Double Life

So one thing that is not really touched upon in many Peace Corps blogs or other writings is the double life we lead as PCVs. There’s your village life, which is the one everybody talks about because it’s so profound and life-changing. And then there’s your expat life, when you spend time with other Americans/expats. Which isn’t very profound at all, but lets you blow off some steam and get your feet clean.

An easy way to distinguish between one’s village life and one’s expat life is a simple evaluation of wardrobe. In my village, I’ve got nobody to impress. So I wear my Macabi skirts or pagnes or my crappy, oversized ripped up dirty jeans (which as I have mentioned before elicits lots of “heeeeeeeeeey!”s from my village). On top, tank tops, stretched from the washboard, occasionally bleach-spotted or oil-stained. And occasionally, if I’ve got one on hand, a complet made of African fabric.

On the other side of my double life, I’ve got my expat clothes. My bedazzled, more fitting jeans (which I plan to de-dazzle tomorrow), cute tops, strapless bras, dresses. All of which I have left at Raven’s house in Bamako because I will never have occasion to wear them in my village so why haul them around?

Another telling sign: prevalence of hair on legs. I always shave my pits but NEVER my legs in my village. But once I’m in expat territory? I bust out the razor. Deodorant, too. I have taken to not wearing it in my village but can’t live without it otherwise. Hair conditioner. Even in those rare moments I wash my hair at site, there’s no way I’m going to use conditioner. Another item I have left at Raven’s.

Entertainment. Site: books, iPod, kids, animals. Expat world: laptops, televisions, internet, movies, iPod on speakers, dancing.

Food. Site: millet. Expat world: pizza and fried chicken burgers with bacon…and a strawberry milkshake.

In Guinea my experience in the expat world was extremely limited. I lived a two day hike away from Conakry (unless I happened to be able to catch the twice-weekly direct car which took 12 hours or so). In Conakry the only luxuries available were Chinese food, so-so ice cream, shawarma and beach bar pizza (accompanied by cold Guiluxe or Skol – well, sometimes cold). I never once went dancing. Nor did I ever go over to the Marine house. Half the time our VCR or DVD player in the house would be broken. But there WAS air conditioning. And hot showers.

Here in Mali, Bamako has a lot more to offer. Not only are there a slew of Chinese places, but there’s the Broadway Café which serves amazing strawberry milkshakes and pretty much whatever diner food your local mom-n-pop serves. There’s Appaloosa, a sub-par but better-than-nothing Tex-Mex restaurant. The Thai place (like heaven on a plate). Daguido’s Italian (quite good). Tons of real bars with beer on tap. Dance clubs. Internet cafes in spitting distance of wherever you’re standing. I’ve never been to the transit house but I bet there’s air conditioning and hot showers. I assume most of these things have sprung up and been successful here due to the sizable expat community. I mean, it’s no Dakar (Senegal), but it ain’t Conakry either.

I think the disparity between these two lives we lead is one reason some people end up ETing (early-terminating). In one sense, you do need it to blow off steam and get away from your village and be an American for a minute, but on the other hand I think some people get too caught up in it if they’re immersed in it too long and they are afraid to go back to their villages or they remember how fun and easy life was in America and just go back. Which is why Conakry was kind of the perfect balance. It had those elements of relaxation and indulgence you need every now and then but not so much that you wanted to stay there forever. When I came back after almost a month in Dakar on med hold, I was afraid to go back to my village, I remember. I was afraid I didn’t know how to live there anymore and that it would be like starting over and that all the tastes of Western delectability I’d been bubbling in for the last month had cooked me to a different consistency, but of course this turned out not to be true. I also thought this the other day as I was coming back from 3 weeks in Bamako. Which also turned out not to be true. You forget how easy it is to slip back and forth between these two lives.

So just remember that, future volunteers: just go back to your site. You won’t regret it.

On another note, Drissa told me today that the first project our chef du village wants us to work on is pisciculture, or fish farming. I was like awesome, that’s the one session I didn’t pay attention to because I was like yeah right. There’s no water. How are we gonna raise fish? Turns out there is some sort of river 5k away that in the rainy season has lots of fish that just pass us by and the dugutigi wants to harness this resource. So. When I get back from New Years and Tiken Jah, on va commencer.

Back at Site...briefly

Is it weird to say I missed toh? I was out of my site for three weeks – two weeks for in-service training (my third, awesome) and nearly a week to celebrate Christmas with the other Guinea transfers in Bamako. In that time, there was rice and sauce to be had for lunch at IST (though not particularly delectable versions of said delicacy), but no toh. Even more, I missed basi. Which has yet to make an appearance since my re-emergence in my village.

Yesterday I arrived back at my village in a good, old-fashioned bush taxi. I find bush taxis much more comfortable than the “bashi” mini-buses, since you get to sit facing forward with windows open and can see what is going on in the world outside.

I had kind of been dreading returning to my village (a feeling I never had in Guinea but attribute to my desire to always get back to my dog ASAP – god I miss my dog!!). I hadn’t had a lot of quiet time in the last three weeks, being constantly surrounded by Americans, dinners, running water and a flat screen television. I knew I wouldn’t get any quiet time when I got back, either. And I haven’t. True to form my family has wanted me to be out and around all the time and all I really want to do is catch up on my sleep.

