Good Huffington Post article on an oft-discussed topic here among volunteers, especially in the early going.

While we were waiting in line at our All Volunteer Conference to get flu shots plugged into our arms, a fellow volunteer fielded a shocking call: the apartment where he was living, including the home and store of his host family's, had burned. In a show of support, Costa Rica PCVs put on a charity auction. A sampling of some of the items that were up for bid: A returned PCV in the States

Misfire during impromptu--ahem, involuntary--dance at our school's 20th anniversary celebration

 Hunker down. Put on the coffee. This one's a doozy. For the unprivy, I’m happy to announce that, yes, my Peace Corps experience will one day end; and yes, I’m on the road to something exciting. Much of the fortune of in-site solitude comes in the form of unavoidable, individual reflection. As an American I’m as good as any at occupying my mind with layer upon layer of the meaningful and

the heavy, anchored heels of time, toward which focus draws closer and closer like a shrinking ripple. My five submissions to the Peace Corps Costa Rica 50th Anniversary Photo Contest: View from my front door First graders participating in the school's Sports Day Kindergarteners posing outside the cafeteria Dia del Negro parade in Limon: While teaching a summer English class

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Hey Em, remember this? Here's a brief clip from fellow Guinea evacuee Emily and my last night in Ayacucho, Peru, at La Casa Hogar de los Gorriones. The next day we'd wake up and begin a 24h bus journey to Cuzco, which would involve 14000+ ft passes, gum stuck on the window, and Austin-Powers-style 11-pt turns around cliff hugging hairpins...in a bus! But that's the next day. Right now we're

David, former colleague and adventurous tico, has put together a new bike company geared--ha, geared--toward bikers and those interested in off-the-beaten-path tours. We got just that, starting with a (car) ride up to the entrance of the Parque Nacional Volcán Irazú. From the entrance we climbed the final 2km, receiving undeserved ogles from the various other folks who walked around atop the

It was small and in the neighborhood, but the fogata was lit, the tents were up, and the full moon did the job of our lanterns as the night wore on. We were camping.   I’ve made little effort in describing my work on this blog. Most of the time it’s been wildly varied. The one constant in my time in the barrio has been the Scouts, a project that almost didn’t get off the ground. The

The only opportunity we G18 stagaires had to teach in Guinea was during practice school.  This three-week span was to be our ‘trying out’ period, to which we had slowly been  building through peer teaches, minor lessons in front of a handful of students, etc.   The turnout was quite incredible considering the kids had absolutely nothing driving them to sit for consecutive two-hour blocks in the

How is the weather down there?  Ours is freezing cold I can not stand this weather! In all of the places you go does anyone have an accent?  I just have a normal accent.  Has a blue morpho butterfly ever landed on your head or hand?  One time one normal one just landed on my head and it scared the living daylights out of me.  What is Costa Rica currency?  Perhaps the greatest reward from

Swing on over to my World Wise Schools blog for a video of a pen pal correspondence struck up between Limon 2000 and a middle school in the Bronx.  Pura Vida

Below is a story I wrote for our in-country volunteer publication, La Cadena.  The Valley <!--[if gte mso 9]> Normal 0 21 false false false ES-CR X-NONE X-NONE MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]>

As our bus pulled out of the Caribeños terminal, Bec and I continued our discussion that was bound for all the gaps that eight months and 2500 miles create.  We started on the TUASA bus brought us from the airport to the center of San José, walked to a rather touristy soda to sample a traditional tico casado:  rice, beans, fried plantain, a leg of a bodybuilder hen, salad, and a fruit drink. 

Quick note - I've updated my address info (see link to the left). I should be able to receive envelopes and smaller letters much more quickly with the new PO Box. Thank you Tina for your regular letters...hope you got the one I sent you late last month. And thanks to all who have sent packages in the last couple months. They're still waiting for me in San José, but I should receive them in

In Bodié I rarely faced the question, “What are you doing here?  Information traveled fast, to the extent that villagers from my town knew Peace Corps was evacuating before I even opened my mouth.  If someone was just curious to talk with the new white villager and pose the question, the answer rarely required a follow-up.  I was going to be teaching physics at the collége, 7th grade through

It’s unseasonably brisk, mostly because ‘season’ loses meaning in Limón. By 9 a.m. the sun was already relentless, but a miraculous cloud cover has blotted it out for this brief moment. Not the low, gray stuff that hangs and threatens. Just a thin sheet, enough to break the intense monotony of the Limón sun. It’s pegado, sticky. I’m in my usual location on the front porch, an old emerald

I’m sick of emo entries and want to share a little of my current life, especially since tomorrow marks the fall of a long-standing record. One week and a day: the longest I’ll have ever spent at my site. The previous guy in Bodié (my Guinea site in the Fouta) had beaten me by two weeks, and he was actively trying to leave. Not sure how or if I’ll celebrate yet. I had originally been

We lowered our right hands after taking the oath from the U.S. Ambassador. Mine readjusted a silk blue tie before dropping heavily into the right pocket of my pleated pants. Eight months ago there were no pockets, at least readily accessible ones. Perhaps one of the seventeen of us was ingenious enough to have requested a hidden pocket tailored somewhere into our boubous or compléts. It

In Bamako, while we were in limbo awaiting the closure of the Guinea program, a fellow evacuee asked me, “What do you think you’ll do next?” “Well, someday I’d like to volunteer in the Peace Corps.” The two most reasonable paths for G18 volunteers were those of direct transfer and re-enrollment. Our education group split almost evenly, the transfers all remaining in West Africa. Only a

The sidebar was getting cluttered, so I decided to move the book list to its own blog entry and just link it:Books read since the start of Peace Corps service (most recent first):11) The World Without Us – Alan Weisman10) Veronika Decide Morir – Paulo Coelho9) Lost in the Jungle – Yossi Ghinsberg8) One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest – Ken Kesey7) The Peru Reader – Duke University Press6) The Perks

I arrived in San Jose after a day of training in D.C. More on both events later. For now, here's the new address. This may change in the future. If so, I'll update the link on the left.Kevin Roche, PCTCuerpo de Paz200 metros al oeste de Farmacia FischelFinal del Boulevard RohrmoserSan Jose, Costa RicaNo phone yet. Not sure when that'll happen.abrazos

Welcome to the standard Peace Corps entry starter: this thing should have been updated five times by now. Being home again for a month gave plenty of opportunity to share Peru stories by word-of-mouth. Unfortunately, my own priority list therefore shifts from a hermitic schedule in front of the computer to venturing out to see familiar faces. So I’m proposing a compromise: come to Costa Rica

After the typical lag between re-enrollment and medical clearance, I´m happy to say two more years of Peace Corps service are now lined up...in Costa Rica!

The Community, Youth, and Families (CYF) assignment will be different from my previous one as a physics teacher. Probably the most striking difference is the lack of a structured assignment laid right in my lap. In Guinea the math and science curricula were rigidly defined. Yes, there were opportunities to spice it up, but any major deviations were a distraction to the main objective of preparing students for national exams. To some extent we were as equally plugged into the community as we were into our assignments. The role of 'teacher' carries a certain predefined level of respect in Guinea. Sure, there´s always the hams who try to take over a classroom and the wizened old man perched on a bench in the shade, griping about "Kids these days!" But this was still the exception to the rule.

I actually looked upon the other 'extensionist' roles with a bit of jealousy. These individuals often entered a community having to prove themselves completely. A project was based on a detailed assessment of the community's needs, it´s success hinging on foresight, vision, and ultimately creativity. I don´t view myself as a very creative person. Aside from sports, my hobbies tend to gravitate toward a passive observation of the world (photography and writing). The opportunity to conjure up a project from scratch and steer it to completion is a foray into my own unknown capabilities. As such, the it´s simultaneously a risk and a thrill.

