Stephanie and I arrived in Conakry, Guinea, on Sunday, August 9, after spending the night in Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire, enroute from our trip to Kenya (see previous report). Ethiopian Air kindly put us up at a hotel there because the flight necessitated an overnight stay. They also paid for our meals. On the way to Abidjan, we touched down in Kinshasa, where a number of Americans joined our flight, fleeing the Republic of Congo. In Conakry, we were met at the airport by a Peace Corps official, who swept us through customs, etc. Since Steph's ID was a little sketchy after the theft of all her documents, we really appreciated this help! We were taken by a Peace Corps van to the PC House on the other side of town. We were very lucky to have this "royal treatment", but we needed a little TLC after our harrowing experience. Our drive through the streets of Conakry was a revelation to me: so many people, so much noise, an incredible amount to see. I could hardly take it all in. Stephanie and our PC rep were in constant rapid French communication. I didn't realize until later that he spoke English perfectly well, having attended college in Boston. I kept massacreing French, attempting to communicate with him.

We checked into PC House and found our beds, started a wash, and met up with another volunteer whose mother I had talked to on email before she went to visit him earlier in the year. We all went to a rice bar for supper (our first of many), then back to PC House to sleep. I met several offspring of people I have chatted with on email or telephone over the past year. It was so interesting to see the place where I'd been trying to place phone calls, with little success, over the past year. When I was there, the phones were not working, nor had they been, for several days. We had clean sheets and towels, showers, and even air-conditioning in the sleeping rooms. The road leading up to the house is typical Conakry, though, with many people in the street, living their lives: eating, showering, selling things, talking: it's hard to describe the amount of activity, noise, smells, sheer energy that was present. You could hear all these sounds from inside the house, all night: music, shouting, calls from the mosque in the early morning.

The next day, we set off on a trip to the Fouta, a beautiful lush area to the northeast of Conakry. We went to the "taxi station" with another volunteer who was also heading to Kindia, our first stop. We had trouble finding a car, since, apparently, on Sunday most everyone has already gone off. Eventually we found an unofficial car on the street outside the taxi station area (understand, "taxi" is not as we know it here). Stephanie and her friend negotiated with the driver, who agreed to drive us to Kindia for a certain price. We waited for a long time for his wife to get there, then we all squeezed into the vehicle and off we went. I forgot to mention that this was the rainy season in Guinea. This day chose to be the rainy day of all rainy days. Water flowed through the streets - I couldn't believe we were actually driving successfully through these rivers. Our driver (a Guinean Air Force dentist) just plowed through it all, and began following a huge truck which was driving between the lanes of traffic, passing and dodging through cars. I just kind of ignored it, figured that this was what it was probably like all the time, and Steph had survived so far, so it'd probably be ok. Seat belts, of course, were non-existent, and the car, an ancient Renault, had seen better days.

We got to talking about past times we had been in car accidents. Suddenly, our driver hit a curve too fast and we swung around 180 degrees and ended in a ditch (lucky we were not at one of those beautiful cliffs just then), Stephanie and I gripped each other's hands as if that could save us. We looked at ourselves and figured out that we were all ok, and scrambled out of the car. After awhile a bunch of people pushed the thing out of the ditch and we actually got back in and drove the rest of the way to Kindia in it. I'm not sure how long this was - maybe 4-5 hours? When we got there, we had a big argument with the driver about the price agreed upon (how could he, after almost killing us? - but we paid what he asked). Then we ate some good food, and went shopping, where I bought some wonderful fabrics, then we checked into a B & B run by a French couple, ate well again, and set off for Mamou in the morning.

This time, we had a nice, slow, careful driver. Unfortunately, he didn't have all the right papers, so we got stopped at all the barrages (barriers, check-points) and waited while he had long talks with the officials, who finally sent us on our way, probably after receiving a bribe. (The Air Force guy at least had enough influence to spare us from this.) We got to Mamou, where we had to change for another car. We passed by the road to the training center where the new recruits go before they receive their assignments. Here I had my second rice bar experience, and my first latrine experience. They don't exactly have public restrooms there, but people are kind and helpful. Steph explained that we needed to go, and a tall man in a beautiful orange robe took her off. I sat there in the rice bar for what seemed like an interminable time, not knowing where she'd gone or if she'd be ok. Everyone around me only spoke Pulaar (the local African language), but they would say "onjaarama" (hello) or "ca va?" - French for "how goes it"? now and then. I answered them: "onjaarama", and "ca va bien!", and they'd all laugh at my accent. Eventually Steph came back, and she took me to the orange guy's house, where they welcomed me, and let me use their bathroom. They handed us a kettle of water on the way up the path. I went in and dealt with the thing, Steph giving me instructions from the other side of the door.

