ON BEING AN AMERICAN

This topic could go in oh so many directions as does my mind when I think about it.  Curious to see what I end up with within the confines of a single blog entry.

It wasn’t just that we were the rare vanilla skin in a sea of chocolate and coffee bean.  It was our clothes, our hair - the fact that we have body hair, how we walked, talked and gesticulated.  We weren’t the white Europeans who seemed more prevalent in the human mix, no not us.  They could tell we were Americans at first glance.   

 Money

There is a perception that because we were able to travel so far, we must be “rich.” While by American standards we are far from that, by Guinea standards we most certainly are as 7,000 guinea franks is the equivalent of one American dollar. 

Landing in Conakry after almost 24 hours of traveling, we “allowed” a local to carry our bags out of the airport.  In that moment we had no idea of the economy.  We ended up paying $40 American for our bags to be deposited at the edge of the terminal – I wouldn’t have paid that much in the US.

We bought two manioc fritter like things (think potato pancake) from a street vendor for the equivalent of 15 cents, after watching her peel, grate, heat the oil, and fry them.   Not sure if she had also grown and harvested the manioc or purchased it from someone else. 

Bargaining for fabric and shirts and souvenirs ….. I thought I had gotten decent prices – bargained well, only to find out later that even getting something for less than half the asking price was still a swindle.  The merchants apparently starting their asking outrageously high and were excellent at conveying in minimal English and many gestures that WE were stealing from THEM.

BIG QUESTIONS – philosophically – if we think of the world as one, is it up to us to help others?  To stimulate their economy?  On one hand yes, on another – do I really owe them?  Does this build a bridge or widen the chasm?

Politically

Kalifa told us we should go register at the American embassy so in case there was any trouble they would make sure we got out.   I haven’t traveled a whole lot out of the country, but this is the first time it ever occurred to me to check in at the American embassy.  My previous trip to the African continent was with an American tour group, and they “took care of us.”

Kalifa who was born and raised in Guinea and now has dual citizenship uses his American passport when he travels to Guinea, because being an American has more clout and provides more protection than being a Guinea native in Guinea.  NOT that a country should treat foreigners poorly, but how awful that if he gets harassed by police or army officials, that his protection is to claim he is an American.  Does the rest of the world truly fear the wrath of the US should they bring harm to one of its citizens?  My thoughts are that somehow that should feel comforting, but instead being from a place that invokes that level of fear feels horrible.  How does one connect on a deep level with people who are afraid of what they think you represent?                                                                 

                                                    

 

Socially

On the island the children often called out foti (foe – T) as we walked by.  Kalifa explained it was the equivalent of saying “hi white people” or “hi people who are not my color/race/from here”.  The same would be used for someone who is Asian. It wasn’t a racial slur – not at all the “honkey” equivalent, but used in the way a child might say “hey teacher” if s/he didn’t know the teacher’s name.  It was actually a friendly greeting. 

We practiced the appropriate response: fore (for –RAY).  The “hello black people” greeting emitted giggling, rolling on the ground and another chorus of foti.  It became a game of sorts, a way to acknowledge each other when our share of common words was so limited.

Perhaps this is why they die so young

Kalifa had told us that most of his siblings had died and that each year when he returns to Guinea at least one of his friends is no longer alive.  He even said that he would take us to the best drum maker – unless he had died since Kalifa’s last trip home.

This place we visited seemed a place of opposites or maybe discordant things is a better choice of words.  While there I learned in bits and pieces about the things that I believe contribute to shortened lifespan.

Our first time crossing the water, we waded through the surf to mount the boat. I later realized that the bathrooms in the Obama café, our touchstone in Conakry, emptied directly into the surf.  Never again did I walk through the water which also had rusted metal objects embedded in the floor, though for the folks who lived there it was routine to do so.

Although marveling at the way women and young children carried loads on their heads, it does make we wonder that if despite correct posture, etc., the cumulative effects over time are compressed vertebrae.  Does sleeping on the ground or on a mat as thin as a towel on concrete or tile ebb away at one’s skeleton and cause degeneration of bones?

We drank bottled water, but the water we bathed in came from uncovered wells with openings at ground level allowing easy access for dirt, garbage – whatever happened to be rolling by.  As such I decided not to shave my legs while there, thinking that if I nicked myself I was opening myself to  being vulnerable for disease.  But the folks who lived there drank the well water…. Are they immune to the contaminants or is it a role of the dice?

