If you're a teacher, you know how awful the Sunday night feeling is when you're going back after vacation. It isn't that we're not happy to be back to teaching, but there's just something about Sunday night that gives nightmares once you actually fall asleep. That feeling still exists here for me, although tomorrow I'll be traveling back to my village and not teaching again until Tuesday. I'm excited to be heading back to the village and get back into the swing of things. I was nervous about what was going to happen to Guinea, how the citizens would react to all of the change. Things are peaceful and Peace Corps feels that it is perfectly safe for us to continue in our work here.
I have two new stories here for you - one about weddings and one that I wrote after a day of travel. I now have a camera so hopefully next time, some photos of life in the village.
Happy New Year!
1.04.2009
December 22, 2008 - Two Weddings, One Sunday
Yesterday was a good indication of the difference between the upper class and the "village class" here in Guinea. Our village as been a flurry of excitement over the past few days getting ready for two weddings; the family in my compound had many family members come in from Conakry; the village population seemed to double overnight when the taxis came in Friday night.
The wedding on Sunday morning was one a celebration of one of the girls of the village next door. She is 15. Halimatou and I went around noon to this wedding. I wasn't exactly sure what was going to happen; when we were sitting in the home of the bride with thirty or so other village women, I was very confused by the parade of young girls that all entered the house crying hysterically. I immediately think I've misunderstood the type of event we were attending. The crying girls included the bride, her sister, and her friends. The women then start crying too. I inquire about these tears and learn that crying at these weddings is typical - the bride is young, she probably doesn't know the groom, and she now has to leave her family. She's scared, and everyone knows how she feels. From what I understand, the tears from this bride and the ladies also were in mourning because the bride's mother had recently passed away.
After the crying had died down, the bride came out with her face covered in a simple white garment. Under an umbrella of 100 bills (the equivalent of about 2 cents) she was escorted by her aunts and girlfriends to another part of the village where her girlfriends (who are my 7th graders - apparently the girl who was getting married did not continue school this year because she was to be married) sang songs and danced in a circle, reminding me of a high school dance back home. They laughed and tried to out-do each other's moves. While they were dancing, the bride was changing into an indigo skirt (indigo is the fabric made in my region of Guinea) and a lil' Bow Wow tshirt. There was still no sign of the groom. Supposedly he was back at the house and all of this activity was just part of the tradition on the wedding day; there wasn't going to be any sort of ceremony. The bride in her new outfit took photos with the elementary school teachers; not one photo had a smile from the bride. Everyone then processed back to the house where I guess they ate more (we had eaten quite a bit of rice and sauce before the crying started.)
When I left the wedding, people were still there eating and talking like a wedding I know at home, but the couple was never seen together, no ceremony. It was not much of a celebration; I'm still not sure if I missed something. Halimatou told me that this was how weddings in the village were.
The second wedding was the wedding people had come to the village for. The groom was a man about my age that I had met during the Fete de Tabaski. He currently lives in Amsterdam where he is finishing his master's degree. He is the son of the president of the parent's association in my village. The first time I had met him, he was dressed in very European-styled clothes, he talked about travels in Europe. His wedding was originally supposed to be at my house because my house is beautiful for weddings; I guess there have been others there. But at the last minute, they moved it because there were going to be too many people. I arrived at the ceremony which was conducted by one of the officials from my neighboring village. It wasn't a Muslim ceremony (I'm still trying to figure out if there is a Muslim element to any of this) but was a Guinean ceremony. The bride and groom were seated at a table with a book that they, along with a few family members, signed to make the marriage official. He was dressed in beautiful traditional African robes that were white and he wore a white hat; she was dressed in a western-style white wedding gown with white gloves and a veil. She looked like she was in her twenties. They both looked happy and excited.
After the signing ceremony there was a reception with dancing and lots of food. Everyone seemed to be having a great time; the school turned into a dance party that I heard went until 4 am. One of the traditions I found myself in the middle of was the eating rice and milk under a veil with the groom and 8 other ladies. We were all waiting for him (I had no idea what we were waiting for) in the house, sitting around a calabash of rice. His grandma was there sitting in the circle with us, holding a bowl of milk. When the groom ran in, the grandma said something to him in Pular, gave him a sip of the bowl, poured the rest on the rice, and me and the ladies shoved money in his pocket before diving into the milk and rice. The grandma threw the veil over all of us as we ate. The ladies giggled and were so excited about being part of it all. Although this wedding was in my village, it was not a true village wedding. Here was a Guinean man who born in the village but educated outside of it in the cities of Guinea because his family had the means to send him there. Now he is taking his bride to Amsterdam. It is really amazing how different the same event, on the same day, could be.
The wedding on Sunday morning was one a celebration of one of the girls of the village next door. She is 15. Halimatou and I went around noon to this wedding. I wasn't exactly sure what was going to happen; when we were sitting in the home of the bride with thirty or so other village women, I was very confused by the parade of young girls that all entered the house crying hysterically. I immediately think I've misunderstood the type of event we were attending. The crying girls included the bride, her sister, and her friends. The women then start crying too. I inquire about these tears and learn that crying at these weddings is typical - the bride is young, she probably doesn't know the groom, and she now has to leave her family. She's scared, and everyone knows how she feels. From what I understand, the tears from this bride and the ladies also were in mourning because the bride's mother had recently passed away.
