll never know why, She calls me and she lavishes her love upon me regardless.  I’m stubborn as a mule, but I’m beginning to see.  There are years of hurt and pain that threaten to keep the world at arm’s length, but Papa keeps loving, removing one layer at a time. 

There’s been a lot to see, a lot to do; lots of comings and goings, moving and making.  It’s not over, either.  There’s still lots of work to do, but Papa, She’s got it covered.  There are papers to write and people to interview; there’s cloth to be woven, and bogolan to be painted.  There are 40 more days of homestay confusion, of comings and goings, and nights out with friends.  But there’s also tea time and self-time, time for walks and time to stare up at the clouds and think.  Time to write and reflect and remember.  Each day is a blessing; I look around and see Papa’s fingerprints over everything, and a smile slowly spreads over my face.  Slowly, softly; sometimes I don’t even realize it, but it’s there, returning the love I feel so fortunate to receive. 

a day in the life...

I begin this post with a disclaimer because there really isn’t a typical day.  There are so many things going on and things change really quickly, so I never know what’s going to happen when I wake up in the morning, but I’ve tried to put together an average day so you know at least kind of what I’m doing on a day-to-day basis.

7:00 (give or take a half hour) – wake up to the sound of  others moving around the house (and roosters outside and even a few goats sometimes).  Crawl out of my bug tent and open the shutters to let in the cool and refreshing morning air.  Use the bathroom, get dressed, brush my teeth, fold up my tent, make sure I’ve got my meds, make some Gatorade or other re-hydration- type drink to during the day if I need it.  Kill a few spiders and mosquitoes in the process, and make sure I have everything else ready for the day with me in my bag. 

8:00 – be ready to go.  Although we normally don’t leave till 8:20 or 8:30, I still try to be ready early because even though my host dad wears a big fancy watch, it doesn’t work, plus, it’s Africa and things are never on time. 

8:30 – finally leave for the restaurant.  This is after starting the car (which the past few days has taken pushing it across the yard a few times before it starts) and saying hellos to the extended family living around the corner. 

8:45 – breakfast!  It’s called lafidi, and it’s a type of rice and sauce.  It’s delicious, even though it’s heavy on the stomach early in the morning.  If I hear it in time, I refuse the soda they try to give me, and hope they don’t bring out a whole fish to put on top of it (fish have teeth.  I spent all breakfast looking at them.  Just to give you an idea).  If I’m feeling brave, I “remember” my manners and say the proper blessing at the end of the meal, and then just sit there awkwardly until my host dad says it’s time to go and finds someone to take me to work on a moto.  Yes, on the back of a small motorcycle. It's womderful (and safe, mom, everyone here does it and there aren't serious accidents because with the road conditions you can't go above 30mph).

9:30 (or so…) – arrive at the CAFF (it’s name means something about the center for the advancement of women), and greet everyone there.  There’s a lot of people there, but it makes me feel good about myself because I’m really good at greeting people in Maninkakan.  After that, I set up the loom outside and start weaving!  Things are interesting because I sit in the front yard of the center and just hang out with my mentor and lots of other people who stop by to stare at the “tu ba boo” (foreigner/ white person) sitting outside doing a traditional craft.  It’s a lot of fun.  Aside from getting to create some really awesome weaving (I’m improving and my mentor even said I was learning really quickly), I just sit there and observe life; I watch the kids and women selling cassava and water and peanuts and oranges from buckets on the top of their heads, and the loading and unloading of taxis that happens right outside the front gate of the center.  The guys hanging out at the restaurant next door will occasionally wonder over and say hello or try to have longer conversations, some of which I can begin to understand and others of which I just sit there and pretend to understand. 

1:30 (or 2:00, or 2:30, or 3:00) – Lunch!  Normally it’s rice and sauce and fish balls, but I’ve had couscous once and toh once.  I head inside to where the women are sewing, and I sit and eat lunch and watch them sew while they try to sometimes talk to me and most times just talk amongst themselves in a language that’s beautiful, but too fast for me to follow. 

After – I head back to the loom to work some more.  Work and watch and learn.

3:30 or 4:00 – finish what I’m working on for the day and take down/ put away my work for the night.  When I’m done, I say good-bye to my mentor, and then wait until someone can take me home for the day.  Or go somewhere else, which is most normally the case.  Sometimes it’s to the internet place, other times it’s to the bakery to meet friends for some much needed English conversation and debrief of the week; once a week we have language class.  This week, Wednesday through Saturday, we have Bogolan workshops at the center, so at 4:00, everyone comes to me, and we hang out with this fantastic artist from Bamako and do some Bogolan paintings and learn about the art of Bogolan.  I don’t have time now to do the art justice, but it’s super cool if you want to look it up. 

6:30 (or so…) – get back to my compound.  Remember to greet the neighbors as I walk by, and to try not to look too drained as I greet my host family in my own compound.  Normally I take time to “wash” when I get home, and what that means is I go into my room and crash on my bed and sometimes cry and sometimes eat jam with bread, and sometimes just lay in bed and look at the ceiling congratulating myself on (almost) making it through another day.  I do end up “washing” which is in quotations because really I’m just dumping water on myself and scrubbing vigorously.  It’s really great and really refreshing because the water is cold and feels really cleansing, taking off layers of sweat and grime that have built up over the course of the day’s events. 

After – head back to the main house and sit on the couch awkwardly for the next few hours with the family watching TV.  Eat dinner, which has been “salad” and some more rice and sauce (though once it was plantains!)  When I gain the courage to say something, I declare that I’m tired and am going to bed.  Sometimes this happens as early as 8:30, and other times I can make it to 9:30 or so.  And one night I stayed up with the women sitting outside talking until 10:20.  That’s really late for me. 

When I get back to my room I crash.  I set up my mosquito tent, sometimes if there’s electricity I’ll fold clothes and try to get some work done on my computer, but mostly I just go to sleep.  The days are really long and exhausting and draining, but they’re also going by really really fast and they’re so much going on and I love it here, I really do.

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.