Sidiki Kalabante,

My life makes sense to me finally. I always felt like I was lost in this crazy world but when I met you I never understood that love was simple just like faith is simple. You remind me everyday that attitude is everything. Your spirit lights up the darkest of places which is why your students who have no family, who carry knives because they feel threatened, who keep up walls, love you and throw you surprise birthday parties complete with balloons and pizza that they purchased themselves. You are not only my inspiration but you are an inspiration to every one of your 160 students, your family, your friends, the passerby on the street or person of need on the subway. I am blessed to be with someone who challenges me to become a better person. I love you Adam. Happy Birthday!

inspires me everyday. He is the most positive person I know, making him the ideal person to teach in the poorest congretional district in America. He is not only the most positive person I know, but he is a walking encyclopedia brimming with knowledge, using his smarts to help others find theirs. However it's not his optimistic countenance or his beautiful brain that I fell in love with but rather it is his huge heart to serve. His heart pours out compassion everyday. It is this quality that I fell in love with when I would see him in his village in Guinea. It would make any woman melt to see a good looking man cradle African babies the way Adam does.I apologize, but since my husband is so humble, I am going to brag a little about him. Ok, maybe a lot.

Adam started his first day of teaching at MS 224 in the Bronx last Wednesday. I was able to go in to help him prepare his classroom before school starting. What I walked into was overwhelming for me. The school lay in the biggest mess, notebooks and file cabinets lining the halls, teachers being shuffled from room to room without even knowing what they were teaching yet, classrooms disheveled like an earthquake had hit. Adam's room was at the very end of a long hallway, room 338. Although his room was spacious the air conditioner was an aborted project when funds fell through. We worked for days under what seemed like a hurricane as the room fan would swivel its' head. At times it was counterproductive but we kept the fan for the relief it gave from the New York heat. My husband could sense my frustration in any situation and he always brings me back with three words, "Remember Guinea baby." After working in his classroom, I don't remember ever being more dirty, even after living in Africa. But there were never fans! Ah life would have been so different in a mud hut if there was such a contraption! I am grateful to have someone in my life who brings me back to all the things I learned during my Peace Corps service.

Today is his 3rd day of teaching. I look forward to drilling him when he gets home, imploring him for more stories of what happened at school. My favorites are usually his interactions with the recently immigrated West Africans. He is a math and Spanish teacher by contract, but he has taken on French translator to help his new students. Adam breathes this new life of his in everything he studies, in everything purchases, in everything he lives. His passion reignites what Guinea was for the both of us. A life of service.

Here is one of my favorite first day of school stories: Adam was going around the classroom, observing his students fill in their 3x5 flashcards, an icebreaker to help the students get to know each other. Adam noticed a female student of his with a blank space in the "favorite book" section of her flashcard. Another section of her flashcard read, "wants to make lots of money." Her excuse was she didn't like to read. Adam encouraged her by saying she could write down her favorite magazine. Her response did not waver, " I don't like to read." Adam bent down, saying to her in a kind of secretive voice, "You know, I noticed that you want to make lots of money. Reading can make you powerful! In fact, you need to read pretty well if you want to be powerful." At the end of the day, an English teacher brought an essay titled, "Goals for the Year" to Adam. It was an essay that the same girl that Adam spoke to a couple of periods prior had written. She wrote that she wants to become a better reader because Mr. Johnson said it would make her powerful.

You know when you were little how you pointed out the things to adults that are everyday, common things but were so new to you? Or if you don't recall those days, how about when you traveled and you took note of something that marked you as a foreigner? I'm not talking about wearing a fanny pack but something that came from your childish innocence. The excitement of discovering something novel, a treasure you've only heard about in stories. I feel like that now, living here in New York City. To those moments where we find our inner child still kicking around in the dirt. Here are some pictures of some moments that have made my heart happy!

Adam and I decided to do a walking tour despite the rainy weather. Sharing one umbrella, we walked up this street in Washington Heights that leads to George Washington's mansion.

Our adopted NY mother, Cora holding a plate of the infamous "Dinosaur BBQ" located in Harlem. Look Russ...collard greens!

Adam and friends eating the best (cheap and tasty) street food in NYC. It's halal lamb and chicken over rice, salad, and warm pita. With one plate serving easily as 2 meals, the $6 can't be beat.

The long line we waited in for the street food. This food cart operation is efficient with one man in charge of the cash and two others dishing out the goods into tin containers. Customers have control over how much spicy sauce and yogurt they want. Beware of line cutters jumping out from cars and distraught neighboring restaurant owners.

Of course, the best answer to that is being with my husband Adam. I wake up every morning feeling so blessed, thinking that this is my life now. I get to have Adam every day, forever. It feels like we have a secret that nobody else knows, laughing in unbelief, as we walk hand in hand down Broadway. It's so much fun playing house for real this time as we shop for groceries at "The Met" in Harlem. We both think it without saying it to each other how witty we feel acting like a true "New Yorker" as we go for bagels at "Nussbaum & Wu" where I love the tofu vegetable spread and he gets his coffee fix. I love being married.

We live in Morningside Heights where Columbia sits right between Manhattanville and Harlem. Our small apartment is our haven, full of our keepsakes from Guinea, a perfect collection of what is sold in the African mart just a couple blocks away. It is small, but we are proud of our first home together. Nestled perfectly in a neighborhood meant for newlyweds, surrounded by lots of little shops and restaurants, bordering Riverside Park which overlooks the Hudson River, and situated between two major subway stops...it is the perfect place to take on this concrete jungle with baby steps.

Every neighborhood is full of history and culture, which is evident by the friendly neighbors or store owners always giving a sign that they are free to chat. Just this morning, I toured the largest mausoleum in America, of Ulysses S. Grant. It blew my mind that this monument is just a block away from where I live. My baby steps tend to lead me to bigger treats, always popping out of nowhere, like St. John's Cathedral, the largest Gothic cathedral in the world. But more than the tourist attractions, a simple walk down Washington Heights or Soho is just as stimulating. The city is diverse, something Adam and I both crave in a community. No where else in the whole world is people watching the best. New York City is fascinating. Come see!

I was lucky that I could say goodbye to my village. Knowing I only had one more day, this is how I spent it.

So I am home a whole 5 months earlier than expected due to political instability in Guinea. It was the hardest thing I've ever been through, being torn out of my village, listening to women wailing in my concession, as if they were mourning a death. But after all the trials and uncertainity if I could return to my village, I finally found some peace knowing that I had the time of my life as a Peace Corps volunteer. There is so much that I learned during this time of self-discovery, little things like how to properly peel fruits and vegetables, or bigger things like how to speak French, but there is one main thing that I got out of joining the Peace Corps. It was how I needed to live out the rest of my life.

This is something I wrote while back in Guinea:

Being sick abroad really tests your strenth and will. There is no comforting mother, no relief with cold water or a toilet to sit on, no assurance of proper medication. But there is God to lift up my head (Psalm 63). When I am weak, I am strong. And no where else have I been my weakest. It was living in West Africa that made me realize how much I love Christ.

I am a confirmed Catholic. I remember how God had called me my freshman year of college. That was one of my happiest years of my life, when the holy spirit lived within me and my brothers and sisters who were also becoming confirmed. But the evil ways of the world used doubt, hypocrisy, and temptation to cloud my need for Christ. And I'm sad to admit I haven't been able to renew this relationship until my Peace Corps service. An old Peace Corps motto is, "Life is calling. How far will you go?" but really God was calling. It's like He knew I needed this time, this quiet time with Him, away from all my distractions. This time to prepare me, to train me in how I need to live the rest of my life. There are days I feel crazy, like I've had enough rice and sauce, missing my nephews, getting water from the pump to drink and bathe with. But God's timing is perfect and I trust Him. Even if His plan has taken me worlds away from everything I know and love.

And Guinea is that. A muslim country with no access to running water, electricity, and even worse...a Christian bookstore. But the more I prayed for growth and guidance, God not only sent it to me in the form of books and music from Charmie, Russ, and Cerisa, but in the form of something I could actually bike to in under 20 minutes. The Lutheran missionaries came back from their vacation right at the knick of time. Soon other Christian Peace Corps volunteers started to find each other. We would send each other letters in how to pray for each other. But I even began to see Christ work in the people in my village, non-Christians. After living in a concession of huts for over a year and a half I believe Americans can learn a lot from the family unit in Guinea. It is exactly this familial love that makes the idea of orphans non-existent, depression a rarity, or civil war from igniting like it has in Guinea's neighboring countries of Sierra Leone or Liberia.

Love is the answer translates to God is the answer. And with any answer, effort needs to be involved. That is why I fell away from Christ over and over again. I didn't take the time to be with Him. "You will seek Me and find Me when you seek me with all your heart" is painted on my hut wall, right above my study desk. The more I dedicated myself to this task the more I realized the truth in it. The Word became alive, like a personal letter to me from a best friend, something I look forward to reading every morning. And soon enough I began to feel His hand work in my life through a child's smile or from the wetness of a raindrop. Tim, the Lutheran missionary, wrote this on my hut wall, "No one has seen God, but if we love, we can see Him in each other." 1 John 4:12. This has never been so real to me until now, and I will pray that you wil be able to feel Him holding your hand in your daily life, as He has in mine.

Looks beautiful, doesn’t it? This is sunset behind the Peace Corps bureau in Conakry. I’m sitting at the beach bar that many volunteers frequent for their “cold” beers and pizza. Like how a cover of a book can be deceiving to the eye, this picture conceals the truth. But I will reveal the littered waters full of plastics of all sorts from food packaging to toilet seats. I will point out that silhouette of a man in the corner who seems to be praising the scenery, but in reality is talking to an imaginary audience induced by his mental state. I will admit to being scared of the sickly looking stray dog that lays under my table hoping for my attention just as much as for my pizza.

This is what I see after being away in America for two weeks and after having been gone for almost two years. This is what I feel: confusion. It’s like I went through a time warp and my concept of reality was lost in another dimension. I went through reverse culture shock while I stood in Time Square or even just standing in the candy aisle of a Rite Aid. But I didn’t plan on coming back to Guinea and going through culture shock as I lit a candle, used a latrine pit, or worried about clean drinking water again.

I found myself getting upset because I wanted the easy life again. I cursed the night along with this country when all I wanted to do was flip a light switch to see. Have I lost my strength and patience in just two weeks?

I don’t know, but I’ll tell you what my best friends back home think I’ve lost. They said I have lost my butterfly wings. Peace Corps allowed me to see with my idealistic eyes, but Guinea wiped them anew. I was reminded to look at things objectively, allowing me to exercise my scientific mind. And what I’ve observed is that looks truly can be deceiving. I remember that night I stood in Times Square was the first night during my visit to America that I cried myself to sleep. Being in the capital of consumerism may be as beautiful to someone as a sunset on a beach, but to me it was a delusion. I won’t expand any further on this so as to avoid the idea I’ve become a misanthrope, but I’ve learned that there is always beauty in truth, no matter how ugly that truth may appear to be.

