The Guinea Diaries - Day 2 (Part II)

Day 2 (Part II) - May 28, 2009

Everyone warned me about the challenges of Guinea - the lack of electricity and running water; the poverty and of course the heat. But I was also told of the beautiful spirit of the Guinean people that serves to balance the harsh realities of the country.

"Guinean people love family", Ben's sister told me before we left New York.

"Everyone will be so excited that you've come; they will be waiting on you hand and foot!"

While I wasn't exactly expecting the royal treatment, I was curious about this level of hospitality that was promised to be incomparable to anything I'd ever experienced.

Our first encounter with Ben's family was a perfect entree into this culture of hospitality. Ben's big brother Koto Ibrahim (Koto means big brother in Fulani) insisted on hosting us during our stay in Guinea. Koto Ibrahim appeared to be in his late forties. He is a gentle, soft-spoken man with an extremely warm smile. We arrived at his house at 4 a.m. after traveling for nearly twenty-four hours. Despite our early morning arrival, both Koto Ibrahim and his wife Khadiatou greeted us as if it was four o'clock in the afternoon. They showed us to our room - the one room with air conditioning, prepared especially for our arrival. Khadiatou eagerly prepared water for our baths, (which as I'll explain later is quite an undertaking and no small gesture), and when we had finishing cleaning the grime of travel off ourselves and the girls, they happily led us downstairs to a full course meal.

And there was simply no pretense to their excitement of our arrival. I don't know how to describe it other than that they seemed uniquely satisfied and genuinely honored by our visit. Koto Ibrahim gave me a warm hug that spoke volumes about what our visit meant to him.

"Welcome", he said.

"We are so glad you are here."

They were simple words, words you'd almost expect to hear upon arrival as a guest in someone's home. But there was something so sincere in the way he uttered them. Perhaps it was Koto Ibrahim’s welcome embrace that communicated so much. When he embraced me, there was a lingering that I wasn't quite expecting; and I am a hugger! It is rare for me to be the first to let go in an embrace. Yet as I released, I felt Koto Ibrahim’s embrace continue in a way that was genuine enough to not feel creepy. There was an authenticity to his words and his embrace that made me feel truly welcome. And not simply welcomed, as in tolerated, as Ben's "American" wife, but truly welcomed – appreciated, cherished and valued.

Koto Ibrahim’s eyes and touch suggested that he wasn’t sure that he would ever meet us. When Ben moved to America, there was always a fear that his connection to the place of his birth would be lost. Many feared that while he may call and dutifully send money home, that he would never return. This fear was understandably exacerbated when Ben married me – an American. They wondered if his life was simply in America now. Would he return? Would they know him as an adult as they had known him in childhood? Would they ever know his children?

Ben’s coming home – our homecoming, is something many prayed for. I don’t think I could truly grasp the significance of that until being here. Needless to say, Ben’s family is very happy that we’re here and despite the language barrier, they have no problem expressing their sheer joy of our arrival.

My communication with Ben’s family has also be challenged – as in, Ben’s family members often speak several languages, while I am limited to English and some rudimentary Spanish, which is of no benefit! (Boy, do I regret not choosing the French track in middle school!)

Despite the language barrier, or likely because of it, I subconsciously began using touch as a form of expression. I noticed this early in our marriage when Ben’s aunt “Tanti Mariam” came to visit. She was determined to “learn me Fulani”, but despite her best efforts and my sincerest desire, Fulani is an extremely rich language that is not suited to be taught in just a couple months. So, touch became our universal language.

I continued this survival method in Guinea. I would meet Ben’s family and once my Fulani phrasebook was exhausted, I resorted back to touch – a touch of the arm to let them know how happy I was to meet them, or even that if I had the words, I would say more. A grab of the hand to express connection, or a smile or a wink to express understanding despite the untranslated words that separated us. There were few truly substantive conversations, but yet so much was communicated. For now, this is our shared language.

Everyone was right about the family. They embraced me, literally and figuratively, in ways that I never imagined.