The decision to move forward is also terribly bittersweet. While studying in Strasbourg six years ago I promised myself I'd never again have a long-distance relationship. It´s just too much to have one´s heart in on one side of an ocean and one´s body in another. I feel that way right now. Guinea is still where I belong. I was ready to pour my heart into my little corner of the Fouta Djallon, and part of me is not willing to submit to the fact that the door to that experience really is closing for good. Guinea and Costa Rica are currently polar opposites in my mind, one being a country plagued with poverty and instability and the other a popular destination for cooing honeymooners. I know this is a preconception, as I´ve never been to Costa Rica--especially not the unpaved Costa Rica flung miles from the tables full of cocktail umbrellas and Macanudo cigars.

Nor am I ready to leave Peru. After three weeks at the Casa I´m finally starting to find opportunities to serve beyond the standard "6-1 with the Lupes" or "2-7 with the Grandes". This past week many of us have been brainstorming activities to keep the children busy during their summer vacation. Tomorrow I´ll begin a 3x/weekly tutoring regimen to help one of the kids catch up with his peers in math. Another disappointment is that I won´t be able to work for longer with good friend and fellow G18er Emily. With three years working with kids under her belt, a stellar work ethic, and an open mind, she is already someone who has taught me alot about passionately throwing oneself into a cause. She was the individual who opened up the opportunity of serving in Ayacucho, so my time here is largely due to her ability to make connections.

A few months ago my future was as muddy as a December evening in Carmen Alto. I´m surprised by how quickly the schedule has congealed. A mid-January departure from Ayacucho will take me to Cuzco for some quick daytrips to nearby Inca ruins and then to a four day hike down the Inca Trail to Macchu Picchu. The first week in February I´ll be in Boston for a week visiting Bec and other friends (you know who you are...email me!), followed by a few weeks of hellos/goodbyes in the Chicago area. The next adventure begins March 1st.

Hope to see many of you somewhere along the way.

I´ve selfishly pilfered this entry from my friend Emily, who has been sharing a parallel path to mine over the last 6 months. A link to her blog is included in the list of Guinea volunteers on the left. To anyone looking for a spot to place those final donation dollars of 2009, look no further!

A fellow volunteer here at the orphanage has been working hard organizing the first annual ¡Los Gorrioncitos Rockeros! It's a concert in Lima on January 13, to raise money for the orphanage. No obligations but if you are able to make a small donation to cover some of the initial costs of the concert it would be really apreciated. She has until the 28th to raise the money. If you have any specific questions you can contact Adeline Tissier directly at adrenalinaperu@hotmail.fr. I think she has 300 dollars left to raise. The money can be transferred directly into an account. Email me or Adeline for the account information.

I've also added a link to the Casa's webpage if you would like to make a general donation to the casa. You can read about the project for a new home.

People make inquiries to come and volunteer here every day. The Señoritas, the children, Papa Gil, the volunteers, the donors, this place is surrounded by so much love. Unfortunately eventually you realize that in addition, what they really need is money.

This afternoon all volunteers will be participating in La Fiesta de Quinientos Niños (Festival of 500 Children). Put on by the casa every year, it´s an opportunity for the children of the orphanage to give back to the community around them. The reality of Carmen Alto and the surrounding neighborhoods is that many families have it worse off than Los Gorriones. It´s a great learning experience and demonstration of goodwill--those with so little embracing the spirit of giving.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to everyone. Visions of family and smells of pine are dancing through my head.

Living at 9,000 ft, I rarely need to crane my neck to enjoy some of the more beautiful distractions of the Andes. As I walk out of the hostel and make my way for the Casa Hogar, there's enough life around to lure my eyes away from thoughts of home or the day ahead. The streets all slope sharply to the left, as Los Gorionnes is perched on a high point in the valley where Ayacucho lies. Still, piles of stone cling to their place, peppered with garbage and stray dogs looking for scraps. Sometimes these piles are carefully disassembled and reassembled into a compound wall, which retains a remarkable amount of order given the stones´ lack of geometry--a throwback to Inca expertise? On top of them lies either a collection of broken bottles glued in place or a heap of dirt sprouting cacti, which hang over the wall like a line of hands awaiting a marathoner.

More than half of the buildings here--none more than 3 stories--are unfinished. Steel rods jut like wiry tufts of hair from the four corners. Often, clothes are found hanging from these in the morning sun. Most facades retain their original cement grey or red brick, though there is the occasional freckle of bright color. Spanish tiles, seemingly older than the houses they cover, crack and fade.

My taxi bounced and jolted my way toward the Casa on my first night in Ayacucho. As we turned off the principal concrete road onto the undulating terrain of Carmen Alto, I felt some comfort; this place felt more like Guinea than any other since I had left West Africa. It still does. In the morning I'm able to sleep through the same comical cackles of malnourished chickens and morning vendors (although one young entrepreneurial bread seller still gets me with his old-school bike horn). A couple new additions are the pigs and the dogs. Yes, outside of the Muslim world people eat pigs. Big ones. If I go up on the roof to wash my clothes, I can look down on the adjacent pen and see a handful of piglets jockeying for feeding position as their mom lounges. My favorite is the big papa on the way to the Casa. He's a beast. I can't take my eyes off him. One of these days he'll actually move. Smaller pigs are always shuffling around the neighborhood as they munch grass and weeds sprouting up from the new rains. Their bellies are distended. They're healthy, and so are the dogs.

Healthy dogs are active dogs. Healthy, active dogs. Without domestication. With buddies. This morning I was enthralled by an old woman who, having removed her two characteristic long braids, was washing her back-length black hair on the side of the street (just beyond Papa Grande). As I watched her carefully letting the water trickle off into her small row of plants, I finally turned to investigate the footsteps behind me. A young golden mutt was just trotting along, content to have something to follow. At this time of day he's as harmless as any other moving piece in the archaic life of Carmen Alto. At night his territorial tendencies will kick in a little stronger. The other day I saw a pack of three small, pug-looking things with underbites nearly kill another dog of the same size. Striated ribs showing his malnourishment, the dog was probably going to die soon from malnourishment anyway. Regardless, it was hard to watch. When they funnel into teams, the dogs can get aggressive toward people, though bending over to pick up a rock is usually enough to keep them at bay.

...ok, I have to pause and comment because a sheep just jumped into the internet cafe, took a look at me, and bolted...but not before freaking fellow volunteer Julie out with a very human-sounding "maaaaaiggh!!"...

Adherence to tradition is another welcome sight. The petite women in traditional alpaca or lamb's wool sweaters and knee-length skirts are the norm of the older generation. Always, always on her back is a black and flourescent striped cloth, wrapped just so to carry a bundle of veggies or a grandchild. The brown leather bombin hats are apparently a holdover from the early 20th century railroad industry in Peru, but it's done little to shield her face from the mountain sun, which by day's end seems to do more damage than anything I encountered in Africa. The kids are adorable. They hang off their mothers' backs, wearing colorful little gorritos. Life here is a travel advertisement. I remember flipping through the images in my Lonely Planet Peru, marveling at the shots. Here in Ayacucho I feel like everywhere I turn is a sight oozing with traditional imagery.

