How the Day goes by.....

Drying rice grains has usurped the place of drying clothes on the street.  Now is the ‘recult’ (harvest) and all able hands are busy gathering and preparing the staple crop. (Ive heard Guineans say that they can eat and eat and eat everything and have a huge feast, but they don’t feel satisfied until they’ve eaten rice….of course they’ve never had lasagna so the bizarre situation of asking for a side of rice with the lasagna hasn’t ever occurred to anyone here).  Anyway, the division of labor usually plays out that boys and men go out to cut the rice and women whack the stalks so the grains fall off at home when they bring the rice in, and then they dry and store it (but Ive seen sexes swap these roles too).  After the harvest is the time for most traditional dances to take place, and even more so in the villages – I hope I'm invited to partake !

      I’ve been told that if people wait too long to gather their harvest people will come and steal it at night! Also, I just found out this applies to bananas (which explains why these green bananas I bought have taken over 2 weeks to ripen !)  I would think villagers would be more contentious about each others' harvests, but , maybe this is sign of 'Guinea’s difficult times.

    After a 2 week break due to the general election confusion, the kids drum & dance school started back up again today with balaphone (xylophone) practice.  I get in on the action with a tin can filled with seeds aka a shaker.  I marvel how the balaphone teacher taps out a fast rhythm for the kids to learn, and isn’t even watching his hands !  Each instrument has its own unique sound due to its rustic wood, twine and gourd construction.  One of the young girls sings out a “Yankadi” rhythm, a boy and a girl are on the balaphones, and one boy is on djembe along with the balaphone teacher accompanying and motivating the song along.  Yaya (the principle teacher at the drum school) taps out at will his syncopatic volition's on djembe.  Its all quite groovy. 

     We go for a breather in the shade of the building but then move under the mango tree because we cant talk with all the banging on the drums the kids are doing.  They’re so amped to be back on the drums after their vacation – and listening to them you wouldn’t think at all that a group of 10 year olds was creating such a rocking sound!  Yaya sits askance on his chair, as usual, smokes a cigarette, and digs into telling me about a village he lived in for 6 years and the old men that talk to the ‘djenes’ in the baobabs.  He does it so nonchalantly I listen and don’t try to sway the conversation but just let him get out what he wants to put on the table --- is he trying to test my comprehension?  He’s going deep but I follow; but then the kids come out and the conversation shifts.  One of the boys has a homemade instrument consisting of a 2ft long stick with one fishing line tied along it and running through a tin can fastened onto the bottom end.  He’s playing out a fast rhythm picking with a small twig at the can end and plucking with his thumb at the other; the sound is twangy and catchy, and he’s got a huge smile on his face.  I'm impressed that he’s able to keep a beat with such an unassuming instrument, the mark of a true musician  - real cool.  I dig it and his big smile is mirrored on my face too. The song he’s playing is foreign to my ears, but Yaya immediately recognizes it and humors him by humming out the rhythm and correcting him in an encouraging way.  The old teacher sees himself in the actions of the young pupil, and so the generations appreciate each other and keep each other going. 