The Guinea Diaries - Day 2 (Part I)

Day 2 - May 28, 2009

I am awakened by a rooster crowing - literally. I am quite certain that this is the first time I have ever heard a rooster crow. The sound is far different than "cock-a-doodle-do", but I can't quite find another way to describe the rooster's distinctive call.

I lie awake, yet still, for about five minutes as I try to process exactly where I am and how I got here. I am sticky with sweat and I feel Layla continue to toss and turn in an attempt to escape the sweltering heat, but she cannot, neither can I. I look over and see that Ben and Safiyah are still sleeping. I walk to the barred window and take my first glimpse of the city of Conakry, Guinea's capital.

There is literally so much to take in. I feel like I'm on sensory overload. I want to capture every bit of what I'm seeing, but it seems impossible to describe the a vision that is literally so foreign to me. I wish I could simply pour out the vivid picture that is in my head. (By the way, pictures do no justice.) So, in order to effectively tell this story, without continually getting lost in the details, I must attempt at least, to paint a picture of the backdrop of this experience.

Like much of the third world, I find there are two primary colors here - green and brown. Green is the surrounding nature. By nature, this is a beautiful place. There is so much green. I see so many different kinds of trees, but the only one I know by name is the palm tree. From where I am sitting now, I can also see the ocean in the distance. But it's not blue, or even green. It's more of a grayish white that blends with the sky. It is difficult to see where the water ends and the sky begins. This is the beauty of Guinea.

But then there's the brown, the man made part of this picture that is drenched in poverty. The buildings are an industrial kind of brown, specked with the dirt of age and time. It is the dusty kind of brown that looks as if it can never get clean, or perhaps was never clean to begin with. The airport is this kind of brown. There are also brown, thatched tin roofs that sit atop the square makeshift structures that litter the city. These tin roofs are also green, some rust colored, some white and some black, but mostly brown.

And then there are the sounds. My first sound of the morning, a rooster crowing, followed by the chirping of birds I'd never heard from before. The sounds were so vivid because there were no other sounds competing to be heard. But as the city continued to come alive, other sounds joined this orchestra and soon filled the darkness of the fleeing night. Next, a baby was crying, then a goat and before I knew it, the whole city had awakened.

I look over and see Safiyah beginning to wake. She's always a little unpredictable in the morning and today is no different. She looks over and sees me writing and shoots me an unexpected smile.

"Morning, sweetheart", I whisper.

She smiles. But, in true dramatic fashion, her smile quickly transforms into a look of great concern.

"Mommy, I think I'm scared."

"Why," I ask. I soooo didn't see this coming.

"I think I heard a monster."

"No, Safi; no monsters here."

Then I hear the distinctive 'cockle doodle' that started my morning.

"See Mommy, it's a monster," she exclaimed.

"No Safi - that's a rooster."

"No," she says, looking at me wide-eyed and certain. "I'm pretty sure that was a monster."

I begin to respond and then I catch myself and just accept it - this is going to be a long couple weeks.

The Guinea Diaries - Day 1

It's long overdue, but I've been meaning to transfer my handwritten notes from the infamous Guinea trip over to the blog. So, I begin with Day 1 of the adventure to the country of Ben's birth.
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Day 1 - May 27, 2009

We arrived in Guinea around 2am Thursday morning. As we deboarded the plane, I was struck by how hot it was so early in the morning. It was a sticky, humid kind of hot that I'd more associate with midday. Ben kept instructing me to cover Layla, so the misquitos wouldn't get her. Unfortunately, all our medication and insect repellant was packed in our checked luggage; I didn't think we'd need it so immediately. Ben's cousin Bashir was standing at the bottom of the plane steps in a red Indianapolis Indians T-shirt waiting for us. The Indianapolis Indians T-shirt, a souvenier from his last trip visiting us just a few months prior, was a nice welcome, yet it was odd to see the handful of people waiting at the bottom of the steps as we exited the plane. Apparently, the security guidelines of a post 9-11 world haven't affected Guinea.

