tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44523387502457987502024-02-07T10:18:16.333+01:00Kate with DreadlocksHaiti, Cameroon, and Guinea.Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.comBlogger117125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-78507495536368747992011-04-15T02:11:00.002+01:002011-04-15T02:22:39.857+01:00Le Grand DepartI get on the plane tonight in just a couple hours, to leave Africa until…! Eep! I wrote this a few days ago:<br /><br />It’s my last week at post, I leave little Dabola in five days. More so than the goodbyes, it’s the return to America that has me mildly intimidated. In the two times that I’ve been back to the States during these last three and a half years, it’s always just been a quick trip, and then back overseas. But this is it now: the American Big Time. Time to get a big-girl job with a real salary and wear some respectable clothing. And buy a hairbrush! (Yessss, I just use my fingers here.) <br /><br />I’m nervous as to how people are going to react to me when I can’t stop starting every sentence with, “<em>When I was in Africa…” </em>or the funny looks people will give me when I insist on wearing my African moomoos in public, and am generally clueless about things currently American. And job hunting??! Enough said!<br /><br />But I’m excited at the same time. Mostly to be close to the comforts of my family and friends, which is the number one reason I am coming home. :) <br /><br />I’ve found myself extra sentimental these last few days. Little things Guineans say or do just really touch me and break my heart a little. (I know, that’s sappy.) But the idea that I get to go back to big shiny America, where things mostly work the way people say they are going to work, where rampant corruption and extreme poverty are not a daily way of life. So many people here have been kind to me, generous, thoughtful, and funny, even in the face of poverty and a world of inconveniences, and I sometimes wonder what I have done to deserve their kindness and good humor, or how I could thank them. And I’m at a loss. I just hope that one day, in my turn I can be as giving and hospitable to others as Guineans and Cameroonians have been to me. <br /><br />One last image comes to mind. I was whizzing down the road on my bike earlier today. It’s a road I’ve been down many times, but I’m looking at everything a little harder now, trying to soak it all up and not forget anything. I passed a little boy who was walking from a nearby well, carrying a bucket of water on his head. He was small enough that his arms were completely extended upward to grasp the rim of the bucket. He caught me looking, smiling at him and shyly smiled back and hesitated a moment, making the water splash out of his bucket and all over him, which made us both smile even more. Little moments like that—how easy it can be to connect with someone here, and how incredibly much people appreciate the simplest gestures. I'm not sure I have the capacity to give such joy so easily in the States—that’s what I’ll miss. In fact, I’m already missing it, and I’m not even gone…Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-40759562963241971622011-04-14T18:22:00.013+01:002011-04-15T00:49:41.745+01:00Busted flat in DabolaOr, ruins everywhere...<br /><br />Just because I think this is fascinating, I wanted to share one other thing I’ve noticed about Guinea, unique little country that this is, from my travels. Ruins are everywhere, in ways I have not seen in any other country—French houses dating from before independence, depots, and train stations. Most impressive is the colonial-era railway, running like a backbone, the spine of this country’s skeleton that has not yet decayed. I mentioned Camara Laye in my last blog entry, and one of the most evocative descriptions in his book <em>L’Enfant Noir </em>is of taking the train from Kouroussa in Upper Guinea across the country to Conakry, on the coast. <br /><br />Well, that train is certainly no more. The ties have been ripped up and sold for metal. The remains of the stations stand out because they are surrounded by old mango trees, planted by French colonialists who liked shade (I don’t blame ‘em!) It seems almost any time you spot tall, aged mango trees, you know the French were lurking there in the past. The decaying train station in Dabola, my town, is my favorite. A few photos, courtesy of my friend David.<br /><br />On the platform.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxH0CgAHklTF9V4CaIKnfJN9eJnR6sSkV0bkcTJX2dtfjOi5b70wIcWa51Fn3Xebzasmc4mP3AgPiexL_8fATcYgLbjXWYe2yaEJNwMaWr5WsUyQ1nWmAW-xFtgZzY9wDQLoGabP7uZsA/s1600/s+on+the+platform.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 252px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxH0CgAHklTF9V4CaIKnfJN9eJnR6sSkV0bkcTJX2dtfjOi5b70wIcWa51Fn3Xebzasmc4mP3AgPiexL_8fATcYgLbjXWYe2yaEJNwMaWr5WsUyQ1nWmAW-xFtgZzY9wDQLoGabP7uZsA/s400/s+on+the+platform.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595586543463983266" /></a><br /><br />“Busted flat in Dabola, waitin’ for a train, and I’m feeling just as faded as my gray pants…” <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnG6l1oI9kSo9xyyLxKzwIBvkUOg9bRV1D9XkgybqUW0tdrwzW13r-Mign1iBVmGoqyEDGtDmECmC2StYhBAwgfWP0mEGGykllJ3GAKrGOQ-Z9N4P7H4-YQvI-EWZYQY8adZyeXt69574/s1600/s+hitchin.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnG6l1oI9kSo9xyyLxKzwIBvkUOg9bRV1D9XkgybqUW0tdrwzW13r-Mign1iBVmGoqyEDGtDmECmC2StYhBAwgfWP0mEGGykllJ3GAKrGOQ-Z9N4P7H4-YQvI-EWZYQY8adZyeXt69574/s400/s+hitchin.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595586284073950082" /></a><br /><br />You just keeping waiting for that train to come, David.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhPnesVmsFj6pJ2OXemT94Uy7JGsdm-VlX4kJJ1tTYa-KyiE1bgiBX4QEL8sZF1FA8OrrCOXl5TpcfIc1GSi-UIcpcZZZiqUWSHs0YFD_ZOzdGfPcC2QuKvzjWPCitZBH-PtyPJ5zAL0Y/s1600/s+waiting+for+train.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhPnesVmsFj6pJ2OXemT94Uy7JGsdm-VlX4kJJ1tTYa-KyiE1bgiBX4QEL8sZF1FA8OrrCOXl5TpcfIc1GSi-UIcpcZZZiqUWSHs0YFD_ZOzdGfPcC2QuKvzjWPCitZBH-PtyPJ5zAL0Y/s400/s+waiting+for+train.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595585257854131250" /></a><br /><br />Remaining colonial-era houses and depots surrounding the train station. You can even see the mangoes, like little green Christmas ornaments, hanging in the trees in this one.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcOx5eq2s7GxvIlxshQHOUO4S5KFW7xx7ra8STR18vTzOnnN9P4l4nknxibtF4xLotFKCVWGahyphenhyphenzB6CCplc-u6deTVsi9M1wcEAFhyAu8S5tSjdqPfWRZrLUFpLuuLxjEzmpnMXH8gL1Y/s1600/s+station+hotel+or+house.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcOx5eq2s7GxvIlxshQHOUO4S5KFW7xx7ra8STR18vTzOnnN9P4l4nknxibtF4xLotFKCVWGahyphenhyphenzB6CCplc-u6deTVsi9M1wcEAFhyAu8S5tSjdqPfWRZrLUFpLuuLxjEzmpnMXH8gL1Y/s400/s+station+hotel+or+house.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595497212571829122" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJVftT2Van28ljh5BMfHnqqv0ENEiEZGoZlMOMkAoSHvZ-_hNAOac3vbUpRCFoSNZXc4KENMzFL03ZsSUkFfAro3vBwcfLqs9dRFesj9qghQlxax6uxCE4Vql0_nAg9fH5vVNy6yeVPEE/s1600/s+station+masters+home.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJVftT2Van28ljh5BMfHnqqv0ENEiEZGoZlMOMkAoSHvZ-_hNAOac3vbUpRCFoSNZXc4KENMzFL03ZsSUkFfAro3vBwcfLqs9dRFesj9qghQlxax6uxCE4Vql0_nAg9fH5vVNy6yeVPEE/s400/s+station+masters+home.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595497211536673586" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI9UIa2SB9TOe-QRKVKiLShYKKHrCCRxCWj-FBeG1Zl4oZjZ0JBqy7XllcexgDt-tGtWHhHMMF-PypmSP3fNTfHwRmwYgYSzphD72ZeiH-w86xkqKhwCMwVPjDXxL1Dc_OoT35WePhOyY/s1600/s+old+stationmasters+house.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI9UIa2SB9TOe-QRKVKiLShYKKHrCCRxCWj-FBeG1Zl4oZjZ0JBqy7XllcexgDt-tGtWHhHMMF-PypmSP3fNTfHwRmwYgYSzphD72ZeiH-w86xkqKhwCMwVPjDXxL1Dc_OoT35WePhOyY/s400/s+old+stationmasters+house.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595497207181716434" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6y22FRNkIPI2p3WjFJj1p4CpLGCtqb8vfnQ-h3BWRFyGpWgLpG1_93q2WIIbT_Vwd3folM-h9n7vKQsyAk5ornvLMv9Iy54P1oXoZUxP6CNUmQO2I7ksMWQ50f502KjOQtvMmznydmA/s1600/s+gare+police+station.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 220px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6y22FRNkIPI2p3WjFJj1p4CpLGCtqb8vfnQ-h3BWRFyGpWgLpG1_93q2WIIbT_Vwd3folM-h9n7vKQsyAk5ornvLMv9Iy54P1oXoZUxP6CNUmQO2I7ksMWQ50f502KjOQtvMmznydmA/s400/s+gare+police+station.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595496552378498674" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlkt7XTAytdxEd9vZa2ousvry-mT588ojQRiivVO9mUX9TqWxslY8wLeZkrgLXPgEarYle2reX1oywbO-xjsmbJLzDdUGaTDpGKvITKOm9GFUZUXGtmoTm3tgIY9vvftINvvKg6R1hj84/s1600/s+dabola+old+depot.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlkt7XTAytdxEd9vZa2ousvry-mT588ojQRiivVO9mUX9TqWxslY8wLeZkrgLXPgEarYle2reX1oywbO-xjsmbJLzDdUGaTDpGKvITKOm9GFUZUXGtmoTm3tgIY9vvftINvvKg6R1hj84/s400/s+dabola+old+depot.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595496544495794962" /></a><br /><br />Cartwheels on the platform, just cause :)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf5sACOR34HIoC_FzD6AM825-QsJ2M0xJNDQyhVtoN10PbHbGg8cYWbZu9YWRSxalo4_chgetdXmoZp8pM8eVQtM1XJqZurKIkLJbr15PJld5AzdKPFo7riIn36utMmP3PCUntKrfXLo8/s1600/2011+03+29_4935.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf5sACOR34HIoC_FzD6AM825-QsJ2M0xJNDQyhVtoN10PbHbGg8cYWbZu9YWRSxalo4_chgetdXmoZp8pM8eVQtM1XJqZurKIkLJbr15PJld5AzdKPFo7riIn36utMmP3PCUntKrfXLo8/s400/2011+03+29_4935.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595495842453268914" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyNubTQSWMjSBscjmjdclRAI5zRgAbvuIx16PSWGgpEIImPrHLpZhKiPAnaVa40dfQ0X0eVwNvRdA3vtTWTPBW73bUSReD0U1K5aobc5OyyUII4qP5yTZ4U60Ss7xMGzGFEMDYHAIMToo/s1600/2011+03+29_4936.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyNubTQSWMjSBscjmjdclRAI5zRgAbvuIx16PSWGgpEIImPrHLpZhKiPAnaVa40dfQ0X0eVwNvRdA3vtTWTPBW73bUSReD0U1K5aobc5OyyUII4qP5yTZ4U60Ss7xMGzGFEMDYHAIMToo/s400/2011+03+29_4936.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595495837954406194" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnblniehqpyNX1fg-lBKB9qljOTEzFPgmxmT1ckQ6tQyCagSv_TTvIJ7gkCUJ_QlSmBTQDEAvOSiKJN6z9BZWqQjDpCVx7CZKHu9uhRZWsgJ0gJogao90bQqyfJFcoZ6Er_UkW4RT17j0/s1600/2011+03+29_4937.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 237px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnblniehqpyNX1fg-lBKB9qljOTEzFPgmxmT1ckQ6tQyCagSv_TTvIJ7gkCUJ_QlSmBTQDEAvOSiKJN6z9BZWqQjDpCVx7CZKHu9uhRZWsgJ0gJogao90bQqyfJFcoZ6Er_UkW4RT17j0/s400/2011+03+29_4937.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595495834365083058" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjabqdLvRfXuTPTUmXgyceIYlFOsmB0ipnCz3Kv-jBeLk0d5JkvjYIOFFUDPPR7A-6ym8a3_4X4GIBofQ0Wr3sDXS_xB5HS06KJeNrpm_4o0NjODX9rtzdvVqZ4vP_1Jc8LjAHKuzwBs/s1600/2011+03+29_4938.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjabqdLvRfXuTPTUmXgyceIYlFOsmB0ipnCz3Kv-jBeLk0d5JkvjYIOFFUDPPR7A-6ym8a3_4X4GIBofQ0Wr3sDXS_xB5HS06KJeNrpm_4o0NjODX9rtzdvVqZ4vP_1Jc8LjAHKuzwBs/s400/2011+03+29_4938.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595493973008740530" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVgZUEEcjuq0Ovz_xLh8KyofB6Qzsr1JRYdw4jnT_50DDVvFgGjQLXvpQEeKzyUqb-Ebqwb31KhBLOYLAcvkHMsQA3_z9shlMEeooeR-YTCCn9PN4ZUePYu4inHjGomd606J1pNiPX4Ns/s1600/2011+03+29_4939.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 244px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVgZUEEcjuq0Ovz_xLh8KyofB6Qzsr1JRYdw4jnT_50DDVvFgGjQLXvpQEeKzyUqb-Ebqwb31KhBLOYLAcvkHMsQA3_z9shlMEeooeR-YTCCn9PN4ZUePYu4inHjGomd606J1pNiPX4Ns/s400/2011+03+29_4939.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595493970689591458" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYZajScpX6Bf7gp9h002IPz2vyDpFknXgmmMPbYaH_voS47KSg-2CDyNqGDvx2ivZ_wmxId4Qvd5HT0duEAyZQNDGPKqNjoSEfQ3-iXKxHHdkwdQW-5BGC9SyLCvslzPakGNfpq-0I4H4/s1600/2011+03+29_4940.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYZajScpX6Bf7gp9h002IPz2vyDpFknXgmmMPbYaH_voS47KSg-2CDyNqGDvx2ivZ_wmxId4Qvd5HT0duEAyZQNDGPKqNjoSEfQ3-iXKxHHdkwdQW-5BGC9SyLCvslzPakGNfpq-0I4H4/s400/2011+03+29_4940.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595493964966864562" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCotUJa7HLGQnWuwEpdpKiTZHWwiFFY938L4vncjEowYJeM7qORzHewdz80rq7WR4nte3cJN3FQIpVx32x5sCfSZK9Ljo7Tlu_T1Psg-_S5K41rkxyM78_hG_1AvREfI2qYZ_vh8IwBjo/s1600/2011+03+29_4941.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCotUJa7HLGQnWuwEpdpKiTZHWwiFFY938L4vncjEowYJeM7qORzHewdz80rq7WR4nte3cJN3FQIpVx32x5sCfSZK9Ljo7Tlu_T1Psg-_S5K41rkxyM78_hG_1AvREfI2qYZ_vh8IwBjo/s400/2011+03+29_4941.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595492404238516226" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn56YxPswHQPTOhm3UCfC-p8M5Os7PaZWeKNSW5bHWlqzWjsNzekyCYELy83NUVGq8jHyR7lKa42geHV6u555bfTgDNaykzAuVeXaBSLgY1JPL0EVwALfxuYkahxOGUy2mPB60GLF2OIg/s1600/2011+03+29_4942.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 247px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn56YxPswHQPTOhm3UCfC-p8M5Os7PaZWeKNSW5bHWlqzWjsNzekyCYELy83NUVGq8jHyR7lKa42geHV6u555bfTgDNaykzAuVeXaBSLgY1JPL0EVwALfxuYkahxOGUy2mPB60GLF2OIg/s400/2011+03+29_4942.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595492400491855986" /></a><br /><br />One big-ass tree, a silk cotton. (That’s me in the roots!) <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVpM4n5IDoOh9UseN2ODw5DP4KbAtWseSk-zUsR7fF3fj7CB4NI5H2e9X9xuXLCr9YJYhjlR0Ffql0fYLOZOmob7IpdkMC4GtKkqGU_QhXVywpQU8vvi36KTWM3UX1s0aXPlAFmnHQzQg/s1600/s+fleurange%252C+katie%252C+and+silk+cotton+tree.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 271px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVpM4n5IDoOh9UseN2ODw5DP4KbAtWseSk-zUsR7fF3fj7CB4NI5H2e9X9xuXLCr9YJYhjlR0Ffql0fYLOZOmob7IpdkMC4GtKkqGU_QhXVywpQU8vvi36KTWM3UX1s0aXPlAFmnHQzQg/s400/s+fleurange%252C+katie%252C+and+silk+cotton+tree.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595496547177557538" /></a><br /><br />Since the train station faces away from town and the main market, all you see is fields. It’s calm and quiet, and for a minute you’d think you are somewhere else—maybe rural France fifty years ago—as it seems so different from anything else I’ve seen in Guinea.<br /><br />The station masters’ huge house, dripping with dilapidated colonialism and wrap-around porches, is a surreal past-meets-present mix, where people have set up shop and an impromptu café, moved in, and are cooking meals under the trees. I’m glad to see that at least it’s being used!<br /><br />During our travels to another town, Dalaba, we saw the old French governor’s house. It was beautiful and spacious, situated on the edge of the mountains of the Fouta Jallon. I could imagine long-ago soirees, pre-electricity; the magnificent huge room lit up by candles, women swishing around in ball gowns, and men talking about the colonial government. Windows stretch to the ceiling and give a view of the mountains fading into the distance. Now, paint is peeling and there’s a table with souvenir bracelets laid out for tourists’ perusal, but the view is still stunning. I like the lack of maintenance, it feels more authentic. It seems in most places, when a new group comes to power, they quickly take as their own the fancy buildings and relics of others who have come before them. Maybe it’s a statement of how Guinea felt about the French (and I can’t blame them!) that the Guineans have almost completely turned their backs on buildings/infrastructure/anything French. (Likewise, the French and all their architects, engineers and technicians completely abandoned Guinea after it took its independence.) Throughout Dalaba I saw other buildings that seemed once grand, and were now just shells, ever-present reminders of Guinea’s one-of-kind history.Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-10551082675783092322011-04-08T12:30:00.026+01:002012-04-13T00:37:52.032+01:00You never know what you’ll find when you travel…Or, hold on to your toes.<br /><br />My time in Guinea is quickly coming to an end, so I decided to get out and see what all the fuss is about—because Guinea is supposedly a marvelously beautiful country. The fuss was right on—Guinea is pretty nice. Here’s a little summary, and a few photos.<br /><br /><strong>Kankan </strong><br />Is so hot. I do not know how people live there, actually, and am grateful that I do not. Wow. Guineans are tough! It’s the second or third largest city in Guinea and it has no electricity. Would that be like Los Angeles or Chicago with no lights? Any power comes from small privately-owned generators. And no electricity means no fans, means one does not fall asleep until about three in the morning! <br /><br />I got to see a couple of fellow PCVs in Kankan, one of whom, Darline, does some amazing things with hibiscus. Did you know you can make a nice wine out of that? Darline did! You boil the hibiscus petals in water, throw the resulting juice in a bucket, add sugar and yeast, cover the bucket, and then serve all your friends who come to visit until they can barely walk straight. :) Navigating the city’s streets after a night of hibiscus wine with your equally intoxicated PCV friends and no lights to guide you—always a good time in Kankan! Bonus points for not landing in one of the ditches on the side of Kankan’s nice paved roads. My hat goes off to Darline!<br /><br />Then, feeling inspired by weather that must have been under 95 degrees (woohoo!) a fellow PCV David and I decided to bike from Kankan to his village. Almost four hours of chit chat and biking later, we arrived <em>chez lui</em>, an awesome little village called Baro eight kilometers off the paved road, and hometown of our newly-elected president, Alpha Condé. (The town used to be on the national highway, but Condé’s nemesis, then-President Conté, did not like Condé so decided to say a big <em>booyah </em>by redirecting the national highway so that it no longer passed through Condé’s village. And that is what Guinea’s infrastructure dollars are used for, as opposed to say, electrifying Kankan.) <br /><br />The biking. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp03iDqudD9toJP6K1g8yZJQXOpYq_xW_JvaygOKeItZPQTek_NMiT5YldneHwgtU1LVX_VyX7EJ8GI7uIwaWHmBxV4ZhPwCZJKULXDTWOQ4k1LZKcjv4y1K30B7Ml3AGFayGO7u6X5_o/s1600/IMG_2123.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp03iDqudD9toJP6K1g8yZJQXOpYq_xW_JvaygOKeItZPQTek_NMiT5YldneHwgtU1LVX_VyX7EJ8GI7uIwaWHmBxV4ZhPwCZJKULXDTWOQ4k1LZKcjv4y1K30B7Ml3AGFayGO7u6X5_o/s400/IMG_2123.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593188068046948754" /></a><br /><br />Note that fancy paved road. It's a small part of the national highway, and about the only bit of road like it in the country. I am also aware that my 80-cent Guinean sunglasses make me look a little bug-eyed. Helpful for scaring off small children.<br /><br />So anyway, David does a lot of work in agriculture, so I biked with him off to a neighboring village where he was demonstrating to some local ladies how to make natural insecticides. (For the curious, you mix the right combo of some certain ground-up leaves, water, peppers, and a little soap, which makes the whole mixture stick to the leaves of the crop that you are trying to protect.)<br /><br />My friends are seemingly quite adept at preparing toxic brews.<br /><br />Here, the ladies are grinding up the plants that are to be a part of the insecticide concoction. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkE8aFLDL554cjJHaBY0k03HZRcmO92lbBvoOBQ5-UTVHatAA38VO_Ndu0RCYumV7VUEMGiRj1c9tr5-T-K8nU5Cq6l4mhFlipauZR10D80LpoZuqgqr5PG7ne-iuTV71zTj5VVr2aCts/s1600/IMG_2133.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkE8aFLDL554cjJHaBY0k03HZRcmO92lbBvoOBQ5-UTVHatAA38VO_Ndu0RCYumV7VUEMGiRj1c9tr5-T-K8nU5Cq6l4mhFlipauZR10D80LpoZuqgqr5PG7ne-iuTV71zTj5VVr2aCts/s400/IMG_2133.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593185025831354754" /></a><br /><br />At work in the garden.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtHGT7znYP_vy6U8b9GTzJQDzC6NPyKE3qhvCxm-4FIKtxJUR37qlsLLoK7jZNkk9pAGaXEJuNlrqAgjjUG8fEJvxpt0L3gs7k4TbHcZHvQhjij8s6t3M0dEzyzCYznaP6RpI0Gf4xqHc/s1600/IMG_2127.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtHGT7znYP_vy6U8b9GTzJQDzC6NPyKE3qhvCxm-4FIKtxJUR37qlsLLoK7jZNkk9pAGaXEJuNlrqAgjjUG8fEJvxpt0L3gs7k4TbHcZHvQhjij8s6t3M0dEzyzCYznaP6RpI0Gf4xqHc/s400/IMG_2127.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593264660799177650" /></a><br /><br />One guy takes a momentary break in the wheelbarrow.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2wcizYozkuQ9m2pI5kJ7VRDWRT-XU1XHSdfhqdP9jpFTEQJ0p7pgJHQksCx_aB37QKLgQJCKBYZUNWZbJ0-3WibzbzLApVBRzARaK0qr8-020NKyA4pkgzucHfjSGGHIRmojq_5Kls4w/s1600/IMG_2136.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2wcizYozkuQ9m2pI5kJ7VRDWRT-XU1XHSdfhqdP9jpFTEQJ0p7pgJHQksCx_aB37QKLgQJCKBYZUNWZbJ0-3WibzbzLApVBRzARaK0qr8-020NKyA4pkgzucHfjSGGHIRmojq_5Kls4w/s400/IMG_2136.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593181746489619058" /></a><br /><br />On the way home from David’s, I had to change bush taxis in Kouroussa. Kouroussa holds a bit of intrigue for me, being the hometown of Camara Laye, one of West Africa’s great authors. (If you want to read about pre-independence Guinea, read <em>L’Enfant Noir</em>!) As the car passed herds of cute small boys parading to school in their uniforms, I kept imagining little Camara Laye, that age, circa 1937. Kouroussa is not quite as thrilling as I hoped, largely cause I got stuck waiting eight hours for a car, and then took said car for a trip of 85 miles—only six hours on the semi-paved main national highway! (Our road-side stops included one flat tire, at which we all piled out of the car and sat on the shoulder in the moonlight waiting for it to be repaired, two engine checks, one fiddling with the headlights to make sure that those wires stay connected and our headlights keep shining—not necessarily a given among Guinean vehicles—a prayer break, a detour for some lady to drop off a package, and a pee break. Remember, this trip includes thirteen people packed in a station wagon designed for <em>seven</em>. I am grateful that my bush taxi days will soon be over is all I have to say, and again, hats off to the Guineans who endure this every time they leave their town!)<br /><br /><strong>Fouta</strong><br />Barely after getting back to Dabola, I bust off again, this time to the Fouta Jallon region, also known as Middle Guinea. The best thing about the Fouta is that it’s COLD!! Probably in the steady 80’s, which is a praise-Jesus beautiful temperature range if I ever saw one. The Fouta is thick with the Peuls—the cousins of Cameroon’s Fulbé. One thing I can say about both Upper Guinea (Kankan area) and Middle Guinea (the Fouta) is that I appreciated the clarity of knowing which language to speak. In Upper Guinea it’s always Malinké, and in Middle Guinea it’s always Pulaar (and boy, are the Peuls insistent about your speaking their language! Not knowing Pulaar is hardly an option—they’ll just keep firing away at you in Pulaar until you crumble or stare blankly enough at them that it becomes clear that you do not understand! And then they scoff at you.) But at least it’s none of this guessing that you’re required to do in Dabola, which sits right in the middle of the two regions, where you never know where one is from or what language they speak. Knowing which language to use just to greet someone is really a relief! <br /><br />In addition to cool air and lots of Peuls, Middle Guinea is known for some beautiful hiking and waterfalls. My friend Christiana, the fellow expat of Dabola, and I were traveling together and we got to splash around in lots of waterfalls, and stand on the edge of many in ways that would never be allowed in America! (Protective barriers are not yet all the rage here.)<br /><br />This is near the little village of Doucki. (And once upon a time, that shirt was white, back when I bought it in eighth grade.)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRvY7JQYajsGiSuEJHK4_Ahdd2fsYpeOC5yucb6PZMVyU9DRAJJ-7ckzaGy7kOcXE_EjwlgHPxmeXzv1Xfb_Dxk34OidJ3gR0MlZmX6Nz0ZrHlMK50xdNpcUBaynUtFrNK479xeS2Pbhw/s1600/IMG_2155.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRvY7JQYajsGiSuEJHK4_Ahdd2fsYpeOC5yucb6PZMVyU9DRAJJ-7ckzaGy7kOcXE_EjwlgHPxmeXzv1Xfb_Dxk34OidJ3gR0MlZmX6Nz0ZrHlMK50xdNpcUBaynUtFrNK479xeS2Pbhw/s400/IMG_2155.