It's hard to explain how my visit home was. I haven't been back in almost 2 years. So much has changed while so little hasn't. The worlds are so different, the difference mainly being the pace of life. I was expecting to be overwhelmed by nice freeway overpasses, supermarkets, and options, options, options, but not by my family and friends. The minute Adam and I arrived at the airport to the minute we were dropped off was a blur of faces, smiles, and love.

We were pressed for time among our grad school interviews, reunions, and tours with visiting friends and family, but we were pushed along to see more faces. It was nice to finally show Adam about all the people I've only been able to tell him about, but I fear that I wasn't able to really show my appreciation for all that was done for us.

For all the time you took off work, studied for those exams a full week ahead, spent time preparing for another big bash, driving out to chez moi, chauffeuring us around LA, traveling on an airplane, and just being there. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your love sent through letters, emails, and care packages have gotten me through my service thus far, but seeing your faces and hearing your voices during my quick visit home, will speak to my heart forever.

6:45 a.m. on the dot. I hear the drums announce a meeting regarding my school renovation project. As I walk with my counterpart, the village griot, and his older brother, the chief of the village, I can't help but feel an air of importance. I am a foreigner and a woman about to enter the realm of male dominance. The hut I enter is the biggest hut I've ever been inside. And it needs to be to house 35 men, adorned in their grand bubus, islamic caps, shawls, and walking canes. Every piece of mud earth is hidden beneath cow hides and goat skin, giving off the scent of sweet death, which is alluring to the swarm of flies that bounce from our bare feet. As the men give their praises to Allah I notice that the men don't find the flies a nuissance as I do. I immediately feel insignificant among these men. Their faces and eyes, reminding me of dinosaurs, exude wisdom of lives that have seen and done so much. Even their weathered feet tell stories of their farming lives or their countless journeys in the bush. I am nothing.

I wonder if I should have worn a head wrap instead of a french braid, if my shirt's short sleeves are too revealing, or even if the pants I was told to change into are too informal. But my insecurities drown out in my counterpart's deep throated, "Namun" after each statement, signifying that the speaker was heard. I manage to keep up with the council's agenda, even exchanging a few benedictions to follow the formalities. After the last, "Amina" and all eyes have been averted to the next in the circle I don't feel insignificant anymore. I was invited after all.

This meeting was to discuss my work, but sitting here among the village elders made me realize this was more than that. This is the old meeting the new, tradition opening to change, the past allowing the present , fast-paced world to reside next door. I am proud of these men, the protectors of their village, for welcoming a stranger like me.

Since coming to Guinea about a year and a half ago I have been adopted by 3 families. My host family in training, my host family in the village, and the Nortons. All 3 families have done more than their share to make this low maintenance American happy, but only the Nortons can provide for me what I need most. An escape.

Well, they are really an answer to my prayers. The Norton family consists of Tim, Heidi, and their two kids Philip and Leslie. As Lutheran missionaries with ties to the Northwest it has been a blessing to share the commonalities of home as well as for our love for Christ. I kept trying to convince myself that my spiritual needs would be met from going to Friday prayer at my village's largest mosque, hoping the holy spirit would translate the Malinke and Arabic, but the Norton's services in English, French, and Malinke are much more inviting.

One of the biggest obstacles of my service has been language. In fact, the first 3 times I cried were due to my lack of understanding of local language. And even now with how far I've progressed, nothing can compare to letting out your frustrations in your mother tongue. The Nortons have become a sort of sounding board. And with their 10+ years of living and working in West Africa, their support through prayers, their advice from experience, and their comfort through cold water and food have been so helpful with my life au village.

I don't think I could ever muster up the energy to explain to a Guinean how homesick I feel sometimes, especially on American holidays and birthdays. But the Nortons understand; and more than the moist chocolate birthday cake with sprinkles, more than the three-legged races and bobbing for oranges, more than the guest room with a fan and water bed, it's this understanding that makes me remember that home is never far.

Life au village is something very hard to describe to someone. But whether you live in a mud hut in an African village or in a studio apartment in Brooklyn, there will always be things that you find simply irresistible or downright sad. As I get closer to the end of my contract of being a Peace Corps volunteer, I find myself anxious to go home, especially since the mango season is ending and the mosquitoes and humidity are becoming more of a force to reckon with. But at the same time, I know that I must not forget the home I have established here, a home that I love and will always hold close deep in my heart. Because I know that when a rude driver, a forgotten smile, or another month’s rent triggers my memory, I will find myself wanting to go back home to Guinea. The following list is something I wrote to help me live in the present and to cherish the time I have left.

I know I complain about it now----------but I will miss…

a high carbohdrate diet that consists of mostly rice----------eating the most natural, non-hormone induced foods that are ridiculously inexpensive...

my neck and back aching, raw knuckles over using a washboard----------laundry day aka swimming with the kiddies in the Niger river...

not being able to eat a sweet and tart, crunchy apple----------mango season...

losing sleep and hair from taking malaria prophylaxis---------the most vivid dreams I've ever had. What? I don't have television or any means of watching the latest Harry Potter movie!

walking through my muddy village during the rainy season----------having the bullfrogs sing me lullabies until I fall asleep...

taking bush taxis anytime in fear of losing my life----------interacting with Guineans in the closest quarters. I've met some of my best friends from traveling.

Burning my hands as I eat rice and sauce with my family---------Eating communally, 10 to a big bowl and not caring about germs. This was a big step for me since I was obsessive compulsive and a microbiology major before coming to Guinea...

Being told in Malinke "May God make you big and fat" and "May God give you lots of breast milk" while being grabbed accordingly in either the gut or the breast ----------Having people wish that God grant me anything. Benedictions are a daily part of life here...

Staying out until 11 pm every night watching the news, drinking tea, and having my ears blown off by loud Guinean music or Akon----------Hanging out with my boys, N fa Mou and Monsieur Diallo...

Hearing "Hee-how" whenever I walk in a big city because everyone thinks I am Chinese---------Having so much attention. I'm like a celebrity...well more like a Disney Character...

Fearing that a donkey stampede might catch me off guard as I go around a hut----------my watch donkey. When I return home I always get a "hee-haw" greeting without fail. It always cracks me up, making me think of Donkey from Shrek. Wait does the donkey think I'm Chinese too?

I am so Daddy's little girl. When I think of my dad I think of two words...cool and reserved. He is a quiet man by nature, especially when there is talk about girl stuff. And there is always girl talk because he was the only man in a household of four women. I don't know how he did it:) But when there is a party, he is always the life of it. Yup, my dad is the coolest man I know, cool and reserved.

When his daughters need anything or are going through some hard times, this quiet man speaks up. And when dad says anything, we know it is serious. My sisters and I kind of freeze in awe, like "Whoa Dad said that," as if we were witnessing a historical moment. No further inquiry is made and the deal is sealed because Dad said so. My dad demands respect, and we give it with allegiance.

Having been away from home for over a year now I haven't been able to see my Dad. But I have been able to feel him and his sincere love for me. As many of you know, I am trying to renovate the school in my village. An email my dad wrote in behalf of my project somehow slipped past me and I haven't been able to thank him until now.

Dad, your unconditional love and support has made me the woman I am today. You are my rock and during my loneliest of times, like when I was traveling alone or when I was going through boy trouble, I felt safe. I never felt alone. I felt you protecting me and it was then I knew I didn't need anyone else. I love you dad. Happy Father's Day from the 2nd little Iggy.

This is the school I've been working at for the duration of my service.The bigger building was built during the French colonial period but it sadly looks in the same condition as the second building which was built a little over 10 years ago. There are only 5 classrooms for 6 grades. Just this morning, after I had a meeting with the Village Renovation commitee, I tripped over a pothole on the terrace. This place is so different than the last school I worked at in Valencia, Ca. It really breaks my heart that this is a school, but the teachers and students work with what they have.

Please if you are interested in helping out, check out this link: https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.donatenow&

Scroll down on Guinea and you will find out how you can help.

My mother is the most fun, caring, and crazy woman I know. Many of you know how hard it was for my mother to let me join the Peace Corps. In fact, I almost didn't get invited because of her passionate love for me. We fought, we cried, and we grew. Somehow we have become closer through all of this. She sends me tons of care packages, calls me every Saturday, and has given me the courage to fight through my fears. She is the reason why I am here.

Mom, I love you so much and I can only hope to be half the woman you are one day.

Happy Mother's Day!

I just saw a man beat his wife. It started just like usual with women yelling. But I couldn’t believe it. I still don’t believe it. What remains is the woman crying. When he struck everything went quiet and everyone left.

All I can think about is how I feel. How is living like this going to affect the way I live the rest of my life? Will I care more? I realize how desensitized I have become from living here for over a year now. It’s so unfair because what matters the least is what I feel.

I feel so far when I’m in it but nothing counts when it doesn’t happen to me.

Even when I found out about Ciara’s (my first host family’s newest addition) death, nothing really hit because she wasn’t my baby. Well, in the eyes of my host family, she was technically my god-daughter, but our absence in each others’ lives didn’t make it real. I didn’t feel the burning, stinging pains after having been slapped in the face like that woman did when her husband hit her. I waited and even wanted to feel it, but nothing. I felt ashamed more than anything because I didn’t hold my responsibility of being a good god-mother. What could I have done living on the opposite ends of the country? How am I to respond to, “It’s the will of Allah!” To scream God doesn’t mean for us to die from preventable diseases like malaria!

But who am I to scream when nothing bad has happened directly to me? Bad things happen to everyone, good or bad, so it’s a matter of when for me. So when it happens what if I can’t handle it? But than I remember God knows how much we can handle. His timing is perfect. He doesn’t cause our sufferings, he uses it.

I had been looking forward to March especially after having concluded that my December vacation to Mali wasn’t quite the relaxing vacation I needed. I shouldn’t have been surprised though because my fellow Peace Corps friends and I did it backpacker style, with no concrete itinerary and trying to save money by sleeping on buses. Also our days were filled with climbing over steep rock passes, sleeping in random villages built in the rock face, and climbing down steep rock passes. It was awesome, being able to see the cultural similarities with a neighboring country, but I was ready for something completely different.

I didn’t expect to be so blown away by this last trip to Morocco. Morocco has it all from fine cuisine of olives and steaming tajines to impressive architecture like the Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca to name an example of the many. The Berber style music was tantalizing enough to give courage to the most timid tourist into bargaining with a street vendor. And the people were so generous, calming my “Lonely Planet” alert status. Food, art, and heritage-the main indicators of a rich culture worth exploring---Check!

But the best part of any trip is the company. My very, very special friend Adam invited me to travel to Morocco where we’d meet his parents, Lynn and Roger. It felt so good to be with his parents. The presence of any mom and dad must be universal because I felt so at home. While Lynn and I relaxed at the hammams (Turkish baths where huge, hairy, naked women throw hot buckets of water on you, lol), Adam and Roger enjoyed ice cold Casablancas and unexpected 4 course meals. We had our share of laughs like when Lynn thought a Moroccan passerby said his daughter “has a big mustache,” when what he was trying to say was that his daughter “ has her big master’s degree?” And we had our share of scares like when Abdul our driver would keep us on our toes every time we got into the car.