Bashir insisted on guiding us through the arrival process to prevent any unnecessary delays. As a travel agent with frequent dealings at the airport, Bashir's official looking badge was repeatedly flashed and apparently recognized by those who simply nodded and let us through. Bashir filled out the paperwork all new arrivals are required to fill out before claiming their bags. I saw others who weren't so graciously escorted stopped and questioned through what appeared to be a simple matter of arrival. There was no official customs line. It all seemed to be a matter of chance, whether you were stopped, asked any questions, or simply permitted to pass through. There was no order, or flow to the arrival process, just lines, several lines all seemingly leading to the same place. I heard both Fulani and French being spoken, but of course understood neither. But Ben, who speaks both languages fluently, seemed as in need of an escort as I was.

When we finally arrived at to the area to claim our bags, there was no question of which baggage carousel was ours - as.there.was.only.ONE!! Guinea's sole international aiport has only one baggage carousel!! We waited and waited and I began to see the number of bags beginning to dwindle. My fears started to mount. Soon, they were no longer fears, it was reality - NO BAGS! Ben and Bashir went to talk to a man behind a counter who carelessly advised that the next Air France flight would arrive in two days - maybe our bags would be on that flight, he said.

Unbelieveable!! I was LIVID! I could not believe that after everything we'd been through on this journey already, still more???!!! I wanted to scream, fight, yell and demand that something be done. But most of all, I was just tired; and so were the girls who were crying more and being soothed less. We had no choice but to just come back in two days.

Defeated, exausted and now bagless, we started back out into the thick night air. We were followed by at least five or six men pushing carts, who, despite our lack of bags, were still hoping to collect some sort of tip. I had Layla wrapped around me in a sling. I stayed close to Ben, who was holding Safiyah, and begged him to try and fill me in on the conversations to ease my fears of the new unknown world around me. He tried to assure me, but honestly, little could.

As we exited the airport parking lot, I saw countless number of sleeping bodies lying under the lights on the bare concrete. I was shocked by what I thought was my first up-close look at the poverty of Guinea. And while I knew it was here, I was still shocked by the image. "Oh my God" I whispered, "that's so sad." Bashir turned to see what my eyes had seen, and to my surprise, he laughed. I was dumbfounded. Does seeing poverty on a daily basis make everyone this callous, I wondered.

"How can you laugh at the homeless?" I asked.

"Noooooo," he said, "those are students."

In a country without consistent electricity, I didn't realize the sheer value of the light amidst the darkness. Then Bashir explained.

"They come here to study. The airport is one of the only places where the lights don't go off."

It was 3am on a hot, sticky, Thursday morning. It stunned me that people could be so thirsty for knowledge and that it could manifest so simply. If only American students could see how desparate others are for the education we take for granted.

I was speechless.

Even now - there are no words.

"Welcome to Guinea" he said.

Just Another Day at the Park

After months of being stuck indoors, stuffed under layers of clothing, I jumped at the first glimpse of warm weather to take the girls to the park. Safiyah was more than excited when I mentioned the idea to her.
"The park - the park" she exclaimed. "I'm goin' to da park!"
She had already started her happy dance.

So, I packed up everything I could ever conceive of needing. I have learned the hard way that nothing is worse than being ready for a great day out, when it's ruined by something simple like forgetting the formula, or the wipes and being forced back home. I made a mental checklist of everything we would need.

Double stroller. Check.
Diaper bag. Check.
Water, snacks, neosporin spray. Check, check and check.

I even crazily packed a magazine, like I'd have time to casually peruse the pages while the girls peacefully played in the grass. Ok, so I'd started to over idealize the day. Needless to say, I felt prepared, which should have been my first warning.

When we arrived at the park, I was initially struck by how packed it was! Apparently I wasn't the only one who had been waiting for the first day of sunshine to bring her kids out - go figure. I pushed the stroller over to a nice spot to unpack, as Safiyah anxiously struggled to break free of the stroller. Safi immediately spotted a friend from daycare and I watched her run and embrace the girl as if they were reuniting after years of forced separation. I strapped Layla in the Baby Bjorn and watched Safiyah happily skip away with her friend toward the swings.

But no sooner than I started to feel like I may have actually gotten this motherhood thing down, I heard the most dreaded five words at a playground.

"Mommy, I hafta peeeeeeeee."