Still there's distraction. As I mentioned, Carmen Alto ("alto" = high) sits high in the bowl. The best way to describe it is to say we're hanging onto the side of a tongue. The neighborhood juts out into the valley below, so we're pleasantly surrounded by mountains on all sides, even behind us. That said, the view is absolutely spectacular. Ayacucho's Andes are not the toothed and jagged peaks conjured up by Touching the Void adventurers, but they're still hard and intimidating, so large they always feel an arm's length away. Cumulus clouds hang out at eye level. It's easy to lose oneself for minutes at a time in the rising, constantly reshaping columns. They're pure as tapioca. Later in the day they bravely creep in over the valley. Sunlight streaks through like a set of rolling spotlights. This is my favorite time of day, because parts of the city I´d never noticed are trhust into focus. Last week a mountain behind Carmen Alto was brightly lit, a whole slope of earth-toned houses puffing out their chests.

And then in rolls afternoon. More and more we're growing accustomed to the predictability of the rainy season (Dec - Mar). It doesn't take a sixth sense to forecast a storm when an infantry of gray clouds comes climbing over the far peaks. They hang in waylay for a while. Then, slowly, thin grey sleeves unroll from scattered rips in the distance. The air grows humid and cold and begins tearing down the streets. Dry dust starts looking for eyes.

The rain is cold and serious. This is nothing like I found in Guinea, with naked kids jumping into puddles and my host family members awaiting their turn in the outdoor shower stall. Old ladies click their canes along at double time for cover. Dogs crawl under cars. By this point the volunteers working with the disabled "Lupes" have carried them back to their room, surely closing the door behind. There are some characteristic flashes and cracks to make a Midwesterner feel welcome, but an Andes rain is predominantly a morose one--more "November" than "July".

Rarely does a storm last more than a couple hours. Late last week, however, one continued through the evening. Guinea flashbacks rushed to me as I hopped over huge divots in the road turned into the rivers. By morning Carmen Alto was back to its boisterous self. The boy with the bike horn ran ahead of me, a basket of bread on his back, as I made my way to the volunteer house for breakfast. It was my day off. Emily, Mal, and I were joining a Peruvian friend named Luis Angel on a short trip to Huanta. On our way into the city, the #8 bus abruptly turned from its normal path past the market. Confused, we hopped off about two blocks away from the market and made our way down the hill. The reason for the change was soon very obvious. Ayacucho had been rocked by flooding. Mounds of mud filled many of the streets. Cars were literally mangled. In front of the market, a crowd had gathered in front of a rickshaw-style moto taxi that had been smashed. The crowd's size was due either to the wrecked vehicle's proximity to the usual market bustle or to the fact that they were pulling someone from it. Rather than fight through the onlookers for an answer, we decided to walk on. The power of the floods was present everywhere. Bulldozers mixed with manual laborers to push piles of earth off of bridges. Police tape blocked entire avenues while officials sorted out the mess.

Fellow volunteers who lived in the center of town recounted their struggle through narrow streets as water rushed past their shins; they had started home only a half hour after the storm began. By the following morning the powerful flash flood had subsided, but not before stealing eleven lives in its fury. The papers have certainly told the stories of all these individuals, though the only one I've heard was the story of two young girls caught by surprise as a wall of mud careened down a street in their direction. One of the girls pushed her best friend to safety. Tragically, she couldn't save herself.

I have a couple days off next week, so I'll try and provide a little more personal information about work here at the orphanage in Ayacucho.

Another volunteer has provided some pretty extensive info (as well as photos) of the neighborhood Carmen Alto (Vista Alegre) and work at the Casa Hogar.

http://www.travelblog.org/South-America/Peru/Ayacucho/blog-211538.html

If you select "Next Entry" you can reach the volunteer's subsequent entries.

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75F and sunny in Ayacucho...what a December!

I had been communicating for about a week now with one of the photo editors from TIME when on Dec 8th, I logged into my email and viewed the tremendous news that one of my recently-posted Flickr photos made the magazine! Click here for more info on the photo. Apparently it's for a "Flickr Tribute to Michael Jackson" photo spread. I won't believe it completely until I see the copy with my own eyes. The issue is due out Dec 14. I have no idea of the size or how much info will be provided, but I'll be happy to see a thumbnail tucked somewhere between the Gap Xmas advertisement and the Letters section.

Serendipity gets the better part of the credit for this shot. As one of the International Thriller Day participants, I was nowhere near my camera at the time. My friend Emily had set it on a nearby table and hit the shutter release to start a video recording. A month later, as I was looking through Africa photos, I saw that my camera had automatically created a screenshot of the clip. After a little playing with Lightroom, it turned out to be a pretty cool looking capture(albeit low-res), so I posted it with everything else. Go figure, out of a video with over 1000 frames, the one that my camera grabs for a screenshot makes it into TIME. The Lumix is smarter than I thought. Hope somebody's enjoying it...

The following day, I went with the two other American volunteers at La Casa Hogar to a festival in Quinua, about an hour away from Ayacucho. Because the three of us worked in the morning, we missed the re-enactment of the Battle of Ayacucho (a definitive battle between Peruvians and the Spanish in the fight for independence). Even for just two hours, we took in our share of some spectacular mountain views and old Spanish architechture. The golden daylight hours hit a short time before we were to leave, so I sprinted around with my camera, still riding the high of the news I had received the day before. The one thing I don't really like about the Lumix is that it doesn't have quite the throw necessary for those candid snapshots of people just living their lives. An old woman perched on a doorstep, traditionally dressed in a purple wool sweater and bombin hat, refused my request to take her photo. Regardless, it was a productive afternoon. One of the pueblo's main pedestrian walkways inclines steeply, requiring multiple flights of stairs. The slope is so great that I was able to catch some close-ups of the undulating edges of the spanish tile roofs along with a backdrop sky as big as any I had seen in Africa. Anxious to start looking back on the day, I threw the camera quickly into my bag, rejoined Mal and Emily, and headed past the artisanal market crowds for the buses to Ayacucho. As soon as we hopped into an empty one I slung my bag around and noticed the zipper open, the camera gone.

I was devastated and completely disappointed with myself for not being more aware. We didn't see another white person our entire time in Quinua, so I let my guard down thinking we were far away from the petty theft found in more touristed corners of the country. The bus ride home was a miserable attempt to make sense of what had just happened. More than anything I wanted to give the Casa Hogar some memorable photos, both for the kids and for web advertisement. That opportunity was immediately stripped from me by some opportunistic kid. Trying to remain positive, I reasoned the event into some cosmic trade-off I had previously made: choose between two months in Peru and no camera or a sedentary 2 months at home with it. Optimism was hard to come by as I slid down the mountainside with the rest of our over-capacity van, cold rainwater leaking through the window and onto my head.

The whirlwind month at home is spitting me into another corner of the globe, a one-way ticket and an open-ended commitment while PC re-enrollment lumbers along.

Call yesterday a caffeine kick. Around 10 a.m. I plopped into the driver's seat to head for the barber. Before I even let off the brake 2009 hit me like an accident. Four continents! Acapulco beach ultimate on the coldest midwestern week of the year, waterlogged in an Irish January, impromptu snowboard customization in CO (sorry Frank), Tahoe play, coasting on the wind over a San Diego bluff, there and Backfrica (so well put by Jake), and now...

Painful reminders of Guinea more than linger. Even as I type, news of a Dadis assassination attempt creep through the 56k modem in my parents' basement. The scabs from evacuation are still fresh. During our fairwell ceremony Ousmane, the Guinea training coordinator, gave the most heartbreaking speech I have ever witnessed. "Come back. Please come back. We need you. Now more than ever." Such trenchant emotion does not fade easily, and I know these words echo in more hearts than just my own. All 94 of us...it kills us.

Ayacucho's history offers me some optimism for Guinea. Just a decade ago it was the epicenter of a guerilla war. Now an orphanage is stretching to fit its volunteer demand. I know much of that has to do with Peru's obvious offerings: towering Andes, history's exposed bands, the mystical Macchu Picchu. Still, it's an example of hope rebounded.