Oh did I mention we had a driver? I felt so spoiled being able to see so much more of the country because of having our own transportation. Also all the accommodations we stayed at were so comfortable and beautiful. We had a really nice stay at a riad, a traditional house, in Marrakesh. Imagine trying to find a hotel in a maze of slums and when you get to the marked door you are weary until the door is opened, revealing a hidden palace. It truly was a unique experience.

Each day was full of activity, wandering around Roman ruins, sampling olive oil and argon oil straight from the press, and visiting tiny villages up in the High Atlas where people made their homes inside the mountains. Being able to sip on mint tea at the end of the day was always a treat, but having a nice comfortable room to stay in was extra special for me (I’ve been sleeping on a straw mattress for 14 months, give a girl a break!). You better believe I took advantage of the blowdryers, candies placed on my pillow, and the fitness centers. That was what a vacation should be like!

Thank you so much to Adam, Lynn, and Roger for letting me Morock’ n roll with you guys

I've been afraid for the first time ever while living in the village. I've been avoiding the main routes every morning when going to the school. I've been riding my bike extra fast to and from the garden. I've even been hiding behind n na ( my host mom) while going to the marche. You would too if you saw "the conde". There will be days I don't see the conde but the constant beat of drumming makes you imagine the flash of dried grass and mask between the huts. The drumming starts in the morning and ends in the evening, always indicating where the conde is lurking throughout the village. I am grateful for the signal, giving me a clue as to how I may avoid crossing paths with the it but I hate the feeling it leaves me with all day. If you've seen Jumanji, Heart of Darkness, or Lord of the Flies, the drum beats give you that loathing feeling that something bad is around the corner. And the conde is just that because it can run fast, is masked with human or animal like features, and hits you with sticks. All I've ever seen the conde do is chase villagers around threating to whip them. While it's supposed to be funny,I find it frightening. I was a victim one day, screaming my head off as it clung onto the back of my bike.I thought I lost it at a point until I look back and it was still running alongside me. Scary!!!

Although I’m still scared of the condé I have a new found respect after discovering “it” or “they” can dance. Mask dances are sacred rituals of West Africa which more than often turns into social entertainment. I sat in awe as I watched 4 condés dance to the beat of drums, displaying their deftness and agility. It was like watching lyrical gymnastiques with an urban edge. Their head to toe costumes made of dried grass makes them look like Cousin It from “The Adam’s Family” combined with Big Foot. 2 condés wore masks that were intricately designed using metal and mirrors to portray a human like face while the other 2 had the head of an owl and a warthog.

The faster the beat the crazier they dance, billowing up clouds of dust, reminding me of how lucky I am to be here and witness something that’s been happening for hundreds of rains. Watching the drums talk to the condé is so unreal. After having watched the dance for almost a week I feel like I have picked up on the traditional language of percussion. The conversation can make the condé mad, happy, or excited coercing it to jump high over the drummers, but not until the last moment, where you think it is going to tackle them to the ground. My favorite is when 2 condés dance facing each other, as if they were mirror images.

When something the condé does pleases you, it is customary to run up and throw 500 FGN at it. Some run away immediately after their offering, fearing the condés’ stare but many do a little dance making the crowd go wild. Men stomp at the ground and do back flips while the women do their hysterical dances of flapping their arms, using their clothing to exaggerate the already exaggerated move.

I admire this culture so much. They laugh with all their gut and they dance with abandon. If I leave Guinea with anything I hope to bring those qualities with me. Those drums have spoken to me, daring me to talk back, telling me there is no reason to be shy any longer. The more wildly I flap my arms, mimicking the women, the more I hear the drum speak words of approval. And as I dance in front of my whole village I feel their laughter and joy speak straight to my heart.

I’ve come to realize that being a Peace Corps volunteer is a 24/7 job when you’re in the village. You’re always being watched, meaning whatever sour mood you’re in can represent the attitude of Americans in general. I’ve learned from the people in my village their view on what a real American is described as tall, blond, rich, vegetarian, who enjoys their privacy and spends lots of time reading and writing. They have small family units, are Christian, and don’t eat rice very often. Oh, and we don’t like huge spoonfuls of mayonnaise.

Even though I may fulfill almost half of their stereotypes I make a point to talk about the diversity of America. Being an Asian-American I share with them on how I grew up eating rice everyday and am very familiar with peanut sauce (in the Philippines it’s called kare-kare). I talk about knowing many families with 6+ kids, just like my family here. I also them about the problems of homelessness, something they can’t fathom, questioning, “Why doesn’t their village feed them?” Nobody would ever let anyone go hungry here.

So the teaching never stops. I’m always under observation. After helping at the school I go to the village garden to water our tree nursery and help n fa with his beautiful plot of tomatoes, eggplant, onions, lettuce, and manioc. And without fail as I’m pulling up water from the well I catch a couple pairs of eyes in my peripheral view. They’ve come to watch the white person…again. I bite my lip in fear of blurting out, “Am I really that interesting?” and continue my work. This is my time of serenity, away from my 83 screaming students.

We get back as the sun is setting, just in time to take my hot bucket bath (heated by keeping in a covered bucket under the sun) and to eat dinner. Around 8:30 n fa and I go to a video club to watch the news. Before going into the crowded room lined with wooden benches we buy a couple of oranges from the vendor outside. Sucking the juice out of them helps quench my thirst, relieving the inevitable heat wave that the half functioning fans can barely alleviate. But I quickly fall in love with the place despite its sauna like atmosphere. I love the darkness of the video club because I am hidden, becoming the same color as them. But the instant there is an American, French, Lebanese, or Chinese person on the television, which happens every night, the whole club starts laughing my name and I feel elbow nudges from n fa. Okay, I get it, I’m white!

After shuffling out of the dusty room n fa, Monsieur Diallo (a teacher at the primary school where I work), and I are led to the café by our flashlights. As the two men walk and talk about the news program, I am carefully translating questions in my head to ask them. For this is my chance to get the answers probing my mind all day from n fa, the village griot, or Monsieur Diallo, a well educated and well traveled teacher.

Last night I listened to Monsieur Diallo’s time in Sierra Leone, being forced to live in a displacement camp for 5 years due to the rebel war. He told me about the times he feared most for his life and I cried inside. He talked to me about the importance of traveling to gain a better perspective of the world and I couldn’t agree with him more. Our conversation really hit me. For as much as I feel like I’m constantly teaching and being watched I am doing much more observing and learning by just getting the opportunity to be here. Sadly, movies like Blood Diamond and Hotel Rwanda set a base of stereotypes of their own for many Americans like myself. But what I’ve concluded about Guineans is that they are happy, loving, and generous people. In fact they appear to be happier than most Americans in general. So getting to form relationships with them is hardly work.

There is no better job than being a teacher. Something about seeing young faces light up with excitement is a hard sight to beat. That is why I immediately jumped at the opportunity to help out and teach 73 abandoned 2nd graders at the only school in my village. Their teacher just stopped showing up, which is unfortunately the same story with the doctor of the village.

My first day I was impressed with the respect I was shown. They are such good kids always saying, “S’il vous plait madame” while looking down at the floor and folding their hands over their chest trying to get my attention. They’re eager to participate raising their hands yelling “moi, moi!” And they return from their morning break anonymously placing a banana or bisap (hibiscus juice) on my desk. There are so many moments that make my day.

But there are so many more that make my heart melt where I stand. How can I get upset with a student who is not working because her parents can’t give her the money to buy a pencil? Do I give her the pencil while there are over 10 more students with the same problem? I can’t just give, how is that sustainable? Or what about their poor excuse of a classroom? It’s large enough but 3 to a bench, crumbling walls and their vulnerability to the Harmattan winds are not conducive to learning. Each morning before class they run outside collecting tiny, dried branches to use as a broom in order to tidy up the class.

Or what about the disparity in levels? There are over 70 students in my class ranging from ages 7-11 years old. 70+ students in one room! I get exhausted from doing one round. This is a primary school not some lecture hall at a university. Kids need more individual attention. Or one of the even harder things is the culturally expected punishment in the form of whipping! Sadly, I’ve grown accustomed to it from seeing and hearing it throughout the village. But in an institution that upholds education? I was shocked when a parent tried to talk to the other teachers in encouraging me to use the whip and was actually given one.

How do I even begin to express the weight on my heart? These kids aren’t dumb; they just don’t have the resources to learn. And also there is really no motivation to learn because they’ll most likely become cultivators like everyone else in the family. The more I dwell on these concerns the more hopeless I feel. What can I do? I am only one person.

“I am only one, but I am still one. I cannot do everything but I can do something. I will not refuse to do the something I can do.” –Helen Keller

(My friend, Jess, another PCV, wrote this on the wall in my hut. Thanks babe!

I’ve opted to use the reward system. If their work is above satisfactory I will provide them a pencil. If their work is excellent they will also get a pencil sharpener. That’s a start. But more importantly than providing resources is providing something much simpler. There is power behind a smile, a pat on the back, or in the sincerity of “good work.” My time here will have been well spent if just one of my students gains the confidence to lift his or her eyes from the floor.

Today…everyday, there are things that bring a smile to my face. It’s not hard to make me smile. I smile a lot, even when I may be feeling down. But it’s those special moments that can make my whole body happy and warm for half a minute and than it’s forgotten within a split second. And even when I tell myself, “don’t forget that ever Ciara!” I put it aside and store it away deep in my sub conscience thinking it will be useful later to lift up my spirits another day. But when that day rarely comes the moment is buried and perhaps lost forever.

“N te!” (Malinke for “I refuse to do that” often accompanied by a stamping of a foot while snapping both elbows to the side.) I refuse to live and to just forget what make life all the more hopeful, beautiful, and perfect. For it is through those moments that God is trying to tell you He is always there.

This blog is dedicated to my little sister Cerisa. She knew how to deal with those fleeting moments by simply writing them down in bullet form in a hand notebook while we backpacked around Europe together.

To the little things…

* A market lady I’ve never seen before snuck into my small purchase 2 packets of vanilla sugar as cadeaux.

* My brothers Baba & Bofis not only hug me but they let me hold onto them for as long as I like.

*I dropped my head wrap in the river when trying to balance a load on my head. A strange woman not only took the time to rewash it but then helped me balance the heavy load again.

*When I was at a loss of Malinke words au marche, a stranger came to my rescue and spoke to me in French and then translated to the vendor.

*I wasn’t paying attention and I hit a box with my rear. I began to sing aloud a popular Malinke song “bo bara ba.” N fa laughed and said it wasn’t true. “Bo bara ba” means “big butt.”

*Les filles run up to me and always want to play “Slide.” See Cerisa! You officially taught an African village how to play an American game.

*This happens every evening. The second I return from working in the garden my entourage of kids sings, “Fadima, Toubabou, Fadima, Toubabou!” The shouting of my name is rewarded by me dancing on my bike, but when I hear the shouting of white person I shake my head in disapproval while trying to mask my smiles.

The World Map Project in the making at l'ecole primaire

It's hard to describe how fast time flies. It's a saying one says every year and at certain times of the year. But time here in Africa is much different. Life is slower with people passing time just sitting. It's refreshing to just sit. Do you remember the last time you just sat? I don't think I ever just sat around while living in America. But here, it's the culture to just sit.