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593180933329396274" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFp-T0vQsUmLfdS7S6RBqnFxyptinkx1FQwa0gqKSlpqcZ8aRisUlMWTnTVjPMScsMNG-XGgl15tm2rstq3EXqxl8LrzSrB5VdAVzB6y4a5yr6k_RwBNrsz3d8bofTXGdhnBx6zQ8Jeug/s1600/IMG_2158.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFp-T0vQsUmLfdS7S6RBqnFxyptinkx1FQwa0gqKSlpqcZ8aRisUlMWTnTVjPMScsMNG-XGgl15tm2rstq3EXqxl8LrzSrB5VdAVzB6y4a5yr6k_RwBNrsz3d8bofTXGdhnBx6zQ8Jeug/s400/IMG_2158.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593180925693200082" /></a><br /><br />The hut where we stayed while hiking.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3u1XuOaSEJgJwXZIK6hZocTvXbalP88Iu-1FQCCaJ_kuDBe1hMAYYmtgyfWYnC5EiSeI2D878ECKjFTlj67b4UTH9ilanBTHYHT-kZycFw9wg24cTCsjtkDLh1pIe7cndccFdeDgAbhc/s1600/IMG_2186.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3u1XuOaSEJgJwXZIK6hZocTvXbalP88Iu-1FQCCaJ_kuDBe1hMAYYmtgyfWYnC5EiSeI2D878ECKjFTlj67b4UTH9ilanBTHYHT-kZycFw9wg24cTCsjtkDLh1pIe7cndccFdeDgAbhc/s400/IMG_2186.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593180139277432818" /></a><br /><br />This is Christiana and our guide going down a waterfall. One thing I learned from this hike is that just because there seems to be no possible pathway, you can still climb on/up/over things and get into places you did not think people were supposed to go! Goats, yes, but humans? I think I achieved new levels of nimble. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwfpAoEVELrf8JSeqEIHfJ0tTjB__fjWaZBL42B7fJs-4UDw7QXHWRo8yLbLkaD7v_KrmChmFniOlDt1NqKP4bgoyrrq4G7EG1l30SUo7VcCH6dIhULqPIYFuzgzw3E-TpTBTpdVqsyqY/s1600/IMG_2189.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwfpAoEVELrf8JSeqEIHfJ0tTjB__fjWaZBL42B7fJs-4UDw7QXHWRo8yLbLkaD7v_KrmChmFniOlDt1NqKP4bgoyrrq4G7EG1l30SUo7VcCH6dIhULqPIYFuzgzw3E-TpTBTpdVqsyqY/s400/IMG_2189.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593180130131326562" /></a><br /><br />We met some wildlife along the hike in the form of a hungry cow.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-S33PwO_HmkTijXrOBg9c7pYbWQ498gKUyg4tt7SVzpG46tQFeKqqWWJGNGuIwLChporKNqmmoQnb5ZhziwN7YGPV50VzVk54Nvq2mvfbyGoucGymSs4nHJx247gZFDsl7GLWSCJk5Nw/s1600/IMG_2194.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-S33PwO_HmkTijXrOBg9c7pYbWQ498gKUyg4tt7SVzpG46tQFeKqqWWJGNGuIwLChporKNqmmoQnb5ZhziwN7YGPV50VzVk54Nvq2mvfbyGoucGymSs4nHJx247gZFDsl7GLWSCJk5Nw/s400/IMG_2194.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593179299090835202" /></a><br /><br />Then it was time to hike back <em>up </em>a waterfall! Eek. The crafty villagers in the area had constructed make-shift ladders from bunches of sticks tied together, to facilitate the ascent up the rocky waterfalls. About once a year, they replace the ladders.<br /><br />Guess whose butt that is:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaefM7CUvynL97XdIHuJVGibsR9bBAi-HN8MfRLWGXX1uHdne4hLTRYnSkao2p_5mx1boZ32tMd51DbSoDEkvvMpjDXezhCAnem5oks_gSYFPqtIDzLv3I0pJh4XK4E1Sm_OBKo3K2chE/s1600/IMG_2197.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaefM7CUvynL97XdIHuJVGibsR9bBAi-HN8MfRLWGXX1uHdne4hLTRYnSkao2p_5mx1boZ32tMd51DbSoDEkvvMpjDXezhCAnem5oks_gSYFPqtIDzLv3I0pJh4XK4E1Sm_OBKo3K2chE/s400/IMG_2197.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593179297868838546" /></a><br /><br />Here you can see three more of the ladders that make up part of the trail on the left and the waterfall on the right. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9jvb4up_R7vzGzsAiB5Ci4FBL1c5rVbjPZOihxnC1QlwhwD9t_sUrtfRvK5SvhIpNFZ8v4N3nN-JQ6pHpxYNEGfZoa9DIyglUm2xDlU2kgQVM0S7_6W8J1qZRJqebUlP13HtwCybKIN8/s1600/DSCF2094.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9jvb4up_R7vzGzsAiB5Ci4FBL1c5rVbjPZOihxnC1QlwhwD9t_sUrtfRvK5SvhIpNFZ8v4N3nN-JQ6pHpxYNEGfZoa9DIyglUm2xDlU2kgQVM0S7_6W8J1qZRJqebUlP13HtwCybKIN8/s400/DSCF2094.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593178032111603394" /></a><br /><br />I think the coolest thing about this hike is that it would just never happen in America. Rules, regulations and lawsuits probably don’t mix well with home-made stick ladders.<br /><br />That is a mid-hike, I-am-very-tired face. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizuC3dfBVxkL6gmiVo9UlUD8uF4wbk4w1AemCWBygAhw3-fN3udpTGdEU36rcuU7LoURvT4o5U9XWSW8NkFXOzrDCUqgGXcT_thC3SfN3eYBXtYBLmT7XKTWWZCNaeQUAkiJTnba-RfXY/s1600/IMG_2204.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizuC3dfBVxkL6gmiVo9UlUD8uF4wbk4w1AemCWBygAhw3-fN3udpTGdEU36rcuU7LoURvT4o5U9XWSW8NkFXOzrDCUqgGXcT_thC3SfN3eYBXtYBLmT7XKTWWZCNaeQUAkiJTnba-RfXY/s400/IMG_2204.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593178027605567538" /></a><br /><br />Again, villagers taking care of each other—they leave that yellow half of a jug and purple plastic cup on the rocks at all times so it can collect waterfall water and any passers-by can drink it. I should note that while we tourists are paying lots of francs to troop around and get blisters and hike in the waterfalls, the local villagers use this path as a part of their daily life--reminds me how easy we have it in America--no stick ladders required to get to <em>my </em>grocery store!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3CBw-Nsf4Np4XB4CLOWDQhtlXB4OtpbOeY8zhUi5zpNu0bu18BQ6cWjm3iJt6ATvS7D8LN9YMIUad3YnJ2jMeL0BiroFm8Qk2ChBpH35n5Or9BS-GRqiQIJz8-LVukcLtXmLS8CZ56fU/s1600/IMG_2211.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3CBw-Nsf4Np4XB4CLOWDQhtlXB4OtpbOeY8zhUi5zpNu0bu18BQ6cWjm3iJt6ATvS7D8LN9YMIUad3YnJ2jMeL0BiroFm8Qk2ChBpH35n5Or9BS-GRqiQIJz8-LVukcLtXmLS8CZ56fU/s400/IMG_2211.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593177094532596882" /></a><br /><br />Each night after hiking it was bucket baths under the stars, and local rice and sauce for supper. All very lovely although sometimes I do question just how clean I get with a bucket bath. Christiana, however, did not complain of any unpleasant odors. (Thanks, dear!)<br /><br />Near Labé, we crawled down some more waterfalls, the Chutes de Sala. Unlike bucket baths, playing in waterfalls, akin to frolicking under a high-powered hose, will get you clean! <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0FWEOO1NoY0C2egdTXaCn9ZdWW6HRCvhyphenhyphenRUByBJT7wAoHsOZ9w1aTstrGf7BkkJPoNzJ0nc2p2l9IOuVE5sZNu-keae0k3oFw30evPXey9lAN4xShTt0xl_Jzn6n8pF99cgApZLMU4pQ/s1600/IMG_2224.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0FWEOO1NoY0C2egdTXaCn9ZdWW6HRCvhyphenhyphenRUByBJT7wAoHsOZ9w1aTstrGf7BkkJPoNzJ0nc2p2l9IOuVE5sZNu-keae0k3oFw30evPXey9lAN4xShTt0xl_Jzn6n8pF99cgApZLMU4pQ/s400/IMG_2224.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593176519753847266" /></a><br /><br />If you happen to notice my legs in this picture, it is true that I have now lived in Africa/the Tropics for three and a half years and have still not obtained a tan. Now that takes something special. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYoZiovQNfIKTNwz3WKMR4QgleVAUGUVfruzdIAHgv4Cjq52UWaN9TDBlIrQbIu9UnQ1qBYt57oBtwjFLd3760_dRfX5H4L72hF07YrjGQzDgoIAuporq77LSI8uWwyypaA_htJ7q9Ztk/s1600/IMG_2230.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYoZiovQNfIKTNwz3WKMR4QgleVAUGUVfruzdIAHgv4Cjq52UWaN9TDBlIrQbIu9UnQ1qBYt57oBtwjFLd3760_dRfX5H4L72hF07YrjGQzDgoIAuporq77LSI8uWwyypaA_htJ7q9Ztk/s400/IMG_2230.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593175844047562850" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWdISKKHJCipGv4_uhIcPi-qXIuvLE541l0MnWrUgbTOCrbKM-nN_NCip3eN_el79RP2aHFH9l3JbRDLf6gSpHQKI7FZZJeL8DJndmo_fl7HzAAYpnh2FbPY-L75hY0hLTt51wyktDKPA/s1600/IMG_2231.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWdISKKHJCipGv4_uhIcPi-qXIuvLE541l0MnWrUgbTOCrbKM-nN_NCip3eN_el79RP2aHFH9l3JbRDLf6gSpHQKI7FZZJeL8DJndmo_fl7HzAAYpnh2FbPY-L75hY0hLTt51wyktDKPA/s400/IMG_2231.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593175835939621362" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFPQyx4TKnPxFly7wX5AYmJNY6Km3JRCVWDTSmsoSp-rgpQqJ9P7lcoBT-OqOC0BnUitZMuYYYbwGN8f2OeMhhHPznUpRXG-BzJbeUtdPsvpd2c6BH8RxHAlPW0_39IkSZOboHX5PSaLk/s1600/DSCF2126.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFPQyx4TKnPxFly7wX5AYmJNY6Km3JRCVWDTSmsoSp-rgpQqJ9P7lcoBT-OqOC0BnUitZMuYYYbwGN8f2OeMhhHPznUpRXG-BzJbeUtdPsvpd2c6BH8RxHAlPW0_39IkSZOboHX5PSaLk/s400/DSCF2126.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593183417701359106" /></a><br /><br /><strong>What the hell</strong><br />I’ll finish this blog entry by mentioning that on this trip I had a couple of interesting and unexpected encounters. The first was while Christiana and I were hiking. Our guide had just pointed out a thick red line of ants crossing the pathway in front of us. I was admiring the ants when I heard a rustle in the bushes just off the path to the right. The rustle turned into a flapping, and the flapping turned into a very hard FWACK against my head! Stunned, I looked as the creature flew off. Christiana had been right behind me and seen it all. “Did that bat just fly into your head?” she asked in her proper British accent. “Was that a bat? Holy shit!” Not only was that a bat, it left a little bat <em>cadeau </em>too—a nice sticky trail down my arm. Mmmm, bat poop. Wow. <span style="font-style:italic;">I</span> scared the shit out of a <span style="font-style:italic;">bat</span>! What are they doing out in the middle of the day anyway??!! No lasting, vampire-esque damage done, however, and my ear stopped ringing from the impact about twenty minutes later. <br /><br />The next up-close and personal encounter was while Christiana and I were waiting at the car park for a bush taxi out of Labé, heading homeward. She had wandered off in search of a bathroom while I was sitting on a curb in the shade, reading a book. I’d slipped off my sandals and just had my feet resting on top of them. I was enjoying my book when I felt a curious pulling at my big toe. I look up from my book, down at my feet, and see a crazy man bent over, releasing my toe, and smiling up at me as though pulling the white girl’s toe at the car park is just as natural as picking daisies in the spring time. He stands back up again, the transaction complete, and contentedly walks away. I just stare after him, so surprised, and thinking he’ll at least turn around, look at me, maybe thank me for a pleasant toe-pull, but he just moseys off! I can’t help but start laughing! I’m not even sure if anyone else noticed it! <br /><br />As the hours wore on and we waited for a car, I saw the crazy guy wander around a few more times, and felt myself instinctively pull my feet up under me and my eyes follow him. What was he going to go after next? A bunion? My nose?! All told, we left Labé with no further harassment, but of all the parts of my body that have ever been admired, I believe this was a first for my big toe.<br /><br />So, just a couple more entries is probably all you’ll here from me! The <em>Grand Depart</em> from Guinea is next week, with a brief detour in Europe before arriving on terra firma, <em>aux Etats Unis</em> on May 13!<br />My love to all! :)Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-15188170392766586402011-03-10T11:22:00.004+01:002011-03-10T12:37:57.532+01:00Ask and You Shall Receive:A Chicken Head Dress.<br /><br />So I asked the local tailor to make me a dress out of his leftover scraps. I’m quite satisfied with the results, below. Who doesn’t like chicken??<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM4Er9ET9JyjnRwN6vaJ5Et4I6j5BFi8CrPAm7IvfmA-M1UyDyyzfrgdI5bYsRWOgUeCE9yqKADAypUk9RBnIxHGHlyAjZQdi7esPhJnc7QYp-WPisDW0Co5_lnMu77fb6qRz7Po6zL9c/s1600/IMG_2116.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM4Er9ET9JyjnRwN6vaJ5Et4I6j5BFi8CrPAm7IvfmA-M1UyDyyzfrgdI5bYsRWOgUeCE9yqKADAypUk9RBnIxHGHlyAjZQdi7esPhJnc7QYp-WPisDW0Co5_lnMu77fb6qRz7Po6zL9c/s400/IMG_2116.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582411369533503282" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxzL-mZMXZAkFPg0bRICww9u2jXBXaPk2_Yumi_FEjiH3_jI7ZA-0TG7rMXDsZ0LB4_lG235aFYiHjL6hy968fWzfGX4uk_vau_2s2K4lwsjS8d0S9R0K9TuP9Idx0mV1qG5nQug5-bSE/s1600/IMG_2115.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 282px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxzL-mZMXZAkFPg0bRICww9u2jXBXaPk2_Yumi_FEjiH3_jI7ZA-0TG7rMXDsZ0LB4_lG235aFYiHjL6hy968fWzfGX4uk_vau_2s2K4lwsjS8d0S9R0K9TuP9Idx0mV1qG5nQug5-bSE/s400/IMG_2115.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582408874927257826" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhjrkPRBajt73HKdquE-TPg5-9xaviYmUn-x3gV3bVEw5u5CXQ4fhLFiRnk8k2lNKdTVr0oNa3ElQvifQ99VKZYE9sx0LdpcMnpSU_JJRXHn-9cxMG1w6ZDsRnyEAZqn2RPKiwFwooEr8/s1600/IMG_2116+crop+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 389px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhjrkPRBajt73HKdquE-TPg5-9xaviYmUn-x3gV3bVEw5u5CXQ4fhLFiRnk8k2lNKdTVr0oNa3ElQvifQ99VKZYE9sx0LdpcMnpSU_JJRXHn-9cxMG1w6ZDsRnyEAZqn2RPKiwFwooEr8/s400/IMG_2116+crop+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582412811222759970" /></a><br /><br />People do wear entire outfits out of Chicken Head fabric. I only got the scraps. :)Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-30748597798411481602011-03-07T14:13:00.005+01:002011-03-08T17:06:35.296+01:00RandosAnd in no particular order, here are more random excerpts from Guinea…<br /><br />I was at a fancy restaurant in another town for a conference recently and ordered a salad. It came with fries <span style="font-style:italic;">in </span>it! (I’d thought they were tomatoes at first cause it was dark and hard to see, and they were covered in dressing. Surprise!) Who knew how good that could be? (Very good.) Another African delight!<br /><br />Also at this conference, my Guinean counterpart surprised me one night after dinner. We’d all eaten a lot, and he leaned back, rubbed his belly, and said, “ooohhhh, haari bébé!” <span style="font-style:italic;">Haari </span>is Pulaar for “I’m full,” …my counterpart had an “I’m full baby.” I always say when I’ve eaten too much and feel like I’m going to pop that I have a food baby. Apparently Guinean men get food babies too!<br /><br />Another interesting run-in I had was on a bicycle. The closest volunteer to me is 14 miles down the main road in a small town. I was riding over to pay her a visit and feeling just a little bad-ass for biking it instead of taking a bush taxi. I came upon a couple frail-looking old men on the road, also riding their bikes, and we exchanged greetings. They were very friendly and seemed to be enjoying themselves, chatting, in no great rush to get wherever they were going on their rickety old bikes. (Most bikes I’ve seen in Guinea and Cameroon are pretty low-tech—one speed, with foot brakes.) The men asked me where I was going, listing a couple of far-off town as options. I told them I was just headed to the next town, and inquired after them. “Kouroussa!” they said cheerily. That was humbling. Kouroussa is about 85 miles <span style="font-style:italic;">past </span>where I was going. And I thought I was tough. Hats off to the happy old men!<br /><br />On another unrelated note, I am apparently building a reputation for myself as a traditional healer, complete with bag of fetishes. In the part of Guinea called Haute Guinee, in the Northeast corners where the Malinké folks live along the Malian border, I’ve been told that the traditional healers carry their fetishes, charms, and goodies in a little black bag. Well, I have been carrying the same little <span style="font-style:italic;">blue </span>bag (kind of a wallet on a string) since I found it in my apartment in France in 2003. Needless to say, it is getting a little ratty. OK, it is <span style="font-style:italic;">exceedingly </span>ratty, and is held together with electrical tape and safety pins (which have also doubled to hold up my pants when the zipper on those bust in the middle of an Ethiopian museum.) So my little blue bag has long since given up its shade of blue, and is now resigned to a sad and dingy shade of black. And so, I’m a sorcerer! I was recently approached by some co-workers with inquiries as to what fetishes I carried in my bag, and what I could potentially do for them… Safety pins, anyone?<br /><br />And lastly, work is going well. I’ve been hammering out the training modules for the members and staff of my microfinance organization, CAFODEC. It’s really enjoyable to collaborate with my Guinean colleagues because they have great insights and examples, and I just put it all on paper. Plus, Guineans are really entertaining to work with! I was with about five of them to review some drafts of the training modules, and between practically every module, someone had to stand up and “warm up the room” by telling a joke or some ridiculous story. Some of them were totally inappropriate for a work setting, by American standards, and so were that much more awkward/entertaining! I’ll translate my favorite one, but I’m sure I won’t do it justice. I should note that the days of the week in French, starting with Monday, are <span style="font-style:italic;">lundi, mardi, mercredi, jeudi, vendredi, samedi </span>and <span style="font-style:italic;">dimanche</span>. (That’s important for the joke.) Soooo, a man takes a new wife. Satisfying this man’s sexual appetite is just wearing her out, so they talk about it and come up with a truce. They’ll have sex only on days that end in <span style="font-style:italic;">redi—mercredi </span>and <span style="font-style:italic;">vendredi</span>. (Wednesday and Friday.) However, on a Monday, <span style="font-style:italic;">lundi</span>, the man comes home and is feeling particularly hot to trot. “Madammmmme!” he calls out, “Can we…?” She stops to calculate the say of the week. “It’s <span style="font-style:italic;">lundredi</span>!” he cries out! <br /><br />That’s all from Guinea for now! Gros bisous!Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-44639765763639803032011-02-17T12:00:00.001+01:002011-02-17T12:33:07.291+01:00The bobos of DabolaHey amigos!<br /><br />Here’s some random updates from Dabola—odd and entertaining things I’ve seen while wandering around town. <br /><br />First, we all know that the baby on the back tradition is alive and well in Africa. It is the way to carry your child— from the age of an infant to about a two-year-old. Little kids often imitate their mothers doing this, tying little dolls or other random things onto their backs. But one kid, who looked about three, took the cake. The doll he had tied onto his back was SO big that from a distance I had know idea what it is—all I saw was a jumble of different-colored limbs. It was a white plastic doll that must have stood about 3 feet high, when not strapped onto an even smaller kid’s back. Its big white plastic arms were sticking up above the kid’s head at different angles and its plastic dolly legs were jutting out in front. Needless to say, it looked ridiculous and adorable at the same time, and I couldn’t help laughing out loud as I walked past the oblivious little boy (and kept laughing for about the next 100 meters too!)<br /><br />Additionally on the subject of piggy-backing, I saw some young girls accomplish an impressive feat that in my childhood, I always wanted to attempt but never quite had the prowess to pull off—the double piggy back. They were standing only about twenty feet from where my colleagues and I were sitting at the village bank one day. Our heroine was about twelve years old and she already had a girl who looked about eight on her back. Then she managed to bend over, and a ten-year-old climbed on on top of that! The ten-year-old had long enough arms to be able to reach around the eight-year-old and they all proudly (and noisily) took off to show some grown women. I was massively impressed! I’ve never seen anyone else manage that! (Any volunteers want to try when I get back?) I made sure all my colleagues saw, but no one seemed quite as thrilled as I was. :) Oh well, there are perks to being easily entertained.<br /><br />One thing that seems somewhat universal is high school girls being high school girls. I went to a soccer match—apparently a big deal of a soccer match—that featured the 11th grade vs. the 10th grade teams from the local high school. It was the final of some tournament and I and everyone in Dabola under the age of twenty were present. The field was pure dust, and everyone crowded the sidelines sucking on oranges and cheering. I found myself surrounded by high school and middle school-aged girls. They seemed to be all dressed in their best pagne—matching tops and wrap skirts, hair freshly braided, proud and ready to show off. I’d say about zero of them were actually paying any attention to the game, yet somehow, they all seemed to know at exactly which moments to scream and jump up and down, when their team would shoot a near-miss or perform an awesome save. It seems to be a high-school-girl sixth sense. It felt like Friday night football in America.<br /><br />Two other cool things I got to do recently: hold babies and look at electric dams! (Random, I know!) But first I should explain that an ongoing form of entertainment for me is finding the smallest babies I can, silent sleeping bumps fastened to their mother’s backs. The mothers go about their daily business in the market and at home, seemingly not even remembering the baby back there, but I’m just fascinated—the tinier the little human, the more I have to try not to stare. And sometimes I’m too tempted and just have to pat the little baby butt. (Boy, I sound like my mother there.) Anyway, a colleague and I recently visited his sister, who’d just given birth. The baby wasn’t even a week old. I’d never seen such a tiny baby! (I should also note that typically, African village women eat less when they are pregnant, because a smaller baby is that much easier to birth.) So this one was miniscule! I even got to hold it. They asked me if I wanted to throw it on my back; I declined. Maybe it was because I’d asked at what age they start wearing babies on the back and they told me at about this age—one week. Wow! Floppy heads and everything. “Baby” didn’t even have a name yet—that happens at a baptism ceremony when it’s about eight days old. Until then it’s just “Baby.” Even better is the Pulaar word for baby, “Bobo.” (Drag out the first syllable and make it long.) I love that word and it is definitely coming back to America with me. :)<br /><br />And lastly, not involving small children, or any children at all! I got to see where my town’s electricity comes from. The local hydroelectric facility was put in place by the Chinese in the 1974 and refurbished in the 90s. In America, you’d never be able to stroll into a major electrical plant. But here, I just did. A lone guy was sitting at a table in the middle of a huge room with high ceilings. He had his feet propped on the table and was gazing at a wall-full of flashing lights and buttons. He stood up and shook my hand when I came in, and then I got to look at all the flashing lights and buttons myself! Everything was labeled in Chinese! Most knobs and buttons and dials also had a French translation printed in small letters, but not all of them. … And now I see why things don’t get fixed when there’s a break down!<br /><br />Hope everyone’s doing well and life is happy in America!Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-59382865030465454902011-02-03T13:17:00.002+01:002011-02-03T13:50:02.000+01:00Bonjour de Dabola!So I’m here at my post! Back to the world of trash fires, errant goats and cows, dusty roads, and enthusiastic toothless old men greeting me in languages I don’t know! I’ve taken these first few weeks to do a lot of exploring. Dabola is laid out along a main road, and loosely bordered by “mountains.” It’s got lots of trees! There are endless footpaths that make for great rambling and exploring. Somehow, I feel like I’m noticing things in different ways than I did in Cameroon.