When we were giving out toys Kalifa pointed out some kids with distended bellies and he commented that they have parasites.  Not sure if that was treatable or contagious I kept my distance.  It was such a challenge for me to not be welcoming of small children who grabbed my legs or wanted to snuggle up on my lap.  Not knowing if runny noses and eyes were “common” colds or something more serious, something that my immune system was not prepared for, I stayed at arm’s length.  The children who did make their way onto my lap seemed fine, but who’s to know? 

The food, cooked outdoors over a wok shaped item filled with charcoal, simmered for hours and  our guess was that was an effort to kill any harmful organisms that may have been present in the unrefrigerated meats and fish.  I stuck to rice and veggies – deliciously flavored I might add.  There were times when Don said the meal’s protein tasted suspect and he found ways to avoid eating it.

I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that in a place where people travel by car and have smart phones that they don’t have safe drinking water, their average life expectancy is 55 years and there is the very real expectation that if you haven't seen someone in awhile they might be dead.

As I write this - in August 2014 – over 1500 people have died from Ebola in 4 West African countries  including Guinea, and there are an additional 3000 reported infected people. The first case was reported shortly after we returned to the United States.

NANA

She approached me that first day on the island, at a time when many were wandering through Kalifa’s house, their curiosity about this mansion on an island where most of the homes where concrete blocks with corrugated metal roofs.   Initially I wondered if she was mute or just incredibly shy. Her smile and forthrightness in walking into my room seemed to negate the shy theory.  Some days later observing her interactions with the other children, I let go of the mute theory as well.

Sitting on my air mattress, I looked up to see a beautiful little girl, hair in a million braids with colorful plastic clips of animals and figures swaying and bobbing as she moved about.  She kept her eyes on me as she began to cross the threshold.  I put my hand up to stop her and indicated she should wipe her feet.  She did so and smiled showing gaps of missing baby teeth.

My efforts to find out her name – the same gestures and words that had worked with the other kids, did not yield the desired results.  She kept her eyes on me, but no matter how many times I pointed to myself and said “Lydia” and then pointed to her – she remained silent. Then I tried writing my name.  I handed her the pen; she copied my name.

Several days later Kalifa found out that her name is Nana.  I was enchanted, and would encourage her to come over when I saw her wandering through the yard. There was something so endearing about her, and something that happened when our eyes met, although as the days wore on, she seemed not as interested in me. Perhaps the curiosity had worn off, perhaps the language limits seemed too much.

The first time I saw her fighting I thought it was just normal kid stuff.  Feeling a bit biased about her and in love with her smile, I was sure it was the other kid’s fault.  By the third fight I witnessed in a place where fights were few, I was really starting to wonder what was going on.  Had she somehow become the kid everyone picks on? Or was she the instigator?  It always seemed to end with her sobbing, not a few tears, but a heart wrenching sound that carried the weight of world with it.

I later discovered that Nana was one of three children whom Daniel and his wife “adopted” – in addition to having their own.  Nana’s biological mom was one of many who had fled Senegal during civil unrest, and upon returning to her home country left her child (ren) behind.  Whether an act of love or frustration or both or neither, I do not know.  Was that the source of the guardedness I had detected, the source of Nana’s pain –having been abandoned?

The last full day we were on Kassa, I heard the sounds of children tussling and turned to see that a girl a year or so older than Nana had her in a head lock and was pulling Nana’s hair at the roots. Amazed at how strong those little fingers were, it took longer than anticipated for me to pry them loose. The other girl walked away and Nana fell to the ground in hysterics.  She didn’t seem physically injured but her pain ran so deeply. 

At a loss for how to comfort her, comfort myself, I am trusting that the many adults on the island who are kind to her will support her until Nana can find her way to peace within herself.

KALIFYA'S MOM

“She says you must get married before you leave Guinea,” Kalifa translated from his mom’s SuSu words with a teasing glint in his eyes. We grinned and probably even nodded as the thought of arguing with this woman who had outlived the 56 year life expectancy of Guinea women by decades seemed somehow irreverent. Kalifa later explained that when a couple looks happy together the common belief is they should get married right away – why wait?