As much as I've embraced the culture, I still have the American tendency to want the feeling, whether physical or emotional, to mark an important event in my life. So I decided to chop my hair off (don't worry Celina...it still touches the shoulders). It felt great and it feels like I'm turning the page to start a new chapter of my Peace Corps adventures.

I am so excited for my 2nd year to begin and scared at the same time. I hear that the 2nd goes by even quicker and I don't know if I want it to. I want to cherish every second, some how catalog every memory, feeling, and thought without having the factor of time pressuring my experience. I'm not saying I'm going to extend to a 3rd year(don't worry ma famille)but my wheels are turning and I don't want them to stop. I know how important getting out of your comfort zone is I encourage everyone to go out there and discover yourself over and over again.

The new group of volunteers arrived on December 4th (my one year anniversary).Amy and I were the first volunteers at the gate to welcome the tired group. It was like looking into a mirror of the past. I saw my jet-lagged yet bright-eyed face in each one of them and remembered how excited I felt. These new trainees are our babies and I feel determined to show them the ropes.

So far I've been more than impressed. They've really bonded early as a group and they have an interesting dynamic. Every session is filled with great discussion because their questions and curiosities are so fresh. They've really made me aware of things that I've become accustomed to. Which again scares me because I don't want to take anything for granted.

After listening to my APCD Kristine speak about the Agroforestry program to the new group, I was reminded at how unique Peace Corps in general is. As a volunteer it's common to interact with international NGOs and aid organizations for hopeful collaboration on projects. With goals for each organization being different you could never compare them, but it's rare to find the PC way of living among a community as if they were a part of it.

How lucky am I to be welcomed into an African village and be part of a beautiful, rich community!N fa called me yesterday evening while I was having dinner with the new group. It didn't even phase me that I was speaking in Malinke and when I got off the new kids commented on how they can't wait to speak a tribal language. Epiphany! I have come a long way!

I went to visit my first host family yesterday. They were the ones who welcomed me and took me in. A stranger in their home who didn't know a lick of French except, "bonjour, ca va?" It was amazing how far I've come and how much I've learned. I couldn't believe how much bigger all my brothers and sisters have become. They used to be skinny little things that looked up to me. After only 11 months they now not only tower me but they look as if they've been eating the Moringa powder I left them. However, the biggest surprise was the new baby girl. She smiles a lot, is easy to entertain, and is the greatest joy to be around. Her name is Ciara.

I like moni. It can be made with either corn, millet, or flour. They are all yummy in taste but different in appearance ranging from baby pink to brick red. My favorite is corn moni which looks applesauce yellow. It is my vanilla soy latte but better because I don't have to wait in a Starbucks drive-thru dreaming of the hot liquid that has the magical ability to take the edge off. But instead of the processed taste I get the most natural, comforting warmth going straight into my stomach, instantly reminding me of my mother's tender kisses on my forehead. Moni for breakfast is usually a once a week deal and my whole family knows how much I love the stuff. I see the anticipation in my brothers and sisters eyes waiting for me to exclaim, "moni diman n ye!"

But I remember the first day I had the corn poridge almost a year ago thinking,"okay, this is weird, but I can get used to it." I thought it had sour milk in it but after learning how to make it I realized the sourness came from limes. It was also around this year mark that I remembered that attitudes could be sour too. Time is an often misjudged factor in an equation.I've heard so many people say," I thought about doing the Peace Corps, but 2 years is too long or I'll go back to school someday but I don't have the time right now." Time takes care of itself so one doesn't need to make it.

Being in the Peace Corps for a year now, I have learned that time is one of the keys to success. Many people, like I did, question the 27 month commitment but in retrospect I know it's just right. Like my recruiter told me, the 1st year is about integrating, learning who you can trust, and getting comfortable. The real work starts your second year. Every volunteer's experience is different but so far mine has followed that timeline. I have heard drums talk, I have seen babies die, I have tasted Kola nut, I have smelled the mango season, and I have felt nothing but gratitude for being given the time to do it all.

was a blast. As an Agroforestry volunteer, I did things I never thought I would do like: a condom demonstration, blowing up condoms to stuff pertinent questions inside for a game of hot potato or hot condom if you will, or teach “ Head, shoulders, knees in toes” in three different languages as an energizer. The only thing I could think of that had anything to do with Agfroforestry was the wood in the wooden penis. No wait…I used bananas for the condom relay race!

I probably would’ve been more suited to be a public health volunteer given my studies and work experience but my volunteer work with farmers in Tanzania solidified my decision to be a tree hugger. Really most people are bewildered as to why this LA/Cali girl likes to her hands dirty and the answer is simple: women. Being the only female volunteer in the Sustainable Agriculture program in Tanzania ended up being amazing despite my initial doubts.

All the farmers were women. My broken Swahili didn’t stop them from wrapping me in their congas, traditional fabric worn in the fields. They showed their appreciation when I joined them, elbows deep in fresh cow manure for composting, especially when the guys refused. Their singing brought tears to my eyes and their hard work inspired me. They are why I am here.

I honestly believe the women of Africa, specifically Guinea are the strongest women in the whole world. With all odds against them like over 80% of females are excised, early marriage and bride price, expectations of bearing lots of children, and lack of education they can still do it all. I see it in my Guinean sisters when they get home from school juggling their studies with chopping wood to start dinner. Their brothers who go to the private Franco-Arab schools get to play soccer before tying up the goats, cows, and donkeys.

It’s unfair because it’s life. But these girls don’t complain because they know feeding their family of 10 is a priority. They don’t show emotion when they are called stupid by the teacher in front of the class. They don’t say anything. Most girls just don’t have the confidence.

Each volunteer was allowed to bring 2 girls from their village. Over the course of 4 months I had to encourage girls that their French was better than mine and the Peace Corps’ Girl’s Conference was an excellent opportunity. I ended up bringing Kane, a beautiful, smart, but shy girl and Aicha, a loud, trouble making mother who used little Mamydy as an excuse to her inappropriate behavior. She slept during the 1st day of the conference and was disrespectful to some of the volunteers.

Our sessions were held in the American Reading Room at the University of Kankan. There were 6 volunteers, 15 girls, and 8 members of a health related NGO which were made of all Guineans from different villages throughout the region. The 3 day conference was exhausting but worthwhile. Some sessions were harder to do than others like the session I did on why women are more susceptible to contracting AIDS on a social and cultural context. And others were more light hearted like the benefits of Moringa oleifera-the tree of life, which Alison and David held.

The girl’s favorite session was on excision surprisingly. There was no need for translation during the Guinean NGO’s knee slapping skit. Us volunteers were lost by the fast Malinke but we were just so happy the girls enjoyed themselves. Let’s just hope they really talked about excision and not about Islam.

I was a part of the last session of the conference called “Planning for our Futures.” Adam and Dr. Trian (Peace Corps Medical Officer) held their part indoors while I had to take mine outside because as I mentioned earlier, I like to get my hands dirty. When the girls came out I split them into 2 and had the girls compete for a prize (all the girls got nail polish at the end). The goal was to think of and write 50 jobs a woman can do. Because of time restraints neither team got to 50 but it got their minds running. I held a can of blue paint and told them that blue represented them the girl. I talked about the Guinean girl and her responsibilities at home, school, and to her peers. Next I held a can of red paint saying it represented their dreams, aspirations, and hard work. Well most people know what red and blue yields but the girls were blank which ended up being a good thing because what Adam and I ended up with was a bluish black color. I improvised our mistake saying, “Noir est jolie” and described what the bluish black represented. It represented the woman doctor, woman teacher, woman governor, the woman mother, the woman inside of them that can do anything

I pre-titled nice sheets of paper with “Les Femmes peuvent tout faire-Women can do everything.” I invited each girl to dip their hand in the paint and think about what they wanted to be when they grew up. Underneath their handprint they wrote their name, date, and the job they chose. There were 8 doctors, which I know most were just copying their friends but I was impressed to see journalist, engineer at the gold mines, and NGO worker.

There were many problems at the conference regarding logistics like having the girls wait for hours for water to bathe with as well as their lodging being a long walk, well planned sessions due to lack of resources at the villages, and using French as a bridge when neither party had it as their native language. But I could tell the girls took good things from it too like new friendships with girls from different villages. For many of the girls it was their first time to leave their village. What I took from it was 15 new friends and the understanding that the best thing I can do is give them confidence by showing them women really can do everything.

You know a holiday is near when the Super-Walmart has dedicated aisle after aisle stocked with Easter baskets, Costco’s hydraulic bustle is accented with display Santa’s ringing a Christmas tune, or the normally vacant parking lot is bursting of pumpkins, hay stacks, and children. I love the holidays so having mine interrupted to come here was hard. But I thought it would have been harder. I was distracted by the obvious: new surroundings, new friends, new family, new language, and didn’t have the reminders of white icicle lights or Starbucks advertising my favorite “gingerbread lattes.” Instead I had a semi-cold beer while watching the sunset over Conakry’s murky coastline and wished Jesus a Happy Birthday. I look back and can’t believe that was almost a year ago. It didn’t occur to me that I didn’t have a real Christmas. I felt like I finally got to celebrate Christmas last month with the celebration of the end of Ramadan. After the head imam in Conakry declared the fast to be over I knew I was in for a treat when I took a chair and headed to the entrance of the village. I sat among the griots (my family) in a newly constructed concession of huts and played a cowbell for over an hour while N fa beat the taama, N na sang out of a megaphone, and my brother (a famous griot) played the balaphone. We called the whole village to celebrate under the blanket of night illuminated only by our flashlights. The old ladies managed to get me to join them to dance which is normally not a hard feat, but old lady dancing is very intimidating. Picture lots of billowy fabric and a rendition of “The Excorcist.” The women look like they are possessed as they flap their arms frantically, often being escorted to the sidelines for fear of over exertion but more to just be part of the act. I did my best impersonation while laughing, playing in my head the part of the movie where Emily Rose spins her head in a full 360 degrees. My 30 second performance wasn’t worthy of a nomination but I did get 500 GNF (approx. 10 cents) thrown at me! As we headed back N fa told me we would be drumming again tomorrow morning at 7 AM in our concession. I felt like it was Christmas Eve that night. But instead of celebrating the end of Ramadan I opened my door to 20 silent Kouyate (my last name) men facing Mecca. I was confused expecting drums and singing like the night before but instead received a somber atmosphere. Something happened and I already know before N fa approached my hut. As I sat with the mother who just delivered the dead baby ( her second infant mortality this year) I was shocked that she was sitting up in her bed crying but seeming physically strong. I gave what benedictions I knew in Malinke like, “May Allah cool the earth of the recently buried,” and sat rubbing the mother’s back while women of the village made their rounds. There would be no music and dancing today. But there was praying. Instead of going to the mosque the whole village went to my favorite spot. There is a huge clearing surround by mango trees that overlooks the vast Niger River. But what makes it even more special is this grand Baobab tree that has to be over hundreds of years old. Before my morning run I walk to the tree and touch it reminding me of my purpose here. It’s here the whole village has congregated, dressed in their finest, facing the bright river’s sun touched ripples. That memory will always be a special one during my service here. The rest of the day was spent eating lots of meat, giving money or candy to kids saying, “I Sali ma fo,” and listening to their laughter as they chased the man who sings the call to prayer throughout the village. All the kids were clean wearing their new clothes and I realized that this was a day for the kids just like how Christmas has become for my family back in the States. Gifts become less important as you grow older. What matters is being together with the ones you love. It’s about mom’s extravagant taste in decorations and dad’s unwillingness to flood his simple home with 4 ft. nutcrackers, it’s about Russ and Christian competing for the biggest man title by trying to out eat each other, it’s about my sisters’ and my doubts of breaking out the karaoke machine knowing we’ll fall asleep to my mom singing “Phantom of the Opera” (yes, we’re Asian). It’s about indulging in Cerisa’s surprisingly healthy pumpkin chocolate chip scones or Charmela’s not so healthy honey basted croissants straight from the oven. Oh the eating. It took me a week to resume my normal eating habits. I would come back from the market with bananas and set them on my table and stare at them until I realized they were game. I never enjoyed eating during daylight hours so much! Ramadan was a really good experience despite how it started. I learned a lot about this culture and a lot about myself. There are times when I walk around and forget I’m not black which has pros and cons. It’s good because I feel comfortable and well integrated but bad because I don’t want to take this experience for granted. That’s why I remind myself of my past life and create commonalities like the holidays. Ramadan was my Easter, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year. No matter how different cultures appear to be there are the same themes of fasting for forgiveness, trick or treating/I Sali ma fo-ing, showing gratitude through gifts, celebrating life and death, and creating resolutions. Finding the universal truths of life shows me how to be at home in any situation by keeping family close in your heart. You can’t be homesick when you’re at home. Or better said by my Guinean friend Moussa who learned English in Ghana, “ Da house of someone YOU love, it tis nevuh fa!”