The last several weeks have been spectacular. Thank you to those who helped me indulge in some of the pleasures I was only dreaming of a couple months ago. I know it's a far from complete list, but:

Owed Thank Yous:

- Bec, for sharing your time w/ me in the City, for your sweet apartment location (that was seriously the first time I ever was able to run on the River or the Lake), for reminding me that dreams are not something to be compromised, and for cider.

- Tina, for Green Goddess and MAC&CHEESE!!!! Also, for welcoming me into your home so I may continue the Rummikub domination...up 3 games and not looking back! They say one's ears ring when someone's talking about him; so when I crack my head on the corner of a cabinet I'll know you're reading this. Fired up for February yet?

- Lilly folks, for reminding me how much Indy still feels like home, even with a hippie bus

- Sloan, for your ever-warm hospitality and friendship (and to Oliver for tolertaing my insistence on transforming his name into a french verb)

- Indy Ulty, for great mussels, some crazy conjured-up memories, and some crazier cop stories

- Hoglunds, for your wonderful hospitality and contagious spirit

- Vince, love friends, love fam, love life: you make it look so easy, keep it up

- cheese, oh how I missed you

- Michelle & Al, for coming out and being cousins :)

- Britta & Suji, for (c)hugs(4jugs) that will never dip in intensity

- Henkes and Grandma, I can still taste the dinners (and Ross's cheesecake)

- Chad, for bending over backwards for your friends, even when they're 5000 mi away

- Grandma & Grandpa Sova, for your bursting hearts and curiosities

- Aunt Karen, for helping me feel like I'm home, even when I was away

- Joanna, for helping me align my own disjointed sentiments long enough to start reflecting on the past summer, and for your unyielding courage

- For all your calls, emails, and visits, and your forgiveness if I forgot you (it's 03:30 after all)

and finally to Mom & Dad, for your overwhelming generosity, and your patient support of my restlessness. I know my dreams are often your sacrifice.

Keep in touch,

Kevin

I took a brief video tour of my home during training in Forecariah. You can double-click the link to navigate to YouTube and see a bigger version.

26 Septembre, 2009 (continued)

Our last day in Conakry was already brimming. Our seatbeltless taxi arrived back at the transit house 4.5 hours after we set out for Medina, giving about an hour of recupe time for the pool party at director Dan’s house. Wait, like a real pool? Chlorine and stuff? Chicken fights?? Float tipping! It was like taking a 200 yard walk back to America—chic, 1970s America, but America nonetheless. Scotty lounged, John jumped through inflatable donuts, Jake & Jarred threw darts on the rooftop patio, Kris gave Andrew tips on the butterfly. We played. Then we gorged—-glorious, seasoned hunks of beef with real burger condiments down to the Heinz 57. We were spoiled, we were nearing the end of our four-day binge of food and escapism. We we were on lockdown...

Dadis was out of town for the first time, off to Labé to promote his image in the region that least accepts the his self-appointed presidency. The Embassy sniffed rumors of demonstration in Conakry, so at the time when we would be most amenable to the news (i.e. full of delicious American food), Dan stood up and forbade us from leaving the compound on our last night together.

Two burgers and a fair share of potato salad had me stuffed, my stomach refusing to let in another thing. So how I found myself five Guiluxes deep on the roof of the volunteer house was somewhat of a mystery. Ten or so of us were up there taking in the fresh breeze off the Atlantic. The ocean was no longer in view, but one could easily entertain himself by watching the bats weaving around the perimeter lighting, or just by the rotation of fresh faces coming and going...I need to digress.

My ‘speechmaker’ appointment can probably be traced back to G18’s first days in country. Climbing on a wobbly table at the beach bar on the first night, I thanked all the current volunteers for giving us exactly what we needed: a heartfelt welcome. Later that week I let slip to Sarah that I wouldn’t mind speaking on behalf of G18 during the adoption ceremony in Forecariah. Not two hours later, our training coordinator Ousmane waltzes into ‘Survival Susu’ language class and announces, “Kevin, someone told me you’re giving the stagaire speech.” It was settled. Every social event involving a modicum of energy or booze would also involve late-evening chants of “Speech! Speech! Speech!” It was usually instigated by Jake, our catalyst, our lowerer of the fun barrier. A couple times I tried yelling “Speech! Speech!..” while turning around and realizing there was no one to whom I could possibly pass the torch. Crap.

I hate being put on the spot. I’m not good at thinking on my toes. You conversationalists and humorists who have the quip in your heads before the previous sentence is even finished, you got it made. Usually I’d beg for a bit of time to gather myself, hoping they’d forget. That tactic had about a 10% success rate. The usual process:

1. Briefly extricate self from chitchat and mentally scramble to make sense of whatever craziness had happened in recent days

2. Plug event into whatever stock motif is typically associated with the Peace Corps experience(time of our lives, adventure, yadda yadda)

3. Wait until group is good and liquored, so not to notice current speech’s similarity to all previous speeches

4. Continue exaggerated resistance—-though I’m ready as I’ll ever be—-to pretentiously heighten drama

5. Deliver

If people noticed the formula they were nice enough to not call me out. Even then, I often fell on my face. It’s unsettling as hell to stand in front of a collection of expecting eyes and completely lose what you were saying. That leads to rambling and, eventually, the thought, ‘Did I really say that last night?’ in my head along with the headache. Nevertheless, I started to embrace the challenge. It prompted me to try and start putting moments into perspective while I was living them, piling ammunition for future times when a dozen voices have the “s” word on repeat.

On this Saturday morning Abdoullah, a compound guard, pulled me aside as I was walking to a nearby café for breakfast.

“Kelvin! Ça va?” He could never get rid of the “L”.

“Abdoullah Oblongata! Très bien, et toi?”

He was lounging in the air-conditioned office leading to the outside.“I really enjoyed your speech from yesterday. It was really heartfelt.”

“You were at the swearing-in ceremony? I didn’t see you.”

“No, I heard it on the national radio station this morning; it was rebroadcast.”

Now, there was nothing really special about this exchange. The volunteer speeches are played over the national radio station every year. Even if it had been senseless drivel, every single Guinean who heard it would have walked up to me with nothing but praise. Guineans like to tell you what you want to hear. I remember a story from Marg about a kid she had personally helped prepare for the Baccalaureate, the national college entrance exam. She was overjoyed after a phone call from the boy’s mother: he had passed with flying colors. Upon receiving her congratulations in person, the boy looked at her with surprise, “What do you mean? I flunked.” Guineans like to tell you what you want to hear.

Even so, Abdoullah fired me up. All thourgh the day—-on the cab ride to Medina, soaking up rays on a 70s-era patio chair, even as I listened to Kris and Ali pass out G18 superlative awards later in the evening—-I was mulling. It was the first time I actually felt like I had something apart from fluff to say. After five Guinean beers I couldn’t wait for the usual charade, so I stood up and faced our open rectangle of couches. The words I actually fumbled through have long-since been forgotten, but they were an attempt to make this point:

I know I’m not the only one sick of hearing how profound our actions were prior to even stepping into an Airbus cabin last July. We stood in college halls, workplace meetings, and farewell parties on a pedestal of praise for having done nothing but fill out an application and talk with a recruiter. Arriving in Forecariah, we loathed the word, swallowed it like a pill; because the last thing we wanted at that moment was for anything profound to happen. We were busy learning to speak, learning to buy bread.