      Yaya wants to drum with me a bit, so we go inside and jam for 15 before lunch comes.  The school is sponsored by UNICEF and each day the kids get a simple lunch – today its rice with bony-fish and oily pepper sauce (oh these peppers are serious ! ).  All the kids huddle around a large bowl and eat with their hands and Yaya and I share one bowl with spoons (he insists on me eating here, as well as giving me a gargantuous share – I eat some but leave the rest, knowing that the kids are more than happy to finish what I leave behind).   School’s now done for the day so I walk through the sweltering , humid heat back home across the village and assume my rightful position at the hammock.  I ‘drink’ a few oranges (as they say here , because people don’t eat oranges they squeeze peeled ones into their mouth….sometimes a very messy process indeed, depending on the cooperation of the orange).  I read for a few minutes before I doze into mid-day dreamland; and 45 min later I awake sweaty and disoriented.  “ah, yes” I see I’m in the hammock.  I change scenery and play guitar for a while, sitting on the ground in the shade of the building because my favorite morning spot to practice is in full sun now.  I get a call from Adrissa aka street name ‘9-6,’ who’s wondering where the group’s English teacher is??  I started street side English lessons for a small group of college students yesterday, and 6 students came to study and another 5 looked on.  I appreciate their enthusiasm and interest – they seem to get that motivation is key to life.  So, I tuck my baby (my guitar) away and head out across the village again.  After the obligatory ‘big-up’ fist punches and greetings in French we sit down on the rickety wooden benches (which I must include, are actually in the gutter) and get started.  The group has seemed to have picked up some English along their way in life – movies? Rap music?  So we can have a little more than basic conversation.  Their favorite phrase of the day was after I told them how to say " I have a headache," I switched it up and said jokingly, " You give me a headache!" They laugh and get this right away. 
      Sali, one of the stylish girls that hangs out with this college crew, was supposed to come by to teach me some dance but she's getting her hair done (most girls/women here do this once a week - braids, extensions, you name it, they create it. So, word to the easily confused, don't try to recognize women here by their hairstyle!)  She comes later and we start to dance a bit, but its now dark and there's a big ditch behind our small practice space, and its hard to see her movements as her skin now blends in with the night sky.  So I say I think its better to practice earlier and another day.
     As promised, an elder lady that likes to take care of some of the college kids has adopted me as one of her own, and prepared for me a big pot of dinner which she sends over with her grandson.  I open the lid and it turns out to be a sort of soup with potatoes, yams, taro, manioc, green banana, hot peppers and fish.  Ital food, yum!  I was very surprised because this is remarkably similar to what they call "fish broth soup" in Trinidad and Tobago (which is one of my favorites).  I will remember to share with her tomorrow how 'its a small world after all' , and that ancestors all the way over the Atlantic are making the same thing too ! ..... yes I can almost smell is wafting across the sea.........
          

The Watering Hole

Today is a day to venture to a new spot along the Bondabon river.  In order to get there, we bramble through the village in an up-down, zigzag fashion. We walk along what i would call 'goat tracks' and cut through basically everyones' yard/outdoor living space/outdoor kitchen en route.  I would feel awkward doing this on my own - having to explain myself to so many families - but as I'm walking with a local, I can just wave and pass on through without complications.  Its pretty interesting getting this cross-section of the village.  I'm sure it's quite startling to randomly see a white lady walk through your yard and then keep walking, almost like an apparition.  Maybe I will become fodder for the evening's story tonight ! ha
I only wish i could take more pictures, I mean I could,  but i dont want to interrupt the flow of the day.  Usually when I ask to take people's photo here, they stop whatever was interesting that they were doing (that I wanted to take a picture of) and line up!  So much for a candid shot!  So i just let everyone be and take the scene in and let it all be recorded to memory to relate in as much truth as possible later : )
     So, we pass through shaded dirt courtyards; past thatch cooking huts; groups of women pounding grain; kids beating the freshly harvested rice stalks; families sitting around eating and chatting; women stirring pots big pots, cooking on the charcoal fires; men preparing tea etc etc
We cross over the RR tracks, cross a creak, hike up hills and down hills, jump over trash piles......this simple outing has turned out to be quite the trek - but so worth it.
We finally get to the river, and I am hot , sweaty and ready to jump in.
This spot here is the last rapids area before the river dumps into the sea.  The river is open here and very scenic, fringed by palm and other greenery and is boardered by big rock slabs.
We are not the only ones who've come to this spot however, there's a big group of women doing their washing with their hoards of little kids playing around (luckily they're on the other side of the river);  a fisherman is working on bundling piles of branches also on the other side of the river, but further down (hes also wearing only a pair of tiny red briefs); a few boys in late teens are gathering to practice their hiphop moves on the big smooth rock surfaces, in the breeze - they even do some head-spinning! (I'm pretty impressed); another group of boys sits in the shadows under some bushes, I'm guessing their smoking but not close enough to see or smell what;  the big palm trees opposite are laden with dozens and dozens of birds nests, it looks like Christmas ornaments (!) - along with the accompanying chirping-chattering raucous; and then there's this lone white lady, no one can ever figure out what she's doing or how she got here : )  Yes, I am these villagers entertainment as much as they are mine.
But, despite all these watching eyes, I strip down to my suit and thoroughly enjoy the waters coolness. Im glad to be welcome at the village's secret afternoon get-away.