After the crying had died down, the bride came out with her face covered in a simple white garment. Under an umbrella of 100 bills (the equivalent of about 2 cents) she was escorted by her aunts and girlfriends to another part of the village where her girlfriends (who are my 7th graders - apparently the girl who was getting married did not continue school this year because she was to be married) sang songs and danced in a circle, reminding me of a high school dance back home. They laughed and tried to out-do each other's moves. While they were dancing, the bride was changing into an indigo skirt (indigo is the fabric made in my region of Guinea) and a lil' Bow Wow tshirt. There was still no sign of the groom. Supposedly he was back at the house and all of this activity was just part of the tradition on the wedding day; there wasn't going to be any sort of ceremony. The bride in her new outfit took photos with the elementary school teachers; not one photo had a smile from the bride. Everyone then processed back to the house where I guess they ate more (we had eaten quite a bit of rice and sauce before the crying started.)
When I left the wedding, people were still there eating and talking like a wedding I know at home, but the couple was never seen together, no ceremony. It was not much of a celebration; I'm still not sure if I missed something. Halimatou told me that this was how weddings in the village were.
The second wedding was the wedding people had come to the village for. The groom was a man about my age that I had met during the Fete de Tabaski. He currently lives in Amsterdam where he is finishing his master's degree. He is the son of the president of the parent's association in my village. The first time I had met him, he was dressed in very European-styled clothes, he talked about travels in Europe. His wedding was originally supposed to be at my house because my house is beautiful for weddings; I guess there have been others there. But at the last minute, they moved it because there were going to be too many people. I arrived at the ceremony which was conducted by one of the officials from my neighboring village. It wasn't a Muslim ceremony (I'm still trying to figure out if there is a Muslim element to any of this) but was a Guinean ceremony. The bride and groom were seated at a table with a book that they, along with a few family members, signed to make the marriage official. He was dressed in beautiful traditional African robes that were white and he wore a white hat; she was dressed in a western-style white wedding gown with white gloves and a veil. She looked like she was in her twenties. They both looked happy and excited.
After the signing ceremony there was a reception with dancing and lots of food. Everyone seemed to be having a great time; the school turned into a dance party that I heard went until 4 am. One of the traditions I found myself in the middle of was the eating rice and milk under a veil with the groom and 8 other ladies. We were all waiting for him (I had no idea what we were waiting for) in the house, sitting around a calabash of rice. His grandma was there sitting in the circle with us, holding a bowl of milk. When the groom ran in, the grandma said something to him in Pular, gave him a sip of the bowl, poured the rest on the rice, and me and the ladies shoved money in his pocket before diving into the milk and rice. The grandma threw the veil over all of us as we ate. The ladies giggled and were so excited about being part of it all. Although this wedding was in my village, it was not a true village wedding. Here was a Guinean man who born in the village but educated outside of it in the cities of Guinea because his family had the means to send him there. Now he is taking his bride to Amsterdam. It is really amazing how different the same event, on the same day, could be.
December 13, 2008 - A Taxi Tale
I was in Labe for the past couple of days - I went to retrieve my camera I had left at Thanksgiving. When I got to Peace Corps, my camera wasn't there, causing disappointment because I had big plans for taking photos in my village to post in Paris when I will be online. One photo that I would have shot came unexpectedly in my travels from Labe back to my village on Friday night.
To get from Labe to my village, I take a taxi about 3 hours from Labe to Mamou. Mamou is a city that is filled with travelers - it is the gateway to other parts of Guinea. There are three large taxi stands, and you have to know which stand has taxis going to your destination. One of the stands is for taxis going to small villages - the taxi that goes to my village isn't even at that stand - its on a small sidestreet. And he's only there on Fridays, sometimes on Mondays. This is also the spot to find the car that goes to my neighboring village. When I got there on Friday afternoon, hanging around the cars were all sorts of familiar faces - one of the teachers from my school, all the people I had met last time I was waiting for a taxi including the Sierra Leonian who was talked Barak Obama with me last time I was in Mamou. In the span of the five hours I spent waiting for the cab to fill up, anyone who lives in my village or the neighboring one and was in Mamou that day stopped by the sidestreet to see who was there, who was going back to the village, who had bought what that day, where everyone had been and who they saw. I was in a big transit city but the sidestreet felt very small town.