We get here and plow through three months of stress. But looking back into that wake there’s nothing but the ordinary: Rarely does a prayer call or pestilent rooster startle us awake anymore. One sandled foot steps in front of the other, strafing garbage piles and sections of crumbling road. We fumble through broken grammar and around gaps of vocabulary-—or better yet, we just bite our tongues. We humor armies of petites whose days otherwise peak at a stick coaxing along an old tire or knuckles staccato on a washboard. We jump for joy when we don’t receive avocado salad on the 20th day in a row. We stand watch over wandering students’ eyes, frapping the chalk out of skirts that surely pass over our knees. We pray the sun chases the mold from our clothes and the shadows from our classrooms.

At site we’ll be doing more of the same. As time yawns out the weeks, we’re going to forget what that word we swallowed so long ago even was. And we won’t even care, because we’ll be up in our trees of normalcy, slumbering on a routine—-taking in the view.

Not 24 hours after, one of the most profound days in Guinea’s history began. Despite CNDD attempts to block the event, opposition parties gathered in a Conakry stadium to protest Dadis’s intimations that he will run in the January election race. Red berets and “anti-corruption forces”, fully clad in their usual black, stormed the stadium and opened fire. Protestors were ruthlessly beaten, women were raped in plain daylight, and opposition leaders were arrested. Dadis denied responsibility, pointing his finger at rogue military personnel acting on their own accord. Human Rights Watch would later conclude that the event was a premeditated attempt to terrorize opposition to the junta, as many of Dadis’s right-hand men were seen casually observing the massacre.

The U.S. embassy promptly evacuated all non-essential personnel. On October 7th, just one week after arriving, I was evacuated from Bodié. On Monday, October 19th, under a small outdoor pavilion of the Mali training facility, our country director stood before us and announced Peace Corps Guinea was officially suspended.

26 Septembre, 2009

After a casual morning of egg sandwiches and café noir from the rickety stand down the street, we left the bureau in small groups for Medina to pick up some essentials. Medina is Guinea’s Mall of America. Even the streets leading up to the market are a claustrophobia of vendors, cars, and people. From the start you’re confronted with vegetable produce and used t-shirts, and the energy just keeps growing.

“Essentials” comprise anything that can’t be bought outside of Conakry. Many of the items in Medina can be found in stores outside the market, but these are generally upscale fixed-price Leb stores that are organized much more like an American 7-Eleven with aisles spaced for an anorexic. Medina is different. It’s a pricetagless labyrinth of Chinese imports, fake name brands, and standing water. A battleground.

Our preparation for Medina was to basically listen as more experienced volunteers berated the place. “I’ve ruined two pairs of pants just dealing with the mud! I had to pay a petite to just show me how to get out of there!” Yadda yadda. Yik, Mark, and I were luckily chaperoned by John, who enjoyed the haggle and had the patience to deal with our lack of negotiating skills. He is also blessed with a keener sense of direction than the rest of us combined.

Noticing a couple people walking toward the market in heavy rubber galoshes, John remarked, “I’ve been meaning to get some of those.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see in a sec”

Not five minutes later the pavement ended and the road narrowed. Main street became a pond of red water, a foot deep in spots, loaded with trash and moving legs. Medina’s sewage system—if it exists—was not dealing with the rainy season’s flash flooding today. The sun definitely was working to help but not fast enough. At least the dust was down. A laborer struggled with his two-wheel cart in tow, overloaded with bags of potatoes, sank into a divot. He’d put all his weight back, and then drive forward, shoulders creasing, trying to use momentum to his advantage . It took two minutes and a team of neighbors, but the wheels were soon free to wobble forward under the weight of several hundred kilos, now with a queue of carts and taxis behind them.

We hopped onto a strategically-placed tire, then to half a door, on our way to the electric supplies. John swiftly caught his bearings and detoured down the relatively-quiet “pharmaceutical aisle” (think: a row of forty vendors, each with a pile of small, sometimes unmarked boxes and bottles). First on the list were a multimeter and various other items I’d be using for physics demonstrations. He knew a couple guys who had hooked up Marg with supplies she’d soon be using for a teacher’s conference. What often happens is you ask someone for a specific item, and the vendor responds, “Yeah! I can get that for you!” Next thing you know he’s gone, tracking down the guy who actually does sell the item. This transaction most certainly involves a mark-up. In the case of the single-beam flashlight (shone through a prism in composition of white light demos), it also involved twenty minutes of waiting, sitting and staring at hardware stand hammers, flecks of sunlight dropping through the low steel roof.

We slowly picked away at our lists: six forks for five mille (about a buck), two mille for good masking tape, batteries, shawarma for lunch, a big rice bag to carry it all. I began getting the hang of “discuter” (“Dis-cue-TAY”):

“70 mille!?” A volunteer told me he came here last year and got the same thing for 30!”

“Not in my store. You’re the first volunteer I’ve met. This is some high-quality kitchenware. Look: non-stick! Your food won’t…stick!” He reaches up to a smaller pan hanging from the low ceiling, exposing a fist-sized hole in the underarm of his blue-pink polo. “The 20-cm pan is sold for 35 mille. If you want this one you ca…”

“I’m sorry, but I need a larger pan and can’t afford what you’re asking. As volunteer teachers here we’re paid a Guinean salary {this is a lie}, and that’s not the price a Guinean would pay for it. I know I can get it for half of what you’re asking elsewhere. ”

Vendor leans back incredulously, eyebrows hitting the ceiling as he discusses, in Pulaar, the preposterousness of my claim with his neighbor.

Americans huddle at same time, re-evaluating the price where we hope to land. Five minutes pass.

“Vous-êtes Peul? D’où exactement venez-vous?”

“Je viens de Ditinn”

“Ah bon?! Je vais habiter juste à coté! À Bodié. Je suis passé par Ditinn il y à un mois quand j’ai visité mon village. C’est beau, vraiment. La chute est magnificent.”

“La plus belle de toute le pais! Ah, Bodié. Que seras-tu à Bodié?”

“Je vais enseigner la physique au college.”

“Ça c’est admirable…Listen, my brother: If I go any lower than fifty five on this I’ll be losing money {also a lie}.”

“Alright, that’s fair…What can you do for me if we each buy one?”

A couple transaction like this are fun. Two hours? Exhausting. Energy drained, I settled for twice the price I’d normally pay for a spaghetti strainer. I didn’t care. I was done with the arguing, with the elbows in my back, with the cheap sunglasses constantly thrust into my face. My last purchase was a Guinea soccer jersey, made while I was waiting for John to purchase a South Africa jersey across the way. I wasn’t even planning to buy it. “Name your price! Name your price!” the vendor shouted as he saw me hustling to catch up with the other Americans. He nearly tripped over his boubou trying to get back into shouting range.

Eleven weeks of training in our wake, we can finally call ourselves Peace Corps volunteers. Swearing in took place this morning at 10:30 a.m. under an overcast sky. I don’t know why, but I’ve been tagged as our group’s resident speech-giver, so I was tasked with putting together the French speech (one of five, including four in local languages). Despite the normal smattering of hackneyed phrases jumbled together, we were treated to some unusually original and sentimental words by our training coordinator, Guinea’s Minister of Education, our PC general and associate directors, and the would-be US Ambassador (had America been currently recognizing Guinea’s government).

Guinea’s minister touched on education remaining at the heart of Guinea’s development, and how only 55% of students make it beyond the 6th grade. He addressed the female volunteers directly, underscoring the country’s critical goal of educating women and their role as examples for all the young girls in their communities.

The ambassador’s speech was especially poignant. Having spent a number of childhood years on the African continent, he recounted his experiences with Peace Corps volunteers (and their voracious appetites at his family’s Thanksgiving dinners) all the way through his current position at the embassy. One staatement that resonated : « this experience is an adventure of a lifetime, but one of both purpose and direction. »

I’ve included my French one below (w/ translation).