Though I am ITCHING to start a project so when I get back from celebrating New Years I am going to get Drissa on a concerted search for a project the community wants to do. My clock is ticking, I’ve only got a year (and a month) left. Let’s get this show on the road.

So while I was gone there appears to have been a host of birthing activity. There are at least three new cows. Either they were purchased, or they were birthed over the last three weeks. The sheep that was born shortly after I got here is HUGE (at least twice as big as he was when I left for IST). There is also a puppy. And two kittens (my cat apparently died…who knows the circumstances? I reserve the right to use the name Macguyver for a different animal). There are a ton of new chicken chicks. But the one goatlet whose mom was sick right before I was leaving looks kind of sickly (I’m pretty sure the mom died cause I haven’t seen her) and the other goatlet doesn’t hang out with him anymore. Way to shun an orphan, geez! Oh AND there is a baby donkey!!!! Cutest thing ever. I want to touch it. But he’s skittish.

Also, the family dog healed just fine. I was worried her nasty wounds were going to get infected and go septic and kill her because she insisted on laying in the ashy dust of the kitchen hut, pressing the open wounds right into the ground, leg all swollen, but she’s got fresh skin over all the wounds and her leg is a normal size again. So that’s good.

I have two huge mice who think my house is their house. Today I was laying on my bed reading in broad daylight and there they were just frolicking and chasing each other all around the house. I almost threw my book at them.

The family wants me to take one of the new kittens (where did they get them??), but they seem just as feral as the old one was so I don’t know how well it will work out.

So my mom sent me three People magazines from incredibly different periods of time (how did you manage that?) and those were a bit of a hit with everyone, including the kids who insisted on fighting over them which seems dumb because they have all the time in the world to peruse them one at a time if they each want to get a really good look at every single picture. The spread that was the biggest hit was three of those Dancing with the Stars chicks in their underwear talking about how they stay fit. Racy shots. Shocking for the villageois.

So for anybody who was wondering, I spent my Christmas Eve at Raven’s in Bamako, enjoying chicken “Caesar” salad and baked potato bar with a bunch of Guinea transfers. Christmas Day was spent at an Expat house in Bamako, which meant electricity, TV, air conditioning, a real kitchen, etc... It was actually a pretty good Christmas. I’d venture to say the food was better than last Christmas and the not having to avoid falling bullets made it slightly calmer. Slightly.

So I’m headed back to Bamako on Thursday to go to the bank and celebrate the New Year. Then I am going to stay for the Tiken Jah concert on the 2nd (gonna be AWESOME!) and Paul coming into town on the 3rd since he was not around for Christmas. Then I’ll be back again for a month before the Segou Music Festival, WAIST (in Senegal!) and Amy’s wedding! My second bridesmaid-ship (dad’s wedding was first). And I get TWO outfits out of it because African weddings involve costume changes.

4 months until I’m 26. Scary. I’m thinking about celebrating by jet skiing on the Niger River. And making nachos. Or burritos. And margaritas…ok now the wheels are turning.

Cougar for Breakfast aka Happy Anniversary

Today is my one year anniversary of living in Africa. One year ago, I arrived at the Conakry airport (having just vomited in the airplane bathroom) and made my way with the rest of my 29-person stage to the Conakry bureau compound, bursting with anticipation, excitement and queasiness. I remember being struck by the filthiness of Conakry – all the trash and dirt and ramshackleness of the whole place. And I remember arriving there a few months later after my MedEvac to Dakar and as I wove through the Conakry night, thinking the word, “home”.

A year later, I now have a whole new home to adjust to.

Today I arrived in Bamako. I went to the Chinese place by her house for lunch and perhaps due to my presence they put on a France 24 in English and among other (sometimes enraging) stories, I found out that Dadis Camara (Guinea’s de facto president and leader of the CNDD) was shot yesterday by the head of his presidential guard (who is accused of being responsible for the Sept. 28 attack in the stadium that left at least 157 dead). Other sources said he was taken to Morocco for medical care by a Burkinabe airplane dispatched from Senegal. Some are convinced he is dead. After all, Conte was dead for about a week before his actual death was announced. Some wonder if Dadis (even if he is alive) will be allowed to fly back into Guinea.

France 24 made it sound like “a flesh wound!” but I don’t know. The problem is that the only information journalists get out of Guinea comes from the filter of the CNDD so no one really knows what’s going on there other than maybe observant, semi-connected Guineans living in the capital.

I don’t know what will happen to Guinea. It depresses me.

Today when I arrived at Madina Marche I was overwhelmed and trying to find a taxi to where I was going and at some point in the mix a Malian police officer waved me over to him. In Guinea, I would have pretended not to see him and hastily walked the other way. But here, I went over to him and he gave me directions to where I was going. Very nice guy. I also ended up eating my Chinese food next to two Malian police officers, one of whom was originally from Guinea, who were very nice. It’s amazing what an effective governing body can do.

So if you were wondering, “cougar for breakfast” refers to Raven’s boyfriend Ousmane’s inability to pronounce “Quaker” (as in oatmeal), so in the morning he will ask “Are we having Cougar for breakfast?” And Raven responds, “only if you go catch it!”

Anyway. Happy Anniversary to me (as melancholy as it may be).