<br /><br />For example, I am obsessing over the mango tree outside my window. If I remember right, mangoes were ready and waiting for my mass consumption by about February in Cameroon. Here, the rainy season is shifted later, and thus, I have to forlornly stare at my mango tree… and wait. Let me assure you, watching mangoes grow is only minimally more riveting than watching grass grow. But I never even noticed the itty-bitty baby mangoes in Cameroon! (Maybe it’s the <span style="font-style:italic;">five </span>mango trees in my compound?) I never noticed when the trees flower, and then the tiny mango, already perfectly shaped, first comes out as small as the nail on your pinky finger. Fascinating. Even if slow-moving.<br /><br />Another thing I’d failed to notice as closely in Cameroon was the moon. Maybe it’s because my old house had a tin-roofed overhang so I never really saw the moon and stars? And in Dabola, there’s that much less electricity, so when the moon is out, you notice. It is so bright you’d think you could read by its light. And when it is not there, wow, I can’t remember the last time I’d been in such darkness.<br /><br />And speaking of electricity, I was spoiled in Cameroon. Here, we get electricity starting at about 2pm, in spurts. So I’m learning to adapt my work schedule and entertain myself otherwise!<br /><br />One thing that’s great for entertainment is that Dabola is so much more open than my part of Cameroon, where everyone lived behind walls, in compounds. Here everyone’s huts are out in the open and it’s fascinating in that just walking around town I can see so much more of people at work and play—women pounding grain, kids running around, men watching TVs that are perched on a stool in the dirt. It also means it’s that much easier to enter into conversations with people, exchange greetings, and just be visible in the community. Oddly (or at least I’m still getting used to it!) so many of the footpaths run straight through people’s compounds—and in this sense, I mean just a family’s grouping of huts. So you troupe right past women cooking, naked children running from their bucket baths—it’s accessible in ways it never was in Cameroon. This morning I walked past a guy eating his morning serving of rice. I greeted him, and he shouted out, “<span style="font-style:italic;">Invitation</span>!” Every one does that here! Any time you’re eating, you’re expected to at least offer to share it… even to strange white people wandering past! (And no, I did not have any, but I have taken other folks up on that when their sauce looks particularly tasty. :)<br /><br />I live in one of few walled-in compounds (and really I don’t mind the minimal privacy that that affords. And not having to offer my food to every passer-by. :) But another big difference from Cameroon is that in Guinea, the volunteer’s host organization provides your housing. So you really do live like a Guinean, in ways some of us didn’t in Cameroon. There were so many safety regulations in Cameroon, (like you can’t have a thatch-roofed hut cause it’s easier to break into) that a lot a lot of us PCVs lived in the nicest house in the village, just to meet those regulations. (Again, I was spoiled and had a faaat house!) Not in Guinea! Bring on the thatch roofs. It’s pretty cool. I don’t have one, but my closest fellow volunteer does. Although it looks charming, she says that snakes have fallen from it, and it leaks during the rainy season—not fun. As for me, I live in the same compound as the office of my host institution, along with a few other co-workers. I have two small rooms in a row of little apartments—one for the bed and one for cooking and working and everything else. Privacy is not a big part of my life these days. People are always around—so at least on the flip side, it’s good for socializing and easy to hang out with Guineans. And lucky for me, my colleague who is right next door (and whose every word I can hear through the wall) is a really nice single young woman. (She’s my age and not married yet—quite rare by Guinean standards!) She has a TV too, so sometimes in the evenings I go over and watch the Guinean or Ivoirian news or the Latin American imported soap operas, which are just as revered here as they were in Cameroon.<br /><br />I’ve been able to start my work, visiting village banks and preparing training modules to hopefully help them with some of their operations. The local village bank is open every Wednesday and Friday, is completely volunteer-run, and consists of a table under a veranda on the side of the road. All transactions are recorded manually in a variety of ledgers. When business is slow, there’s always a steady stream of high-schoolers walking by that I can watch. One of the “<span style="font-style:italic;">responsables</span>” of the bank runs a local omelet and tea shack, and he brings us tea and coffee in plastic bags to sip on. (real coffee!! whoa! never saw that in Cameroon!) It’s really pleasant and the folks are very friendly.<br /><br />And lastly, I’d forgotten to mention I’m named—fully! I took a week to pick a Guinean last name because I wanted to get a feel for the town and the different groups and not pick any name that would label me as the town crazy or reject or anything too offensive. But you’d think my not having a Guinean last name was catastrophic! Guineans I’d meet in town were always asking me about it, and my entire first week, it was a constant topic of discussion among my colleagues. Nabou, my Guinean first name, got turned back into the full Djénabou, yet another version of that name. That’s fine with me— Djénabou is a great name, not too common but everyone knows it, and easy to pronounce (jen-a-boo). So, that first week, it was a constant battle for who would bestow their last name upon me—everyone wants you to give you their name. Mr. Sow would call out, “Djénabou Sow!” And Mr. Coulibaly would say, “Djénabou Coulibaly!” I’d just smile and nod at anything. My counterpart, like everyone who works at my host organization, is a Diallo, so he was all for Djénabou Diallo. It’s a little too much alliteration though and I’d rather add a little diversity to the group instead. When Mr. Diallo saw that he wasn’t getting anywhere with the Djénabou Diallo suggestion, he also proposed the name Sock. He said Sock is a last name that’s from all over Guinea, and it could include people of any tribal group, which is important here! When I explained just what “sock” is in English, holding up my foot as I did so for emphasis, he burst into laughter and it was clear that Djénabou Sock had gone by the wayside. Additionally, I had to tactfully explain why I was not interested in being a Sow. So finally, there’s a name I like, which in Malinké means “take hold of your heritage.” It’s Keïta… pronounced Kate-uh. :) So I’ve gone from Kate to Fleurange in Cameroon to Djénabou in Guinea, now back to Kate…uh. :) And it’s doubly cool because Djénabou is a Pulaar first name, and since Keïta is a Malinké last name, that covers the two big tribal groups in town, so everyone is happy! <br /><br />More updates from Dabola soon! My love to all!Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-78954574119548321702011-01-09T18:36:00.007+01:002011-01-10T07:30:07.510+01:00A few thoughts from NelsonI’ve just finished reading Nelson Mandela’s autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom, in which he recalls his role in the decades-long fight against South Africa’s apartheid regime. He made so many points worth remembering (600+ pages worth!) but I'll just give you some of my favorite quotes. As my sister Barrett said, “Don’t you wish that man were your grandfather?!!”<br /><br />In 1964 Mandela and 12 of his colleagues were charged with acts of sabotage and planning an armed invasion of South Africa. The potential punishment for these crimes was death by hanging. Instead of testifying, Mandela made a four-hour statement from the dock, outlining the history of the African National Congress (ANC), their roles in the anti-apartheid struggle, and how they had gotten to the point where they were, causing them to make the decisions they made, for which they were indicted. Mandela’s intention was “to put the state on trial” for its apartheid policies and discriminatory treatment of black South Africans by the ruling white minority. Although Mandela did not deny the charges of sabotage, he did oppose the charge of planning an armed invasion, which the ANC was not yet considering. The accused and their lawyers had mentally prepared themselves and were expecting a death sentence. Bram Fishcher, Mandela’s lawyer, urged him not to read his closing paragraph, as follows:<br /><br /><blockquote>During my lifetime I have dedicated myself to this struggle of the African people. I have fought against white domination, and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve. But if needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die.</blockquote><br />This was mind-blowing to me, because people my age mostly only know the end of the story—that Mandela is a freedom fighter who brought about necessary changes. It’s stunning to realize that he was only one judgment away from death—and how different the course of history could have been.<br /><br />Mandela’s thoughts on his lawyer Bram Fischer, also struck me:<br /><br /><blockquote>As an Afrikaner whose conscience forced him to reject his own heritage and be ostracized by his own people, [Bram] showed a level of courage and sacrifice that was in a class by itself. I fought only against injustice, not my own people.<br /><br />Bram was a purist, and after the Rivonia trial, he decided he could best serve the struggle by going underground and living the life of an outlaw… In many ways, Bram Fischer, the grandson of the Prime Minister of the Orange River Colony, had made the greatest sacrifice of all. No matter what I suffered in my pursuit of freedom, I always took strength from the fact that I was fighting with and for my own people. Bram was a free man who fought against his own people to ensure the freedom of others.</blockquote><br />One thing I found notable about Mandela was his ability to know when to negotiate and when to stand his ground, and the fact that he rarely lost his cool. A prison guard on Robben Island once insulted his wife, and on that rare occasion Mandela lost it. He didn’t physically assault the guard, but gave him a good round of verbal abuse. Later, reflecting on that incident:<br /><br /><blockquote>Even though I had silenced Prins, he had caused me to violate my self-control and I consider that a defeat at the hands of my opponent.</blockquote><br />Regarding a film he saw while in prison on Robben Island, commenting on the leadership styles of those he admired:<br /><br /><blockquote>I was particularly affected by a documentary we saw about the great naval battles of World War II, which showed newsreel footage of the sinking of the H.M.S. Prince of Wales by the Japanese. What moved me most was the brief image of Winston Churchill weeping when he heard of the news of the loss of the British vessel. The image stayed in my memory a long time, and demonstrated to me that there are times when a leader can show sorrow in public, and that it will not diminish him in the eyes of his people.</blockquote><br />When I think I’m having a bad day…<br /><br /><blockquote>Prison was a kind of crucible that tested a man’s character. Some men, under the pressure of incarceration, showed true mettle, while others revealed themselves as less than what they had appeared to be.</blockquote><br />In their later years on Robben Island, the prisoners would put on plays, including Sophocles’ <em>Antigone</em>:<br /><br /><blockquote>I only performed in a few dramas, but I had one memorable role, that of Creon, an elderly king fighting a civil war over the throne of his beloved city-state. At the outset of the play, Creon is sincere and patriotic, and there is wisdom in his early speeches when he suggests that experience is the foundation of leadership and that obligations to the people take precedence over loyalty to an individual.<br /><br /><blockquote>Of course you cannot know a man completely, <br />His character, his principles, sense of judgment, not till he’s shown his colors, ruling the people, making laws. Experience, that’s the test.</blockquote><br />But Creon deals with his enemies mercilessly… He has decreed that the body of Polynices, Antigone’s brother, who had rebelled against the city, does not deserve a proper burial. Antigone rebels, on the grounds that there is a higher law than that of the state. Creon will not listen to Antigone, nor does he listen to anyone but his inner demons. His inflexibility and blindness ill become a leader, for a leader must temper justice with mercy. It was Antigone who symbolized the struggle; she was, in her own way, a freedom fighter, for she defied the law on the grounds that it was unjust.</blockquote><br />I’ve joked that I do a prison routine workout sometimes when it’s difficult to exercise outside. But in addition to being a great leader and activist, Nelson could have totally kicked my ass.<br /><br /><blockquote>I have always believed that exercise is not only a key to physical health, but to peace of mind. Many times in the old days I unleashed my anger and frustration on a punching bag rather than a policeman. Exercise dissipates tension, and tension is the enemy of serenity. I found that I worked better and thought more clearly when I was in good physical condition, and so training became one of the inflexible disciplines of my life. In prison, having an outlet for one’s frustrations was absolutely essential.<br /><br />…On Monday through Thursday, I would do stationary running in my cell in the morning for up to forty-five minutes. I would also perform one hundred fingertip push-ups, two hundred sit-ups, fifty deep knee-bends and various other calisthenics.<br /><br />…I did manage to influence some of my more sedentary colleagues. Exercise was unusual for African men of my age and generation… I know that some of my younger comrades looked at me and said to themselves, “If that old man can do it, why can’t I?” They too began to exercise.</blockquote> <br />(He wrote that when he was 59!)<br /><br />Regarding the negotiations process to dismantle the minority rule and apartheid government with then South African President F.W. de Klerk:<br /><br /><blockquote>I was often asked how could I accept the [Nobel Peace Prize] jointly with Mr. De Klerk after I had criticized him so severely. Although I would not take back my criticisms, I could say that he had made a genuine and indispensable contribution to the peace process. I never sought to undermine Mr. de Klerk, for the practical reason that the weaker he was, the weaker the negotiations process. To make peace with an enemy one must work with that enemy, and that enemy becomes one’s partner.</blockquote><br />On fear:<br /><br /><blockquote>Time and again, I have seen men and women risk and give their lives for an idea. I have seen men stand up to attacks and torture without breaking, showing a strength and resiliency that defies imagination. I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. I felt fear myself more times than I can remember, but I hid it behind a mask of boldness. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.</blockquote> <br />And finally,<br /><br /><blockquote>No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than the opposite. Even of the grimmest of times in prison, when my comrades and I were pushed to our limits, I would see a glimmer of humanity in one of the guards, perhaps just for a second, but it was enough to reassure me and keep me going.</blockquote><br />He is a good person to think about when I’m feeling frustrated or challenged. I admire the way he seems to approach his work with both a sense of opportunity and obligation. I found it interesting how extensively he talks about his family, and wonders if he should have been a better son, better father, better husband, been there to bury his mother when she died, or give away his daughter when she was married. He chose to put the needs of the entire nation before the needs of his immediate family, but not without some pain. At the same time, it was the moral support of his wife Winnie that gave him the strength to get through prison. He often said that his family suffered more than he did while he was in prison. His life was defined by the anti-apartheid struggle, and his family came second, even though they were essential.<br /><br /><br /><strong>And now, back to Guinea…</strong><br />In other news from Conakry… we are going to our posts! I’m thrilled! I head out to Dabola for the first time tomorrow. Due to the political situation and the waiting, I’ll only be there for a total of three months instead of the intended six months, but I’m excited nonetheless to have an opportunity to enjoy the village life. I’m not sure what kind of internet access I’ll have in Dabola, so you might not hear too much from me… but it’s only three months! Til next time, amigos…Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-69737080602662150992010-12-28T13:00:00.009+01:002010-12-30T19:32:32.280+01:00My new friend, and other tidbits.Happy holidays everyone! On Christmas Eve, I had a lovely night sitting on the beach with fellow Peace Corps Volunteers, toes in the sand, listening to some latin music, and watching the sun set and some hookers dance. It was lovely and a little surreal, especially knowing it’s the last time I intend to spend Christmas abroad in random surroundings for a while. I am already looking forward to celebrating Christmas next year… somewhere cold!! (Yes, Louisiana counts as cold!)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Election updates!</span><br />So here are the updates from Guinea. We had presidential elections! When the initial election results were announced, the losing candidate’s supporters protested. When the police came out to quell the protests, it often got violent. The government declared a nation-wide state of emergency and imposed a 6 pm curfew—any vehicles on the roads after that time were stopped by police. Some of the worst violence was directly in the neighborhood of the Peace Corps compound, so we stayed hunkered down in the Peace Corps house for a few days. I was allowed to venture out as far as crossing the street to get my bean sandwich for breakfast, but even that was after making sure no gunshots had been heard recently. Fortunately, that only lasted for a few days, but it did cause casualties. You can read more on that <a href="http://www.reuters.com/article/idUSTRE6AF56Z20101116">here</a>. <br /><br />Some interesting photos: <br /><br />My host brother from when I lived in Dubreka somehow got his hands on this sample election ballot. I think it’s well designed in that it takes into account that only about 30% of the country is literate—making the photos and colors necessary for the average voter! (That statistic courtesy the CIA World Factbook.).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlUo165WVqXNHICeEYcRl2WLoVvCvHX933xp4NpQ9d3IXT8jPDFO1kC1CsPd0kFHa_6waHo3tfT8120akAo2hbPFKBEEgyfQcxinH8WiaGZxr_HwD3406Rl9gqHmNKBiVaJiyCkZBH6NM/s1600/IMG_2093.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlUo165WVqXNHICeEYcRl2WLoVvCvHX933xp4NpQ9d3IXT8jPDFO1kC1CsPd0kFHa_6waHo3tfT8120akAo2hbPFKBEEgyfQcxinH8WiaGZxr_HwD3406Rl9gqHmNKBiVaJiyCkZBH6NM/s400/IMG_2093.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555704551467227890" /></a><br /><br />Here’s one of the typical campaign billboards. I find it interesting and telling that there is <span style="font-style:italic;">a</span> woman as part of Alpha Condé’s “rainbow coalition.” (The other candidate, Cellou Dalein Diallo, had <span style="font-style:italic;">no</span> women in his campaign posse.) <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeOO9FnA4r6xeDU-pLa-4jTdUeSkUzLZXs8mNh9EzIBXF7BnQl-oVacJFB15wZfYitYXSfzxNQbD9p-q3CPSN8JXxaATKGYXqpkXxFH4crt-A8Co9fVVAlwN85D9qtKoChfNxntiiNqo/s1600/IMG_2080+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeOO9FnA4r6xeDU-pLa-4jTdUeSkUzLZXs8mNh9EzIBXF7BnQl-oVacJFB15wZfYitYXSfzxNQbD9p-q3CPSN8JXxaATKGYXqpkXxFH4crt-A8Co9fVVAlwN85D9qtKoChfNxntiiNqo/s400/IMG_2080+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555705464897114994" /></a><br /><br />Alpha Conde, the winner, was inaugurated on Tuesday, December 21. Heads of state from 13 African nations attended! In his speech as Guinea’s outgoing leader, General Sekouba Konaté rebuked other African leaders who have performed poorly in implementing transparent and fair elections. I thought this was great—taking the opportunity to shed light on the abuses of power that are glossed over in so many of these countries. We, the developed nations, often turn a blind eye because we would rather keep a place like Guinea stable so we can extract its oil/iron/aluminum ore, ignoring the shady internal politics as long as the man in charge gives us what we want. It was, in fact, my Guinean colleagues who disagreed with me on the subject of Konaté’s speech, saying that the inauguration was not the time to reprimand other leaders for their non-democratic performances; that this was a time to celebrate. I tend to think that any time is a good time to call out a lack of transparency. Right on, Sekouba.<br /><br />Some good articles on the inauguration and our new man in charge, Mr. Conde, are <a href="http://www.theindependent.co.zw/international/29211-conde-to-follow-nelson-mandela-model-in-guinea.html">here</a>, <a href="http://www.google.com/hostednews/afp/article/ALeqM5ifMGjapoQYGTcvsaFDMsl8cAw9UA?docId=CNG.b09f63971213429cd871e0860adc30ae.261">here</a>, or <a href="http://www.afriquejet.com/news/africa-news/eleven-african-presidents,-dignitaries-attend-inauguration-of-conde-2010122365049.html">here</a>. <br /><br />And lastly, I have to share a joke that one of my Guinean co-workers at CAFODEC told me the other day:<br /><br />A Chinese, an American and a Guinean are sitting around talking about elections. “In my country,” the Chinese man boasts, “we are able to know the results of an election within 24 hours after voting.”<br />“That’s nothing!” says the American. “In my country, we can know the results that very night.” The Guinean leans back and smiles. <br />“Well in my country,” he says, “our systems are so advanced that we know the results of the elections before they even happen.”<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Microfinance fun</span><br />A small tidbit of good news is that although we still haven’t been allowed to go to our posts, I was allowed out of Conakry long enough to attend a national microfinance conference. It was interesting to watch, as Guinea’s microfinance sector is in <span style="font-style:italic;">such </span>an early stage of development. The leaders here are really looking to surrounding countries—Benin, Senegal, Mali—for inspiration and guidance. There is currently SO much demand that goes unmet mainly due the microfinance institutions’ lack of loan capital. At the conference, we heard from a few women beneficiaries of micro-loans. One woman joined one of Guinea’s first microfinance establishments almost twenty years ago, when it was still just a project of the US Agency for International Development. She’s taken progressively larger loans, which have allowed her to buy land to farm and to start her own small business dying cloth, which supports her family. When she first told her story, it was in Soussou, one of the local languages. I couldn’t understand a thing, but she was so confident and expressive in her speech that I was totally captivated. She asked the new government to pay attention to Guinea’s microfinance sector and to support it so that other women can have the same opportunities she did.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">My friend…</span><br />In other, much less politically charged or professional news, I have a friend! Let’s just say I am diversifying my overall friendship repertoire. I was walking to work one morning, and a young woman sitting on a bench on the side of the road enthusiastically called out a greeting to me. I was in a good mood, and greeted her back. She motioned me over, informed me that her name is Aminata, and that we should be friends. Cool, I thought! By friends, I assumed she meant we’d occasionally drink tea together on her bench on the side of the road and talk about the neighborhood happenings. That seemed just fine by me. She told me she’d known many of the past Peace Corps volunteers so I figured she’d be like a comfortable old buddy. I am sure hard up for friends here in Conakry—being in the Peace Corps house under a state of emergency is not so conducive to making friends. So I was open to and grateful for the opportunity to meet some neighbors!