Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Chemins

There are two routes to school from my house.

Both start the same way: leave the thoughtfully but incompletely graveled front yard of the house, turn right to avoid the drainage ditch and mango tree that frame the property line, and pass by the neighbors’ kitchen, avoiding dishes, chickens, and children. The route continues uphill past a house under uncommonly rapid construction, a briqueterie, and then meets the paved main road. I turn right onto the main road.

Following traffic along this arterial, I pass three cell phone credit-recharge stalls, two breadmongers, one military hospital not yet built, a semi-communal garden, and five potholes. Veering left I leave most of the speeding taxis and motos behind, trading potholes for people bathing and waving, wide-ish shoulders for a leaky foliage roof. Children yell out fouté (white person). I descend through the residential carrefours avoiding dogs and goats. Each house is different. Several are yellow, but each with a different sort of concrete arabesque adornment. Precast concrete columns frame in porches and terraces of all shapes. Eating and cooking areas are covered with low thatch roofs. Nearer the school where our daily training sessions take place, women and midsize children surround a faucet that spouts cleaner water most mornings.

If I instead cross the main road, I cross a formidable water bar (our bus had much too long a wheelbase to traverse it successfully the day of our arrival here, but we crossed it anyway) before the road passes the Tostan Convention Centre. Climbing upwards and southwards around the convention centre, the residents of a couple well-shaded houses stare and/or give salutations. I circumnavigate their livestock. The road has no holes and the asphalt unfatigued, facilitating a rapid summit of the hill and even speedier descent. On wet days the knobby front tire of the bicycle throws specs of muddy water onto my trousers. The mosque is bright but empty at half past seven. The route descends past the rice paddies, currently drained to facilitate planting.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Cadeaux

To reach Tosten:

Send letter or a package (use USPS Flat-Rate boxes and stuff them full!):
Tosten Haugerud
Corps de la Paix
B.P. 1927
Conakry
Republique de Guinée

Send an email:
thaugerud@gmail.com

Check Skype:
thaugerud

Send an SMS [text]:
+224 68 68 13 11
Or try calling if feeling wealthy

Arrivé

Conakry – Arrival in Guinea on 9 July 2011, approximately 18:45 local time. Weather somewhat hot and quite humid, customs simple given expert Peace Corps guidance, baggage collection zoological, cars taken to Peace Corps compound shinier than all others. House staff introduced, names forgotten, shwarma consumed, then sleep.

Saturday is training day 1. Rooftop staff-trainee icebreakers do little to help us learn names. Those of the new recruits who already speak some or lots of French are envied by the remainder. Senegalese cuisine with lots of cooked vegetables for lunch; apparently Guineans borrow from nearby regions for their more festive meals. Post-lunch activities are held post-lunch. How to mix a stool sample, swallowing of malaria prophylaxis, typhoid jab. Dinner next door by the pool. No less than 3 other non-PC Americans present, along with traditional American dishes and Guinean beer. Demi-vivant music by a blind gentleman, a drum machine, and his keyboard. All songs sung in English.

Sunday is group day and language day and cellphone day. Physics teachers are together, Mariamou Diallo their trainer. They will work together for the next eleven weeks to understand what physics to teach Guineans and how to do it. In French.

The trainees depart Tuesday midday for the training site. They will meet their host families, use the pit latrine, take a bucket bath, and go to bed. Other sundry activities are diligently explained by Ousmane. Their families will be happy to cook food with less oil and hot pepper, but they must speak up!