Town and Country

I leave the village for one night , and one of my friends ends up in the hospital with malaria (and enjoys telling  me about the shots he had to take in his butt), the other spends the night in jail for chasing down a burglar but then he beat him up pretty bad.  Are they trying to tell me i shouldn't leave town? 
     I went to CKY to have tea at the ambassadors.  If you don't know anything about inviting PC folk to a nice function know this:  have lots of good food for the vultures to devour. PC volunteers have wide eyes and bottomless stomachs like hungry puppies.  We've been deprived too long, we look forward to the simplest of pleasures i.e. mixed nuts. Granted we may have been handed these on the plane or as a cheap snack in a bar and completely overlooked them before, but now when the lack of good food reaches all time highs, these simple snacks are golden. Worth fighting for really. Turn you're back and its gone.  Yes we are pathetic, but this is what we get reduced to.  In fact, I distinctly remember a time my mom called once while I was in Mali, and I was at a Mexican dinner where the food was just being put out.  I told her to call me later, otherwise I knew all the food would be gone, and this was a risk I wasn't about to take.  So anyway, needless to say, the tea in Conakry was a big success. We even made off with dinner napkins stuffed with cookies, mini-quiches, toasted almonds and the like - to be rationed out and consumed at a later, desperate time. The ambassador makes a hell of a 'purple punch' too.  I've been told it can be used to fuel the jets if the country runs out of fuel - I'd guess its been tested before.
           Its nice to be missed when i get back to village.  I walk around and make the rounds, telling everyone how Conakry was and how much i ate.  People love to hear any story that includes 'good eating.'  I walk with my friends to go check out a spot along the river, but its overgrown, so we turn back.  Its dusk now and i stop to watch the cranes flying into my favorite baobab tree.  I'm instantly reverential and in awe of nature.  This scene puts me at ease - I could do this every night.  When we get to the road, young boys are out practicing hiphop moves right in the middle of the street. Breaks, holds, and spins, they're full of energy and have found there own slice of freedom. 
        We get back to the 'stoop' (yes, the ghetto tradition has its roots here : ) and I'm asked to talk about the US.  I explain how its further between NY and Cali (6hr) by airplane than from Conakry to Paris (5hr). Ilove this comparison because people can start to picture the vastness of the states; and also understand that, although I'm from the states, I'm not going to know XY and Z relative or friend in NY or Florida.  Then something comes up and I hear one say, ' the 52 states.' And they say 'yeah, 52 states in America.' Apparently the geography teacher here has been teaching them this.  I remind them that the US flag has 50 stars so we'd have to change the flag if we got a few more states.  Anyway, even though its basic info, they're real interested in all of this.  They feel like they don't really get the 'full scoop' here and are eager to get some outside perspective.  Glad i can be of service.  When its all said and done though , we're really teaching each other.    

Its in his Blood

Its in his blood

these rhythms

he feels, he plays

the drum responds

calling out the collective name

the vibrations resound through the courtyards, down the street,

up to the topmost branches of mango trees and to all neighbors.

newborns, ancestors, youth, aged alike

this secret frequency of the spirits

dances with the earth

and captures all ears

it is an awakening

to what it feels like to be home

in tune with the generations

The Baobab

At sunset, the cranes come here along the river to roost

in this towering baobab

not one, two, but by the dozens

they fly in from the rice fields in all directions, and take their perch on high

I strain my neck to the uppermost branches

in this prehistoric, majestic tree

the cranes flap their white wings, squawk and throw quite a raucous

as if greeting friends and retelling the tales of the day.

I'm in awe, and take in also the sunset in the distance

This tree is like a giant pause between two worlds 

-the real and the mystic, the earth and sky, the ancient and the new

villagers gather and lounge in her shade by day and the birds for shelter at night

generations of stories this tree has heard, overseeing the whole village.

Knowing she must be listening

I go over, stand underneath her shadow and whisper into folds of her roots:

‘where are we going?”

What is Normal?