Right before we were leaving, the bread guy who balances the tray of bread on his head and sings stopped by, and all of the passengers of my taxi bought a minimum of four loaves to take back to the village. The ridiculous amount of bread in the taxi became source of jokes throughout the next 4 hours of the ride among the 13 passengers. I was in a taxi with 4 adults in the backseat and one child on a lap (note - this taxi is the size of a civic.) The front consisted of a driver seat and a passenger seat (no middle "seat") but somehow 4 people plus a baby all fit on those two seats. The woman who shard the drivers seat was pregnant. And there were 3 people on the roof with all of the luggage. The kid in charge of tying down all the luggage had just done it for a second time after a woman neglected to point out her luggage, so when there were now 8 bags of 4 baguettes, he refused to untie all the luggage and put them on the roof. He strapped them to the top of the trunk. We packed in the car which I am estimating to be about 40 years old. I swear it is the oldest car in Guinea. I am amazed that it makes it up the mountain on the rocky, dirt road.
About five minutes into our drive, the road out of Mamou has a roadside stop that hopes to lure in those headed back to the villages. I figured there was no way we were stopping - we had just sat around for hours surrounded by this stuff - and starting the car each time was a process I figured the driver likes to keep to a minimum (it involves a serious push start.) But we did stop, and what did everyone start buying? More bread. The principal of the neighbouring village started it in all seriousness, and the ladies in the back began laughing hysterically that he was honestly buying more bread. They joined in after sitting for a few minutes, I mean, why not? The crew was in push start position when he then asked about the price of the sugar. We had been sitting next door to a sugar stand all day.
It was about 5:30 when we really got moving - by 6:00 we were off the main road and headed towards the villages. At 7:00, the car stopped and everyone headed to a tree that had a space cleared out under it for the Guinean rest-stop, evening prayer. Here, by 7:00, the sun has just set, and tonight, the full moon was rising over the mountains. It was large and beautiful African orange. This is the scene I wish I could have captured with my missing camera - I was on the side of the road next to the "vintage" car with the dozens of bread tied to the trunk, headed down a road headed toward the moon with nothing on either side but the tall grasses and the hills. The sky with dusk colors just hanging on while the moon took to the skies, and under a mango tree were seven men and three women facing northeast offering up the last prayer of the day. This is Guinea.
To get from Labe to my village, I take a taxi about 3 hours from Labe to Mamou. Mamou is a city that is filled with travelers - it is the gateway to other parts of Guinea. There are three large taxi stands, and you have to know which stand has taxis going to your destination. One of the stands is for taxis going to small villages - the taxi that goes to my village isn't even at that stand - its on a small sidestreet. And he's only there on Fridays, sometimes on Mondays. This is also the spot to find the car that goes to my neighboring village. When I got there on Friday afternoon, hanging around the cars were all sorts of familiar faces - one of the teachers from my school, all the people I had met last time I was waiting for a taxi including the Sierra Leonian who was talked Barak Obama with me last time I was in Mamou. In the span of the five hours I spent waiting for the cab to fill up, anyone who lives in my village or the neighboring one and was in Mamou that day stopped by the sidestreet to see who was there, who was going back to the village, who had bought what that day, where everyone had been and who they saw. I was in a big transit city but the sidestreet felt very small town.
Right before we were leaving, the bread guy who balances the tray of bread on his head and sings stopped by, and all of the passengers of my taxi bought a minimum of four loaves to take back to the village. The ridiculous amount of bread in the taxi became source of jokes throughout the next 4 hours of the ride among the 13 passengers. I was in a taxi with 4 adults in the backseat and one child on a lap (note - this taxi is the size of a civic.) The front consisted of a driver seat and a passenger seat (no middle "seat") but somehow 4 people plus a baby all fit on those two seats. The woman who shard the drivers seat was pregnant. And there were 3 people on the roof with all of the luggage. The kid in charge of tying down all the luggage had just done it for a second time after a woman neglected to point out her luggage, so when there were now 8 bags of 4 baguettes, he refused to untie all the luggage and put them on the roof. He strapped them to the top of the trunk. We packed in the car which I am estimating to be about 40 years old. I swear it is the oldest car in Guinea. I am amazed that it makes it up the mountain on the rocky, dirt road.
About five minutes into our drive, the road out of Mamou has a roadside stop that hopes to lure in those headed back to the villages. I figured there was no way we were stopping - we had just sat around for hours surrounded by this stuff - and starting the car each time was a process I figured the driver likes to keep to a minimum (it involves a serious push start.) But we did stop, and what did everyone start buying? More bread. The principal of the neighbouring village started it in all seriousness, and the ladies in the back began laughing hysterically that he was honestly buying more bread. They joined in after sitting for a few minutes, I mean, why not? The crew was in push start position when he then asked about the price of the sugar. We had been sitting next door to a sugar stand all day.
It was about 5:30 when we really got moving - by 6:00 we were off the main road and headed towards the villages. At 7:00, the car stopped and everyone headed to a tree that had a space cleared out under it for the Guinean rest-stop, evening prayer. Here, by 7:00, the sun has just set, and tonight, the full moon was rising over the mountains. It was large and beautiful African orange. This is the scene I wish I could have captured with my missing camera - I was on the side of the road next to the "vintage" car with the dozens of bread tied to the trunk, headed down a road headed toward the moon with nothing on either side but the tall grasses and the hills. The sky with dusk colors just hanging on while the moon took to the skies, and under a mango tree were seven men and three women facing northeast offering up the last prayer of the day. This is Guinea.
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