Although very frail of frame, I would not have thought Kalifa’s mom to be 90.  She moved with ease and flexibility, her skin wearing minimal wrinkles, and her hearing, sight, and wits all quite sharp. About a year ago Kalifa paid for her to move from the mountain village in which he grew up to his sister’s house in Conakry so she could receive medical care.  He sends his sister $100 each month to pay for his mom’s medication.  When he sent the money directly to his mom, she spent the money on her grandkids – just what my grandma used to do! When I asked what ailments his mom suffered from, Kalifa replied, “You know, old people’s stuff.”

The trek to meet her was another window into the lives of people in Conakry. Tex was at the wheel, Kalifa riding shotgun, Don and I in the back seat. We turned off the highway and entered into what felt like an urban village.  Street vendors, small businesses intermingled with residences, hordes of people walking and in groups, chickens and goats.  The pavement gave way to rutted dirt as we continued winding through the maze of roadways.  

Kalifa had told his mom some friends from the US would be visiting and they would bring her things that he was sending along – a boombox so she could play Kalifa’s CDs, a blanket and a towel – things she needed but didn’t have access to.  He told her he wasn’t able to come this year.

So when we arrived at Kalifa’s sister’s house, having walked the last piece as our combined weight would have sunk the car in the hole ridden road, we were greeted with shrieks of glee from Kalifa’s niece. Her 14 year old energy was contagious and we joined her in hugs and laughter and jumping up and down.

She pulled us inside her two room home for another round of shrieking, laughing and jumping with Kalifa’s sister and nephew.  As Kalifya turned towards his mom tears were added to the mix. Kalifa and his sister are the two remaining siblings of the seven his mother bore. Kalifa told us that each year when he returns at least one more friend has passed.

  

We sat on comfy overstuffed sofas and chairs surrounded by painted walls adorned with an occasional photo of a family member tacked up near the ceiling. Every once in awhile Kalifa or Tex would turn to us to interpret a question or comment from the group, or to ask about our comfort: should the fabric remnant covering the window be left up to keep out the heat, or moved to allow the breeze through?

I didn’t mind that I didn’t understand much of the conversation as being able to witness the delight of this reunited family was sufficient reason to enjoy the time spent.  And it was entertaining to see Kalifa’s reaction to his mom’s comments that were so typical – comments that no one other than a mom has license to make, and though I didn’t know what the words meant, I sure knew what the looks meant!

There is something about the joy of a mother unexpectedly seeing her child after a long separation that transcends time and place and culture and there are no words to describe it – no translation needed.

I ALMOST DANCED FOR THE PRESIDENT OF GUINEA

Alright, “almost” is a bit of a stretch.

Well maybe a big stretch. 

But there was a moment or six when I thought (translation “FEARED”) that Alciny was serious.  In all honesty maybe he was serious when he pointed to Don and said “You play” and did the drumming motion with his hands, and turned to me and said “You dance” and did the hippy shaky thing we had come to use to convey “dance.”

It was a big day on the island of Kassa as President Alpha Conde was coming for some sort of official acknowledgement that there was to be a commercial ferry from Conakry to Kassa, replacing the current independently run wooden boats where 40-50 people sat shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip on wooden slats to make the 25 minute trip. 

In the midst of our morning drum lesson, the response to the sound of a helicopter approaching was reminiscent of the 1978-1984 TV series “Fantasy Island”. For a moment everything stopped. Then as if on cue people turned and started heading toward the boat docks – much like Tattoo pronouncing “It’s the plane” and people appearing out of nowhere to greet the visitors.  As we traipsed up the hill and through the village the mass of folks grew, gathering uniformed school children excited to be let out early and adults dressed in their finest.  At the sound of the helicopter the urgency in getting to the dock was palpable overriding any thought of grabbing a camera or bottle of water. After all, we didn’t want to be late for the President.
  

Once there we met with ordered disorder.  The President did not appear to have arrived. Canopies had been erected over rows of plastic patio chairs.  A separate area was home to a living room couch and matching chairs set in a U-shape complete with a flower adorned coffee table.  Armed soldiers strolled around herding children into undefined corrals.  Crowds of folks were shifted from one side to the other.  During this time Alciny reiterated the drum/dance proclamations and while Don seemed excited at the prospect I was hoping he was kidding. My attempts at African dancing were gleefully encouraged by Don, and met with smiles and encouragement from the Kassa natives, but I had no illusions about what I looked like – middle aged not so athletic white woman in army green shorts and a T-shirt trying to keep time with drum rhythms that were being played at ¼ their normal speed. Not feeling like presidential material to me.