<br /><br />About a week later, I get a call from Aminata. She said that she was at the bar on the little stretch of beach right behind the Peace Corps compound with friends, and that I should join them. I wasn’t feeling up to it that day, and so told her maybe next time.<br /><br />The next weekend, I headed to the beach bar with a few other PCVs. We were planning to meet up with an American friend we hadn’t seen in some time, and I was very much looking forward to catching up with him. We were having a pleasant conversation, when Aminata comes up, crying out “Naboooouuuu!!! (my Guinean name) I was going to call you! I was looking for phone credit to call you!” Before I have a chance to say anything, she pulls up a chair at our table and introduces herself to my fellow PCVs. She simultaneously rubs the back of my neck in an odd, over-friendly sort of greeting. Then she tells the other PCVs how close she and I are, that I am her favorite friend, that we are the best of friends, and holds up her fingers crossed tight, indicating the unshakable bonds of our friendship. I believe Aminata and I had greeted each other in the street about three times at this point.<br /><br />I didn’t want to be impolite to Aminata, but I really just wanted to catch up with the friend we hadn't seen recently. At particularly inopportune moments of our friend’s stories, Aminata would enthusiastically jump in, ask me something irrelevant, and I’d miss the point of the story. I even explained to her that we hadn’t seen this guy in a while, so I wanted to hear his stories. But by this time, she’s signaled over two more of her friends to join our table. “We should speak in French!” she says, “or you can teach me English!” Not exactly what I had in mind for the afternoon…<br /><br />As time wears on, my fellow volunteers are giving me looks that say, “Hmmm, your friend here is persistent, <span style="font-style:italic;">non</span>?” At one point when Aminata got up to visit with some other friends, the waitress took her chair away, to use at another table. Undaunted, Aminata quickly came back and procured a new one. All of our social signals and clues that in America say, “We’d really just like to catch up with each other today!” have gone completely over her head, as they often do when two very different cultures try to communicate. Aminata goes on to tell us how close she was with certain volunteers who were previously in Guinea. One of my PCV friends in our group had also previously been in Guinea, and she knows the fellows with whom Aminata kept company. “Oh yes,” my PCV friend notes, “those were the boys who got kicked out. And they slept with prostitutes.” I look over at Aminata, chain smoking proudly, and it all starts to come together. Prostitutes, and only prostitutes, would ever smoke in a bar in Guinea. Wellllll. <br /><br />My new friend/prostitute faithfully remains at our table for the rest of our time there, waiting… until we all make our pleasant good-byes and head home. Aminata is friendly and outgoing, characteristics I appreciate, and I can’t tell if she wants to be my friend to hang out with me… or my fellow PCV friends of the opposite gender…<br /><br />The next day, I was talking with another fellow volunteer who had previously served in Guinea. “Oh yes,” he confirms, “Aminata? She’s definitely a prostitute. Actually, she’s the one in charge, the Madam.” So, my first friend in Guinea—quite the entrepreneur! Gotta start somewhere, right? It’s going to be a beautiful friendship.Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-3619474800371917382010-11-17T16:33:00.002+01:002010-11-17T17:13:25.332+01:00I’m named! (Mostly.)Earlier this week a fellow volunteer, the gentleman who had served here as a Peace Corps Volunteer in the 60’s, asked if any of us wanted to go exploring and find an old bar he used to frequent back in the day. I was ready for a little adventure and happy to see a bit more of Conakry.<br /><br />The bar, called <em>La Paillotte</em>, or The Grass Hut, was still there and as alive as ever. A few things had changed since the 60’s. (Namely, there used to be a pit of alligators right outside the dance floor. How combining drunken dancing people with large-toothed reptiles was a good idea, I have not yet deciphered. Alas, the alligators are no more; the pit is cemented over.) There are probably a few more plastic flowers strewn around the bar than in the 60s. I’m not sure if plastic flowers were as prolific in Guinea then as they are now, but fake flowers are the answer to every decorating question.<br /><br />Equally interesting was that in the 60’s, Guinea was at the height of its communist days. East Germans diplomats and spies frequented the bar in a day when tourists weren’t even allowed into the country! (Why they let Peace Corps in, who knows, but my friend and his crew did get the boot only halfway through their service, escorted out of the country by the military in ’67, when Guinea decided it had had enough of foreigners.)<br /><br />My volunteer friend told folks about his young heady days of the 60s, and they were thrilled that the older wiser man had come back to pay a visit. I just got to ride along on his coattails and get free beer. But I got a few other freebies that night, and it was my first encounter with the epic Guinean generosity I’ve heard so much about. <br /><br />The original bar owner had passed away only recently, but his replacement sat us down to chat, and immediately asked what she could give us to drink, on the house. The new owner is a lovely woman, Mrs. Ganaba Sylla Touré. She’s well dressed and made-up, and speaks articulate French. I’m impressed that she’s at the head of this establishment. As we talked, I learn that she’s from Dabola, my future post! She was very excited to learn this, and immediately proceeded to write down the phone numbers of her entire family so I can call them once I arrive. <br /><br />As our conversations continue, it comes up that I don’t yet have a Guinean name. “Well, you’ll take my name! Ganaba!” Hmmm, I ponder that. Several folks have offered me names already, and I usually waffle, not liking the sound of it. I’m picky! I want my new name to be just right, not too common or boring, but also not too far out. The name Ganaba, she tells me, is apparently somehow interchangeable with other variants: Zaïnab, Nabou—it’s all the same name. Ganaba seems a little heavy on my tongue, Zaïnab sounds so foreign, but Nabou, I like. Pronounced nah-BOO, it reminds me of one of my mother’s many nicknames for me, Boo. The familiarity feels comfortable. I render my verdict on Nabou, happily accepting my new name. <br /><br />Content with my newfound identity, I lean back and sip my beer. “You know who else has our name?” Ganaba asks me. I stop to think. <br />“No, who?” <br />“The Prophet’s daughter!”<br />I almost spit out my beer. The original Zaïnab was certainly not sipping beer when she got baptized. I feel sacrilegious, and subconsciously hide my beer under the table, out of sight of Islam and out of respect for my honorable namesake. Woops!<br /><br />As the evening wore on, Ganaba took off one of her many bracelets and just gave it to me—<em>cadeau</em>. As 8pm approached, my fellow volunteer and I had to head back to the Peace Corps house to beat our curfew, which is in place as long as we’re in Conakry waiting for election results. We prepared to call a cab, but Ganaba would have none of it. She summoned her personal driver and before we knew it, we were off in her shiny black sedan. In the space of a couple hours, I had acquired a new name, a bracelet, a free ride home, a pleasant buzz, and most memorably, a first insight into Guinean generosity. And all this from a woman I’d only just met! When it’s that easy to become <em>homonymes </em>and friends, I get excited and anxious to meet more Guineans, to get out of the bubble of the Peace Corps house, and to see this country. Now there’s just one thing left—deciding my Guinean <em>last </em>name! <br /><br /><br /><strong>Election update:</strong> As of late Monday night results are IN from the November 7 Presidential run-off!! As the results were announced, an unexpectedly late storm pounded Conakry, rain washing the streets clean. Symbolic? We can only hope. The Electoral Committee cleverly released the results on the eve of the Fête de Mouton, or Eid al-Adha, one of the largest Muslim holidays of the year, when people are expected to be visiting friends and family, eating sheep (in memory of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son, before the sheep handily stepped in), and generally, not violently protesting. Most folks seemed to stay close to home yesterday, celebrating the Fête on a scaled-down level. Guinea’s Supreme Court now has eight days to confirm the election results. Once things are calm, we’ll head to our posts. It’s true that there has been unrest in Conakry, I can hear the gunshots, but I’m happily hunkered down in the Peace Corps house with plenty of reading material and a very large stash of yogurt (although no sheep). Hopefully, the supporters of the losing candidate, Diallo, who have been quoted as saying “Victory or Death!” will take another look at that stance… I’m encouraged to know that the roughly 2,000 election observers from the Carter Center, the European Union, and local groups did not find the “massive fraud at all levels” that Diallo has accused. I’m equally curious to see if Condé, the winning candidate, will make good on the pledge both candidates made prior to elections to include the other in a unity government, and if extending the olive branch would quiet the street riots. I’ll limit my public commentary on elections for now since it’s a sensitive, political subject likely to get me into trouble, and I’m here to serve all factions as an apolitical volunteer. You can read more <a href="http://www.voanews.com/english/news/africa/Carter-Center-Says-it-Found-no-Systematic-Fraud-in-Guineas-Vote--108540129.html">here</a>, or feel free to send me an e-mail or a comment on the blog if you’re curious to know more.Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-44723034731926425962010-11-12T18:26:00.007+01:002010-11-13T16:33:20.705+01:00I don’t cook. Cause I’d rather shock you.My homestay family was always trying to coerce me into the kitchen. “Ma will teach you how to prepare crabs this weekend!” or, “We’ll show you how to make the sauce with manioc leaves!” They seemed genuinely keen to impart their culinary knowledge on me. It’s equally typical that I’ll be sitting around a table with a variety of African colleagues, enjoying a good meal, when somebody drops the cooking bomb. “<em>Oh, toi, tu peux preparer comme ça, non</em>?” Oh you, you can cook like this, right? I can never tell if they’re just pulling my chain, egging me on, or if they’re truly curious. So I usually just smile and make a blanket statement of, “No, I don’t like to cook.” The Africans recoil in horror. “You don’t like to cook??” The kitchen is not only the woman’s domain, but her pride! I don’t know even one married African male who cooks—that is what wives here are for—it is part of how she contributes to the family.<br /><br />I like to take the opportunity of these awkward dinner-time conversations to blow a few minds. So I launch into my spiel. It goes something along the lines of, “You know, I’m actually not a very good cook. I’m better at finance. That’s why I work in the bank. I have more to offer doing math stuff in the bank than I do in the kitchen. So I’ll keep putting my time and efforts into the bank job, and then use that salary to hire a cook. See? Bonus! Job created!” (Some Africans I’ve met actually reproach the relatively wealthy foreigners who do <em>not </em>hire household staff. If the wealthy have enough money to employ people, then, according to this line of thinking, they <em>should </em>be giving jobs to those who need them.) <br /><br />These ideas surprise my African friends because it’s in our womanly genes to be in the kitchen, isn’t it? I think my reasoning is sometimes misunderstood here as scoffing at all the culinary efforts and talents of so many other woman, and I come off looking too big for my britches, too uppity to do the most basic and necessary of tasks—cook. But my point is simply to raise the question of where a woman has value. It could be in the kitchen, as is typically the case in Africa. But it could additionally be in a bank. Or a hospital. Or a courtroom, classroom, boardroom, etc. Dropping the “I don’t like to cook” bomb is one way of planting a little food for thought.<br /><br />I just finished reading the book <a href="http://michaelpollan.com/books/the-omnivores-dilemma/">The Omnivore’s Dilemma</a>, by Michael Pollan, which got <em>me </em>thinking. That is a man who likes to cook, likes to eat, and likes to think about where all of his food comes from! (I recommend it, but I think if I had actually read it while living in America and eating American-grown food I would have my undies in a bundle. There is enough in there to unsettle one’s stomach. Ignorance can be bliss. But, I recommend it anyway!) <br /><br />In reading this book (in addition to getting alternatively disgusted and hungry) I’ve realized to what extent I distance myself from cooking in Africa so as to distance myself from my prescribed gender role here. In America, I’ve equally detached myself from a kitchen just to avoid any possible chance that some man would expect me to be stirring a pot every evening, or try to subjugate me, apron-clad, into a kitchen corner. <br /><br />Earlier today, a fabulously interesting American lady co-worker invited me over for lunch. I happily stuffed myself with a variety of her delicious foods, and was feeling spoiled, satisfied, and appreciative. We were talking about the gender roles in the kitchen—in Africa, in America—and she exclaimed, “But I LIKE to cook! I’m <em>happy </em>to do it!” And it dawned on me that I kind of do, too. Chopping things is stress-relieving! And experimenting with weird ingredients is fun—wondering if my dishes will actually come out edible! I’ve just been too busy trying to prove a point to admit it. I’m not great at cooking, but I sure do like to eat, and it’s fun to make other people happy with the thought and effort that goes into making a tasty meal. In the same way women’s lib has become all about having the choice to stay at home with kids if that’s what a lady wants, I’m realizing that stretches into the kitchen as well. I don’t ever want a man who’s dependant on me for his next feeding, but I do want to know how to make a satisfying meal from time to time. Even better to make that sweet meal <em>with </em>a nice man. :) Plus, food fights are hot. <br /><br />So, it’s not the deepest of revelations, but I appreciate what dawns on me with the clash of American literature and African culture. I think in my future African dinner conversations I’ll try to be a little more open to the possibility of sharing a cooking lesson. I’ll just have to work in my value-of-a-woman discussion somewhere between chopping and stirring.<br /><br /><br />PS—Election update. Things are smooth here! The Electoral Commission is announcing results gradually, as they come in, since last Sunday’s elections. Hopefully we’ll know the next Guinean president by this weekend! For the curious, a brief update <a href="http://www.reuters.com/article/idUSLDE6AB24V20101113?pageNumber=1">here</a>.Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-11022820659431912852010-11-07T13:15:00.004+01:002010-11-07T13:40:07.840+01:00Weddings, elections, and your mother.Here’s what I’ve been up to!<br /><br /><strong>Weddings.</strong><br />One of our language trainers, Tidiane, got married and we were all invited to the wedding! The ceremony took place in the family compound. Tidiane told us we’d probably rather skip out on the lengthy section of Koranic readings. We obliged. We showed up for the civil ceremony and… the food. :)<br /><br />The inevitable flock of kids<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipG_8k8ndNPJ-RWsGdSAPkCLsLWQ-FmE19_ne2N2Wd383pPq6kBi7Hzqv8CG4K7Hpyiz5w0aK11zvj3xcZhz0o_xeb37RSYnyoeCB1ll9kCAmj5VZhUSnQ-o2NH8gZ4fireHX7S5BMPUY/s1600/IMG_2042.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipG_8k8ndNPJ-RWsGdSAPkCLsLWQ-FmE19_ne2N2Wd383pPq6kBi7Hzqv8CG4K7Hpyiz5w0aK11zvj3xcZhz0o_xeb37RSYnyoeCB1ll9kCAmj5VZhUSnQ-o2NH8gZ4fireHX7S5BMPUY/s400/IMG_2042.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536784503475640802" /></a><br /><br />As many people as we Americans photographed, the Guineans were practically lined up taking pictures of us! I guess it’s not everyday a flock of white people shows up at the village wedding.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtY8hERXq12h1Hh0TbsovDLAJNQ_pwrVJk8O59-IwUi6fMzc9Mf8B1CkbvAN7ul2vwQDRXGCKGVIOpgRzk9M7_9kw1GnKdYZ_fGpZaijlkEJrQKXXrOmz8t9ST0ItJ-dXIHUa9fxN_nI/s1600/IMG_2047.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 288px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtY8hERXq12h1Hh0TbsovDLAJNQ_pwrVJk8O59-IwUi6fMzc9Mf8B1CkbvAN7ul2vwQDRXGCKGVIOpgRzk9M7_9kw1GnKdYZ_fGpZaijlkEJrQKXXrOmz8t9ST0ItJ-dXIHUa9fxN_nI/s400/IMG_2047.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536784493799106146" /></a><br /><br />Women folk cuttin up.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXQ3g2IAhjkcGplVIVCrmDsqs_AkbJPErYlgQ2nEBkwG9MI7OUrdyeewlULGgaoIrel90DVU0Woj44U9VebLKOi6ZkL939gQhr8zV04jZUQJQBN_lb6Fov5X5ql7vW2FEKKS2CXLmEnFc/s1600/IMG_2043.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXQ3g2IAhjkcGplVIVCrmDsqs_AkbJPErYlgQ2nEBkwG9MI7OUrdyeewlULGgaoIrel90DVU0Woj44U9VebLKOi6ZkL939gQhr8zV04jZUQJQBN_lb6Fov5X5ql7vW2FEKKS2CXLmEnFc/s400/IMG_2043.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536784485486209906" /></a><br /><br />(This was a Muslim wedding in the strict Wahhabi tradition. At one point someone from the groom’s family attempted to put some music on, but that quickly got nixed!)<br /><br />This one isn’t a fabulous picture, but I love how it captures the backdrop to the wedding scene. Tidiane is in the gray boubou, and his soon-to-be wife is in all white.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggMFhexS378URj4o2Py0DCiR8l4TJ-KkwJUARyNWwgJBzzGHSqwo7ZiYByAmEPMjdP9wPvbXYDnLJTfZ27pMipdksXK-8gTxCsTAIcaJuLoCZX4X2phbdamxXV_kG2GVd5ZT4O8DrT3l4/s1600/IMG_2046+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggMFhexS378URj4o2Py0DCiR8l4TJ-KkwJUARyNWwgJBzzGHSqwo7ZiYByAmEPMjdP9wPvbXYDnLJTfZ27pMipdksXK-8gTxCsTAIcaJuLoCZX4X2phbdamxXV_kG2GVd5ZT4O8DrT3l4/s400/IMG_2046+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536785518644976770" /></a><br /><br />Everyone crowds around the table as the couple says their vows. The official government representative threw on the appropriate red, gold, and green Guinean sash. And baseball cap.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUSoCxN6mMi_Ix2XtCHMWctbp-HyvAZpwPffm3L8K4EG0R7DVsz4PWDZ4yIe4iX7F9hPCYj36U815CL_EqRJZt1bex-D6iJagasJ2AjvSiASkWt7anomjM1lEsEZYdpboBMmosXNb58Y/s1600/IMG_2051.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUSoCxN6mMi_Ix2XtCHMWctbp-HyvAZpwPffm3L8K4EG0R7DVsz4PWDZ4yIe4iX7F9hPCYj36U815CL_EqRJZt1bex-D6iJagasJ2AjvSiASkWt7anomjM1lEsEZYdpboBMmosXNb58Y/s400/IMG_2051.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536785516633301634" /></a><br /><br />After the ceremony, we ate some delicious food, including a typical Peul dish called lacchiri e kosan. You serve yourself a big pile of corn flour. On top of that, scoop yourself a helping of sour milk (kind of like yogurt.) Add some sugar, mix it all up, and enjoy! Tidiane was so happy for us to be there, but I think we were really the ones who benefited—my first Guinean wedding! <br /><br /><strong>Elections!</strong><br />Sunday November 7—election day is <strong>today</strong>! If all goes well, then results will come in within about a week, they won’t be too heavily contested, and then all of us PCVs will go to our sites! In the meantime, I’m fortunate in that I’m getting to work in Conakry with my host organization CAFODEC, as well as several other microfinance organizations. It’s been really interesting to learn about the microfinance sector here as a whole, and to get to meet with the big dogs and ask them all my questions! <br /><br /><strong>Your Mother.</strong><br />Finally, here’s a really cool trick from Niger, courtesy one of my fellow Response volunteers who served his two years there. Apparently, the terrible insult you give somebody in Niger is… drumroll… <em>The Shegiya</em>. To Shegiya somebody, you thrust your five fingers towards them, palm out. You can make an angry face with that, too, if you’d like. It’s like flipping the bird in America, but cooler, becaaaaauuuse shegiya comes from the Hausa word shegintaka, meaning in English, bastard. The five angry fingers mean, “The night you were conceived, your mama slept with FIVE men and she doesn’t even know who your daddy is! Bastard.” It’s a low blow. My friend said folks in Niger will do this to each other in traffic, in an argument and he’s even seen mothers do it to their own kids! How odd! <br /><br />That’s the scoop from Guinea!Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-71422157258801273532010-10-25T22:22:00.006+01:002010-11-05T17:07:48.146+01:00Politics and the fam lifeRe-bonjour de Guinée! <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Politics.</span><br />So, here’s a brief update on the situation. We are all hoping that “Our Malian Hero,” the recently appointed president of Guinea’s electoral commission will be able to make the promised presidential elections happen. They were scheduled for yesterday, Sunday October 24. Friday night we found out that elections will be postponed indefinitely. And so we continue to wait and hope. <br /><br />As for me, I’m currently in limbo. I’m eager to get to my post and begin the job I signed up to do, but that won't be possible until after the elections have passed. Given the uncertainty I’m examining all my options: wait indefinitely for the potential to do good work here in Guinea, transfer to another country where Peace Corps can offer me equally viable short-term work, start looking for a job elsewhere... For so long I’ve been looking forward to this opportunity in Guinea that it would be difficult to let it slip away. Mentally, I’m not quite ready to come back to America and settle in to the day to day routine that ultimately awaits me. Not that the settled American life is a bad thing, and I do look forward to it, eventually. I was just banking on my six more months of doing fulfilling work in Africa. I’ve found it’s hard to tear myself away from here. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The home life.</span><br />So in the interim, I’ll tell you a little about what I’m up to! I’m staying with a Guinean family. (<span style="font-style:italic;">That </span>was a surprise when I got off the plane! Washington had told me that I’d be working at my site within about four days of my arrival, after a quick orientation in Conakry.) So, it’s taken a little adapting, but I appreciate the fam. My Ma feeds me well, and I love that she’s always laughing. Not in a creepy way, the way some people laugh at completely inappropriate moments, but in a way that puts everyone at ease because she’s just generally a happy and amused old woman. My brother’s name is Mohamed Sowpith Camara, but everyone calls him Ally. And he is a good ally indeed. He keeps me informed of all the current news, shares my dinners with me, and shows me around town. They’re part of a polygamous family. The father, now deceased, had three wives and nineteen children. There are so many kids running around my compound that there’s no way I can keep them all straight! My Ma speaks some French, and her children are well educated; several have been to college, which is rare and surprising here. <br /><br />And since I KNOW my American Mom is going to ask, I’ll tell you what we eat here. :) Out of my deep-seated fear of tripe, liver, and other unidentifiable organs, I told Ma that I don’t like meat. So, lucky me, I eat loads of fish, which I love! It helps being right near the water. Not only that, but one day I was eating an omelet Ma made me for breakfast that I could have sworn had crab in it. Lo and behold. Crabs are everywhere here! Ma mixes them in a dish called “<span style="font-style:italic;">riz gras</span>.” <span style="font-style:italic;">Fat rice</span>. It’s Guinea’s answer to Louisiana’s dirty rice or jambalaya. And randomly, I eat a LOT of pumpkin! It is <span style="font-style:italic;">the </span>chosen vegetable of my household, apparently. Fine by me!