Then we got a car to Pita (more adventures), where we got a car to Maci, Kim's site. Stephanie and another volunteer had their first site visit with Kim almost a year ago. The Fouta is an incredibly beautiful area. The drive there was spectacular. Kim's house overlooks a lush green vista of hills and meadows. She fed us and made us very comfortable, and we were invited to eat that night at the home of her health center chief. Market day was the next day. We ate beignets all day (not that different from those New Orleans wonders, for those of you who have been there: a fried, sugared dough . . .mmm, I wish I had one now!) We bought lepi cloth, which is made nearby, some rough wooden spoons, and jewelry. It rained and rained and rained, all the time we were there. We tried to take a walk once, when it stopped, but it started up again, and when we ran to the porch of a school for refuge, a whole bunch of goats came crowding up and forced us to share the dry space. Later several teenage girls joined us, and giggled at us just like American girls would if they saw someone so different from themselves. (We wore funny clothes, had white skin, and spoke unintelligibly - Steph won them over with her Pulaar, though.)

The next morning we left for Dalaba, where we stayed at another hotel run by French people. We were again accosted by rain during our walk, slipping and sliding, then eating at the famed Le Silence restaurant. We walked and walked, back to our hotel. Our proprietor met us on the road and told us that "les americains" were there, a mother and daughter. We expected to see Ann and Jan (another mom and daughter team visiting Guinea) - we had hoped to see them at Ann's site in Labe, but we just ran out of time. We walked into the hotel and found Caroline and her mom instead. We had a great talk with them, planned to see them when they got back from supper, but we crashed, exhausted, at about 8:30.

The next day saw us heading off to Conakry, anticipating a long trip, and getting it. We had arranged to get a driver early but it didn't happen. Stephanie impressed me once again by her vociferous defense of our position in the car of the moment. Many times, she shouted at people much bigger than herself, telling them that they should let her mother have a bigger space, or that she had settled on a different deal than they said she had. She also fought off verbal advances from every male she encountered; usually a scandalized: "you say this to me in front of my mother?" would rate an apology. We got to Conakry at about 4 p.m. (a 6-hour trip) but didn't get to the Peace Corps house until 5:30, after everyone else was dropped off. I got a real good look at the back roads and homes of Conakry then, though: it was so dirty, noisy, squalid, muddy, yucky. The villages (like Maci) are much more comfortable, happy places to be. We were so glad to get out of that car. The Peace Corps volunteers travel this way constantly.

The next day, Stephanie's friend Ulysses arrived from Seattle, via Paris. We were given the name of an airport official to "drop" and it worked. We were allowed to go almost out on the tarmac to greet Ulysses, and were helped through customs. When we got to the PC House, we found the two other mother/daughter teams were there (the ones we'd missed or seen in Dalaba). The three of us left Conakry for Steph's site at about 10 a.m. and arrived in Fria that afternoon. We went to drop our bags at a former pc volunteer's apt. and found that it had been broken into and many items stolen. Steph went off to report it to the police, we visited the market in Fria, ate at a rice bar, then went off to get a car to Wawaya, Steph's site.

It was quite an experience to ride down that long, bumpy road from Fria to Wawaya that Stephanie had traveled just about a year ago, to the village she would be living in for the next two years. Another volunteer accompanied her, but was only there for an hour, then she was on her own. When we arrived we were joined by Mamadou (Steph's general helper-at-large and operator of the Wawaya tea shop), Adama (Steph's "mother" in residence, a health center worker who feeds her, washes her clothes, and generally looks out for her) and the health center chef. We were feeling exhausted and dirty and not properly dressed, but nothing would do but for us to immediately go on the village rounds: the president (elected head of the village, in his hut, surrounded by a buncha quasi-cabinet members), the holy man, the sous-prefet (the appointed government-type leader - who gave a long flowery speech, dropping names like Abraham Lincoln, JFK), and the health center chef's house. We would sit and talk, with Stephanie translating back and forth.

As we walked through the village, we would be greeted: "Onjaarama" (hello, peace be with you), and "Nyalia ay jam?" (how are you?), and we answered "jam tun!" with enthusiasm. Many "onjaaramas" back and forth, and "ca va?". All day it kept pouring rain (rainy season, remember?). We went to Steph's house, and ate some wonderful bread that Mamadou brought over from the bread oven next door. We ate rice and sauce provided by Adama (her son, Diao, Steph's little brother, brought it over, carrying it down the path on his head). Diao also fetches water from the well when she needs it. Sunday, the next day, was market day and we had a wonderful time shopping and eating. We visited the health center, which was busy, since many people come on market day. We presented gifts to the staff that we had brought with us - things like pens, perfume, necklaces.