Current schedule : head to the big market tomorrow to pick up items that can’t be found outside of Conakry, pool party at Dan’s (the director), and then leave Sunday for Labe. If the schedule remains intact, I will be shaking hands with the sub-préfét and other Bodié town officials Wednesday afternoon. I’ll update again if I have the opportunity. Now it’s time to start thinking about my important speech, the one that will undoubtedly be requested a few beers into the evening at the beach bar.

Love and miss you,

Kevin

p.s. I'll try to label/caption photos sometime in the near future...a pic's worth a thousand words, so why not a few more?

------------------------------------

Monsieur le Ministre de l’Education de Guinée,

Monsieur le directeur du Corps de la Paix et ses adjoints,

Monsieur le directeur de la formation du Corps de la Paix,

Cher formateurs,

Chères invités,

Il y a trois mois, nous nous sommes trouvés dans la maison de jeunesse de Forecariah en remerciant nos formateurs, les volontaires de G-16, et une famille hôte pas encore connue. En raison d’avoir juste un morceau de temps ensemble, notre gratitude, compréhensive, était d’une sincérité imaginée. En ce moment, après des heures innombrables, après une longue formation, après que nos personnalités aient eu le temps de se déplier et s’entrelacer, nous n’avons plus besoin d’imaginer.

Cher formateurs, c’était avec la dignité et la grâce que vous nous avez entraîné à relever le défis de naviguer dans une nouvelle culture et—au moins—une nouvelle langue aussi. Les Américains, nous ne sommes pas le gens avec lesquels on peut toujours travailler facilement, mais vous avez manié nos différences avec une patience respectueuse. Nous ne pouvons qu’espérer vous payer de retour en faisant de nôtre mieux qu’en préparant vos enfants pour vous remplacer comme meneurs dans ce pays.

Chers volontaires, vous avez montré la signification d’être intégré dans une nouvelle culture et, en même temps, tout en soutenant votre identité américaine. Après trois mois, nous voyons maintenant que notre voyage vers cette fin est loin d’être réalisé, mais vous êtes les produits de ce pénible travail. Nous tâcherons d’aspirer au standard que vous avez établi.

Enfin, à nos familles hôtes et au peuple de la Guinée. Votre chaleureuse accueille était un rêve réalisé, mais nos rêves ne s’arrêtent pas là. Nous sommes venus ici en sachant que nos actions ne permettraient pas de changer complètement le monde. Nous nous promènerons sur les mêmes rues, fouillerons les mêmes marchés, et partagerons les mêmes repas avec vous. Nous prêcherons dans les mêmes classes—enseignants à coté de vous—griffonnant nos schémas et définitions, secouant la poussière de craie de nos habits.

Et comme vous aussi, la valeur de nos propres actions, nos rêves tiennent dans le succès de nos étudiants. Nous espérons que, Par ce fait, ils gagneront le courage et la connaissance pour produire quelque chose de monumentale pour leur communauté, leur pays et pour le monde.

Nous vous remercions encore.

TRANSLATION

Three months ago we found ourselves at the youth house of Forecariah thanking our formateurs, G-16 volunteers, and a host family yet to be known. Due to just a brief time together, our gratitude, understandably, was of an imagined sincerity. Now, after countless hours together, after a long and intense training, after our personalities have had the time to unfold and intertwine, we no longer need to imagine:

To our trainers, with dignity and grace you have led us through the challenges of navigating a new culture and—at least—one new language. Americans are not the easiest to work with,, but you have managed our differences with fine patience. We can only hope too repay you by doing our best to prepare the generation of your children to replace you as leaders of this country.

To G-16 volunteers [i.e. also our trainers], you have demonstrated the meaning of being integrated in a new culture and, at the same time, mainaining your American identity. After three months, we now see that our voyage toward this end is far from complete, but you are the pproducts of such hard work. We task ourselves to reach for the standard you have set.

Finally, to our host families and the people of Guinea. Your warm welcome was a dream come true, but our dreams don’t stop there. We came here knowing our actions will not be profound. We will walk your streets, rummage your markets, and share your meals. We will preach in the same classes—teachers alongside you—scribbling our diagrams and definitions, shaking the chalkdust from our clothing.

And like you, rather than hinging upon the profundity of our own actions, our dreams remain with the future actions of our students, whom we hope will gain the courage and knowledge to do something monumental for their communities, their country, and for the world.

We thank you again.

I'm midway through a brief respite away from Forecariah for counterpart workshop, where each volunteer meets the principal of his school. It was nice to finally put a face on the community where I'll be eventually living, though the three day workshop has proven to be frustrating at times (for reasons I currently don't have the time or energy to do justice). Mamou's weather is a wonderful contrast to the perpetually sticky Forecariah. I actually had to borrow a sweatshirt during our morning sessions. It's hard to believe I'm in the middle of Sub-Saharan Africa.

We're not actually in Mamou proper, but at a retreat about 5 min out of town. This area is technically considered the Fouta Djallon, the region where I'll eventually be living. We've been spoiled with egg sandwiches and Nescafé each morning, rice and meat sauce for lunch, and noodles and salad for dinner--not to mention bananas and oranges from time to time.

Courses tend to run from 8 until about 3:45, in contrast to the 8-5 (minimum) + lesson planning schedule that is Forecariah. Considering the daily chores of filling up the seau, taking an extra half hr to dry off in the humid air, and giving our host families their proper due, free time in Mamou has increased exponentially. I've taken the opportunity to scribble a couple letters, plug into my first card games in Guinea (other than huite américain, or Crazy 8's, perhaps the only card game in Guinea), and enjoy a walkabout around the countryside with a couple other volunteers. The retreat is nestled into the foothills, spillover from the mountainous Fouta region. Being up high is refreshing and empowering. The numerous palms in the Basse Côte have given way to the all deciduous trees--apparently there are pines higher up near Dalaba, closer to my village. Like Forecariah, cement houses are usually complimented by a mud hut kitchen.

The internet connection is terrible and expensive, so I’ll finish by saying how happy I was to receive my first mail run exactly a week ago. Letters and packages came in from Tina, M&D, Aunt Karen, Becky, Olga, and Grandma Roche. I felt like a king. If you ever have a chance, shoot me a quick email with your stateside updates. We volunteers are starved for news. What’s the status of Indy Ultimate?!

Kevin

p.s. I’m keeping up an online correspondence with a 4th grade class in Indianapolis, for anyone that’s interested: http://clark2guinea.blogspot.com/