<br /><br />Dubreka, the town where all of us PCVs are staying until after elections, is about 50 km outside Conakry. Dubreka has no water and no power on a regular basis. Indeed, my toilet is a hole in the ground. Cameroon sure spoiled me with those porcelain wonders. If you’re curious, that’s my toilet there. (Stand on the feet, lift up the cement plug, aim.)<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDOSjGfVmHwtNkeMyFWs1vh44nBTZYmnXaJBzwkkzb32ylhw8ZFx1DbUqJYB75-Gg-TqU4oUt2TzHYA5RAhc7lhUGiGP58QNbuXbf1qSvkw5qZ7PVEZIvSLpbE3_IFtTU9_Ik7bV51jII/s1600/IMG_2077+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDOSjGfVmHwtNkeMyFWs1vh44nBTZYmnXaJBzwkkzb32ylhw8ZFx1DbUqJYB75-Gg-TqU4oUt2TzHYA5RAhc7lhUGiGP58QNbuXbf1qSvkw5qZ7PVEZIvSLpbE3_IFtTU9_Ik7bV51jII/s400/IMG_2077+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532120285897185938" /></a><br /><br />And here’s my shower. Before starting, ensure there is enough water, and then cup by cup, wash yourself clean! (The hardest part to rinse is your forearms.) Don’t worry, I never have to shower alone. Plenty of arachnids just line up to keep me company!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixP5E0wumLvy2DV0dCfGBn6bDl2LJ0aqdJhlOxSz02DAC2RPEFU4jCX8Nbb7tKzqBVTFIxhyphenhyphenYsxWyK5-RiUh9u4VgKKWOp6rrogbNfZbCtoYCnh8Ox4tjU0iLfcAWHwebzkx66ttt0t4k/s1600/IMG_2076.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixP5E0wumLvy2DV0dCfGBn6bDl2LJ0aqdJhlOxSz02DAC2RPEFU4jCX8Nbb7tKzqBVTFIxhyphenhyphenYsxWyK5-RiUh9u4VgKKWOp6rrogbNfZbCtoYCnh8Ox4tjU0iLfcAWHwebzkx66ttt0t4k/s400/IMG_2076.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532118026115089154" /></a><br /><br />The Peace Corps training facility has a generator, so they fire that up for a few hours of electricity a day. I’ve been entertaining myself with lots of reading on microfinance, runs, and bike rides through the jungle-y scenery. It’s at least as brutally humid here as in South Louisiana in the summer, so another of my preferred activities is fanning myself in the dark at night. At least the humidity brings forth lush, beautiful greenery in all directions, which I do appreciate! (Between the drops of sweat that roll down my eyes!)<br /><br />I’ve had the chance to do and see some neat things here in Dubreka. First, some traditional tea. If I had better internet access, I’d upload the video that accompanies these photos. Abdoulaye, our 17-year-old tea maker extraordinaire, got his hands on another volunteer’s iPod. Apparently, the ubiquitous Cameroonian-man-falsetto singing voice extends <span style="font-style:italic;">throughout </span>West Africa. I have never met an African man who sings in anything other that a squeaky high warble. Here, he’s belting out Rihanna’s “Umbrella,” distinguishable by high-pitched wailing interspersed with the occasional lyrical burst, “Umbrella, brella! Hey! Hey!” His tea is very good.<br /><br />Concentration.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieIVqJdVE667y50bH8l5SZGFNcnygzCAldHR0B_IkvNyN8Ei6HRv0Bf-55PFbHk1XfO4DG8LSJaGOYJZHn02HLvAmjaAcZVFK9e8_AZNpiLAu8-Ak4YiCz4g-dn1ukFQqR6xBxZVJ5JU4/s1600/IMG_2060+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 236px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieIVqJdVE667y50bH8l5SZGFNcnygzCAldHR0B_IkvNyN8Ei6HRv0Bf-55PFbHk1XfO4DG8LSJaGOYJZHn02HLvAmjaAcZVFK9e8_AZNpiLAu8-Ak4YiCz4g-dn1ukFQqR6xBxZVJ5JU4/s400/IMG_2060+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532115864719753170" /></a><br /><br />Really, he could do this with his eyes closed.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiKTfNNfN6o6g5qIy6e6dtBZsd1FrsOUiMThjVyTJqRQQHbtzw_v6Oh9i6npJ68Gpb1i_RbHJqHZf6A62GX4DmWESvhrVDv0v32N5wizBtwTvcgklNudt7lBu1v2FCM-GUP0bJvaQYyXo/s1600/IMG_2061+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 227px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiKTfNNfN6o6g5qIy6e6dtBZsd1FrsOUiMThjVyTJqRQQHbtzw_v6Oh9i6npJ68Gpb1i_RbHJqHZf6A62GX4DmWESvhrVDv0v32N5wizBtwTvcgklNudt7lBu1v2FCM-GUP0bJvaQYyXo/s400/IMG_2061+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532114336073839666" /></a><br /><br />They pour it from one cup to another to cool it off, after it’s steeped on the hot coals. <br /><br />The finished product is really sugary and very strong—like a shot of tea. Sometimes, interestingly, they add peanuts into the tea.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJSkqLgrfLcryPxwlvDAeQQ3vOR9kk4Knub9FJ2VurV9YhA5OoVECa8Jiol4-flDrCG88oOupINhB85333nvHtiYHhICnbDGzrYHkQiPu0nJf23wBNRHM5nwvvvu9WEEjDAV5rwwYqec/s1600/IMG_2063+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 241px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJSkqLgrfLcryPxwlvDAeQQ3vOR9kk4Knub9FJ2VurV9YhA5OoVECa8Jiol4-flDrCG88oOupINhB85333nvHtiYHhICnbDGzrYHkQiPu0nJf23wBNRHM5nwvvvu9WEEjDAV5rwwYqec/s400/IMG_2063+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532110970100258530" /></a><br /><br />Then, we got in touch with a local organization that teaches kids drumming and dancing. The organization, funded in part by UNICEF, also teaches the kids to read, write, do some basic math, and provides a meal per day.<br /><br />I saw so surprisingly little drumming and dancing in Cameroon (except when I asked for demonstrations in my own living room, see below) that I was thrilled to see this so soon into my stay in Guinea.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkTSfsxSXPQsf1zmyCxdr5Jay-FceKcONGavLTFFlvLImc_-P3HOZg4uAdBG2gNAtPm018gcvgFa1FFoS4whiRbcKOVLb6RfApMvOOhpIrw3W3tcfe2ETzMUv2rCfv-MRbNemGGU5JEwc/s1600/IMG_2069+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkTSfsxSXPQsf1zmyCxdr5Jay-FceKcONGavLTFFlvLImc_-P3HOZg4uAdBG2gNAtPm018gcvgFa1FFoS4whiRbcKOVLb6RfApMvOOhpIrw3W3tcfe2ETzMUv2rCfv-MRbNemGGU5JEwc/s400/IMG_2069+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532107422141141474" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7wcBMFWconeb8bdwyNzEpdPaKCv1jJ2DKU4yVXcVavqZcCuT4xdvtPnyoCdk1E84FNGU1yPwMknkveJzam-Gabe6bKbYCG0XgYnZJB-7aOs8-emxK4NwFksP7eKeHyqUebBfoWWjt3Kk/s1600/IMG_2074+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7wcBMFWconeb8bdwyNzEpdPaKCv1jJ2DKU4yVXcVavqZcCuT4xdvtPnyoCdk1E84FNGU1yPwMknkveJzam-Gabe6bKbYCG0XgYnZJB-7aOs8-emxK4NwFksP7eKeHyqUebBfoWWjt3Kk/s400/IMG_2074+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532105473717801858" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkzsd0jIDC57nzYm5XQ4eAw0JfmwgWCe2DdFnpTcbq4_0JaeRTQB_7dy7IUHHUJNZ6DFBLIJ_Y1xoxR0bwRZdctdEbZvtSADORidMAASDHzXfpRFxye-NRWyeNWoHLQzm0tf39Ru38vJ8/s1600/IMG_2073+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkzsd0jIDC57nzYm5XQ4eAw0JfmwgWCe2DdFnpTcbq4_0JaeRTQB_7dy7IUHHUJNZ6DFBLIJ_Y1xoxR0bwRZdctdEbZvtSADORidMAASDHzXfpRFxye-NRWyeNWoHLQzm0tf39Ru38vJ8/s400/IMG_2073+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532103496521522322" /></a><br /><br />A traditional Mafa dance of Northern Cameroon, as portrayed in my living room.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEzm1ElM2rGBT3J-bG2xF9Nz5t4eZBYLLm2UtWrMeoS1qoBI3DP1tPK6uurem5LOM0n377SmSdLSsSvBXQcO3r6CgtB8lqqEIMyWWpOJabsk0ErA0Id6lzUkwVu_cC40Kwp0I2UXHIxac/s1600/IMG_1403+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 333px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEzm1ElM2rGBT3J-bG2xF9Nz5t4eZBYLLm2UtWrMeoS1qoBI3DP1tPK6uurem5LOM0n377SmSdLSsSvBXQcO3r6CgtB8lqqEIMyWWpOJabsk0ErA0Id6lzUkwVu_cC40Kwp0I2UXHIxac/s400/IMG_1403+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532099315241508002" /></a><br /><br />And lastly, I’ll leave you with a classic concept: the Guinean clothes dryer!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1kQRV1tQLMl-BQaXr371cE9S-RT6VI0eoUlBDBeMJpY2i4veoUX6KFAhXzR9mpJq7QuTRm0Q3pgJCymeChrunHfslsdwOtW3BMsAO0FAfl3eh9fi74gni4g4BtnR0TLX3vtnep2uwxRs/s1600/IMG_2082.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1kQRV1tQLMl-BQaXr371cE9S-RT6VI0eoUlBDBeMJpY2i4veoUX6KFAhXzR9mpJq7QuTRm0Q3pgJCymeChrunHfslsdwOtW3BMsAO0FAfl3eh9fi74gni4g4BtnR0TLX3vtnep2uwxRs/s400/IMG_2082.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532439946355274258" /></a><br /><br />So, please keep your fingers crossed, and if you’re the praying type, say some prayers for Guinea—that these elections will happen and that Guinea can move out of its limbo and forward into something new and good.Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-30047168961663427502010-10-21T21:54:00.007+01:002010-11-05T16:58:42.654+01:00Guinean elections.“<span style="font-style:italic;">Les élections les élections.</span>”<br /><br />Either it’s accompanied by a sadly shaking head, or an enthusiastic <span style="font-style:italic;">"Ils vont se passer dans de bonnes conditions!" They’ll happen just fine!</span><br /><br />It’s Wednesday. The run-off of Guinea’s first-ever democratic presidential election is scheduled for this Sunday. It’s an exciting time to be in Guinea. It’s a nerve-wracking and uncertain time to be in Guinea.<br /><br />Early July. Then September 19… October 10… now October 24. The date for the presidential run-off has been repeatedly postponed, thrusting Guinea, and me, into a precarious and potentially explosive waiting game. The day I got on the plane to leave for Guinea I learned that the elections that were to happen two days after my arrival were postponed. We still don’t know if Sunday’s elections will really take place. I have a whole new appreciation of certainty.<br /><br />A brief review of why these elections are so important. But first I should take a minute to reiterate that in writing this I am merely attempting to summarize that which you, my dear family and friends, would be reading yourself if you were reading the local news in French. Peace Corps' business is strictly non-political. Peace Corps, and I, have no opinion or agenda regarding these elections. I tell you all of the following so that you have an idea of the environment in which I am living and working. <em>On continue. </em> On September 28, 1958, <span style="font-style:italic;">"On a voté non!" We voted no!</span> Guinea was the only one of France’s West African colonies that chose to sever all ties with France. Better to be poor in independence than rich in slavery, proclaimed Sekou Touré, Guinea’s first leader. Guinea turned to the Soviet Union for help until Touré’s death in 1984. Then General Lansana Conté took over the presidency and proceeded to rig elections until his death in 2008.<br /><br />Up until this point, you could note a few similarities between Cameroon’s and Guinea’s histories. Both countries have had only two authoritarian leaders, ever. When I arrived in Cameroon in 2008, Cameroonian President Paul Biya and Guinean President Conté had been in questionable power for roughly the same amount of time. Only Paul Biya hasn’t died yet…<br /><br />But in 2008 Guinea took a sharp turn in another direction. President Conté died, and military Captain Dadis Camara took over in a bloodless coup. He promised to step down and allow free elections after two years. Guineans were thrilled. Dadis, as he was known, started to clean house, publicly prosecuting corrupt government officials from Conté’s administration, which was rife with nepotism. The legal proceedings were broadcast on national television. Every night, families gathered excitedly around their TV sets to watch “The Dadis Show,” as they called it, where justice seemingly was served.<br /><br />The international community, however, was not so entertained. They put huge amounts of pressure on the Guinean government and people to hold free elections. Dadis balked at the pressure, at setting a date, and questioned why he personally could not run for president. He was Guinean, <span style="font-style:italic;">n’est ce pas</span>, and he wanted his chance.<br /><br />Then September 28, 2009. The fifty-first anniversary of independence. Demonstrators gathered at the stadium of the same name, the September 28th Stadium in the capital city of Conakry. They demonstrated peacefully, calling for the promised elections. Government officials later said that they did not have the right to be in the stadium that day, that they did not have permission. Whatever the case, nothing excuses the violence that ensued, yet still nothing has been done to prosecute those responsible. More information is <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/8280603.stm">here</a>, but in sum, over 150 people lost their lives in the massacre, hundreds of women were raped, and hundreds more demonstrators were injured. Reactions among Guinean government officials have ranged from denial to feigned ignorance. As for Dadis himself, although he had given the order that no demonstrations should take place that day, he personally denied any direct involvement in the massacre.<br /><br />As I’ve been told, what happened next is that Dadis personally went to seek out some of his high-ranking military officials, whom he believed to be responsible for the violence. They were hiding out in the islands off the coast of Conakry. During Dadis’ attempt to bring the accused in, he was shot in the head. He was flown out of the country for medical treatment and has been convalescing in Burkina Faso ever since.<br /><br />Currently, we’re under an interim government, led by military General Sekouba Konaté. As promised, the first round of the long-awaited presidential elections was pushed through in June of this year. A field of dozens of candidates was narrowed to two. It’s these two that are currently battling it out til the end to be Guinea’s first freely-elected president. <br /><br />And now, enter the sticky question of ethnicity. Candidate number 1, Mr. Diallo, captured 44% percent of the vote in June, the largest of any candidate, which is roughly indicative of his ethnic group’s predominance in Guinea. Despite being the largest ethnic group in Guinea, Diallo and his Peuls have never held the Presidency. <br /><br />Candidate number 2 is Alpha Condé, a Malinké who captured about 18% of the first-round vote. In addition to the Malinké and the Peuls, the Sousous are another major ethnic group in Guinea. The Sousou and the Malinké seem to be teaming up to keep the Peuls and their boy Diallo out of office. As you can see, the election is incredibly ethnically charged. (And in case you’re wondering, yes, the town where I will eventually serve is evenly split between the two competing factions, Malinké and Peul. So every question, from what local name I would take to which local language I’ll learn, is ethnically charged.)<br /><br />So why the interminable delays for the run-off election? Initially, ballots hadn’t arrived from South Africa on time, as they were supposed to. Next, the president of the electoral commission, which ultimately pronounces the election results, died. Then, Alpha Condé accused the first round of elections of being marked with irregularities and voting fraud. Most recently, the newly-appointed head of the electoral committee, replacing the guy who died, has been vehemently disputed.<br /><br />But lo and behold! Last night, yet another new head of the electoral committee was announced. And he’s not even Guinean!! Thank you other lung of the Malian-Guinean body… he’s a Malian. So far both candidates seem to accept his nomination. But now it’s Thursday, the election is looming in only three days. Nothing has confirmed yet that it will actually happen. As for us Peace Corps Volunteers, we are safely holed up in a little town outside of Conakry, away from the potential hot mess. There has been street violence in Conakry, but life here <span style="font-style:italic;">au village</span> is calm, and we, like the Guineans, will continue to wait. There’s a lot of hope and a lot of excitement in the air. I’ll keep you posted on what could be a huge moment in Guinean history.Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-91404511011936546612010-10-21T21:39:00.003+01:002010-10-21T21:54:10.052+01:00He's everywhere.Oh! It’s the Obama pants! This is the cute kid who lives in my compound. I wish those came in my size.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEz21Mzgz6C4iR9HKF_8pBxDJyGjEoo70qo1LSwVS18n5lplCkwybPVaHGLS6Z6nPL2r_l4nTXHOHJVRa9tGzKsOqb0UqXEhrF7pnbC2sDn3T7NVlgSVMuon03lP0QmJZxjbL_nc_URls/s1600/IMG_2058+Obama.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 274px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEz21Mzgz6C4iR9HKF_8pBxDJyGjEoo70qo1LSwVS18n5lplCkwybPVaHGLS6Z6nPL2r_l4nTXHOHJVRa9tGzKsOqb0UqXEhrF7pnbC2sDn3T7NVlgSVMuon03lP0QmJZxjbL_nc_URls/s400/IMG_2058+Obama.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530604578723913394" /></a><br />Mary and Hayden, should I keep my eyes peeled for a pair for Baby Frank? :)Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-86417263650647292922010-10-18T16:06:00.002+01:002010-10-18T16:24:44.105+01:00What’s your name?Bonjour de Guinée! Today makes a week I’ve been in Guinea! So, a few initial observations for you.<br /><br />It’s hard not to start every other sentence with “In <em>Cameroon</em>, bwa bwa bwa bwaaaaa…” But even when I do, fortunately for me, the other Peace Corps Response volunteers here are in the same boat. There are 17 of us total, and we’ve all previously served in Peace Corps Africa, in Niger, Senegal, Burkina Faso, Mali, Uganda, Kenya and Malawi. There’s another volunteer from Cameroon who finished well before I did, but served in just the next province down. One gentleman even served here in Guinea in the sixties, fresh off of independence! My favorite stories are the real bad-ass ones about desert living in Niger—hard core. <br /><br />I love that being in Guinea keeps me from forgetting about Cameroon. Although I enjoyed every minute of my recent trip to the lactic wonderland that is America, it’s true that Cameroon seemed terribly, painfully far away, as though my time there was all another crazy mef* dream, and in simply waking up, I would lose it—the dream, the experience. Once I got back to America, Cameroon was worlds away—no family or certainty to connect me back there now. <br /><br />(*Mef is mefloquine, our required malaria prophylaxis that has a sometimes entertaining, sometimes unsettling side effect of really wacked out dreams.)<br /><br />So coming to Guinea has brought back Cameroon, in its similarities and its differences. But Guinea also brings a whole new edge: <em>West </em>Africa. Guinea is West African in ways that Cameroon never will be: in West Africa’s pervasive Islam, its dance, the French everywhere. <br /><br /><strong>The Boobies.</strong><br />First difference, boobs are EVERYwhere here! Although a Northern Cameroonian woman wouldn’t hesitate to whip out a breast to nurse her baby any time, anywhere, she’s otherwise modest, wearing a big pagne top, and usually more pagne draped around her body. Here, it’s the Peace Corps Volunteers who are the most modestly dressed. I’ve seen more boobs in a week in Guinea than in two years in Cameroon! Spaghetti strap tops are normal here—you’d never see that much skin in Northern Cameroon. Orrrrrr, you can opt to wear <em>just </em>your bra. When I left the house today, I noted one of the ladies in my compound wearing her pagne wrap skirt with <em>only </em>her bra. It was maroon with yellow embroidery saying “I LOVE YOU,” on each breast (just in case you missed it on one breast.) Another woman was nursing not one, but TWO babies at the same time, one on each boobie. Impressive. My homestay Ma is a kind woman in her fifties who’s raised six children. Her great boobs are always flapping around and flying out of the sleeves of her huge moomoo. <br /><br />And one last comment on undergarments in my compound. I am jealous of the small boy who has Obama underwear! He’s about 5, and the underwear is bright yellow with a black, red, and white waistband that says OBAMA OBAMA OBAMA all around his waist. Obama’s popularity does not falter among the youth of Africa.<br /><br /><strong>The lungs.</strong><br />Another main difference between Cameroon and Guinea is Guinea’s connectedness with its West African neighbors. In Cameroon, everything was blamed on “Those Chadians!” or “Sex-stealing Nigerians!!” Seemingly, nothing good came from beyond our borders. The night I arrived in Guinea, however, while still driving from the airport, the driver told me, “Guinea and Mali are two lungs of the same body.” The two countries have much in common, and since Mali was the first Sub-Saharan African country I ever visited, I’ve got a soft spot for it. The countries’ people have many of the same names: Keita, Touré, Traoré, Diallo. The Malinké language I’ll learn (minimally!) of upper Guinea is very similar to the Bambara spoken in much of Mali. (And lucky me, yes, my new town is split neatly between two languages: the Pulaar similar to what I knew in Northern Cameroon, and Malinké.) <br /><br /><strong>The names.</strong><br />In both Mali and Guinea, there is a practice I love, non-existent in Cameroon. It’s the joking cousins. The closest parallel I can think of in the States is the example of people in South Louisiana making Aggie jokes—just finding someone different to make fun of. In Guinea, soooooo many people share last names. “Guinea is a family!” I’ve heard it explained. Indeed. You see the same 20 family names all the time. And so it’s customary that some families will always make fun of other families. The Syllas and Contés will always joke with the Camaras. The Diallos are always at it against the Bahs. And in my town of Dabola, it’s the Barrys after the Sows. They’ll say things to each other like, “Oh, you Diallos are thieves!” “Oh, well you Bahs eat cats. Hahahahaha!!!” (If this doesn’t seem very funny to you, that’s ok… African humor is a little different.) But the beautiful thing about this bit of African humor is that it works every time. The joke just never gets old. I think my favorite one is about the Coulibalys in Mali. Apparently, EVERYone gets to make fun of them! And their best line… “Oh, you Coulibalys eat beans! Hahahahaha!!!” (Implied fart joke.) I’ve heard this goes on in levels as high as the Ministers’ cabinets.<br /><br />One story I’ve already heard a few times is about the Camaras and… the Chinese. Apparently, in some publicly made address, former Guinean President Lansana Conté jokingly told a group of Chinese contractors that they should not hire the Camaras for work on a massive state construction project here in Guinea. Since, as everybody knows, the Camaras are thieves! Weeeelllllllllll, the Chinese didn’t quite get the joke. Imagine that! A hard-working Camara, looking for a job, approaches the office of the Chinese contractors. The Chinese studiously examine the proud Mr. Camara’s application, shake their heads and say, “We are sorry, we can not hire you. You are a Camara.” Woops. It got so bad that enough of the Camaras complained to President Conté, who had to explain the joke to the Chinese.<br /><br />Sooooo, how does all this affect me? My last name clearly is neither Camara nor Diallo nor Bah. Oh, but it could be!! Equally customary in Guinea is naming foreigners. Guineans LOVE to give you a name that they can pronounce, which shows at least some reflection of where you work in Guinea and with what group of people, since certain names clearly indicate certain tribal affiliations. The Peace Corps Volunteers who previously served in West Africa have already been named, and simply introduce themselves now as Aïcha or Mariama, (for a girl) or Idrissou or Ousmane (for a guy), complete with selected last name. My dear host family (the Camaras) have kindly already suggested that I become Mariatou Camara. I’ll be working with a lot of Diallos though, so that’s an idea too. Just this morning I went to buy some soap at a shop near my house. “What’s your name?” the shop keeper asked. “Fleurange,” I answered. “No, but what’s your name in Guinea?” “Ah, I don’t have one yet!” We will see and I’ll let you know the results of my new baptism. I have to choose carefully!