I have waited so long for the day that Safiyah would be potty trained; and I must admit that once she was ready, it happened rather quickly. But in the middle of the park of seemingly twenty thousand children and no indoor plumming, I suddenly wished that Safiyah was wearing a Pull Up instead of panties.

"Are you sure?" I asked, sounding a little too hopeful that this was a false alarm.
But Safiyah instantly started the jumping-up-and-down-holding-herself routine and that was my cue that we better make a bee line for the port-a-potties.

I packed up my nicely assembled stroller/day-at-the-park survival cart and escorted Safiyah to the potties. But as we opened the door, I saw Safiyah's eyes widen as a look of sheer horror crossed her face.

"NOOOOOOOOO!!!!" she began to scream, as if I had secretly brought her there to kill her.
"I caaaan't go on that potty!!!!"

"I know, I know. It's gross" I said, trying to ease the hysteria.
"Don't worry, Safi, I'll hold you over the potty - you don't have to sit down on this potty."

But she was not convinced.
"NOOOOOOOO!!!!!" She wailed again!

I started to pick her up to show her how quickly we could get ithis over with, but in an instant, she stiffened her body like a board and refused to make any movement that remotely resembled a squatting position. It didn't take long to realize this was going nowhere fast.

Defeated, and still full of pee, we exited the death chamber. I watched another woman tackle the same resistence with her son who ran in the opposite direction as soon as the port-a-potty door opened. Call me naive, but I never realized how scary port-a-potties could be to children.

We returned to our park bench and I explained to Safiyah that since she couldn't go to the potty, I had to put a Pull Up on her. (Yes, I had packed those too). She refused.
"Mommy, I don't wear Pull Ups, I-wear-PANTIES!"

I opted out of battle of wills game with a toddler. Plus, I started to realize how strange I may look trying to convince a nearly three-year old to regress to Pull Ups. So, I let it go. And apparently so did Safiyah, who happily resumed play as if she'd never had to use the bathroom at all.

But about a half hour later, Safiyah returned in a panic.
"Mommy, I REALLY hafta peeeeeee."

"Safi, there's only that one bathroom you already went to."
"Do you think you can use it there?"

"NO" she quickly responded.

And then I saw a look in her eye as if a lightbulb had literally just been pulled on in her head.

"Mommy, I can just pee outside!!"
She seemed so pleased to have solved the riddle that had baffled us both. As I processed the idea in my head, she smiled, apparently quite proud her own resourcefulness.

My first instinct was, NO WAY!
And then I weighed my options.

Wet, pee-soaked child - leave the park.
A little pee on the ground - stay and play.

Let's just say, it was a good thing I brought the wipes!

and then there were two

Where has the time gone? I feel like this is how I start every journal entry. I always feel like sooooo much time has passed since I've written last because usually - it has. So, I feel this huge need to fill in all the gaps and spill out all the various changes that have taken place in the days, weeks, months since my last entry.

Well, I'll just keep it simple here because there is literally no way I could catch up. Sufficie it to say, I've birthed another human being since my last entry!! A yummy little girl named LAYLA! Layla is a little over 7 months now (again reiterating how over due this post is). She is absolutely delightful, full of laughter, army crawling, and most of all, trying to keep up with her big sister Safiyah.

Al my worries that my "center-of-the-world" Safiyah would have a hard time adjusting to a world of being "one of two" were completely unnecessary. Safiyah LOVES being a big sister and ADORES her little Layla even more. I have to say that it is the most endearing thing to watch the bond being born between sisters.

As one of four girls myself, I couldn't imagine my world without sisters. Sisters are your built-in best friends, yet at other times your enemies. They are your anchors and in my case, my memory. I have very few childhood memories that are not shared by my sisters. And when I forget the who, what, when or why of a story, my sisters are there to fill in the details that I too often forget. My sisters are the fabric of my childhood and the framework of my life as an adult. I still don't feel like something has truly "happened" until I've shared it with my sisters.

I'm so excited for Safiyah and Layla to discover the beauty that is sisterhood. It is the best gift they'll ever give each other.

What's in a Name?