4:20- My alarm titled Inshallah (God willing in Arabic) lulls me awake from my Mefloquine dreams. They’re horrifying, vivid dreams with an example of one being where Alex, another PCV, and I are stoning people to death and feeling justified.

4:25- After lighting two candles I set the table. In actuality I place two coffee mugs with two spoons on the floor. I set up our thermos filled with tea, a can of condensed milk, sugar, and a French baguette next to the mugs.

4:30-N fa arrives with our meal of either rice porridge and curdled milk or meat and sweet potatoes. I prefer the rice porridge for two reasons: 1) because I don’t have to prepare it. 2) because my stash of Rolaids is running low and meat and potatoes that early in the morning is never a good idea.

5:00- The meal is over and N fa leaves to go back to sleep. Since my real dad engrained his superstitions of sitting straight up for proper digestion after eating, I follow his words of fatherly, comforting wisdom. I sit straight up and read the Bible.

6:00-9:00- food coma

9:00-10:00- Clean up: I take my dirty dishes to the well and wash them. I return from the well with my clean dish water and fill my watering can. I use it to water the sunflowers and sisal that I planted around my hut and N fa’s hut. I sweep my hut and organize for the day.

10:00-11:30- I either write letters, write in my journal en français, or work on sensibilisations for l’école primaire all while listening to BBC on my shortwave radio.

11 :45- Famoury comes by to escort me to my English class which I hold in Famoury’s hut where he has a big black board.

12 :00-14:30- I teach anywhere from 1-5 Guineans English. But I also use this time to practice my French by asking questions I have regarding the culture which usually gets really heated. Peace Corps Goal #3 executed : cultural exchange.

15 :00-16 :00-I’m starving and try to keep my mind busy by various activities like helping villagers chuck corn, sitting by the river, or visiting friends despite their mockery of my obvious struggles with fasting.

16 :30-18 :30- I cook meat and potatoes African style. Yes, I pride myself in that I can cook for my family of 10. I go to the market and buy the ingredients speaking in Malinke, I come back and cut the fresh beef with the help of my little sister Moseke. Since there are no cutting boards it’s necessary to have two people : one to hold while the other saws through spinal cord and stomach lining.

18 :40- take the 2 minute walk to the mosque and do the prayer to break the fast.

18 :50- run back, like all the other villagers, while gulping down on my ginger drink in a bag. N fa and I are head to head and he yells, « Fadima contre la moni » which means me against the corn porridge I have grown to love which is called moni.

19:20- If I manage to finish the moni I yell out to N fa, “J’ai gagne!-I won” or if my stomach hurts I admit defeat. I walk with N na to the mosque for prayer.

19:30-20:10- prayer/work-out. As I reflect on the day and pray for forgiveness I am sweating bullets. I get light headed from all the bowing, up, down, up, down. I mumble the little Arabic n fa taught me and try to focus on its’ meaning. I forget about the stifling heat and mosquitoes feasting on my ankles and cherish the one time I am regarded as the same as everyone else.

20:30- N fa and I go to our café where we sit every night. N fa’s best friend owns the shop and never charges us for the tea we drink or for charging our cell phones. It’s always a good time of making fun of each other.

22:30-N fa and I are back in my hut ready to eat again. It’s always rice and sauce. We switch from listening to the local radio station to my BBC. But we always interpret what the news is saying to each other. We love talking about Barack Obama.

23:00-24:00- Finally, reading time. I love reading. I allow myself to read before bed and only during that time. It’s so easy to get caught up in a good book but I don’t want to look back on my service and remember my favorite passages from books. I want to be the storyteller.

September 2nd, 2008 5:30 AM

As I’m lying naked under a pile of mud, bricks, and sheets of corrugated tin, I feel like Allah must be upset with me. He could be upset that I’m choosing to drink water during the month of Ramadan or He could be thinking I’ve sinned a lot this past year so the first day should start out in a manner such as this. I’ve been anxious and excited for the holy month of fasting to commence. Anxious because I know the challenges of fasting, but not to the extent of 30 days. Excited, for the opportunity to learn about a different religion through participation rather than from literature.

I’ve been preparing for today since I first got here by talking with n fa, asking Francophone villagers questions, and going to the mosque on Fridays. That’s why I wasn’t surprised to hear a knock on my door at 4:30 this morning. It was time to eat before the sun rose. N fa comes into my hut wearing a drenched raincoat, carrying our meal. The rain is pounding so we have to shut my door completely. I’m less than excited to eat the rice and sauce from the night before, only because the sauce leaves an oily film on my hand. However, I am appreciative of the warm meal in this gloomy weather.

N fa finishes before me as he always does meaning the water remaining in the wash bowl is not going to really help rid the oil from my right hand. So by ritual, rain or shine, I take the bowl out to my open air brick latrine area to wash my hands thoroughly with soap. However, today I opt to go outside wearing no clothes instead of putting on a raincoat. I wish I chose the latter.

But looking back I’m glad no one could hear my cries through the thunderous rain. Sure, wearing clothes would have protected me more from the damage, but bruises and cuts heal, and seeing a naked tubabu could mortify a Guinean for many years. I was shocked at my misfortunes. I could not believe that every volunteer’s nightmare of their latrine breaking while they are in it, just happened to me. Why did the wall have to collapse during the 20 second window I decided to go out there? To look on the brighter side at least I didn’t fall in it, it just fell on top of me.

But I was still scared because I couldn’t tell if I was bleeding from all the mud covering me. I grabbed the back of my head and felt a bump the size of a baseball. I also felt a bump on my forehead the size of a golf ball, but no skin broken. I was worried about my mud encrusted back which was sending off stinging sensations. After climbing out of the disaster zone, I manage to carefully wrap a towel around me and yell out of my hut for my counterpart. “N fa, pouvez vous m’aider!!! Je suis blessée!”

N fa runs over and tries to see if I have any major cuts. He tells me I have to bathe because the mud formed a thick cake on my back. He observes that there are some rocks cut into me. I feel a little relief crying while I bathe with my loofah and hibiclens antimicrobial wash. I scrub ferociously determined to not have to go to Conakry where our medical unit is located.

My one minute cry session of fear turns into chuckles of disbelief. Around 6:00 I am able to vent to Raven, another PCV. She somehow always calls when I need comforting in English. She is also fasting with her village and was only calling that early to wish me luck. We share laughter over how walls of houses or huts seem to be commonplace in Guinea during the rainy season. I ask her what she thinks Allah is trying to tell me. Her response is, “He’s trying to tell you to take the first day easy and to stay in bed.” I think He wants me to do that for the whole month!

''Jesus loves you"-Noah, my 2 year old nephew's response to the story I'm about to tell.

Once I felt the slightest bit better Katalina and I decided to leave Conakry in a hurry so we could meet the new stage. Our excitement helped us face the dreaded 15 hour voyage in a bush taxi that lay ahead. We got out to find a taxi to take us to gare by 5:30. It was still dark and I was grateful that the security guard was willing to help me flag down a taxi. 20 minutes went by with a couple of cars passing, some really nice private cars and some really shady ones transporting ladies of the night. The day forebode the events I'm about to tell.

Finally around 6:15 a car stopped and I asked the driver if he could take us to the gare for Kankan. He said he could and it would cost 70,000 FGN. I informed him that I know what the real price is and that he should just go instead. After discussing the price with the help of the security guard, the real price was finally agreed on of 20,000 FGN.

My heart rate was so high causing my recovering stomach to ache. While I listened to Katalina argue with the man about his mischievious attempts of ripping off people. The more the man talked, the more I wish I would've spotted the signs of his substance abuse before getting into the car. He didn't know where he was going and abruptly stopped claiming he needed to fix a flat. While he was outside seeing to the repair we decided it best to get another taxi, and to avoid any conflict we would pay him half the fare even though he didn't fulfill the contract. As I settled the fare with the 2nd taxi I look over to the commotion and see Katalina being shaken like a rag doll by the drunk. She was screaming in French and cursing in English causing a crowd to rush in attempts of stopping her attacker. Once the man was detained, he fabricated a story that a fare of 100,000 FGN was agreed on. The crowd was quick to pick up on the man's chemically altered state and helped us escape using the 2nd taxi.

I got away with the uncontrollable shakes and Katalina got away with a torn dress. Our condition was quickly calmed by the friendly Malinke people at the Kankan gare. Just as I thought we were in the clear, the crazy man blocks our moving car with another car full of his friends. He starts yelling how we owe him 100,000 FGN while hitting the car. My shaking fingers manage to call Ousmane, our safety and security director. Ousmane did his magic and we drove away around 8:00.

I'm still shaking when our car gets stopped again. But this time it's in a busy intersection by the police accompanied by the crazy entourage. It's been over an hour of praying to stop me from crying and at this point I lose it. Katalina loses it too, which still blows my mind because she never cries. My prayers were answered in the form of an angel who happened to be in the car with us.

Her name is Diaka. She told us she knew somebody who worked for the Peace Corps and that we should call him. In her perfect English she said we should call Ousmane, our director whom we just got off the phone with. All throughout the police investigation she was there mediating,talking to Ousmane and the police, and giving me courage. I can still hear her saying, "Don't show them you're scared. God is with you."