<br /><br />There’s tons more I could say about Guinea, but <em>ça suffit</em> for now from (for now) Fleurange! My love to all!!Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-55294493793407061902010-10-06T20:40:00.001+01:002010-10-06T20:41:46.388+01:00AmeriWHAT??!!I go to Guinea tomorrow!! <br /><br />But before I do, here is a short list of things I straight-up forgot about cause I hadn’t seen them in more than two years:<br /><br />• Handicapped bathrooms<br />• Microwaves<br />• To-go cups: available in any bar in South Louisiana<br />• How many white people there are in America<br />• How to write a check. (I had to ask Mom.)<br />• Everyone locking their doors all the time!<br />• Broken bones: does everyone in America break their foot for fun? (I only say this cause I’ve done it 3 times…) I’m seeing those walking casts everywhere! Do Cameroonians break as many bones as we do and just keep on walking or do we have particularly snap-happy bones? <br />• Saying “bless you” when some one sneezes. No one ever did that in my corner of Cameroon! I was walking in the streets of DC and someone said it to me from across the street!! That’s love.<br />• Seat belts: No car I rode in in Cameroon had them. Mom had to keep reminding me for about two weeks to buckle up.<br />• High school options: I went back to my old high school for the ten year reunion. Our mascot was the Mighty Lions. Painted on a huge wall of the school was a lion with a mask and gavel, a lion with a paintbrush, a lion with a football helmet, a lion with swim goggles, a lion with a clarinet. There was probably a lion with a French beret and some cheese, but I missed him. My kinda lion. The point is that I was overwhelmed by all those options. When I taught business classes at my local high school in Cameroon, one of the best schools in the region, we had no electricity. Three thousand students got to choose from about three clubs.<br /><br />“What on earth is this?” category:<br />• GPS<br />• iPhones<br />Technology takes over America. I watch in awe. If I want to let on to just how clueless I am, I ask questions. I will learn when I return!<br /><br />It’s been a fabulous time at home and I’m really grateful to all the people who made efforts to see me, put up with me, hosted me, and fed me! Thank you, I will miss you… but remember, not for long this time!Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-66740688039969082772010-09-19T16:39:00.025+01:002010-10-03T19:29:16.990+01:00TanzaniaI’m HOME!<br /><br />I’ve been in the States for a couple of weeks, soaking up cheese, showing skin, and enjoying American culture after 27 months away! I was in Tanzania before coming home. I met up with my friend Shawn there, and then what’s better than one person from Massachusetts… but three?? His parents joined us for a week as well and I thoroughly enjoyed spending time with all of them. <br /><br />Some pitchas.<br /><br />A viewpoint in the Usambara Mountains, Northeast Tanzania. I don’t know why my belly looks pregnant—it’s not. (Too much African beer, maybe?)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8zduIBxjkA44ZZJpha7Y2leQoI8n7n9ND9kpaAY7WWHjWmMFvKrHVyYU1E6f1NI5dBWBt6tSYyjqMZshnvcsDz40u4nRl3teJv7no8znXqVKt6SdInBz1pJUowpPfJWoBbPbBop5bizk/s1600/100_0686.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8zduIBxjkA44ZZJpha7Y2leQoI8n7n9ND9kpaAY7WWHjWmMFvKrHVyYU1E6f1NI5dBWBt6tSYyjqMZshnvcsDz40u4nRl3teJv7no8znXqVKt6SdInBz1pJUowpPfJWoBbPbBop5bizk/s400/100_0686.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518670378629916658" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8OaEt4Gpg4Pki72HVheDUIM3kHFYJf1R0JX_gzC7o2J8bQl_wRiyB70rV0JtJCAgwz1KpvyC5zB0mxGy11A_H-DzHYiu6ciTT9EdCEhLVqk2xccBow07s5yUv3IFx3aKmzOuussGIMrE/s1600/100_0690.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8OaEt4Gpg4Pki72HVheDUIM3kHFYJf1R0JX_gzC7o2J8bQl_wRiyB70rV0JtJCAgwz1KpvyC5zB0mxGy11A_H-DzHYiu6ciTT9EdCEhLVqk2xccBow07s5yUv3IFx3aKmzOuussGIMrE/s400/100_0690.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518670361060689906" /></a><br /><br />Tanzania’s version of a magnolia! (Louisiana state flower :)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvMkYwrQQvJ98tZZls5wlUtqNymt6ozFhvaTmDnXnWk2EEk4d074aQZRuqC4ALzFNHAEanv1tr6eb1KZ0N42NB8hw9NMh4o32CcEXqyjn0VD7iffkMr4cQDHJtyWgqETmtmnnehTEYenU/s1600/100_0712.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvMkYwrQQvJ98tZZls5wlUtqNymt6ozFhvaTmDnXnWk2EEk4d074aQZRuqC4ALzFNHAEanv1tr6eb1KZ0N42NB8hw9NMh4o32CcEXqyjn0VD7iffkMr4cQDHJtyWgqETmtmnnehTEYenU/s400/100_0712.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518669407801170226" /></a><br /><br />Market scene in the Usambara mountains<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbeljH0M-R6F50rVVBcD0EEUnIYRXV0YqDd0sFASIWhxn1Udh8jwI9-NpQD6-ou3IpidnGlvQjYbPEcF2GRxS6M-TTO1BnCysx88BllREAxPbeoZfwQp1R0MOeV_4POqq7CEhMd_nPstA/s1600/100_0727.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbeljH0M-R6F50rVVBcD0EEUnIYRXV0YqDd0sFASIWhxn1Udh8jwI9-NpQD6-ou3IpidnGlvQjYbPEcF2GRxS6M-TTO1BnCysx88BllREAxPbeoZfwQp1R0MOeV_4POqq7CEhMd_nPstA/s400/100_0727.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518669406329775138" /></a><br /><br />Cute girls we ran into along the hike<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu_7BYG52lfB-Wnra0ikKZ_aYH0u1CNVZH5OUuyyHFrddRwM5TgDZ0QB7Q_oWqHvhAsDaTMueZ1Hd5A0HDIgwUnmmyCk17EADnNQKPhknUE9FMMvWYdIytkH9hankRMZ-PIZFbSizUjMo/s1600/100_0746.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu_7BYG52lfB-Wnra0ikKZ_aYH0u1CNVZH5OUuyyHFrddRwM5TgDZ0QB7Q_oWqHvhAsDaTMueZ1Hd5A0HDIgwUnmmyCk17EADnNQKPhknUE9FMMvWYdIytkH9hankRMZ-PIZFbSizUjMo/s400/100_0746.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518665948645856402" /></a><br /><br />More cute, this time in a field <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjB5A-i6fdkvdQhVseskFrDarW6EVL_a0OROF1T4ksfQmn5z-scQ8TWiFQXZhz2gvQ9c8IGdt7IICez2dUVf0vNdnKTgu6hnVW0gb_c4VMVaHhW3RyDjpMLtBs08HQT9XJz8ZYLXJOZ8A/s1600/100_0737+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjB5A-i6fdkvdQhVseskFrDarW6EVL_a0OROF1T4ksfQmn5z-scQ8TWiFQXZhz2gvQ9c8IGdt7IICez2dUVf0vNdnKTgu6hnVW0gb_c4VMVaHhW3RyDjpMLtBs08HQT9XJz8ZYLXJOZ8A/s400/100_0737+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518665937185052162" /></a><br /><br />Actually, kids not only looked cute, but they mad fun noises too. While we were hiking, I was telling Shawn a story, describing an incident in Cameroon that had really irritated me. I made an appropriate noise of disgruntled angst to describe my frustration. Apparently, at exactly that moment, there were about 15 Tanzanian children lurking in nearby bushes. Apparently, they all thought my sound effects were entertaining and immediately imitated them. So we were bombarded with this ridiculous sound, repeatedly, coming from 15 directions, and choruses of giggles. I couldn’t stop laughing because apparently, I sound a lot like a goat. My goat noise, in Tanzanian surround sound. I’m currently aiming to eliminate that sound from my repertoire..<br /><br />Post hike, a stop in Tanga on the East coast, overlooking the Indian Ocean.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYbiaLHFvgFpfQ5wgYW93AZLqG-0YnwhpW3gFXSfVyubU25iVrhrvSbxEydCaeAizGoch7mRepK2iwh0H00369cKBsOnjhE4A-qmQt8MJNwcNRmlMzSHdxjeUbkZX8FcKhyphenhyphenP3O0uJjOgc/s1600/IMG_1817.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYbiaLHFvgFpfQ5wgYW93AZLqG-0YnwhpW3gFXSfVyubU25iVrhrvSbxEydCaeAizGoch7mRepK2iwh0H00369cKBsOnjhE4A-qmQt8MJNwcNRmlMzSHdxjeUbkZX8FcKhyphenhyphenP3O0uJjOgc/s400/IMG_1817.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518664447698697810" /></a><br /><br />On the island of Pemba, Shawn contemplates the water and a traditional boat. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipNSqmwKmqlj0tExDRZuVLZqKT1MVnqiKz5qAIhS9jKo1vUmvvJxrF-gs58hPQryRJSd_EQd5-EuS75MkKzYG-RDhtcof1ABiN86fVPARNNpNWqqO14jSvq8CClhNbaSN8eFVg9D_F59k/s1600/IMG_1827+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipNSqmwKmqlj0tExDRZuVLZqKT1MVnqiKz5qAIhS9jKo1vUmvvJxrF-gs58hPQryRJSd_EQd5-EuS75MkKzYG-RDhtcof1ABiN86fVPARNNpNWqqO14jSvq8CClhNbaSN8eFVg9D_F59k/s400/IMG_1827+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518664440975869570" /></a><br /><br />From the lighthouse of Pemba. The lighthouse was over 100 years old, built in the colonial heyday. And as you can see from my semi-crazed expression, the elevation was a little intimidating!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-FYsTW-RvTeH5WQwX2gNKzku7CsO0ievo4Nut1YpcykFbjBubfBM6OPuQc_TSn2XEVJlaS-wNZHS6sWneWOLVtqLVzW8Pv7tYUAKBheHk__2nl3mLSs51jcFPVK_DcxDmBd1yXvMGQ4/s1600/from+Shawn+1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-FYsTW-RvTeH5WQwX2gNKzku7CsO0ievo4Nut1YpcykFbjBubfBM6OPuQc_TSn2XEVJlaS-wNZHS6sWneWOLVtqLVzW8Pv7tYUAKBheHk__2nl3mLSs51jcFPVK_DcxDmBd1yXvMGQ4/s400/from+Shawn+1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518663515453184978" /></a><br /><br />Zanzibar, the beautiful island off the east coast of Tanzania, in the Indian Ocean. In Stone Town, the main city, they have a bustling night market where you can buy amazing seafood! (Octopus tentacles, anyone? Not bad! Just a little chewy. And you can see the little suction cups.) Here, a vendor prepares the classic “Zanzibar pizza.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWb6oNbB4qeEtd-HLCDYXiDTc5HBBHjcbX3biBU5TX5e5o44nHKYepW8zTJtib2c648oPQAIVFj9BRIwmxL26Lhwi0OTKTAJZy1Hs5kbRjKwP6Iua9A37YNE5uysG8Q3rvBWXLO4X1Hio/s1600/100_0793.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWb6oNbB4qeEtd-HLCDYXiDTc5HBBHjcbX3biBU5TX5e5o44nHKYepW8zTJtib2c648oPQAIVFj9BRIwmxL26Lhwi0OTKTAJZy1Hs5kbRjKwP6Iua9A37YNE5uysG8Q3rvBWXLO4X1Hio/s400/100_0793.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518663512171119298" /></a><br /><br />Zanzibar night market. It's outdoors, in a big open square surrounded by gardens, a royal palace, and the water. Not too shabby.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjoVHS6IAj0JimcYqfHlPymRnJ6K88-SdwPx5wJMq9H4rye9gUI8E2S6e_ZnbK3nLPz3nymwZn4GjtLVZGZ_JxKRNP8zojAgT_ekgwZEzGMhxZa8jKJwakC8J5FWAX6LjGIgjEdNLnUk/s1600/100_0801.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjoVHS6IAj0JimcYqfHlPymRnJ6K88-SdwPx5wJMq9H4rye9gUI8E2S6e_ZnbK3nLPz3nymwZn4GjtLVZGZ_JxKRNP8zojAgT_ekgwZEzGMhxZa8jKJwakC8J5FWAX6LjGIgjEdNLnUk/s400/100_0801.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518663219249559394" /></a><br /><br />We went on a space tour: nutmeg straight off the tree.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiSQ43bMiB2uym6chvrxLfLyg9rsxhN_Qcvwe9lUpCQsp5D9nTX-p1sD7pge_RZ-tGeYMWm3YHsrD69wUfTbwGH6n04TnllOkc_cw9Q1EYgHn-xNUkBA1ZbkF1pARYuaJrrBJYyjwqyJY/s1600/IMG_1835.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 327px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiSQ43bMiB2uym6chvrxLfLyg9rsxhN_Qcvwe9lUpCQsp5D9nTX-p1sD7pge_RZ-tGeYMWm3YHsrD69wUfTbwGH6n04TnllOkc_cw9Q1EYgHn-xNUkBA1ZbkF1pARYuaJrrBJYyjwqyJY/s400/IMG_1835.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518663214747442978" /></a><br /><br />Cinnamon: the part we eat is just bark scraped off the trunk. That lighter colored patch is where it was just scraped off.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKpyKr1-GOwyJsevQhIzfq1_2CWt4TJG0s71jQcqRKAmeyc7PRxkGAe9X8592CcH-ox8TN4CZGPDbTEXtIDUyVEdZG-Bs4nlDSW6reOWrdqEW12og3hdGA0APlJCoQ1qeMEXndWuO-iM/s1600/IMG_1845.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKpyKr1-GOwyJsevQhIzfq1_2CWt4TJG0s71jQcqRKAmeyc7PRxkGAe9X8592CcH-ox8TN4CZGPDbTEXtIDUyVEdZG-Bs4nlDSW6reOWrdqEW12og3hdGA0APlJCoQ1qeMEXndWuO-iM/s400/IMG_1845.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518662781299848050" /></a><br /><br />A little less all-natural: Konyagi, my favorite Tanzanian liquor. My grandfather was a sugarcane farmer, what can I say, I like things... beverages... (alcohol) made from sugar!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Y64z2XL7cJOWkITMwWl9phN_H7eh6pi-3H7s2SYaLY0fVQP9Ou05xzBMxknxSUIrDG_cQ3HZ9x_dJoxrNN8Fh-R5FpPcpTz-AEOanE9GgJgNDS14FZOVj1QnQRUd7-ErF66YfxZjyrg/s1600/IMG_1806+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 179px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Y64z2XL7cJOWkITMwWl9phN_H7eh6pi-3H7s2SYaLY0fVQP9Ou05xzBMxknxSUIrDG_cQ3HZ9x_dJoxrNN8Fh-R5FpPcpTz-AEOanE9GgJgNDS14FZOVj1QnQRUd7-ErF66YfxZjyrg/s400/IMG_1806+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518662774064328242" /></a><br /><br />View from an old sultan’s palace in Zanzibar.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQrGpwN-l7m1prBnBEv7-koTJvfGqfd1fhFwAZ-_yhsyejHvNP2nxekZD270-c8PfwRdmVcRH_rUctIC2ItiGfp1Bwd0gj09AXYNO58cCx6nOwyi4hF6xu58q6TyGGy3bK38MHSXQsU9c/s1600/100_0844.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQrGpwN-l7m1prBnBEv7-koTJvfGqfd1fhFwAZ-_yhsyejHvNP2nxekZD270-c8PfwRdmVcRH_rUctIC2ItiGfp1Bwd0gj09AXYNO58cCx6nOwyi4hF6xu58q6TyGGy3bK38MHSXQsU9c/s400/100_0844.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518662129171410978" /></a><br /><br />The traditionally constructed doors in Zanzibar are made of carved wood. Me + Shawn, Mama Shawn, and Papa Shawn.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-wGp1GkP526Y4khpV_9VnC-JoIMm0Z6Zpr1pD55b5QAupkotR81QNWpHMJKPcXzfnUNqKvPWPRs9e2uR4inrKsdiitEK5Uaku5G85pY3q7xBvNy9crrMDyp_hCW93Lz1vwaFbdLwAmFA/s1600/100_0829.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-wGp1GkP526Y4khpV_9VnC-JoIMm0Z6Zpr1pD55b5QAupkotR81QNWpHMJKPcXzfnUNqKvPWPRs9e2uR4inrKsdiitEK5Uaku5G85pY3q7xBvNy9crrMDyp_hCW93Lz1vwaFbdLwAmFA/s400/100_0829.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518662118981991986" /></a><br /><br />Hey monkey. In the Jozani reserve on Zanzibar.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihKsdyYKg-ZsqZ2f-rpK7uQpTZKmHXffSgN6Gx1SIFsu6my4KkX_1xW9hK8_P3-yFHfo70PA9Mvfaf91BnDwwblrmT553PZnPVqTnaTA1L1cfy0dKFysXBlrWFQLaffS7hh7VaDrl4O7I/s1600/IMG_1855.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihKsdyYKg-ZsqZ2f-rpK7uQpTZKmHXffSgN6Gx1SIFsu6my4KkX_1xW9hK8_P3-yFHfo70PA9Mvfaf91BnDwwblrmT553PZnPVqTnaTA1L1cfy0dKFysXBlrWFQLaffS7hh7VaDrl4O7I/s400/IMG_1855.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518661300015818850" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2m41cPEDH-XRE4oaCNCHSd79M9SLZTh5DZTEF1nj66rfVXnjj3IbA6r4VQXOf1MdZzPE9VmxAvN76cVEngvLeFNz37p0dQ77yHCgHK4YYkCQZMXND_09W6nYQ7q6vjJk9Xa16GXPKCyw/s1600/IMG_1858+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 302px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2m41cPEDH-XRE4oaCNCHSd79M9SLZTh5DZTEF1nj66rfVXnjj3IbA6r4VQXOf1MdZzPE9VmxAvN76cVEngvLeFNz37p0dQ77yHCgHK4YYkCQZMXND_09W6nYQ7q6vjJk9Xa16GXPKCyw/s400/IMG_1858+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518661289052329362" /></a><br /><br />On to the Serengeti, where we spent a couple days. The giraffe and I got into a staring contest. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr7iOMPjQF_ITmwayL7tPgQvehfvx0DoX-XwPhUMyWMx6CvDsbqAFzLxpCsegrUCwZzEL2ctqY3tlD2QQLMf_CvFtZFcDiha8h3ky7DfknKDqXMfbap2hCg0YxnENlef4jmYVe7ogUIBk/s1600/IMG_1873.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr7iOMPjQF_ITmwayL7tPgQvehfvx0DoX-XwPhUMyWMx6CvDsbqAFzLxpCsegrUCwZzEL2ctqY3tlD2QQLMf_CvFtZFcDiha8h3ky7DfknKDqXMfbap2hCg0YxnENlef4jmYVe7ogUIBk/s400/IMG_1873.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518661288582989858" /></a><br /><br />Hyenas are ugly. Sorry, hyenas.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge9BjxSjYzwhgFC2mF3RmVw5TXRn62NN9-5b-Lu_G8YcgqT4_R4Hd8uHDlCP1BSdKgMMLWPv7cNDejkxdhRZQ0HKH-t_pO1U7BvmbEJKbZ0b_w3NbYahhxkdlUVWObrqgrSzOJwGj8EPI/s1600/IMG_1887.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge9BjxSjYzwhgFC2mF3RmVw5TXRn62NN9-5b-Lu_G8YcgqT4_R4Hd8uHDlCP1BSdKgMMLWPv7cNDejkxdhRZQ0HKH-t_pO1U7BvmbEJKbZ0b_w3NbYahhxkdlUVWObrqgrSzOJwGj8EPI/s400/IMG_1887.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518660396123958898" /></a><br /><br />The elephant and I had a heart to heart.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKoVnpuHCnZagNAkpfUEWYHQeupGUrkesEQryf1yIviE-2kN3sjMVEPcyw-vG_KHDPqrlFE7YJEwkTNHOx8AVA8iL1U91J1aX_QcIlLvvoX8M6stYiH8n4oTyYerM5YgRgg9RrNelOaRI/s1600/IMG_1897.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKoVnpuHCnZagNAkpfUEWYHQeupGUrkesEQryf1yIviE-2kN3sjMVEPcyw-vG_KHDPqrlFE7YJEwkTNHOx8AVA8iL1U91J1aX_QcIlLvvoX8M6stYiH8n4oTyYerM5YgRgg9RrNelOaRI/s400/IMG_1897.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518660388340700482" /></a><br /><br />More Serengeti friends<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9WSzGI9uwotkF9rRBDIKViDjNn8RKW6QzBKxwkae9ooqISH7Ay0fJuamAK7QFOftuZDnqf1JKUl3X2IfGMkb2ZYnkq6Q009ii_tBPv4zw_Neu1QS48v6YB0UsfEO2Jk3d7ap-Lx2XLI/s1600/IMG_1891.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9WSzGI9uwotkF9rRBDIKViDjNn8RKW6QzBKxwkae9ooqISH7Ay0fJuamAK7QFOftuZDnqf1JKUl3X2IfGMkb2ZYnkq6Q009ii_tBPv4zw_Neu1QS48v6YB0UsfEO2Jk3d7ap-Lx2XLI/s400/IMG_1891.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518659506621583762" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEeIxFfBVPL8ch63U0TbJ92MiH9SX7wpZMkLQUJ5WUtVYFw3xNZbsjKjcZrgVoCDpY8Eim47jKQSywFHF-4KrWxAJC3HeIUno3s5vs021HLQY-pAwMj2PFo24krYlFh9gPIQDj07KccQY/s1600/IMG_1907.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEeIxFfBVPL8ch63U0TbJ92MiH9SX7wpZMkLQUJ5WUtVYFw3xNZbsjKjcZrgVoCDpY8Eim47jKQSywFHF-4KrWxAJC3HeIUno3s5vs021HLQY-pAwMj2PFo24krYlFh9gPIQDj07KccQY/s400/IMG_1907.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518659499581613746" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDEiR4vGgv6L569yL2BMYBiGMMy_r2xqhZdKLryoxt-A0L6l4EDrBygUF7JTDXlKpz1m9404Rl3JKMCrW_bG14oAEYIuqUieCD9S8Ql-qjqfVwsNGmazVw1eRcUfCemWvoZnuRax51E8g/s1600/IMG_1916.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDEiR4vGgv6L569yL2BMYBiGMMy_r2xqhZdKLryoxt-A0L6l4EDrBygUF7JTDXlKpz1m9404Rl3JKMCrW_bG14oAEYIuqUieCD9S8Ql-qjqfVwsNGmazVw1eRcUfCemWvoZnuRax51E8g/s400/IMG_1916.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518657160891504178" /></a><br /><br />Warthogs! I’m the only one who thinks they are cute. In the background, flamingos. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghs-oS9bpYZdJIUODS5L443D6cBFMOvUzXOY-mekJzyCegEs_UnD599qmTqCv4G48bb1pfhfE4KU-pV46PaIpfNiPhDzxeYVkyRyO43dBFszRNo0fAm6ngP7q2QgNdeozqd3guWDbUaBc/s1600/IMG_1941.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 318px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghs-oS9bpYZdJIUODS5L443D6cBFMOvUzXOY-mekJzyCegEs_UnD599qmTqCv4G48bb1pfhfE4KU-pV46PaIpfNiPhDzxeYVkyRyO43dBFszRNo0fAm6ngP7q2QgNdeozqd3guWDbUaBc/s400/IMG_1941.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518657153246557698" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbfoDCVu31nGK0B8WBLg0xnoTDq4SfeREisANOhpfK8ZDMroj0p4MbIlr1r5pBnnK2pUozvHyMKGlLrJcU2zZGi83sb7siJsGyzvs2XPa9qCyOnhhVylSBqkGs14mLtpdR5M8hb3wWblI/s1600/IMG_1944.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbfoDCVu31nGK0B8WBLg0xnoTDq4SfeREisANOhpfK8ZDMroj0p4MbIlr1r5pBnnK2pUozvHyMKGlLrJcU2zZGi83sb7siJsGyzvs2XPa9qCyOnhhVylSBqkGs14mLtpdR5M8hb3wWblI/s400/IMG_1944.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518658406636280066" /></a><br /><br />Wildebeest, like hyena = not pretty. Lovable though!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhfnaD2J9_Dese3dhRyoxjYWhUR9t8lqQeUDiMFO2rbMGkunYpVb6DFkHnzCjV6eoAEL_aDQT3PwIoqrBDIB5T9mgKkigxPebRhe1JYWh_-2PstsM4nB7qaPV2ZG8uaHdTBhpK1VkAwow/s1600/IMG_1956.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhfnaD2J9_Dese3dhRyoxjYWhUR9t8lqQeUDiMFO2rbMGkunYpVb6DFkHnzCjV6eoAEL_aDQT3PwIoqrBDIB5T9mgKkigxPebRhe1JYWh_-2PstsM4nB7qaPV2ZG8uaHdTBhpK1VkAwow/s400/IMG_1956.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518658396788599250" /></a><br /><br />Fat-bottom hippos.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilmiwET0stvhgdhpBb_lFBa8Cjiu0LLCLUG4IFRha4Ojh3UasDzKa-vIsHESP2cl69h_fPssKuGnrsRt07rgMTacrPWxYvXmB0qEDUvbkwyjs7WR8ZEOsx5WGiQnTiF0Mcf5PBphpvLec/s1600/IMG_1948.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilmiwET0stvhgdhpBb_lFBa8Cjiu0LLCLUG4IFRha4Ojh3UasDzKa-vIsHESP2cl69h_fPssKuGnrsRt07rgMTacrPWxYvXmB0qEDUvbkwyjs7WR8ZEOsx5WGiQnTiF0Mcf5PBphpvLec/s400/IMG_1948.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518655032988966594" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg32D-hjLSboTH-L_em7GO_1biUIvQIVpKkRwrhEhkEXJuRUgFuyrLUQRpaYOcGHkvywFMzvHijkQkm9aLpkx8AmuzeCbZE_37vM3U0Frz1LpOT4i_QsREIX_eGKO26xpRUpR-Re7Du5jU/s1600/IMG_1913.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg32D-hjLSboTH-L_em7GO_1biUIvQIVpKkRwrhEhkEXJuRUgFuyrLUQRpaYOcGHkvywFMzvHijkQkm9aLpkx8AmuzeCbZE_37vM3U0Frz1LpOT4i_QsREIX_eGKO26xpRUpR-Re7Du5jU/s400/IMG_1913.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518655027310643042" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFbnyeBl5-vxPV6z5Q2q7CCd47H04IZkIeFKVAFMpoMQ1TQYoxk7D5XlGFi4Aoqonn2gMi6BgWCYD7khL5ONE0Hk6MsU6uqczRR3DGe9yZJ49ffOWD08Tor0s_Tu7-Mm9osq6hQXhzAI4/s1600/IMG_1920.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFbnyeBl5-vxPV6z5Q2q7CCd47H04IZkIeFKVAFMpoMQ1TQYoxk7D5XlGFi4Aoqonn2gMi6BgWCYD7khL5ONE0Hk6MsU6uqczRR3DGe9yZJ49ffOWD08Tor0s_Tu7-Mm9osq6hQXhzAI4/s400/IMG_1920.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518654441363426818" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdBn-lyx21Vxpdy7N4zxFlUoTxkR9VDUOVyAYxiRrZXvmIrbYTnH0U7TeCFGLoD6633mArJw81K8l3UGZ6vHakI4MFE3_Npu58pnf6Gja0UQOL4bjAii-SR-Iy6W7Fcb8bSpkM387L6Ew/s1600/IMG_1954.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdBn-lyx21Vxpdy7N4zxFlUoTxkR9VDUOVyAYxiRrZXvmIrbYTnH0U7TeCFGLoD6633mArJw81K8l3UGZ6vHakI4MFE3_Npu58pnf6Gja0UQOL4bjAii-SR-Iy6W7Fcb8bSpkM387L6Ew/s400/IMG_1954.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518654430558927026" /></a><br /><br />One last animal shot, this one from the Olduvai gorge. Apparently, as we monkey/men evolve, it seems the position of our big toe turns inward. Alas, in the image on the far left the monkey toe sticks straight out to the side. In the middle, the more-evolved human toe turns in, aligned directly with the foot. And what is this third specimen? A new creature of a more evolved state, whose big toe turns yet further inwards, moving further from monkey-dom, and towards some supreme form of human intelligence?! Oh wait. That’s just my ugly crooked foot. I’ll console myself and just pretend I’m more evolved. :)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMIxjVnO13seoj83E2C0dk9g-zhqfqktqlW35SS6F4Mtz813dm6ilQVtc340Kt0U7a8hNRsHVH7cZ1gPq9jioYSvkuuGjc8EHYp1FrwRQxWZwJXk017hUc3LFWzoURS9obRZtFdo-A7I4/s1600/100_0916.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMIxjVnO13seoj83E2C0dk9g-zhqfqktqlW35SS6F4Mtz813dm6ilQVtc340Kt0U7a8hNRsHVH7cZ1gPq9jioYSvkuuGjc8EHYp1FrwRQxWZwJXk017hUc3LFWzoURS9obRZtFdo-A7I4/s400/100_0916.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518652883716717234" /></a><br /><br />Standing on the edge of Ngorongoro crater.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQc57oJR5e57-fKLZEKu_vMRR3nkmzcSjGLVdHFhXHMZ_vZTvCQaRqwnOKr7n3WUcLYC6uuFpJ85_8dZihGhKW339TzGhNn3HsgCrrU1zO_Tsicpm3SS4YSZCJZ_PSJ03xRv0IYC6DHLM/s1600/from+Shawn+2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQc57oJR5e57-fKLZEKu_vMRR3nkmzcSjGLVdHFhXHMZ_vZTvCQaRqwnOKr7n3WUcLYC6uuFpJ85_8dZihGhKW339TzGhNn3HsgCrrU1zO_Tsicpm3SS4YSZCJZ_PSJ03xRv0IYC6DHLM/s400/from+Shawn+2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518652877716820482" /></a><br /><br />Alas, I’ve got a few more weeks in America now before I head to Guinea, where I will return to a healthy diet of leaf sauce and leave Ben, Jerry, and all their amazing ice cream behind. Til then, amigos, watch out for that little funny-dressed kid, either inappropriately trying to use modern technology (iPhone?!!), or standing baffled in a grocery store aisle near you!Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-61239025645218024132010-08-03T10:31:00.006+01:002010-08-05T15:55:54.819+01:00Running, stinking, wedding in MoroccoHi from the Maghreb! It’s my second time here, but this time, <span style="font-style:italic;">elhamdulelah</span>, I’m a tourist. I came here from Cameroon. Next is Tanzania and then home sweet home on the 28th :)<br /><br />I got to go for a run along the Atlantic the other day, in the port town of Essaouira. Man, it seems some things are universal. I love that running is something you can take almost anywhere. Feet slapping on wet Atlantic sand, it reminds you of any other time you’ve gone running in a weird new place, and makes you feel connected. I hadn’t even packed my running shoes on my short trip to the beach, so I strolled through the old city wearing my swimsuit, with an old T-shirt and my culturally-appropriate (read: ugly) long running shorts on top. I pulled off my flip flops at the beach and ran, holding them in my hand, until the crowds were far behind me. <br /><br />At the beach in Morocco it’s interesting to see the huge variety of dress, as in Egypt. Some women literally swim in their FULL CLOTHES, head scarf and everything, the wet fabrics sticking to their necks or trailing out behind them in the ocean. I always wonder what they thing of me, pale calves blazing in the sunlight! Very few Moroccan women were out in a swimsuit. I feel scandalous.<br /><br />Essaouira<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Ne__S7APZX7Q-kovtKsRzuODn0akZqThQN2n0UijtmifolMZ1vqGFOZ-DB3rT91VBKQkIY8U39QfJAjC6YQw7C64w73NseMg0WKI-E0JqL6Oco7oZl8NZRVzllVDHAF6KJR0bZhk8JI/s1600/IMG_1699+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 257px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Ne__S7APZX7Q-kovtKsRzuODn0akZqThQN2n0UijtmifolMZ1vqGFOZ-DB3rT91VBKQkIY8U39QfJAjC6YQw7C64w73NseMg0WKI-E0JqL6Oco7oZl8NZRVzllVDHAF6KJR0bZhk8JI/s400/IMG_1699+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501116270740459986" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf1KDlaf2ID0N-dXz0hHpa4v7iGbI9hg1cigrBlty_ne4br2C6Ne8HdKw2zoD9XKwQjrlOYQRf1O9W9tq014_R3IcfnH0JM6qGN18KSWdykL0uxPhO_rdramtbcPRrPMBxr06ZUhGGIxQ/s1600/IMG_1700+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 276px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf1KDlaf2ID0N-dXz0hHpa4v7iGbI9hg1cigrBlty_ne4br2C6Ne8HdKw2zoD9XKwQjrlOYQRf1O9W9tq014_R3IcfnH0JM6qGN18KSWdykL0uxPhO_rdramtbcPRrPMBxr06ZUhGGIxQ/s400/IMG_1700+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501116266135456738" /></a><br /><br />I also love to play the game “Find the Moroccans!” It can be hard to tell who’s a tourist and who’s not! On the plane on my first trip here I was stunned (and flattered) when the flight attendant asked me if I was Moroccan. I’m pale. My hair was orange. Apparently, that is the same color as the queen’s hair, and a more common color among people from Fez. (I’m in Fez now… really??) I wonder if I kept my mouth shut, and wore a lot more clothes, as opposed to my what-the-heck African pagne dresses, if people would start thinking I’m local and asking me for directions. That would be sweet.<br /><br />I got to stay a couple nights with a Peace Corps Volunteer here who is a friend of friends. I loved it! She speaks the language, knows the food, is appreciated in her town. Honestly, I felt much more at home there than with the bunch of backpackers at the hostel where I first arrived. Soon, even better, I’ll get to meet up with my old co-worker and dear friend from MCC, Cathy. Til then, I’ll be bumbling around the old medina of Fez, snacking on the occasional olive (there are LOTS to be had here!) and hanging out with naked old ladies in the public bath houses. Woopee!<br /><br />Fez<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsEgpS8JHWobc_4jqcQeKkvmwiCNuX0kq1KACFrXfAkxKgtux9w7u-XLekZ8imYntAad-P53B2GrGqH5R8yPcei0s3XXMJuc78HlMq-em4Ss6XZJahligb2ZBhki_yyfRD3ZhFFU2Cbs8/s1600/IMG_1711.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsEgpS8JHWobc_4jqcQeKkvmwiCNuX0kq1KACFrXfAkxKgtux9w7u-XLekZ8imYntAad-P53B2GrGqH5R8yPcei0s3XXMJuc78HlMq-em4Ss6XZJahligb2ZBhki_yyfRD3ZhFFU2Cbs8/s400/IMG_1711.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501115742398703074" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0gyusompCzioD0tRuCWzJolYENnSyTpF_dIYgMtglg0jtY2Q1fmUc8eQU1mxcRRMClZGyKtvMLkZw4vGDO9JRBbHNzotQchF3WE0K2gts53S0nrsz_uv0BFMmx314ZqFOEopByQfwbe4/s1600/IMG_1713.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0gyusompCzioD0tRuCWzJolYENnSyTpF_dIYgMtglg0jtY2Q1fmUc8eQU1mxcRRMClZGyKtvMLkZw4vGDO9JRBbHNzotQchF3WE0K2gts53S0nrsz_uv0BFMmx314ZqFOEopByQfwbe4/s400/IMG_1713.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501115737969218962" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisJ5_h5dsKqbrlHmWCml43xuH0L_nd6rrqh3cbKRqqZ8jS0vPxXTRST3thpRRpVjiP3wx9a674_car6ufhWpFMZ9BrVkOYsi3vyA6HJBdCo924oeCd76Bj_53Mxhaug4hkx2v6mryBgPE/s1600/IMG_1719.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisJ5_h5dsKqbrlHmWCml43xuH0L_nd6rrqh3cbKRqqZ8jS0vPxXTRST3thpRRpVjiP3wx9a674_car6ufhWpFMZ9BrVkOYsi3vyA6HJBdCo924oeCd76Bj_53Mxhaug4hkx2v6mryBgPE/s400/IMG_1719.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501115735045062642" /></a><br /><br />The dye pits in the tannery of Fez<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilaq8_ATN1RGuF4NRtw1wuMAC8fKtaXyCbWa1kY4iY1Apr1CL0B9VTjgLYUE6Nzgfn6ACBNNWS7ksXgrw8wAM2ze7V8YdC5qnDykvDY1dyql7UgI45v0FuhEnhbuwxLrmgyCFpNcAYbRo/s1600/IMG_1730.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilaq8_ATN1RGuF4NRtw1wuMAC8fKtaXyCbWa1kY4iY1Apr1CL0B9VTjgLYUE6Nzgfn6ACBNNWS7ksXgrw8wAM2ze7V8YdC5qnDykvDY1dyql7UgI45v0FuhEnhbuwxLrmgyCFpNcAYbRo/s400/IMG_1730.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501114640507887378" /></a><br /><br />The secret ingredients used to treat the skins? Pigeon poop and cow piss. Mmmmmm.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRl-WFjptYZyjbVPyXi_dg1xA4l-OPdYzs1WHhVdiWKCj1Ub1mvTS9CVL9k0Zy8m982P9SapwryYINf5iW3PJk_dFLyFVGIPQpd40r9eV4CQOVDqUQsswVwHvEWjyl7tG78qUZDClFt4w/s1600/IMG_1728+crop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRl-WFjptYZyjbVPyXi_dg1xA4l-OPdYzs1WHhVdiWKCj1Ub1mvTS9CVL9k0Zy8m982P9SapwryYINf5iW3PJk_dFLyFVGIPQpd40r9eV4CQOVDqUQsswVwHvEWjyl7tG78qUZDClFt4w/s400/IMG_1728+crop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501114637209107234" /></a><br /><br />I was fascinated to see the tannery and the dye pits in action in Fez; I’d heard tons about them through my work at MCC. I spent a long time gazing out at them from a balcony, despite the pervasive I-might-barf odor. Apparently, one strapping young lad mistook my general interest in the pigeon shit pits for a specific interest in him. He pulled out a little extra bicep flex for me (which I appreciated) and gave me the smile and wave. I reciprocate. He points to his ring finger and makes a come-on-down sign with a big grin. I take this to be a marriage proposal. I leap into the shit pits too and that’s the story of how I’m no longer a single lady. Just kidding. Standing in chemicals up to my knees withholding nausea is not in fact my dream wedding. Instead I waved good bye to Prince Charming and went to haggle over some sweet-smelling finished leather goods. Maybe next time…<br /><br />It’s funny the things that can set me off these days. I think I’m growing up—less emotional than when I was younger. Just when I’m about to pat myself on the back for that, I get lots of liquid products confiscated at the airport in Paris before my flight down to Morocco. (I guess I should know better, but I haven’t flown on a rule-abiding airline in over two years… I forgot!) I feel myself get teary over losing my deodorant, sunscreen, and toothpaste. It was certainly high quality sunscreen, but really? Teary? I surprise myself. I didn’t even cry when I left Mokolo. I try to bargain for the return of my liquid cosmetics… but this is not Africa anymore and the lady just gives me a sorry smile. I shuffle away dejectedly. What is more worth crying about were the ten days when I smelled like… good ol’ me, with no added advantage of ANY deodorant! My apologies to all gentle travelers and hostel owners whose paths I crossed in those recent days. Maybe I just wasn’t looking in the right places, but deo is not easy to find in Morocco! My earthy odor was moreso something to cry about than my replaceable toiletries. At least my would-be husband in the tannery dye pits didn’t mind.Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-6387616821303398242010-08-01T22:10:00.003+01:002010-08-03T10:29:03.693+01:00What’s next?So you thought I was done in Africa? Heheeeeee. Nope.<br /><br />The exact same day I left Mokolo for good I found the e-mail waiting for me: Peace Corps Response, Invitation to Serve. Peace Corps Response does short-term, more intense projects in sketchier countries than standard Peace Corps, for those who have completed their two years of Peace Corps service.<br /><br />It was like a whirl that brought me back to when this all started over two years ago: the excitement of knowing the next steps, a new job description, getting to discover a different country. I’ll go to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guinea"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Guinea</span> </a>for six months—October to April— serving specifically as a Microfinance Training Consultant. The work involves developing and implementing training programs for both clients and employees of the <span style="font-style:italic;">Associations des Services Financiers</span> (ASF), small Guinean microfinance organizations that are linked under an umbrella organization called <a href="http://cafodec.com/"><span style="font-weight:bold;">CAFODEC</span></a>. The trainings will be in response to what the CAFODEC management and I perceive as the weaknesses of the ASFs, to see how we can strengthen their management, and improve lending practices and reimbursement rates. The second part of my gig, independent of the ASFs, is to scope out the players in the microfinance sector in Guinea, see who’s healthy, who’s not, and who could potentially partner with Peace Corps in the future and how.<br /><br />My parents’ generation is pulling out their hair at this news. But they know I love them too much to <span style="font-style:italic;">not </span>come back. The way I see it, I’ve got the rest of my life to have a “real job” and settle down. This is a sweet opportunity to learn, grow, and do work I enjoy doing. And it’s only six months.<br /><br />Here’s a few reasons I’m excited to discover Guinea. <br /><br />-Same and yet new? I already know the name of my new town, Dabola. It’s practically EXACTLY the same latitude as Mokolo, just six countries over… From Mokolo, cross a little Nigeria, Benin, Togo, Ghana, Cote d’Ivoire, and VOILA! Welcome to Guinea! In Dabola, they even speak mostly the same language, Fulfulde, except it’s called Pular in Guinea. So I’ll be able to hit the ground running <span style="font-style:italic;">jam jam jamming</span> my way around in the local language. (“<span style="font-style:italic;">Jam</span>” is the answer to everything in Fulfulde.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8D9ieYijMVmvZxSgTH0eojn2hmK7TZWELOl9BJZidiHTuJn8qIXR1HBNv53r7kN2qRDRtG4P26_yahF0rwZpmAESOjpBYQMPUsbb6mHo5ekCljj6IP7lXGs_7LwIbV29QwvCD_Cf9Q-0/s1600/West+Africa.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8D9ieYijMVmvZxSgTH0eojn2hmK7TZWELOl9BJZidiHTuJn8qIXR1HBNv53r7kN2qRDRtG4P26_yahF0rwZpmAESOjpBYQMPUsbb6mHo5ekCljj6IP7lXGs_7LwIbV29QwvCD_Cf9Q-0/s400/West+Africa.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500422832423076082" /></a><br />-Wild west of banking? Guinea sounds more like Haiti than Cameroon and the other CEMAC countries in terms of banking regulations. CEMAC is the Central African Monetary Union: Cameroon, Chad, Congo Brazzaville, Gabon, Equatorial Guinea, and Central African Republic. They all use a common currency and abide by the same banking regulations. Another group of eight more francophone West African countries does likewise. Guinea is like that kid that refuses to fit in. Way back in 1958 when France was negotiating with its territories for their complete independence or a form of close alliance, Guinea was the one to say “Done with that, suckaaas!” So ever since, Guinea has been completely on its own system. In Haiti, my old organization Fonkoze just had a letter written from some ministry allowing it to operate—that was <span style="font-style:italic;">it</span> in terms of government oversight. I think the case in Guinea will be somewhere in between. It will be interesting to apply to the less structured environment of Guinea what I’ve learned in Cameroon of CEMAC’s stricter banking standards. The less regulations that exist in Guinea, the more work I have to do. And added bonus. One of the big guns in CAFODEC—my new host institution—just got appointed to run the new Ministry of Microfinance. So it should be an interesting and evolving work environment!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0IgI6bpNDRnRMTPh0WXEPDAhyphenhyphenUSX8uYBeUSr2rscuQyrFY8WpbTI82JI8q35ND4vtqbulacO-Hy9oQ5Neg1LtPC31QIHw2PEwQGj0lf_P8xyIfqKKdJFfVvLcVeLkO9KNlTZrbcOZgWg/s1600/Chantal+Paris.bmp"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 172px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0IgI6bpNDRnRMTPh0WXEPDAhyphenhyphenUSX8uYBeUSr2rscuQyrFY8WpbTI82JI8q35ND4vtqbulacO-Hy9oQ5Neg1LtPC31QIHw2PEwQGj0lf_P8xyIfqKKdJFfVvLcVeLkO9KNlTZrbcOZgWg/s200/Chantal+Paris.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500424791303950786" /></a> -Democracy… what’s that? Cameroon has had President Paul Biya for 28 years, and his wife Chantal’s ridiculous hair for 16 of those. (Don’t believe me? You decide.) That hair is just one symbol of all the excesses and wasted priorities of the Biya regime. No one my age can recall anything else, or has lived under any other political system; opposition has been violently squashed down. Guinea? They just held the first round of presidential elections last month—a whole different story! A run-off is in the works. Elections don’t solve everything, but it gets people talking and interested in their government again. I’m excited to see that new reality on the ground. As long as the new first lady steers clear of Chantal’s hairdresser. Fashion junta, please?<br /><br />To answer people’s worries, “But it’s an unstable country!” True, there was violence there a year ago. That's why the Peace Corps initially pulled out, and why only a small group of Peace Corps Response Volunteers are going back in now. But that violence was an isolated incident limited to the capital city. Dabola is a small town with good transport links. It’s unlikely anything would happen there. If it did, I have options for where to go! Also, the people who got injured in last fall’s violence were political protesters in the streets. I will be sitting in a bank crunching numbers. Less glamorous. Less risky. Not as many bad-ass points but I will come home in one piece. <br /><br />So, leaving Cameroon was bittersweet, certainly. Saying goodbye to people I care about and work that I’ve been invested in for two years was hard. But as I rode away from Mokolo for the last time, it was hard to be sad for long. I’ve got a lot of good things to look forward to. And if you didn’t make it to see me in Cameroon before, Guinea is now six countries closer… :) Conakry International Airport… I’ll pick you up in full ridiculous pagne, how can you say no to that?Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-41199082878113859002010-07-20T00:54:00.007+01:002010-07-20T18:51:04.180+01:00Peace Corps BlankI’ve written many things that I’ve never posted on this blog. The entry below was one of them. I didn’t want to sound so impatient, so inflexible, so soon. So I let it sit, so I could come back to it two years later and see if my predictions were true, or if I’d become a better, gentler, more patient and generally more angelic person. It’s dated from November 2008, when I had been at post not yet three months…<br /><br /><strong>November 2008</strong><br /><br />Several Peace Corps Volunteers have described to me a skill that they have acquired over the course of their two years in Cameroon—an ability to zone out, blank their minds, for <em>hours </em>at a time.<br /><br />When you first hear this, it seems somewhat shocking. I can’t help but calculate my former hourly wage and ask, really? $XX lost simply gazing into space? <br /><br />It’s a survival strategy—for dealing with tediously long bus rides too crammed to read, conversations where one insists on telling you a litany of things you are already know (tune back in just in time to laugh or nod, as appropriate), or six hour staff meetings. As one volunteer said to me, “My Cameroonian co-workers have to sit through the staff meeting too, so why shouldn’t I? That’s exactly how you understand how people have to live here—you wait with them. You share their stories, and their frustrations.” And I ask myself, because I happen to come from a culture where time is money, to what extent do I want to use that as an excuse to skip out on the awful moments of waiting?<br /><br />This morning was a classic example. A 9am rendez-vous with the mayor of Mokolo. He shows up at about 11:30am. I’m trying my dangdest to sit in small-talk solidarity with my Cameroonian colleagues, but by around 11am, my impatience wins over, I break down, find a place to sit, and whip out my book. Reading is one of many things I’d rather do than… just sit. Solidarity takes a hit. Not everybody has a book to read.<br /><br />To me, that Peace Corps zone-out seems dangerous. One volunteer who is preparing to return to the U.S. laughingly said to me that he’s worried about just how good he’s become at tuning out. <strong>I don’t want to tune people out.</strong> I want to believe that what they have to say is worthwhile, or that I could at least steer a conversation toward useful and relevant information. People have told me that my patience will build with time, but there is a part of me that laughs and thinks, they just don’t know me. Another part of me says, and why should I allow my patience to grow? So that I can better excuse the status quo? Although I realize that some adapting to the Cameroonian pace and culture will help me, I also think that a complacent acceptance of the status quo is not what this country needs. Complacent people have never changed things. To bring about some level of change, I think strong emotion—be it fear, grief, hope for something better, or maybe even a healthy dose of impatience—is necessary. So for the moment, I’m not yet going to blank out, stifle my impatience, or believe that my time is not worthwhile. Check back with me on that subject in two years!<br /><br /><br /><strong>And so now, July 2010.</strong><br /><br />I can’t help but laugh because… I was right. Self-fulfilling prophesy? Maybe. I’m no more patient than I ever was. But I know how to better deal with situations now. I know the things to say or the jokes to make that can help me get what I want and put everyone at ease. Yet, whether I’ve got the cool and composure to say what I’m supposed to, when I’m supposed to, is still another question. It’s so gratifying when it works. I make a joke that helps me get the price I want while bargaining in a market, or a knowing comment that generally convinces everyone that the <em>nassara </em>is not <em>that </em>much of a cold-hearted foreigner.<br /><br />But it’s true—I still can’t and won’t do six-hour meetings. I will sometimes steer conversations toward what I think is useful, after I’ve gone through the minimal and required greetings and pleasantries. And maybe I’m missing out on something there—that which <em>other </em>people think is important—that’s what I’m here to learn, right? I’ll never be as patient and kind as some other Peace Corps Volunteers. But I’ve been lucky enough to collaborate and spend time with those volunteers, and they’ve taught me invaluable lessons. I think the key is to <em>channel </em>the impatience, the desire for change and for not settling, and to seek something useful out of it, instead of a festering frustration at the systems that create these situations. Some people are capable of blanking out. For better or for worse, I am not. <br /><br />Truly, my closest Cameroonian friends are those that can and do work on more “American time,” who are busy, who don't like to settle. They fuss at <em>me </em> if I show up late for a meeting. An interesting anecdote. My best friend in town is Jacques. Last year we were out having a drink when he let slip that his birthday had just passed. “Jacques!” I said, “Why didn’t you tell me?! Your birthday! We would have celebrated! What did you do?!”<br />“I cried,” he responded. “Because I set certain goals for myself to have attained in that year, and they didn’t happen.” Jacques is one of so very few Cameroonians I know who would ever say that. <br /><br />So what to do? Support and encourage the Jacques who are out there? Plant seeds, just show a different way of doing things? And what about the situations where I just have so little control, the waiting for mayors and other people deemed more important than I? Those are the moments, with quiet resignation, that I am grateful to return to America. I don’t know what to tell Cameroonians to do, as important people determine their future while they… wait. I’ve felt the frustration, and at times I’ve run from it, deemed it not worth my time and effort, but only in feeling the frustrations have I learned and understood, if only for a moment, the struggles of other people. I wish I could say I struggled and waited in solidarity at all times; I didn’t. I’m grateful I had the opportunities I did to learn, and I’m humbled that so many people here are so very much more patient, persevering, and determined than I am. Cameroon demands it—both for survival, and to make the changes we hope to see.<br /><br />I’m grateful to a friend who recently sent me this quote. It’s the type of thing I need to tape to my wall, stick in my wallet, and keep in my heart as a reminder of who I want to be, as I forge on into other future work such as this, in places such as Cameroon. I leave you with this, from Teddy Roosevelt’s 1910 speech, entitled <em>The Man in the Arena</em>: <br /><br /><blockquote>It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.</blockquote>Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-72470479203128887742010-07-15T15:19:00.008+01:002010-07-16T07:43:01.280+01:00Two Years Later: White girl still strugglin to dance.So Thea and I had a little going-away bash the other night. You really never know which way these things are going to go. <br /><br />Mamoudou here, responsible father of seven and pillar of Mokolo's civil society, reported it was the first time he had drunk wine in ten years. I don’t know whether to be proud or concerned as I encourage my Cameroonian friends along the wayward path. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9aVXi_Fr8nBA-yNv5D4gGOT2lnzZDPQWmgu0TuFV-8fQn9NyE-iKab_KIyIFaddiBhocRSsp7gEUE13ludEBKOjKrdmo4NKh-sDQgG3ooJQT3JWOBI3DMcHC4EUo3gkdRQhsxmTymQ1A/s1600/IMG_1240.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9aVXi_Fr8nBA-yNv5D4gGOT2lnzZDPQWmgu0TuFV-8fQn9NyE-iKab_KIyIFaddiBhocRSsp7gEUE13ludEBKOjKrdmo4NKh-sDQgG3ooJQT3JWOBI3DMcHC4EUo3gkdRQhsxmTymQ1A/s400/IMG_1240.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494186644949334354" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">My parents did raise me to be classy.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEoIoQzLpY2LUg1E1W-O7I9cJINx_rzbgAGU42yc5sk8b0XuaLJKrU-K68C-EHCbUACy2rTjETV08qlDGlv_f58pq8Oyuk3atCvH_vaMR3fN1CCx4f_qwoA8Mg6_NVA2lyKpW7aiDOf9Q/s1600/IMG_1255.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 296px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEoIoQzLpY2LUg1E1W-O7I9cJINx_rzbgAGU42yc5sk8b0XuaLJKrU-K68C-EHCbUACy2rTjETV08qlDGlv_f58pq8Oyuk3atCvH_vaMR3fN1CCx4f_qwoA8Mg6_NVA2lyKpW7aiDOf9Q/s400/IMG_1255.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494186652856876818" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I just like how happy our favorite moto driver, Sangenis, is here at the prospect of that boxed wine!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDJIfsxRUMeMZuURcKVZjHXV7BLbgX9PikN02YNLDb_dj0ohN3NCevihzi1zpxYcDw55zO3GGSLBzBS_ToFcRTxQY3QDaAMyFWr8kmHtbWKTsXHGbPZov2H8Wp8r5EKUC6qVrvtgNNFTc/s1600/IMG_1282.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDJIfsxRUMeMZuURcKVZjHXV7BLbgX9PikN02YNLDb_dj0ohN3NCevihzi1zpxYcDw55zO3GGSLBzBS_ToFcRTxQY3QDaAMyFWr8kmHtbWKTsXHGbPZov2H8Wp8r5EKUC6qVrvtgNNFTc/s400/IMG_1282.