I was a sociology major in college, so I've always been amazed by the power of culture. Culture has the power to shape your worldview, and color seemingly simple notions of right and wrong.

But I always saw culture as static, something that, once established was fixed. As in, I'm American, that's my culture; my husband Ben is Guinean and that's the culture that dictates his outlook on life. I never thought my cultural views would shift. Through marriage in particular; however, I have seen how bits of Ben's culture have infiltrated my thinking on norms that I never before questioned.

When we got married, Ben and I both understood that cultural differences would always be a "challenge" of our marriage. I first realized the gravity of our cultural differences when Safiyah was born. I quickly learned that nothing brings out cultural differences like the birth of a child.

Safiyah's birth opened the floodgates of unsolicited mothering advice. I quickly learned that to Ben's family, Safiyah was not my child or even Ben and my child; to them, she was their child. Sure, I had birthed her, but she was theirs for the raising. Well, hello - that's a newsflash!

Ben's many "aunties" and female cousins eagerly instructed me on the do's and don'ts of motherhood. It was so overwhelming at times I wondered if they didn't realize that I had a mother of my own that may be able to provide some insight into the rearing of my new baby!

"When are you going to cut her hair?" they'd ask. Shaving a baby's hair is a common among Muslims, but it's often more of a cultural practice than a religious one. Ben and I symbolically clipped a curl from Safiyah's beautiful headfull of baby hair, but we had no plans of shaving our newborn bald. "Well, I'll shave her then", his sister offered. Think again lady!
These people were beginning to test me!

"Don't hold her so much, you need to put her down" they instructed. Or my favorite, "has she had an African bath yet?" An African bath?? And how, might I ask, does that differ from an American bath? I wondered. Well, Tanti Mariam happily demonstrated that the primary difference involves a great deal of shea butter and a lot of splashing of water. Another cousin was extremely relieved to learn that Safiyah had undergone the African bath ritual. Had she not, she advised, "that baby would never truly get clean." Well, thank GOD we took care of THAT, right?!!!

Through it all, I never realized or imagined that some of this culture was "rubbing off". I smile to myself now as I sing Safiyah's favorite song, "Safiyah bo-bo" (which simply means "Safiyah baby" in Fulani). I also desparately asked Ben's cousin Aissatou to teach me the lyrics to the french song she sang to get Safiyah to eat.

And now, with the upcoming birth of our second baby girl, I've realize that many of the concepts that once seemed so foreign to me are now the only customs I have about bringing a baby into the world. My motherhood experience is limited to baby Safiyah, her doting Afridan daddy and his many, many, many helpful, hands-on cousins. And all the nuances that come with it.

In Guinean culture, it's taboo to reveal the baby's name before the baby is born. In keeping with this tradition, we officially named Safiyah at her naming ceremony, seven days after her birth. Although this tradition was completly new to me, I realize now that it has "rubbed off"! I realize that I am now strikingly discomforted by the notion of mentioning the baby's name before she is born!

When we learned that we were having a girl, my doctor asked if we had chosen a name. Now, I have had one picked out, in my head, since we first started thinking of having another baby! But, I was shocked that she'd expect me to utter it. "Uh....no" I quickly responded, hoping she wouldn't press the issue, forcing me to explain my inherited cultural belief.

I was equally disturbed when a pregnant girl at my beauty shop handed out sonogram pictures of her 5 month old fetus, proudly titled with her unborn's name! It seemed so - pardon the pun -premature!

I started to wonder, is this just me? Does calling your unborn child by name seem strange to anyone else? Did it seem weird to me before I had been introduced to this idea of delayed baby naming?

As is the beauty of lifelong friends, who can remind you who you are when you've seemingly forgotten yourself, I consulted with my girl KMH for a glimpse of my former self. She happily informed me THAT I WAS TRIPPIN'!! I never before would have thought anything of mentioning my unborn child's name!

Now, carting around a sonogram picture with her name at the top - that's a different story!

Welcome to Sisterhood Baby

Safiyah is going to be a BIG SISTER!!!

My biggest dream for Safiyah is that she would know the beauty of sisterhood - and now she will!

Let the count down begin....about four more months to go!