The rain is a teenage driver. Beyond acceleration, it knows only deceleration, comes in at dinner and capriciously splits whenever it pleases. The rain is a toddler, bangs on the corrugated school roof until everyone comes out and pays attention. It hangs on your clothes, on your neck, makes a mess of your suitcase, until you just accept that it’s not leaving anytime soon… but sometimes you just have to enjoy. I’ve learned to grow excited as I hear the first hollow raps of condensed water lose their grip from the roof and rap the bottom of my red seau (pronounced “so”). If it’s made it that far I’m cheering on the rain, praying the whole five-gallon bucket fills before evening—fresh bathing water, a treat. No plunges into the acrid kitchen, adjacent to the house, where I choke down smoky breaths to fill up from the well. I’ve begun to time my trips when Mali (the mother) is cooking, so we have to use the neighbor’s well, which is outside. Slabs of concrete with a makeshift cover over the hole, they’re easy to see; and rarely is there a gap in the dense network. From one edge of Forecariah to the other, you’re guaranteed to reach one in a stone’s throw, maybe a lob wedge. The seau is filled once to twice per day and is used for everything other than drinking. This includes laundry (3 seaus required), toilet flushing (1/4 and 1/3 seau, depending on your business), and bathing (1/3 seau). The potable stuff is fetched from one of the pumps interspersed throughout the ville. Like electricity, pump water is fickle but predictable, arriving every few days. Pre-Service Trainees (PSTs) have a guaranteed supply by biking our empty 20L bidons (“bee-d’OHns”, I like to picture Homer Simpson saying it) to the bureau and exchanging for a full one, though returning with 45lbs of water strapped above one’s back tire is no easy task. Most of us choose to walk the bike rather pedal over an ever-swaying center of gravity. We’re living in a photograph. Regardless of time of day, regardless of composition, our eyes are perpetually loaded with a surfeit of color. The newly-painted prefecture building is a boastfully bright blue with rigid red and green borders. Pagnes purchased for clothing hang in the market stands, walls of chaos; yet the patterns walk gracefully through the pleats and seams of a vendor’s complet, or even a volunteer’s trendy new cargo shorts tailored hours before. The vibrance is necessary. Our eyes would otherwise never stray from the red earth, beautiful in its own right. Classrooms know no artificial light. Peace Corps classes have replaced normal classes during summer vacation at École Trois, three strips of concrete rooms that—together with a cinderblock wall and one residence, including the straw kitchen—make a paltry courtyard. As we sit facing the board, sun pours through the blue shuttered windows to our left and throws the desks’ raised cracks into sharp relief. It’s a strong contrast to my 27 years of flat fluorescent ceilings stripping classrooms and cubicle walls of their third dimension. Here the shadows are as much a part of the school day as no textbooks or electricity; one’s eyes must strain, but they’re rewarded with the undulating contours of the chalkboard, with dark, neglected corners piled high with forgotten lessons. Just feet away, village life passes by like frames of a movie: a sleeping toddler’s head bounces slack, his lower half wrapped tight to his mother’s back as she balances below a bowlful of market purchases; sage men dressed in white marching to the mosquée; the kissing sound of air sucked through closed lips, little sisters and (usually) brothers of volunteers trying to get their attention before being shooed away by our french instructor’s blasé hand wave. We landed three weeks ago in what seemed at first to be absolute anarchy. The customs waiting room of Conakry’s airport felt like a Guinness World Records attempt. Already jaded from travel and frustrated with a packed in like sardines, I couldn’t believe it when I turned around and saw more individuals being ushered into the waiting room. The 45 minute wait was worth it as we were warmly cheered by a dozen peers holding a huge “Welcome G-18” sign. The entire group eyed the luggage conveyor for pieces with plum-colored yarn, which we fastened to each piece before leaving Philly. I nervously informed one of the volunteers that I had accidentally thrown out my luggage receipts (we had been informed to hang onto these at all costs). For once the madness worked in my favor, as one of the current employees shouted at the police officer demanding my tags, “You already took his! We’re leaving!” Mixed with blue uniformed police were camouflaged soldiers with what seemed like berets of every color. I still have no idea who’s who, but it’s even more confusing when what seems like a rep from every branch of the armed forces is standing right next to one another. It just augmented the already-overwhelming disorder of the airport. More likely, they’re looking for excuses to search bags or extort bribes. Luggage tags aside and everyone accounted for, we plunged through the front doors of Arrivals and into the darkness. In contrast, Forecariah (site of our 3 month community-based training, pron. “Fore-eh-CAR-ee-ah) welcomed into its sunny arms a caravan of incongruously sleek, air-conditioned PC vehicles. We had traveled only 100km from Conarky but were in a different world. Jesse turned up Paul Simon’s “You Can Call Me Al” as we passed over the bridge to the city, but it was a contrived cheer that came from the 25 of us in the minibus. Our African families were waiting just a few more minutes away. We were stirring. The steps of the bus led into a corridor of children--coyly waving or tossing Soussou banter at one another over our heads--and into a long hollow structure of corrugated steel. Inside West African music blared through tinny speakers. A DJ shouted into a gold microphone, rendered unintelligible by poor amplification and acoustics. Immediately, our group collided with mass of strange faces, coerced into dancing…with us. G-16 volunteers warned us of the awkwardness of this first meeting, and I think all of initially tried to break the thick window of discomfort, but soon the entire group was nominally shaking our shoulders, shuffling our feet just enough to keep them from sticking to the cement, shifting our gaze when it unexpectedly met with another’s. Only one man, head to toe in pristine white, was mingling. He’d pass himself from female volunteer to female volunteer, holding her forearms in his hands as he carefully rotated his hips. I mistook him for an imam. He ended being my drunk grandfather. The DJ mercifully cut the music. We thankfully took our seats; but before we even had a chance to look around and take in the scene the music started again, and we were called up for another round of the same. After about three minutes a woman pulled a few thousand guinean francs from her small purse and threw them to the ground. The music stopped. We returned to our seats. This scene repeated itself at least three times more. Finally the Prefet (“PRE-fay”, appointed mayor of Forecariah and its surrounding area) arrived. The official festivities could begin. Beneath the colored paper cutouts and half-inflated balloons, the 17 new American faces clustered together. We would listen to five prepared speeches—one of them my own “volunteer introduction” of pieced-together franglais corrected thankfully by Emily and Cice—as we tried to ignore the mounting tension in the aisle between us and our future families. After the prefet’s final words, we were called up one by one, family by family for brief intros and a photo. Large bowls of rice, meat, and peppers were served to each new family. In plastic chairs we sat, dipping awkwardly into the smorgasbord with spoons. Benjamin, my 3-year-old little brother, fumbled mightily. We had been encouraged by PC trainers to use silverware and plates to avoid diving too swiftly into a world of new bacteria, but Benjamin single-handedly nullified the preventive measures as more food tumbled from his spoon back into the bowl than the few grains of rice that successfully made it to his mouth. My own struggles involved two enormous pieces of meat joined by a string of fat, and nothing but a spoon to deal. After several minutes, my grandfather decided he was doing me a favor by relieving me of the embarrassment. But as he reached over to my side of the bowl, my little sister Jaqueline frapped his hand with the top of her spoon and continued with an unintelligible tongue-lashing. We left the building, still wrapped in a haze of children, our tightly bundled lives unloaded onto the road next to the vehicles. We slowly collected our things and, fighting inner logic, began walking with strangers, stealing careful glances at the other mosaic families disappearing into the corners of Forecariah.

As you may have guessed, we do not have internet service in Forecariah, site of our Community Based Training. I had typed up a rather massive entry on my laptop, only to discover that Word 2007 is not compatible with the computers in the Conakry internet cafe. Ah, c'est la vie.

This will probably be the only for the next couple of months, and it's guaranteed that I will not have internet access at my permanent site. So entries/updates will unfortunately be sparse and clustered.

Forecariah is beautifully tucked into some low mountains in the southern Basse Cote (near the coast) region. I live with a large family (12 total in the house, 7 kids) and attend school daily. French is coming along. Yesterday we were treated to Cafe Francais, an activity where local school students from the community came to meet and talk with us for a couple hours.

A week ago we learned our site assignments. I'll be headed to the Fouta Djallon, a mountainous region in the center of the country. In a few weeks we'll travel to our sites to meet the community, schedule our classes, etc.

Sorry this post is so brief. There should be a few additional photos on Flickr. I had more, but it took the entire hour to just get the handful up that are there. Thanks in advance for any mail sent over the last month. I've only received one letter so far (from mom), but look forward to the next delivery!