God is always there, but it seems like it's only during times of desperation that we recognize Him. God was there giving me the courage to stare in the devil's eye when he told his lies to the police. God was there in the nice police man who said,"not everyone is like that man, we are not all corrupt." God was there providing us a competent driver to handle the rain slicked, windy, and broken roads. God was there in Diaka.

I don't believe in coincedences, so I delighted in God's grace. I told Ousmane's favorite student that God sent her to me and she laughed. Her laughter stopped when I told her I was Filipino. She works for the Philippine Consulate in Conakry.

My village held it's first round of the reforestation project us AGFO volunteers are in charge of. Seeing that the rainy season is just starting, the ground is prime creating a perfect environment for my well nurtured babies I planted back in March. Le groupement des eleves, approximately 20 garcons helped plant over 600 trees in less than 4 hours. We went along the Niger, starting at a grove of trees that the Guinea-Mali NGO planted bout 20 years ago (good omen-inshallah!) and ended just past l'ecole primaire. Seeing the positive, well-informed, high spirited youth, the wise president of the district, my homologue the village griot, and a few other prominent village elders unite in their efforts calmed all my fears. People are aware of the importance of reforestation and will step up to make their community better. It excites me knowing that we addressed an area that needs it, which is basically my backyard. Now I can keep a close watch on which goat I'll be eating for dinner given that it touches one satiable leaf on my precious, fire-resistant Gmelina.

"It's the closest place you can get to heaven-minus the trash."

- my little sister, Cerisa, after spending a week at my site.

I'm in Conakry right now, recovering. Recovering from what you may ask? Stress and the usual case of Giardia, Schisto, or Salmonella. I'll find out exactly what from the PCMO tomorrow when my results get in. But since I, like so many other volunteers live with the runs or live running from them (pardon if you just ate dinner), the last 3 cases are not out of the norm. For me, it was the stress that brought me to this wonderful refuge called Conakry.

It was here that I was reminded about the kind of person I am. I am a perfectionist. And being that type of person in a country like Guinea, where the protectors of law are the ones breaking them, things don't quite...well how do I say it? Ca marche pas! I've been so happy and healthy with my situation here because I love my site. It is here that I've been able to find my niche by forming strong relationships, feeling a sense of belonging within my community which leads into finally making a strange place into a home. I always believed that you can't be homesick when you're at home. It's when you leave home that you get sick and vomit everything you put into your body for 6 days straight!

I am so tired and I shouldn't be surprised considering that I sleep only 2 hours a night when in my home that I speak so highly of. It's so funny because I've been so at ease at my site that it becomes easy to forget that being an insomniac is unhealthy. If I were in the states getting that little rest I would be livid and I would have immediately done something about it. But no...something about Guinea makes you forget to take care of yourself. Maybe it's because there are so many other things to take care of that seems of greater priority.

Whether you're a fellow G15er or a certain best friend working in a big cooperate office please take this to heart. Remember yourself. It's not being selfish. It's being smart. Take care of yourself first.

Here are a few pictures of this holiday of fishing. I can say that this easily makes it up there with my top most amazing festivals I've participated in. It succeeds "Running with the Bulls" because I couldn't actually participate in "running" due to the state I was in from the night before. And because there were absolutely no tourists/foreigners except a handful of us PCVs.

I'm a little blogged out so I will brief what a "Fish fete" entails: a fair like atmosphere with really greasy food and hiked up prices on random items, lots of entertainment with carnival looking costumes and props, dancing under the stars while inhaling red earth and loving every sweaty minute of it, singing "Down by the Bay" for half an hour with fellow PCVs in hopes of amusing the hundreds of children fascinated by the tubabus (white people), racing into knee deep muddy water at the sound of a shot gun and using very archaic fishing devices from wooden cages to mesh tank tops.

Yesterday started off well. After my run I decided to choose the best Moringa from my tree nursery and plant them in the school garden along with some sisal. The day was beautiful until I heard a woman start wailing as I was taking my bucket bath. Automatically knowing there was another death my heart sank, as it always does when one finds out bad news. N fa Mou calls for me and I tell him I’m bathing. He remains at the door for a second and yells that a baby has died and I need to come and sit outside to pay my respects.

As I walk up to the house I see two groups of men and women and I place my chair among the women facing the men. Somewhere in the midst of benedictions, mothers’ wails, and bouts of silence I start to hear my own heavy breathing followed by sniffling. I started balling over a death that I don’t even feel like I should have been so worked up over. I didn’t even know them!

I’ve cried lot in my life but I’ve never had to hold back the fury that I held back within me yesterday. Not like that, because I have never felt so many shameful things at once. I was not only disrespecting the will of Allah by being a woman shedding a tear but I never felt so scared with the unfamiliar. I felt anger too like where the hell am I…God doesn’t want babies to die. I felt embarrassed with N fa Mou sitting among the men trying to get me to stop speaking in Malinke. I felt confused and sure of what I was being told because language is universal in times of desperation. I felt detached from my body while watching N fa Mou carry the tiny body in goat skin away to the river. I felt relief that I won’t be blind because washing my tears with water was the advice given by the woman sitting closest to me and no matter how silly you know the superstition to be you follow it because it’s motherly.

I love Peace Corps. Honestly, the opportunity to do what we do is a once in a lifetime chance. I am so lucky to know what its like to love your job. It doesn’t feel like work because it’s so fun. I found my niche working with l’ecole primaire. The students don’t speak French well but I found that with a little initiative and a ton of patience it’s possible to get the wheels turning in their heads. You see Guineans were taught to write beautifully but slowly, to memorize but not comprehend, to follow good examples but not foster an imagination.

It wasn’t until I came here that I realized the importance of the arts. I remember always hearing about art programs being the first to be cut in the states and me not giving a care in the world because it didn’t affect my science classes. I like the sciences because there was always a concrete explanation, an answer, a means to an end. But I took for granted that my other half of the brain was free. An individual has all the power to create that means to an end by drawing a picture, dancing, or even writing a blog entry.

Upon starting environmental clubs at the school I decided to get them excited by giving them a chance to beautify their school by painting a mural regarding environmental awareness. I sketched 3 examples to give them the idea that a mural’s most important attribute is the message. I returned the following day only to see that every single blank piece of paper had the same theme I portrayed in one of my examples minus a message. The one exception in the class of 50+ sixth graders was Namoury, the star student. His drawing was beautiful portraying a farmer carrying a basket full of fodder but my hopes diminished once I realized he had traced the picture.

My hope continued to diminish when I made up a reforestation game using a piece of cardboard depicting their village and 30 toothpicks each representing a tree. I asked questions before I had them cut down wood to help them see the importance of trees. I asked what types of trees were in the village. The first student says “le mangue.” Ok, we’re on a good start even though the better answer would’ve been “le mangier.” So I continue to ask and everyone repeats the same answer-MANGO. Yes, trees provide fruit to eat but what else are they used for? Blank stares. How does your mom cook mango sadi? Blank stares. What do the goats, cows, and donkeys eat? Blank stares. Where do all the boys sit while preparing the tea or all the girls sit while braiding hair? Blank stares.

After 20 minutes of probing I was able to show most of them the importance of trees. Once I could see their eyes fill with understanding I stated that I was hungry and there was a soiree in the village so we needed wood to cook with. I sent them out to chop wood (aka pull out a toothpick). Once every toothpick was gone the children saw the difficulties of deforestation and its impacts on the future of their village. I have hope that somehow that piece of cardboard reflected the mothers of the village and their long treks in search of wood. My saving grace was when one student yelled out, “ that’s why we have to reforest!”

Written during Monsieur Diallo’s class at l’ecole primaire, 20 avril 2008

After working in a school like Legacy Private Academy where there are high learning standards to fit the WASC accreditation and wonderful support from the parents and community and coming to a school like this: 60+ kids in one class, a horrible female to male ratio, and no apparent curriculum one thing comes to mind. Life is so unfair.

It’s almost perfect to start out at a school like Legacy because it truly is the opposite end of the spectrum. I’ll be pushed, tested, and challenged to form something that seems impossible. To raise awareness in a community that has been trying to jump over the foundation. Jumping to cell phones and satellites where there aren’t land lines or running water.

I want to yell and cry out about how unfair life is as I look at the crumbling, poor excuse of this institution of education. I remember walking through the warm halls of Legacy and looking up at the crystal chandeliers and I wake up to this. A place that the teachers don’t even show up on time or at all.

Can I do it? I doubt myself and feel overwhelmed. But then I find a little courage to look out into a sea of dark faces and as my eyes meet theirs I see light. That light is all I need.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate, our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, “Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous?” Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us. It is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear our presence automatically liberates others.” -Nelson Mandela

I have to face the fact that this place is not America but I can’t help but coin certain activities and places comparing them to the “land of opportunity.” My days are really simple and I laugh a lot but this American labeling to African daily life has put a real appreciation to the things I took for granted. Everyone is extremely friendly always greeting “I ni sooma” which means “good morning” and “tana ma si?” which means “did you sleep without evil?” My favorite is when someone says your last name and you’re supposed to answer back in affirmation. I always get “Kouyate” and I respond “nse” because I’m female which means “I am able.” It’s like if someone yelled “Ignacio” and I said “Yeah, you know it!” Since the majority of my village is Keita I have a high chance of this working. Villagers love it when I say, “ Keita yay sondedi” which means “Keitas are thieves!” There is this one rice bar that serves the best rice and sauce en ville. Katalina, my closest PCV friend, and I decided it was deserving of the label “sushi.” After we get sushi I like to get “Starbucks” which is the frozen tamarind drink that is served in a plastic bag. The seeds inside my tall sweetened “Starbucks” remind me of espresso beans. I often sip, or rather I often suck on my “Starbucks” while strolling through the market aka “the mall.” But sometimes there is no need to go to the mall because the vendors selling anything from pocket mirrors to red palm oil will pass right by your hut. I like to think of this as “Ebay” because of the price wars that take place. My bargaining skills have been sharpened since I’ve been here, with my routine starting out with me asking for the Guinean price and ending with the vendor laughing after I sing the one song I know in Malinke. I see my concession of huts as this really upscale apartment complex that would overlook some beautiful landscape like Central Park. The location is priceless being one of the closest to the Niger River. Also my hut has two doors which are key during the dry season and it has its own latrine pit. Rain here is like going to watch a show at the Pantages Theatre. The thunder cracks throughout the entire sky and rolls as if there were stone walls for them to bounce off of and stadium seating for all to experience. However, I think this is better than the theatre because I don’t have to dress up and the price of all of messini would never add up to the value of this spectacle. This act of relabeling is my way of coping with missing my life in the states. Hanging out with my girls has been replaced with sitting among Muslim men. Playing with my nephews has been substituted with spinning dirty faced little boys by their arms. Going to the gym can be satisfied by my hour long run that ends with a cool down along the Niger river. Watching American Idol with my mom can be the same as watching the village mask dances with N fa Mou. My love for driving has been replaced by riding my bike, and trying to eat at least 5 fruits and vegetables a day has been replaced by eating 5 mangoes a day.

