December 6, 1998

Hello to all!  My last three months here since returning from my harrowing vacation have been full and productive, which is not to say frustration-free!  I've been working to plan a training for village agents who will sell condoms and oral rehydration solution (for diarrhea) in the villages, and we've started pulling together a proposal to build a health post (a very basic health care facility) in a village 15 km away.  It's hard work.  I don't enjoy working on these projects, they require a more western system of planning ahead and scheduling, and after the 5th missed meeting I'm ready to tear my hair out.  I prefer my daily tasks, the friendships I'm developing more deeply, cooking, reading, teaching my little brother to read.

The wet season is over, but the real heat of the dry season hasn't started.  It's about 90 degrees in teh afternoon, but it gets quite cool at night, so I can sleep.  By February, everything will be dry and dusty, the heat will be 110 degrees during the day, and the night cool won't be enough to dispell the heat from my sunbaked house.

I've been in Wawaya now 1 year, four months, and 8 dyas.  Only have 8 months left.  It's odd to be living through seasons I've seen before.  It's  not all new now.  I'm very used to it here now, life has become somewhat rote, I don't think about it much anymore.  Certainly, I"m waware I"m still in Guinea, but it's just life and work now.  It's odd, too, to be able to see the horizon at the end of my service.  Two years seemed interminable.  Now I worry if I'll get all my projects done before I go.  I can pretty much see what I'll be doing during the rest of my time.  It's no longer an abuss of the exciting and unknown.

I've had no major illnesses (knock on wood), no terrible things happening, lots of crummy things happening(theft, disrespectful coworkers...).  Elections are next week, so I"m hoping they are peacable.

Love,
Steph
Understanding Loss

While I was sitting in my living room reading one day, my 16 year old neighbor came in to chat. Nde is a bit precocious, and recently caused a ruckus when her 50-year-old policeman boyfriend came to yell at her at midnight. Still, I let her come in and ask me questions, figuring: I'll add something to her education.

"Is your money and our money the same?" , Nde asked.

"Nope", I said, and explained that Senegal has CFA, Guinea has FG and we have US$.

"An American in Fria gave me a bill last week", she said, "and I want to know how much it's worth."

"He's probably not an American", I said, "there are mostly Canadians in Fria." I pulled out my map to show her the difference. I also showed her some coins and bills to satisfy her curiosity. I showed her a $1 bill.

"How much is that?" she asked.

"1000 FG".

I showed her a 20 dollar bill. I had a couple fifty dollar bills a friend had recently paid me, but I didn't want to show her that much money. She said that neither of those bills were like what the man had given her.

"It must be a Canadian dollar", I said.

That night I was straightening up my bedroom. My table was a mess, my wallet lying open. I tucked it away, but noticed only one 50 dollar bill. I looked for the other, in the wallet, on the floor. Hmmmm . . . With a feeling of dread, I remembered my conversation with Nde. But no, I thought, I'm just being paranoid because I've been robbed so much (4 times in 6 months). I'll look tomorrow in the light. I'll show her the $50, and she'll say it's not the same as the money the man gave her in Fria. After all, she's my neighbor. She cooks me rice every day, and brings it to me in two little bowls. Her mother has the key to my house. I give her presents.

Still, I could barely sleep. When she stopped by the next morning, I gestured offhandedly toward my table, where the $50 was tossed.

"I found another bill I'd forgotten, was it like that?" My heart was pounding but my voice was even.

My heart sank as she perked up, "Yes! That was it! How much is that?"

"About 5000 FG," ($5) I lied.

I trudged off to the health center. I told Amadou Gury. "Go get Bama". Bama is Nde's mother.

She came and I took her aside and told her the story. She nodded, her face grave, her voice angry. "You did the right thing. Let's go."

We called Nde into my house. "You know Stephanie likes you, she's your friend", began Bama. And thus began the inquisition. Nde protested, her eyebrows raised in helplessness, almost touching her temples. I almost doubted my own convictions. But her story kept changing, and was full of holes. Bama spoke, angry and low.

My African mother, Adama, came by. "What's happening?", she asked. Bama told her.

"Well, I won't go to work today", Bama said. "I'll search the house".

She threatened to ask Nde's friend if she had given her money to keep.

Adama spoke, softly. "Stephanie is your friend, you're both young. You're copines (equal friends). Aren't you ashamed to steal from your copine?

Nde began to cry then. And Adama softly prodded, "where is it? Where is the money?"

Blubbering like any kid caught out, Nde spluttered, "In the house with my clothes. It was on the floor, 3 days ago, I meant to tell Bama . . . ".

So, I got my money, Nde lost my respect. Bama got another problem added to her life. To have stolen from a guest, the white woman who trusts her, is serious.

I couldn't look at Nde for days. I felt like a fool, having trusted her. What else has she taken? What does she think about the stupid white woman?

Or else, she's just like I was at her age, sneaky, trying to get away with things. Dismayed when the unthinkable happens and she gets caught. I've been there, stretching out my curfew hours, trying to get around my parents' rules. And it wasn't out of disrespect or meanness, but youth. Perhaps it was the same for Nde. And she only broke the trust of a foreigner who can hardly communicate with her. I broke the trust of my own parents. Add in the fact that she's poor, poor as dirt, and I can understand.

But, I don't want to understand. I've given two years of my life to work in this country, and people just keep stealing from me. They think the $5-a-day stipend is riches. Well, I don't. I'm tired. She's a saucy trollop and I'll treat her like a maid and a child if she wants. I'll send her to fetch water and bread, which I'm entitled to do but never have, out of respect. She'll sweep my porch.

"Why did you steal from me?", I asked her a few days later.

"You must excuse me", she said, scared.

"No, why?".

"You must excuse me." She repeated her earlier explanation: it was on the floor.

I told her how much the money was really worth - $50, not $5. Her eyes widened.

"I'll never forget what you've done", I said.

"Me too, I won't forget", she said, eager to please.

I don't think she understood. Americans hold grudges. Guineans don't. Life goes on as usual, you pretend nothing's happened, so you can live together in peace. I just can't do that.

Nde came by a week later, and asked for the hundredth time: "Has the photo come? The one of me standing over here?" She smiled expectantly.

I glowered. "It hasn't come, and when it does, I won't give it to you".

She looked surprised, confused. "Why?".

"I won't give it to you", I said icily.

Her face changed, and she backed out the door.

I think she understands now.