Oh, and I got a phone:

011-224-62-87-40-89

July 06

I looked down at my feet as I trudged to the Philly baggage claim, mostly due to the overstuffed Kelty on my back affecting my posture. A Peace Corps advertisement slapped the fatigue out of my attention on one my first glances upward for bearings: “No one wants to look back and say, ‘I wish I would’ve.’” My first surreal moment.

Staging in Philly was chock full of the stale ice breaker flavor. We learned that, due to ’08 budget cuts, our one-day stay was actually a third of the norm. None of us seemed to mind the brevity of staging; nor could we fathom the monstrosity of ennui that would be three days of the stuff. Really, just give us the damn plane ticket.

There were a few opportunities for creativity. Three groups of our 17 volunteers each drew some of our concerns and aspirations on a 36x24 sheet of paper. Aside from a number of ominous mosquitos, french flags, chalk boards, and vomiting stick figures was a mythical lizard with jagged fangs (one volunteer’s interpretation of the many cute animals she hoped to see) and a green Peugot station wagon barreling into a volunteer—a rather gruesome mess (bush taxis aren’t touted as the safest of transport choices.

Our last ice breaker involved six groups each reviewing a scene with a questionable event involving a volunteer. After scrolling throught the Peace Corps Handbook and finding which rule applied, each group of three acted out a public service announcement related to that scene. For example, “Jason Reyes is a volunteer in East Asia working in a small village. As his relationship with another American from a neighboring town begins to intensify, he learns that his girlfriend is working for the Drug Enforcement Agency. She insists that her position has no bearing on the relationship; however, Jason has second thoughts.” Zach, who had read this scene prior to the activity but was actually in a different group, had left a gem of insight: “This is the scene most likely to be turned into a movie script.”

The most natural (and quickest, due to time constraints) script for our group’s PSA came as follows:

3RD PERSON NARRATOR (in token deep movie preview voice) – Jason Reyes is a Peace Corps volunteer living in Cambodia. When a sultry expat strolls into his paddy, more than the rice starts getting steamy…”

JASON: Tammy, these last few weeks have been absolutely amazing. I couldn’t imagine a sunset being more beautiful than the ones I saw on my arrival. And then you strolled into my life.

TAMMY: Oh Jason, you’re so sweet! I just wish I could introduce you to my DEA friends.

JASON: What?! You work for the Drug Enforcement Agency?

TAMMY: Yeah, but it’s no big deal, I swear. You’re the man for me. The fact that you live in the heart of heroine-trafficking country has no bearing on my feelings for you. Just promise me that you won’t tell your friends.

JASON (internal monologue): Jeez, this girl is awesome, but I remember something on page 74 of my Peace Corps Handbook explaining that I need to disclose all possible relationships that might involve internal conflicts to the Peace Corps Office. Whatevs yo, this girl is too hot for me to keep this a secret.

One week later in the capital….

JASON: Guys! You would not believe how hot this DEA girl is that I’ve been getting with…(more internal monologue) oh crap, I hope she’s not upset that I told everyone

THIRD PERSON NARRATOR: Actually Jason, despite your boyish giddiness, you actually did the right thing. Peace Corps policy requires that you disclose any relationship with a foreign intelligence agency you might have, as it might compromise the integrity of the Peace Corps’ relationship with the host country. You may have failed at relationships, but you’re right on par with following the rules. When in doubt, consult the Handbook. This has been a Public Service Announcement of the US Peace Corps.

The other notable skits involved a careless volunteer who didn’t take her malaria medication and contracted the disease from a 6’3 mosquito. And the crudest blog entry known to man:

OBDEN: It’s terrible here, everyone smells like shoes…I had fish for dinner tonight, but they wouldn't let me leave the table until I swalloed the bones…I think they stole my underwear…I can’t take it anymore…This is an official Peace Corps Blog. Anything and everything written is the exact viewpoint of the US Government and the Peace Corps.

We were rolling at Obden’s skit. His group’s example explained the Peace Corps’ rather recent attempt at addressing the cultural implications of blogging. The hypothetical situation involved a group of host country nationls (HCNs) obtaining printouts of a volunteer’s rather negative postings about his site (i.e. their home). It’s a touchy subject, as we want to convey our indelible impression; yet raining down from above are warnings to be heeded.

· “You’re the center of the looking glass.”

· “Your reflections are amplified.”

· “It’s up to you to be a good ambassador.”

· “The probability of HCNs to discover your blog is greater now than ever before.”

The literal translation: don’t write anything bad about your experiences. From a macroscopic perspective, this chord has held throughout our training. Political views are expected to be curtailed, cultural opinions to be swallowed. “Tomorrow is your yellow fever vaccination. The night you arrive on site you’ll begin taking your malaria prophylaxis. Oh, and don’t forget your literary seatbelt.”

For me, I don’t really expect this figurative hand to weigh too heavily, as my writing is mostly censored anyway. Even within my own written journals, I often write as if someone might bore through the wall with some high powered telescope, transcribing for the authorities. So what ends up here is nothing more than the usual 1-4-5 chord progression. Yeah, 1-4-5 trandscends time, but only because geniuses have squeezed out the genius. The rest of us just emulate and hope that we can tap into the same vein.

Maybe the policy’s discouraging because emotional restraint was the wall I wanted to topple.

After 36 hours of travel we arrived safely to a misty Conakry. Normally two flights arrive per day, and due to our Air Brussels flight arriving 45 minutes late, the arrival times perfectly overlapped, which led to a rather claustrophobic customs experience.

Worth the wait was our greeting. I was still walking through the narrow corridor to baggage as I heard the first wave of cheers from the G-16ers who had patiently stood for hours in amidst the chaos.

Last night's official training was of the meet-and-greet variety over falafel at the house and beachside beers.

One last quick anecdote: a quick conversation with a current volunteer went something like, "I get to sight hoping that I might get a couple pieces of birthday mail and this damn trainee already has a stuffed mailbox!" Thanks Mom.

I will update as time allows.

A G-17 volunteer posted an amazingly-detailed blog entry on letter/package sending, as well as some good suggestions regarding items to send (Arm & Hammer instead of Secret, please).

More info from the Friends of Guinea page.

"So you're joining the Peace Corps...

- Couldn't handle it at your real job?

- Prefer Che and Fidel to Dubya and Reagan?

- Too short for the armed forces?

- Or just looking to score some free Phish tickets, hmm? ( I think Hartman's glory days were the '90s).

Go ahead, show your commitment to ObamaNation!

- Live on a small stipend to experience the 3rd world lifestyle.

- Accrue 2 days/month vacation toward your next revolution trip.

- Our arid climate provides plenty of time to improve your frisbee skills between military purges

- And of course, chicks dig the Peace Corps.

Thank you, Brian. I'll miss our department's walking lexicon.

Conflicting advice rains down from both sides of the Atlantic. At home, my own conscious pleads for another Rosetta Stone lesson; for another informative post from a current volunteer; for the boxes to pack themselves. Meanwhile, those looking back at what they could've done better--the Guinea volunteers already living the fantasy--stress the importance of not stressing. "Build lasting friendships," they say. "It will all work out when you get here."

"Oh, and eat as much cheese as you can."

I feel I've cheated myself by not capturing the anxiety and exhilaration of the last few months. For the moment they feel commensurate, at least collectively, with that first step off of the plane July 9th. The pace of goodbyes has already advanced from a trickle. More and more food items will outlast my time left at home. Poultry Days, Dances with Dirt, international dinner night at the Thompson's, pre-adventure adventures on the West Coast--enough has happened in the last month to keep me satisfied for a year. Unconvincingly, I fool myself every day: there'll be time for reflection later. Right now there's cheese to eat.