I insist to google "Griot" and you'll see the culture I'm immersed in as well as indulge in one of the many things I miss--the search engine. The Griots are known as the professional storytellers of West Africa. They are masters of the balaphone which I like to regard it as a sort of piano/drum made out of wood. They have been known to stop wars because of their smooth talking. However, in present day I see them as a sort of DJ after attending weddings and celebrations of life aka funerals. It's expected that all ceremonies have a griot present.

My counterpart is the main Griot of my village and I feel so lucky to be working alongside such a respected individual. He is so respected that he gets gifts of money randomly throughout the day. I made him teach me the phrase "I want to be like you" so that everytime he gets a gift I can humor him and say it in my best Malinke accent. I swear if I got a penny for everytime he received a gift I would be a Guinean millionaire and buy my very own cow. But the tide has turned and I'm starting to get gifts that makes my dad's gifts look like chump change. A certain petit tailleur named Amara Keita has taken interest in me and has been giving me gifts of oranges, avocadoes, money, his mom's rice and sauce, and even phone cards. I feel bad because he has spent so much money but my dad says I must take it. I'm also embarassed because he's really cute, has a great smile, and has a steady job...too bad he's 13 years old. The only other thing is he doesn't speak French so I'm back to the pointing, guessing, smiling, laughing, and nodding. He usually comes to my hut after dinner and I sit reading while he colors Disney pictures by candle light. I remember the first night I showed him the colored pencils and coloring book. My heart sank as I watched him perform a task he's never been given the chance to do. The opportunity and the necessity to excersize his creative mind. However, he quickly caught on and now is starting to show some courage by creating patterns on Goofy's hats.

Speaking of Goofy, my counterpart resembles his dark, lanky exterior. Fortunately, his character is not at all like the akward Disney dogs'. His name is Moutaga Kouyate, but everyone in the village calls him n'fa Mou. It sounds like umfah moo and it's short for father Moutaga. Not only is he the respected griot, but he also has worked with other PC volunteers and NGOs so he knows what he's doing. He is motivated and truly cares about his village. Since I've been here we've established a tree nursery in his garden of 1300 trees of 9 different species good for land reclamation and agfo practices such as live fences, firebreaks, fodder and human consumption. This would not have been possible if the former volunteer in a village across the river didn't collect, properly store, and give the seeds to n'fa Mou. It felt like Christmas when I saw his gift of two buckets full of every AgFo volunteers dreams. Thank you Rob wherever you are!

In a couple of months the rainy season will commence and I'll start giving sensibilizations getting the villagers involved to plant the trees. In the meantime I've been attending l'ecole primaire trying to make good relations with the youth and the teachers. I have aspirations of starting an Environmental Education Club, garden, and tree nursery there. I also am playing with the idea of starting a speech contest in the region concerning environmental issues. What better way to publicize and urge sustainability but to have the next generation talking about it. I want to hold sensibilizations on building mudstoves, solar dryers, the benefits of Moringa oleifera, and venture into the public health sector by helping nearby volunteers. This is just a short list of the many things I'm thinking of but I've been given the advice to do things little by little or how a Guinean would say it "small, small."

March 14th was officially my first month at my site. Now only 23 more months to go! The Peace Corps staff and former volunteers all said that the 1st month is the hardest and I believe that statement now that it has passed. I'm at a place where I'm not doing a countdown when I will return to the states. I feel more like how am I going to do everything I want to do in such little time.

We are not allowed to do any projects the first 3 months at site, making integration within the community a priority. So far, the village is starting to recognize me as Fadima Kouyate (my Guinean name) and not as tubabu (white person). I am able to fool people into thinking I speak their local language, Malinke, by knowing a few salutations. I am able to find my hut in this maze of huts after recognizing landmarks such as the big mosque, the marche, and the video club. I can wash my clothes in the Niger River in less than an hour depending on factors like load and number of petites fighting over my underwear.

However, there are some things I don't think I'll ever adopt or get accustomed to. I don't think I'll ever get comfortable with the sounds of crying children or the natural tone of hostility in the Malinke women's daily conversation. I don't think I can ever swim in the river topless like all the other women...especially when seeing how they react to the skin color of my back! I doubt I will ever come to terms with a women's role in a predominant muslim culture.

I have learned so much about myself since I left the states. The experiences one has here are truly once in a life time opportunities, aka self evaluations. This is what I have discovered about myself in 4 months:

*I think it's a contradiction when the nice primary school teacher holds a whip while teaching his students

*I don't mind getting my water from a pump or a well

*I can eat with my hands and don't see utensils as necessity

*I prefer the water method and my pit latrine

*I get frustrated learning 2 languages and release that frustration in English profanity to whomever is present

*I cry to my best friends about being sick and/or homesick

*I vomit immediately after witnessing donkeys mating (not a joke)

*I pinch every child's cheeks regardless of how dirty they are

*I love filling bags with improved soil for a tree nursery

*I don't mind sitting quiet for hours among muslim men speaking in Malinke

*I bond with the crazy women best by learning their hysterical dances around the fire

*I get annoyed when men do the finger poke while shaking your hand insinuating they want to sleep with you

* I find hope that a project can be sustainable through my villages' gardens

*I get sad about the female to male ratio in the overcrowded private schools

*I still shave my legs and underarms as well as paint my toe nails

*I can't believe I can make little kids cry and run away in fright just by the sight of me

The list goes on and will only continue to grow. I imagine the next time I write I'll be able to describe my increased understanding of the muslim religion which I have expressed interest in participating in by going to the mosque every Friday. Allowing myself to be open has given me the strength and patience needed to do what I'm doing. But I promise you that I remember everyday who I am and where I come from in order to experience this. I am happy. Je suis Fadima Kouyate.

(Taken from my personal journal because I'm too tired to think of another way to describe my site)

Talk about a cultural experience. All the anxiety has been worth this. I loved visiting my site so much. It was so hard driving in a bush taxi and I can't even imagine the experience without Dramamine. They squeeze two to a seat and it's ridiculous how most of the rode is pot-holed making the entire drive seem like the ride "Indiana Jones" in Disneyland except it lasts for 14 hours instead of 2.6 minutes. And I can't forget to mention how unsafe each taxi is...you're lucky if the doors open and/or shut efficiently.

I was so bummed to miss the futbol match because of travelling: Guinea vs. Ghana with Ghana winning. We (Monsieur Kouyate) and I got dropped off on the main road and walked 1 K into my site on a moon-lit upaved road. Even though it was dark the town could tell I was different and the kids were holding my hands and arms naming me Aicha (which is the popular name of the water sachets that I drink).

I'm eating peanuts in my hut with the sounds of the balaphone and hammering in the background. They're attaching a screen door to the rickety metal door on my hut. This culture is rich in music (a drum hanging on my wall), good food (communal eating with the hands), and respect (constant drone of salutations). Last night was a much needed night of sleep. I have a straw/foam sunkend in the middle queen-sized bed with a mosquito net. There is a sewn tarp of UNICEF labeled rice bags that make a pseudo roof to separate my straw roof. My floor is mud and the wall are too. My little broom lays next to a sack filled with white powder which I don't know the purpose for. I have a chair, a squatting stool, and two tables. One serves as my eating table and the other for my belongings.

Last night upon arrival I ate with Monsieur Kouyate some awesome meal of rice and sauce with chicken. I had to wash my hands with this water that I didn't think did the trick to get off the dirt so I was sly and used my hand sanitizer while he was fanning off the hot rice. The sauce had to be squeezed from the rice so you can try to ball it up into your mouth. I was so relieved when my hands could tell it was chicken because my eyes sure couldn't (no electricity in huts!). He made sure I had my fill...maybe to fulfill the muslim saying of angels not being able to take you away while sleeping or he could just want to get me fat like everyone else in this country.

I live in one hut of many in the Kouyate compound. I've met so many kids and older people. The more notable encounter is Monsieur Kouyate's ailing father. He's hooked up to some bright yellow fluid in his bed. I've held his weak hands and I wanted to cry for someone I don't even know. However, the 8 wailing elderly women lining the walls of his room beat me to it.

After the wonderful, peaceful rest I woke up to mom and dad calling, as well as 2 texts from Katalina (PCV 5K away). I ate some bread with Laughing Cow cheese, some tea with evaporated milk and sugar, and some bouille. The bouille was different from my host families' in that corn was used instead of rice and it tasted more sour than sweet. I think I'm acquiring the taste for it. It's like hominy in good sour milk. I can't wait till I understand it all. Some things seem so illogical and others make perfect sense. For example, I love how they eat their oranges here. The rind of the orange is lightly peeled off and a bite-sized top is cut off either with a knife or with a mouth. Next, squeeze the juice into your mouth for a healthy all natural juice box.

My hut is something I joked about living in before coming here but I'm oddly relieved that this joke has become reality. This is the true African lifestyle, something you do see on TV with every child having dirty, crusty faces and flies all over.

I gave this speech at the Swearing In ceremony on February 8, 2008 (En Francais). My AgFo friend Raven video-taped a small part of it and she said she'll try posting it on YouTube. I was nervous the past couple of days especially when I found out that the American Ambassador was going to be present as well as having the added pressure of being taped for Guinean television. Fortunately, after much thought I decided there was no point in being anxious and I got up there and gave my all. I was relieved to hear laughs, meaning that my French was actually comprehensible. I was also touched to find out that I actually made people cry. There were 3 other volunteers that gave amazing thank you speeches in Susu, Pular, and Malinke to represent the 3 regions of service throughout Guinea. There was more crying during our Country Director's speech, and I'm not going to lie that I was one of many that shed some tears. We were also graced with a beautiful speech from a former volunteer in Ethiopia who served in the first group of Americans sent out ever! I had an awesome time during the ceremony and it made me feel so proud and honored to be a volunteer. Hope you enjoy the English version of my speech!

Mr. Ambassador, Peace Corps Country Director, Assistant Peace Corps Country Directors, Language teachers, Technical trainers, Peace Corps staff, and fellow Peace Corps volunteers:

As we are about to swear in as volunteers I look back and feel very lucky to have been paired with the Haba Family in Maferinyah. Not only did they provide me with the same love and care as my biological family but they also shared the beautiful Guinean culture with a complete stranger. I came to them as a non-French speaking newborn and in just 2 months I'm leaving for another destination as a conversational French speaking adolescent. The Haba family is my family forever and I can't thank them enough for everything they've done for me.

However, I know that I represent all the stagiaires when I say it wasn't just my Guinean family that made stage memorable. It was the first family that welcomed us in Conakry on December 4, 2007. It was you Peace Corps staff. You have taught us to laugh all the time especially when you find a dead rat in your latrine pit, to cry to your nearest English speaking neighbor about the frustrations of adjusting to a new culture, to appreciate drinking a cold coke, and to stay positive even when you have to go to the bathroom every 20 minutes.

