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.