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494245265303182482" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Somehow, the party evolved into a dance-off around a centerpiece of… a bowl of whiskey sachets. Interestingly, the accompanying music was provided by our friend Roger. He whipped out his guitar and played what he knew everyone could sing along to: Jesus music. And you don’t need to be Christian to know your Jesus music. I have some Muslim friends with great voices!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaWI8jTZxdzt10YwYdVJ-LvhCPsYo37Z4pbzf5f7ZyfM4uphCndPsXQhIw0pw1rdL4ZjQCBpCdSQvNMk3TgOYxhH8vfbKFVm-RKFdKoEAyhz7irgwJ0GLyU858FduS_iWUtN0epm3A4hA/s1600/IMG_1293.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaWI8jTZxdzt10YwYdVJ-LvhCPsYo37Z4pbzf5f7ZyfM4uphCndPsXQhIw0pw1rdL4ZjQCBpCdSQvNMk3TgOYxhH8vfbKFVm-RKFdKoEAyhz7irgwJ0GLyU858FduS_iWUtN0epm3A4hA/s400/IMG_1293.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494245273139902306" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A little video of the sing-along:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" is="" whiskey="" sachet="" action="" 1306="" postmate="" dear="" friend="" two="" shows="" us="" unlike="" has="" fact="" shake="" she="" practices="" d="" like="" to="" add="" as="" side="" note="" few="" nights="" that="" dinner="" at="" house="" learned="" dances="" of="" and="" toupouri="" just="" wait="" til="" the="" next="" time="" ve="" got="" a="" drink="" in="" i="" might="" blow="" your="" mind="" with="" my="" traditional="" african="" bush="" video=""><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxa7Nex95MuDR012nna0KUEfNYwZInGY-e6MnD1Zww7y6asYtmNc1RqbAbBXryhV0qCCTII7VzQ-Xjs9GP8gg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></a><br /><br />Awkward white girl trying to dance. My partner here is Antoinette, Thea’s neighbor who never fails to boost my ego with her commentaries on my attire. When I showed up at Thea’s in a dress, she said, “Oh Fleurange, you’re pretty today!” <br />“Ah, Antoinette, I was ugly yesterday?”<br />“Yes, you were ugly yesterday.”<br /><br /><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAsojWxSYjsAXu48y72wy6GNhtFC_OhxmEJm2x3BKbpviTKcUsnLyL58rkFkcT33u6znG2YOgwyVKaF__gLysdx_MuBQut67wJYqdRAa5k3KaF9Hrt1mbUVK0ORhZomXWfBCdG1h7PdOQ/s400/IMG_1302.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494247088386614034" border="0" /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Keep trying!<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimMdQo6iG1EdqDF3rRp6i7tvWiLkjAllVWIqzLguThRaxAJj7_NrtSmZ-PGFUQaX5I8lXAmLadrMs8ZCGfmvtvaEKIa1pp_iv2KKTuR44mOCrtDDDH5kR3miAOhFrUzGixbCN4e55zjI/s1600/IMG_1304.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimMdQo6iG1EdqDF3rRp6i7tvWiLkjAllVWIqzLguThRaxAJj7_NrtSmZ-PGFUQaX5I8lXAmLadrMs8ZCGfmvtvaEKIa1pp_iv2KKTuR44mOCrtDDDH5kR3miAOhFrUzGixbCN4e55zjI/s400/IMG_1304.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494266447688242578" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Antoinette shows us how it’s done. Here, she has the entire bowl of whiskey sachets on her head.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAsojWxSYjsAXu48y72wy6GNhtFC_OhxmEJm2x3BKbpviTKcUsnLyL58rkFkcT33u6znG2YOgwyVKaF__gLysdx_MuBQut67wJYqdRAa5k3KaF9Hrt1mbUVK0ORhZomXWfBCdG1h7PdOQ/,%20she%20has%20the%20entire%20bowl%20of%20whiskey%20sachets%20on%20her%20head.%0A%0Ahref=" com="" lztz3py="" td993p4rlmi="" aaaaaaaabdu="" lip0vaxiueo="" s1600="" jpg=""><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGmzUMjazBk7UmZ25L-N7xBafb1ojEj70ekSD6U4DayYXO5Gzy9UMZ1CGtqC5-UrFFg6_10PEcvpZpI2_mNo54XwNMs_LIzwDB4QRIaPZ60DcszJfx5h5zcmXpYgUSUOjggtI051gFsxE/s400/IMG_1310.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494248465503458498" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">I have so much to learn from her. :)<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipohoDcRszIJ1J5xdJEqw_PHHjqmUuele3PlPFJAydncLTgQZltsz342_UmYL9v7-WUc-I4IPNExM7VWavxpvDwKbLsuxLvjamVOnJByioK2OlsdLziatKlMjtXqFrCAZP70Byl48_7Z0/s1600/IMG_1322.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipohoDcRszIJ1J5xdJEqw_PHHjqmUuele3PlPFJAydncLTgQZltsz342_UmYL9v7-WUc-I4IPNExM7VWavxpvDwKbLsuxLvjamVOnJByioK2OlsdLziatKlMjtXqFrCAZP70Byl48_7Z0/s400/IMG_1322.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494248473483693218" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Illustrative: That is the whiskey sachet in action.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK9CLWoFGA7F8j9-RbesWva177n0_sq_kV0JGQfMnyvSg4q0gKKIBcwtPMACzu-XZZCr0QsWdmiECCoRIHAgVCUElMJJ27NKpsQ1nr_jW_nTYtpe00nujeUbZfeQaB1OARJiAKOL89mA0/s1600/IMG_1306.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK9CLWoFGA7F8j9-RbesWva177n0_sq_kV0JGQfMnyvSg4q0gKKIBcwtPMACzu-XZZCr0QsWdmiECCoRIHAgVCUElMJJ27NKpsQ1nr_jW_nTYtpe00nujeUbZfeQaB1OARJiAKOL89mA0/s400/IMG_1306.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494385709081125698" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The after-after-party. Here, my postmate and dear friend of two years, Thea, shows us that unlike me, she has in fact learned to shake it. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaq8jABg2WE7ntp7dMQ8qcuQgfNqgU9LOLHHx64wNyYnHEHHxvbkVdmm0avmOo56VKLUPM36CdzEsC-ueNdwQNgjjedTrU7sbif8jp6sGOm5sErOolE6Ekr9ydvJifbYFWbHNlsLF-5gE/s1600/IMG_1323.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 251px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaq8jABg2WE7ntp7dMQ8qcuQgfNqgU9LOLHHx64wNyYnHEHHxvbkVdmm0avmOo56VKLUPM36CdzEsC-ueNdwQNgjjedTrU7sbif8jp6sGOm5sErOolE6Ekr9ydvJifbYFWbHNlsLF-5gE/s400/IMG_1323.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494385717344928722" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Can I just add as a side note that a few nights later, at dinner at my house, I learned the traditional dances of the Mafa, Kapsiki, AND Toupouri peoples. Just wait til the next time you’ve got a drink in me. I might blow your mind with my all-new-yet-traditional African bush moves. :)Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-5212113393904310562010-07-11T13:51:00.001+01:002010-07-11T14:00:23.831+01:00I will missI leave Mokolo in only four days! Since my mama always taught me the value of pro and con lists, I couldn’t help but start noting all the little things I might (or might not!) miss when I leave Cameroon, for better and for worse…<br /><br />I will miss:<br />• Random debates that break out among strangers in the middle of a shared taxi ride across town. And even when a consensus is reached, someone says, “Well now we’ve started arguing, we might as well keep arguing until we get to our destination!” <br />• Being able to lose my cool with somebody and then be best friends two seconds later.<br />• Wearing the same shirt a few days in a row. And wearing the same three ugly pairs of pants for two years straight. <br />• Wearing ridiculously loud <span style="font-style:italic;">pagne </span>ensembles, with poofy sleeves, and being told I am beautiful, as opposed to, say, a freak.<br />• The freedom of my schedule: taking a nap, or a run… or a drink, on a weekday at 11am! Waking up with no alarm, working from home, and going in to an office specifically when I am needed, not just to punch time. Setting my own priorities. <br />• Gratuitous nose picking.<br />• 1$ beers. 20 cent whiskey sachets.<br />• Having time to read good books!<br />• Designing my own clothes, frumpy as they might be, and having them custom tailored by my tailors who tell me I need to turn black before I leave Africa. And that I am the perfect size. In general the ability to make commentary on anyone and everyone’s bodies that would be completely inappropriate in America. <br />• Being more than just a tourist in a foreign community. <br />• Having to wash my hair only once a week cause I live in a desert :)<br />• Pinching cute kids’ cheeks, spanking cute kids’ butts, patting cute kids’ heads. We’re not supposed to touch strangers’ children in America? That will be so weird! <br />• Dudes wearing <span style="font-style:italic;">complete </span>ensembles of neon pink, or lime green, or banana yellow… Could be pajamas, could be fine formal wear!<br />• Finding satisfaction in limited options.<br />• Baby goats: as cute as they are ubiquitous!<br />• Random things that just wouldn’t happen in America, for example, getting a knock on my door from a stranger who tells me he is building an airplane, and could I call my friends in my country who own factories and tell them?<br />• The generosity of Cameroonians—knowing that whomever I’m sitting next to on a bus is going to share with me whatever little food he buys off the side of the road. Or that if I happen to visit a friend near meal-time I’m automatically invited to join them for whatever’s cooking.<br />• My Cameroonian friends of the last two years who’ve seen me rant, laugh, cry, teach, debate, and grow. <br />• Being a part of the Peace Corps community here, with an instant friend and open door in almost every city in this country. Being a Peace Corps Volunteer in general.<br /><br />I won’t miss:<br />• Having to justify at every turn why I am not married, why I don’t want to marry, and specifically why I don’t want to marry you, your son, your brother, or your cousin.<br />• Having to poop in the backyard of my shared compound cause the water is out… again.<br />• Unidentifiable bug bites in places that shouldn’t be bitten.<br />• Having to answer whether I am <span style="font-style:italic;">Madame </span>or <span style="font-style:italic;">Mademoiselle</span>, and explain that I do not like being called Mademoiselle because I am a professional, not a twelve-year-old.<br />• Getting beeped—called and hung up on for any number of reasons (to say hello, to say yes, to say “I don’t have any phone credit, call me back!”)<br />• Washing anything that needs to get washed in this house: my dishes, my laundry, myself, while sitting on a stool in the bathroom using the one spigot in the house. Oh washing machines, I will just sit and spectate as you do your glorious work!<br />• Loooooong meetings where I don’t understand what’s going on in Mafa, Kapsiki or 95% of Fulfulde<br />• Not being able to sit cross-legged for fear of offending someone—it shows a lack of respect. The best equivalent I can think of in the States would be to rip out a big old burp in the middle of a meeting. Not so tasteful. <br />• Missing my friends and family in the U.S. and feeling disconnected in general, from phone calls, internet, news, and my culture.<br /><br />As I’ve added to my lists, I’ve realized how many things that I either love or that drive me crazy about this country are really two sides to the same coin.<br /><br />• I will miss my neighbor’s freshly prepared, delicious, cheap beans for breakfast every morning. Sitting under the trees on the side of our dirt road eating them together with my other neighbors. I have to cook my own beans in America? <br />• I won’t miss biting down on a rock in my neighbor’s freshly prepared, delicious, cheap beans.<br />• I’ll miss the ease of conversation. Asking “how’s your house, how’s your family, how’s your work?” in Fulfulde is enough to have the neighbors thinking I’m a social genius. Sweet.<br />• I won’t miss the boredom of so many conversations that never go beyond asking “how’s your house, how’s your family, how’s your work?” Deep.<br />• I’ll miss cheap transport!! 20 cents to take a motorcycle across town! <br />• I won’t miss fearing for my life almost every time I get on a motorcycle! I ride a motorcycle every day.<br />• I’ll miss African time: making it work for me when I can’t get my sleepy bum in gear to be punctual.<br />• I won’t miss African time: waiting indefinitely on others so that by the time a meeting finally starts I’m already exhausted.<br />• I’ll miss being invited to an event just because I’m the foreigner in town. Popularity made easy.<br />• I won’t miss the unwanted attention that comes from being different, the foreigner in town. I can’t wait to silently slip into anonymity as I walk down the streets, SURROUNDED by <span style="font-style:italic;">nassaras</span>!!<br />• I’ll miss feeling connected to nature: the excitement that comes from the first rains of the year, or walking out my front door and within five minutes being surrounded with NOTHING but fields, green, the sun, and the breeze.<br />• I won’t miss too much nature: like when you’d really like a paved road or a little electricity.<br />• I’ll miss trippy-sweet mefloquine dreams! (Mefloquine is the Peace Corps-provided malaria prophylaxis with undetermined long-term mental side effects. While at the same time it kind of scares me, I kinda like the crazy dreams it gives us. Just a little imagination on steroids to keep you entertained in the African bush.)<br />• I won’t miss malaria. :) Did I mention I got it pretty bad?<br />• I’ll miss bargaining: the feeling of a personal connection created and the satisfaction when you’ve been going at it for ten minutes and you know you’ve finally gotten the best price. Especially when the Cameroonians ask you, “Where did you learn to bargain like that?!” <br />• I won’t miss bargaining: having to spend ten minutes to get a reasonable price when I am cranky and not in the mood, and just want to breeze in and out. Ha, the luxury!<br />• I’ll miss when running out in the bush, the adorable four-year old girl with a huge smile that follows me when I pass her hut. She makes fake athletic-y grunting noises in between giggles, until she collapses into laughter about fifty feet later… every time. <br />• I won’t miss when running out in the bush, fearing getting bitten by dogs that might be rabid. Cameroonians are mostly terrified of dogs. Here, I kind of am too!<br /><br />Upon their return, I’ve heard several people say that living in Africa feels somehow more “real.” I think of the example of running out in the bush. Adorable little girls chase me, but so do might-be-rabid dogs. I go on a footpath out towards Nigeria. It’s peaceful and calm and sparsely populated, with occasional huts dotting the rocky landscape. When there are people, their reactions to me can be hilarious! (especially on market day, when they’re drunk on <span style="font-style:italic;">bilbil</span>.) One old lady stood in the middle of the path, arms wide open and hugged me before I could pass, then did a little dance to celebrate! Another drunk old man was sitting on a rock with some friends. He had a big stick and made like he was going to whack me in the knees. I was truly scared and had no idea what he was up to! He leaned towards me brandishing his stick as I passed, but then drunkenly teetered off the rock and fell on the ground. His friends loved it, and I just sang out, “I’m too fast for youuuuuuuuu!” and ran past. In between the drunken elderly, so many people smile, wave, and give me a hearty “<span style="font-style:italic;">du courage</span>,” like “good luck! take heart!” Nobody’s ever told me that in America. In contrast, when I think of running in the States, I think of concrete, cars, and the impersonal sliver of a curb of Johnston Street, Lafayette that I’ll be allotted as drivers wiz past. No dewy grasses and Cameroonians hoeing their fields with babies on their backs, stopping to wipe their brows and smile at me as I pass. No scary dogs but also no laughter and <span style="font-style:italic;">courage</span>. Everything in Africa seems notched up, like increasing the brightness on a screen of emotions. America will be easy, convenient, and luxurious in so many ways. But the reality of emotions—from boredom and frustration, to excitement and solidarity—in Africa offer a whole different type of richness that I will miss.Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-8883157630935091552010-06-27T19:01:00.004+01:002010-06-28T07:50:00.604+01:00Exam time and Undie ShoppingA friend Kosby is a teacher at one of the local high schools. It’s exam season, so he shared with us a few of the stellar responses he’s recently seen on students’ tests. <br /><br />Exam: What were the consequences for Africa from the Second World War?<br />Student’s response: There are bad grasses growing.<br /><br />Exam: How do you save the environment?<br />Student’s response: You give it mouth to mouth.<br /><br /><br />I also recently told my Sis that I knew it was time to come home cause all my shoes are totally shot and my feet are hurting like an old lady’s. Her e-mailed response, which accurately depicts how I would go about finding and purchasing a new pair of shoes from your average vendor in Cameroon, made me laugh out loud:<br /><br /><blockquote>For the love of all things good, next time you pass by a small boy with a shoe on his head, stop him and try on his wares.</blockquote><br /><br />That’s pretty accurate. The little boys have one sole shoe perched on their heads, almost as a marker, their equivalent of a neon Foot Locker sign, as they wander around town looking for clients. They carry a whole assortment more of sneakers in their arms. You bargain for your new shoes right there on the side of the road, while the small boy never takes that one sneaker off his head. So now I just have to go find the small boys... (that is not meant to sound creepy!) Even better are the underwear salesmen who approach you in the bars. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBppeCwROCHVcuMjFwKBRgxO0K7SVW2U9szQlwfC9a4qanqvXr5kZjQ1LSIUUsUlzWK4cChAWtp3bkZ1aAZEh-AEw2ZaMFseDlw_YEP90Nv7tt5sBguQSy32aXc6JnlaDmNO99OdZIpN8/s1600/IMG_0044.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBppeCwROCHVcuMjFwKBRgxO0K7SVW2U9szQlwfC9a4qanqvXr5kZjQ1LSIUUsUlzWK4cChAWtp3bkZ1aAZEh-AEw2ZaMFseDlw_YEP90Nv7tt5sBguQSy32aXc6JnlaDmNO99OdZIpN8/s400/IMG_0044.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487516049048382690" border="0"></a><br /><br />Decisions, decisions.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwIBxcxWzWQLadoJ0se0w6ONSb4LcTsT8-IP73kh6MITt6WOFZSfohFNXfgZg6NYe6JTt2C8iiZPkdw-Hya_zsgfJ4w_Ix6hRobIfEDTIvlDPMCTv1-LcfWmKxdgSsMf-FivDFpT3s51Y/s1600/IMG_0039.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwIBxcxWzWQLadoJ0se0w6ONSb4LcTsT8-IP73kh6MITt6WOFZSfohFNXfgZg6NYe6JTt2C8iiZPkdw-Hya_zsgfJ4w_Ix6hRobIfEDTIvlDPMCTv1-LcfWmKxdgSsMf-FivDFpT3s51Y/s400/IMG_0039.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487516056133820098" border="0"></a><br /><br />Another satisfied customer!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvqTwqaM-eDDvjFuvCdnXCszWtUNNqCsxXBCRK1dDQcunKamRm3EASCC2GsJ_OAK96h9V4JuXfXbAolSn9I_8RK20_kkhOKYFKu614j8FMRBQJ53I1xGZ9e1QTV3MDfnEBNLqOmYUHsaY/s1600/IMG_0040.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvqTwqaM-eDDvjFuvCdnXCszWtUNNqCsxXBCRK1dDQcunKamRm3EASCC2GsJ_OAK96h9V4JuXfXbAolSn9I_8RK20_kkhOKYFKu614j8FMRBQJ53I1xGZ9e1QTV3MDfnEBNLqOmYUHsaY/s400/IMG_0040.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487516749664161954" border="0"></a><br /><br /><br />But that’s all a story for another day. (Note: the underwear vendors, however, do not market their wares by putting them on their heads.) And I won’t even get into the current decrepit state of my undies! I REALLY need to come home so I can replace those! So, never a dull moment here. Students prove their wisdom, and my worldly goods fall to pieces around me. America, I’ll be there soon, even if your shopping will be too easy and without flair!Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452338750245798750.post-63668696551963979752010-06-12T12:06:00.002+01:002010-06-12T12:14:10.110+01:00Cameroonian in AmericaA friend of many of us Peace Corps Volunteers, Alim, recently made a trip to America. It was his first time in the States, and he was going with a group of several other Africans, for an educational and work-related tour. <br /><br />I loved hearing his reactions to the US! The two things that impressed him the most, he said, was the architecture, and … the toilets! He laughed as he told us, but just the idea that toilets were EVERYWHERE, and always so <span style="font-style:italic;">clean</span>, was a shocker! The showers in the hotel were also pretty cool—he had a <span style="font-style:italic;">lot </span>of pictures of them! When you recognize that I only know of about 5 flushy toilets in my town… that makes sense. (And actually, mine is not flushing these days!) Most volunteers and most Cameroonians are using the trusty hole in the ground. <br /><br />If I ever need to smile, I will just recall an image of Alim from a story he told us. First, for your own mental imagery, I should explain that Alim is just cute. He’s small and friendly and has a big smile that just takes over his entire face. And apparently, number 3 on Alim’s Best-of-America list was Kentucky Fried Chicken. He said he ate there EVERY day (with the exception of when he was in New Orleans and had to substitute Popeyes.) On one of his daily stops, he noticed… the drive-through. Never having seen one of these before, he was pretty curious. Soooo, once there were no more cars in line, he heads toward the microphone, and in between giggles, in his charmingly accented English, orders his daily dose of chicken. He continues his stroll on to the window, pays, and walks on through… the drive-through. Cameroonian-American cultural exchange for the day: complete!! And a bucket o’ wings!<br /><br />Lastly, I asked him what was his favorite part of the States. He went EVERYwhere!! DC, New York, Boston, Pittsburgh, San Francisco, North Dakota (??!), New Orleans. When he pondered and then replied “New Orleans,” I think I squealed out loud. <br />“Alim, you’re just telling me that cause it’s my state!”<br />“Really?!”<br />“Yes!” I even pointed to where I had once drunkenly written my name in large letters in the Gulf of Mexico, with a big smiley face, and an arrow pointing to Lafayette, on the US map hanging in the Peace Corps house in Maroua.<br />So, New Orleans might have hurricanes and now a fresh coating of BP-flavored oil, but it’s still got culture. And Alim went to Jazz Fest! Oh, I would have paid to see those twelve giggly Africans navigating Jazz Fest. :)<br /><br />Annnnnnnd, on that note, allow me to just throw in that New Orleans, Lafayette, and all of America, get ready! I just got my plane tickets and I am HOME on August 28th!!<br /><br /><br />But until then, how ‘bout …a little update on my pants :)<br /><br />The brown pants are back! I will hold them up as a monument to resiliency… as well as bad fashion. <br />But more interestingly, I was talking to Thea’s neighbor Antoinette yesterday. Recently, it’s been so hot here that even my dear old friends the pants have had to go. I’m opting for the cooler breezy option of skirts and dresses these days, even if means I don’t get to ride my bike around. (Too hot for that anyway!) So Antoinette told me how nice I looked. (Note: I was wearing my ugly Women’s Day pagne top and a Macabi skirt. That is one of those frumpy I’m-an-outdoors-woman-and-therefore-don’t-have-to-be-fashionable skirts that even I know better that to wear in public in the states!) So by most definitions, I did not look “nice.”<br /><br />“Antoinette,” I said, “You always tell me I look nice when I wear a skirt or a dress. You must not like my pants.”<br />“Well,” she ponders, “Sometimes you wear pants and they are ok, and sometimes you wear pants…” and she starts laughing.<br />So basically even a Cameroonian has now confirmed what the Americans have been crying out for months! Well. <br /><br />When I told this story to Thea she had an even better one for me. Apparently, even the saggy-assed-ness of my pants does not camouflage certain God-given… features. So, how Cameroonians continue to confuse all of us white girls in town, I do not know. But apparently Antoinette was recently trying to explain to another of Thea’s neighbors which one of the white girls I am. <br />“<span style="font-style:italic;">Oooooooh</span>!” the newly enlightened neighbor exclaimed, “<span style="font-style:italic;">C’est elle avec les fesses africaines</span>?!” <br />“Ooooohhh! She’s that one with the African butt?!” Yes, that is me, with the African butt, thank you! I do what I can to integrate.Kate Fleurangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16877265058146635865noreply@blogger.com2