My APCD Monsieur Abdoulaye Diallo said it best, " Remember who you are, where you come from, and enjoy this experience to the fullest." Living in Maferinyah has limited my interaction with many of you here in Conakry but I promise that every smile, every "bonjour, ca va?," every kind recognition has made Guinea feel more like a home and less like a foreign country. Without your support , we would never have learned how to be the G15 family we are today. For that I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Now, we are prepared to work throughout three regions of Guinea, and if our new communities welcome us with the same hospitality as our host families and as you Peace Corps staff, then I know that serving for the next 2 years will be a joy.

Thank you very much! Go Guinea! Go Peace Corps! Go the Guinean-American Cooperation!

I must be doing something right to be receiving so many letters, Christmas cards, and care packages! I feel so loved and I can't express how much all the love and support is appreciated. I promise that I'm in the process of writing you all back but it will take a while to send the letters out because so far the only postal office I know of is in Conakry. Either way I look at my letters over and over and feel like I' m really not that far from home at all. This experience has really made me appreciate home even more and strengthen my ties at home. Again, I have never felt this much love, support, involvement, and pride from my friends and family. My most sincere thank you to all!

My morale as well as the rest of the AgFo training group is very high right now and it all is owed to you all back at home. We have talked about the things we miss at home everyday for the past month which mostly entails food. So every piece of chocolate, every bite of cheese, every sip of Crystal Lite to mask the bleach water has been cherished to its greatest capacity. We laugh about how post-service life is going to be so easy. For example, when finding housing we'll have no problem. We laugh about how easily entertained we'll be by the simplest things like turning on a switch. My friend Teale envisioned us turning on and off a light switch for hours with these glazed eyes saying, "Amazing...works every time!" In all honesty, I see this experience as one really long camping trip. I'm having so much fun here!

Our group is really bonding and moments like New Year's Day will be engrained in all our crazy "This Is Africa" memories. After successfully building a BBQ pit at our trainer's house the next obvious thing to do was to use it. Sounds simple enough but first we had to get the meat. That day was officially the 3rd goat I've seen slaughtered. I've become desensitized by this point so it didn't bother me to see its' muscles still twitching as the parts were laid over the pit. The goat didn't taste that great but the experience was the first of many to bond us "leatherman wearers" closer.

After the BBQ we were ushered to play a soccer match against the town's soccer teams. We were blown out of the water to see the whole town present as well as the prefet (like a mayor) and the town officials. They even went as far to put up nets on the goals. To cut to the point, I miracously scored the 1st goal of the game. I claim full bragging rights only because the only soccer I've played in my whole life has been against 5th graders! It was the strangest feeling hearing my name echo over the loud speakers (speakers attached to the roof of a car). I wasn't even sure that I had made it because at the exact moment I kicked the ball the opponent clocked me. I got up, dusted off, and squealed for joy! The whole town went crazy and I instantly became the town hero. Once I sat out, the photographer came and took a picture of me drinking my plastic bag of water. I have no idea if they are intending to post the picture in some community newsletter but once I find out I'd love to post it so I can show Heny Haba at her finest moment in Maferinyah. My Guinean family was so proud.

Another bonding moment was our success at making BBQ chicken pizza. We've designated one night a week as our "Saturday night shake-down" to get away from the rice and sauce and try to cook as creatively as possible given our situation with lack of cooking ingredients and an oven. Yea...you can call us intense because if you want BBQ sauce you gotta make it and if you want chicken on that pizza you gotta kill it first. Our next group meal is breakfast however we have a birthday request to get some monkey meat before the french toast. I'm not sure if I'd like to go out that way though. AgFo consensus says that being bitten by a Black Mamba is a much cooler way to die.

The past 3 weeks has been a roller-coaster ride full of doubt and uncertainty at every curve. The main thing that got me through it was not having to ride alone. I'll try my best to sum up what I feel like happened years ago. It's crazy how much I have grown and learned in such little time. I'll start with the bad first.

Being adopted by a Guinean family was one of the many things I looked froward to during my 3 months of training. Ask anyone at the ceremony, I was the most eager pup wagging its' tail waiting to be given a home. My family was exactly what I expected - a warm and friendly unit composed of a mama, papa, and 6 children. Actually, there was one exception. I was pleasantly surprised to find out my family is Catholic among a prevalent Muslim country. Anyways, to cut to the bad news...I had a breakdown that first night at my homestay. I remember laying in my bed crying feeling so guilty about the living conditions I would be in for the next 27 months. Even worse knowing that this is the standard in Guinea. I felt guilty because I thought I knew poverty having worked in another African nation with unreliable electricity and lack of clean running water. I felt ashamed that this wonderful family willingly gives me their only bathroom in the house which is literally a hole that rats seek refuge in after being poisoned.

I admit to being an overly emotional person sometimes but I have never cried like that. Only God understands what went through my mind that night. I really hope that night will be the lowest of lows of this whole journey because I felt like I was at rock bottom.

After spouts of more uncertainty and a little food poisoning I feel good now being on the other end of the spectrum. In fact, I feel the happiest I've been in a really long time. I take pride in the fact that I never thought about going back. There is so much to do and so little time to do it all.

You can't trade the experiences I've had in the past 3 weeks for all the money in the world. Like the accomplishment I felt after spending a full 3 hours speaking to my brother in French and laughing our heads off till we were ordered to go to bed. Or the taste of the sweetest pineapple after helping a local plantation harvest a shipment for their European counterpart. Or the vibration of prayer I felt run through my body as I bowed towards Mecca while almost passing out from the heat of my comple and the african sun. Don't worry...I'm not converting! I attend mass every Sunday still. What I'm saying is I feel so lucky. Everyday I still can't believe what I'm doing and I laugh at myself outloud, especially during the hard times. You can't be here without a sense of humor.

I found out the day I got food poisoning that once I swear in as a volunteer I am going to be living in a little village in Haute Guinea (I can't say the town due to PC guidelines). I will be living right on the Niger river and have the crocodiles as neighbors:) My closest PCV will be my good friend Kat and she is just 5K away in a large city with electricity. I'm really excited because my village is unchartered territory with my presence being the first Agroforestry volunteer.

As my language and technical skills become stronger each day I gain a little more confidence and am able to handle situations like when 20 kids are yelling "Fote" which means white person in Susu, to get my attention. Everyday goes by so fast and I know that this whole experience will fly by and I'll be back home. I actually had the most vivid dream, due to my malaria prophylaxis, and I thought I was back in the states. I was so relieved to reach out and feel my mosquito net!

Oh before I go I need to tell you my African name that my family gave to me that first day. My new name is Heny Haba. I just found out that Heny means gold here:) Even though I greet everyone using my new name the town remembers my real name and that I'm the chinese looking one. Even though my name means gold I'm apparently worth a thousand sodas because that what the local boys are saying they want to buy me for!

It's Christmas Eve and I can't help but feel strange while swimming in a pool and walking on the beach. I think of what home is like and wish I could be there among the food, music, and laughter. I miss you all so much and I hope you truly enjoy the holiday season. You are all in my thoughts and prayers. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year's!

Today we had more survival language training in Susu. I had a good time coughing up my silent n's and swallowing my x's to imitate our language teacher. After this lesson we had a class dealing with the different types of cultural adjustments when living with our homestays. The topics ranged from eating etiquette to bathroom etiquette. My favorite was when a trainee named Erich demonstrated how to use a pit latrine by standing on two chairs. It truly was a "kodak moment" which I will hopefully be able to share with you all one day but seeing that I am having difficulty finding a way to upload my pictures it will definitely be one day more in the future:)

The day's sessions ended with two guest speakers from the US Embassy. The Security Officer and the Political Officer were able to shed some light on the situation in the country. I was happy to find out that our "American" presence here is very wanted and that there is a high demand for more volunteers throughout the country. However, I left with a certain disparity that I'm not sure how to handle.

The country of Guinea is full of natural resources with so many possibilities for progress. Not only is there an untapped tourism market but being in Agroforestry I learned that ~80% of their mangoes rot. Also Guinea's potential for hydropower could in fact provide electricity for most of West Africa! Statistics like these goes across all sectors because what it all comes down to is that a corrupt government will never allow progress to happen. This immediately made me feel hopeless but I found hope in the Embassy officers knowing that there are many people like them dedicating their lives to development in the most hopeless cases.

They have coined our group as "G15-The Future of Guinea" because we are the first full training group to return since Peace Corps volunteers had to evacuate in January due to political instability. I'm excited to start working with farmers and to address agricultural issues like making drying ovens for those mangoes! But since our presence here will often be the only exposure a Guinean will get of America, I have to remember that every encounter matters. I believe that the answer to corruption lies within having an education. Foreign aid can only take a country so far, but real change depends on the people of that country. A country cannot perform without its' basic human rights.

I'm finally in Conakry at Peace Corps Headquarters. Accommodations are wonderful and the company is even better. The Guinean staff is as welcoming as I imagined them to be. I see a lot of my previous Tanzanian counterparts in many of them and it makes me even more sure of my desire to be here.

Today we spent most of it going through logistics regarding safety and health. Much of this information I've heard over and over again but it only shows how thorough Peace Corps is in stressing the significance of starting out the right way with a solid foundation. I'm a little bit anxious about tomorrow because we will be interviewed in French! If I have the time tonight I plan on writing a letter on how little French I know but how eager of a student I will be, but the Country Director's pool is looking very inviting.

Back to the wonderful accommodations, the Peace Corps headquarters is located right on the beach which is special because Guinea has little beach access but the available space is a haven.

The volunteers stay in a transit house that comfortably fits around 40 and has a library, kitchen, and tv room. I have a feeling that this is living the high life. The cuisine so far has consisted of the freshest baquettes and tea for breakfast, tasty rice and chicken for lunch, and a feast of fish, steamed veggies, and a potato salad for dinner. And don't forget my refreshment of choice...Fanta!

Right now I am enjoying high speed internet through a satellite connection. Oh and mom...I am really safe! There are security guards all around the compound and everyone who goes in and out has to walk through metal detectors. All this special treatment has been wonderful but honestly I can't wait to go out there in the real Guinea. I feel like I'm on lock-down for something like "Fat camp" except they're stuffing us with food!

We'll be leaving this Saturday and will be officially adopted by a Guinean family. At least one person in the family will know how to speak French and/or one of the three local dialects. I'm sure my family will not have the internet so I'll try to keep in touch as much as I can until then.

I am in the snowy "city of brotherly love" where the cheese steaks melt in your mouth and the liberty bell lies dormant but never silent. I am so excited to be here among 36 other Americans that I know will become my best friends. The first day of orientation left me in the biggest state of relief I have ever felt. For the past year, I have had to fight and defend my reasons for wanting to serve, and now I can just be me. I could not fathom that people actually shared the same anxieties as I did as well as the same aspirations.

Now that orientation is finished I am feeling more nervous but strength lies in numbers and I know I have the support I need within reach now. While other volunteers are anxious about using pit latrines, I can't explain the fear I have in knowing that I probably won't be able to hear my nephew's voice for months at a time or that the mail system is so corrupt that I will not receive my mail. But they tell us that "no news is good news" because if something were really bad than that's the telephone call that family at home will not want to receive. So not to end on a scary note, please know that I will be safe even if you don't hear from me. Now the favor I ask of you is to do the same.