In the afternoon, a griot performed for us. What a scene! We have some great photos and a tape recording of the event. Music is created by gourds tapped by rings, a flute, guitars and drums. They sing in a kind of yelling style. They dance and the griot (very fit young man) does all sorts of stunts, like eating fire, having a wooden stool pounded onto his chest with sticks, swinging a stool around in his teeth, etc. It was amazing! Steph paid about $10 to bring this group here from another village. Plus we threw 100 Guinean franc bills (about 10 cents) at them for particularly impressive feats. We were seated next to the president and the gang wandered down from the market to watch. We went home and waited for someone else to bring us food. As we were ready to go to bed, people came over to visit, dropping by and sitting on the floor or low stools to talk. We had a nice talk with Diao. We asked Steph how old he was, and we (and she) were surprised to hear he is 17 - he seems much younger. He has a bad shoulder from falling out of a tree when he was younger. He lost a lot of school because of the accident, but is determined to finish, even though now he is older than most of those in his class. Stephanie told him what I do for a living and had to explain what a library is, because he had no idea.

Our last day in the village we walked to a waterfall (our way cleared by two men with scythes), watching for snakes (didn't see any). We visited the river where people wash their clothes. It was very beautiful and green; the rice fields were lush because of the rain. We had yet another cup of tea at Mamadou's tea shop - it's very unique: brewed a long time, then poured back and forth several times in a sort of elaborate show - good! We visited Matron (head lady at the health center) at her hut, and she took us for a walk around visiting people she knew. We gave kids little bottles of bubbles (what fun!) and necklaces. We visited Adama's hut, and met her husband's second wife (Adama is the third), who was pounding manioc leaves with a wooden pestle. That day I saw blue sky for the first time in Wawaya. I only saw the stars and moon two nights on my whole trip to Africa - once in Kenya and once in Guinea. That night for dinner, we had Stephanie's rooster, cooked up by Mariyama, another health center worker. Steph had been given 2 chickens awhile back, and decided to offer one up in honor of our visit. Steph said it was the first time she'd eaten anything she'd known personally. We'd had a wonderful visit to the village. It was so good to be able to see the places Stephanie has lived for a year, meet the caring, friendly people who surround her, and the grouchy, obstinate ones as well. I found it a difficult place to live - daily tasks are time-consuming, it's hot (but not as hot as it gets in March-April), dirty. There is little privacy; people are constantly around, in your face, and you're always the object of much attention. It's always noisy - people are talking talking talking. Sometimes, especially on market days, I would hear nothing but the constant orchestra of voices rising and falling. No traffic noises, or other mechanical sounds - just the human voice.

We had another long ride back to Conkary (7 hours) after stopping off in Fria to meet Msr. Camera, the "boss" in developement projects.. He was not feeling well, apparently, so was at home in Fria instead of at the center in Wawaya. He greeted us in his skivvies (!) totally unembarrassed about it, asked us in and offered us sodas, which we did not want, but he pressed them upon us. He insisted on paying for our car fare back to Conakry. He had the television on during our whole visit. He was obviously out to impress us with his wealth. He walked down the road with us on our way back to the taxi stand, still in his skivvies!! We got back to Conakry and had wonderful showers. The next day after some last minute shopping, and picking up my wonderful clothes at Steph's tailor's, I left for home.

What an experience! Thanks for listening. I tried to keep this short, but there was so much more. When I try to envision scenes in Africa, I most often think of movement. I picture women in beautifully colored robes gliding gracefully down the roads, chickens and goats scrambling and being chased, people milling around in crowded markets, walking down roads. I spent many hours in uncomfortable vehicles, squashed in amongst people, bouncing along, fearing for my safety. I smelled smells that were awful, ate in filthy restaurants, walked through muddy streets, was rained on constantly, was called "porto" (whitey, basically) by children in the street, was stared at all the time.

But many hours were also spent listening to people, watching their faces and interactions, watching Stephanie talk and joke and fight with them. I had people laugh delightedly when I tried to speak Pulaar, when I communicated by sign language, when they realized I was Stephanie's mother. I had plenty of time to have long talks with Steph. I saw many acts of generosity - a woman gave us corn when we passed through her village, people in the taxis would share food. Everyone helped each other, and I never heard a baby cry - they were carried everywhere on their mother's backs. Very small children were often left to fend for themselves, and they would work, carrying water or other small tasks, from a very early age. People seemed content, in contrast to Americans. As difficult as life is for most Africans, they appear to know who they are and what their place is in the world. They are usually surrounded by family, or at least a community which accepts them and watches out for them. Life can be hard for those who are different or handicapped, and for women. But still, there is an acceptance. This may not necessarily be a good thing: I leave it to you to ponder whether progress at the price of contentment is worth it.