What was once awkward, frustrating, unthinkable becomes normal
when one spends any length in Africa
bucket baths are what you look forward to,
electricity is hard to come by
and time is spent talking with friends is the best entertainment
here if you have a child, anyone in the village would take care of your baby whenever you feel like it - all the women in village are your potential 'tanti'
if you want to want to go see someone - friend, neighbor, colleague - there's no need to call beforehand, just stop on in (and feel free to make some joking cousins banter to ease the conversation)
In most cases when I visit people, I'm offered food where ever i go - and villagers don't take 'Im not hungry' for an answer
When I walk down the street, friends call out my name and wave along my whole route - not because I'm the mayor but because people look out for each other here
I wake with the sun, and go to bed with the moon (er, sometimes)
I am familiar with all things that crawl, fly, jump and slither and am not phased to find critters in unlikely places
weddings, baptisms, and all manner of festivities require being present -
there's no substitute for being present.

The Baptism

The family and friends gathered around in the courtyard, in front of the house, in their finest attire like they could be going to a ballet, a presidents ball, a gangsters funeral, or an African baptism (the latter).  I show up almost 30min after my family told me to, on a hunch, and I am right on time.  Everyone eyes my flashy African attire (my host sister helped design and pick out the fabric) – it’s a hit. Without too much more adieu everyone shuffles over and attempts to cram into the few cars that people have brought out for the occasion.  I am in the front seat of a small beater Dotson like car with my host sister, and we try to make sure the fabric from neither one of our ‘completes’ gets stuck in the door as we suck-in-and-hold-on.  We don’t have to go too far, as the baptism is for Nanafuta’s older sister and is just a ways out of the village along a deeply rutted mud road.  (I feel sorry for the people that have to walk all the way here).  When we arrive the courtyard is already full of people paying their respects, and groups of men have started to gather in one area, and women in another.  I go into the house  -not really sure if I’m supposed to, but I figure I’m easy to spot so someone will tell me if I’m not supposed to.  A group of women are sitting and chatting in the front room, and 2 rather large griot women I recognize from before are here too, ready with their obnoxious megaphones ( note:  I already despise these griot ladies, they sing horribly, and they just come around uninvited to any party or event, sing in your face, and expect you to give them money - I never do.  Granted I appreciate the tradition, cultural significance, and skills of some griots, but these 2 really give the profession a bad image. Yes, I give them the take-your-mic-and-shove-it eye yet they still try to come over and sing to me.  )  I walk down the hallway and enter door number one: the master bedroom.  I see the familiar face of my host sister Terez sitting on the bed, so I decide I can enter, and happily get away from the fray in the other room.  Yaya, the mom who’s son is being baptized is here too, so i greet her with congratulations.  The son (who will get his name today) is sleeping in the midst of all this, and he’s pushing his lips out funny so all the ladies are putting their fingers in his mouth trying to make him look more respectable. Obviously no one’s worried about germs an infant might acquire.  Its 105degrees in the room so I wander outside again and sit with a group of ladies under the mango tree.  They really don’t do much other than sit and look at each other, so I politely get up and take some pictures of the crowd (my favorite being a group of raggedy neighbor kids who are climbing and perched upon a large tree stump, not officially invited but trying to get in on the action anyway).

       Then the music gets cut and people get ‘relatively’ quite as the Imam sings lines of prayers and benedictions over the Koran.  Three boys hold down a goat just in front.  The Imam announces the son’s name Mohamed Adrissa (in honor of the boy’s grandfather who is in Mecca now), and I see a red stream of blood flow down and color the earth.  The sacrifice and blessings have been witnessed and everyone is happy. The goat is hauled away to be cut up in the back and people go back to socializing.  Huge bowls of rice and sauce are brought out and deposited in various sections for people to share a meal.   Figuring there’s meat involved and not wanting to have the complication of explaining myself to a bunch of visitors here I don’t know, I stay clear of the eating circles, hop over the patch of blood on the ground, and go back into the house.  I’m in the master bedroom and a group of women dancing rowdily and wildly stomping feet and bending up and down, dance with Adrissa into the room.  I am surprised that no one seems worried by this either – I mean he’s only a couple weeks old.  He doesn’t cry though ( I hope his head’s not snapped) and then my host sister holds him and does a crazy dance with him too, as if to say, "Welcome to the world, baby !"