Fortunately – for me and I trust the other few hundred that had gathered – with all the hurry up and wait and shifting of people as different needs pulled us in different directions, we became separated from Alciny.  The day grew hotter, the crowds shifted, waves of anticipation ebbing and flowing.  The recorded dance club techno music gave way to sound of islanders playing drums. Perhaps this meant the President had arrived? Uh, no not yet.

We craned our heads and saw that Alciny was among the drummers and that two island women dressed in beautiful West African dresses were dancing up a storm.  The crowd was re-energized and I was mesmerized – how did their bodies do such full movements so quickly and in sync with each other?  How did their headwraps stay on? Their dance had been practiced for decades, something they could do on autopilot, yet there was nothing mechanical about the passion their bodies expressed.  I was enchanted.  The crowd shifted and I lost my view, but could feel their energy as the sounds of the drums still made their way into me.

Eventually the President showed up making me think that some things are universal – high profile folks not able to stick to schedules and a bunch of OTHER folks doing introductory comments further delaying what everyone had been waiting for.  What did surprise me was the seemingly little security, very unlike here in the US.  And there was the added nice touch of the Presidential staff/aids handing out bottled water to the crowd – not something I have witnessed here at home.

So though I didn't understand a word that was said by any of the officials, I did understand the dance and the drums and the excitement of the President’s visit and in my imagination I, too danced.

THE BOAT LEAVES WHEN THE BOAT IS FULL

My first clue that getting to and from the Island of Kassa from the mainland of Guinea was going to be REALLY different than taking the ferry from Staten Island to Manhattan, was Kalifa informing us a week before the trip that we needed to bring our own life jackets.  I didn't quite comprehend “you have to have a life jacket or you can’t get on the boat, but you can’t buy one there.”   I still can’t provide an explanation of why this is so nor where the folks who live there get their life jackets, but after crossing the channel a few times, it certainly is so.  And fortunately a friend here in the US who owns a boat lent us some to take with us.

As Kalifa talked about negotiating the price for the ferry ride, my vision of a dock, ticket booth and turnstiles faded rapidly although there wasn't anything to replace the vision, just curiosity.

Our first experience of crossing, which was to the island of Room for a New Year’s Eve party gave me a glimpse of what it must have been like for my ancestors trying to catch a boat to come to American.  Our subsequent experiences had more of a rhythm to them, for they were during “routine” traffic times and not part of the chaotic holiday partying.

The components of getting on the boat usually included:

Purchasing a ticket – someone else always did this for us, someone who was a native of Guinea, so we could get a fair rate.  Sometimes we were handed something that constituted a ticket – a plastic covered orange square, a white strip with handwritten scrawls.   Other times, when one of the boat crew balanced precariously on the edge of the boat climbing amongst the bodies to collect payment, simply stating we had already paid seemed sufficient.

Printing our names on the boat log – this was done on the dock, with purpose being that if we drowned en route they would be able to identify us. The log was often a page in a spiral bound notebook held by a man who was “somewhere” in the dock area; we’d wander around until we found him. He might be sitting on a folding chair in the shade or hanging out at a table with a food vendor.

Navigating how to get ON the boat - it was different each time, depending on the level of the tide and how close the boat we were boarding was to the dock. Methods for getting on the boat included walking through the surf, being carried piggyback by a slight built man whose size belied his strength, climbing over other boats that were between the dock and the one on which we would be traveling, walking down slick concrete steps while holding onto a rope, and I do believe once we simply stepped off the dock onto the boat we were to ride in.

For a country in which the only PDAs I witnessed were the ones between my partner and I, there was a tremendous amount of physical contact involved in taking the ferry: arms reaching out to help folks get on and off the boats which ranged from the offering of a hand to passing babies and small children to pushing folks up from underneath to scale the concrete walls at the dock on Kassa.

Assisting each other was done without a second thought and was very friendly.  Perhaps it had to do with the fact that the boat doesn't leave until it is full, so all passengers had a vested interest in filling the boat if they did indeed want to get to the other side. There were no complicated schedules like “the ferry runs every half hour on the quarter hour during peak use and once an hour during off-peak times” – nope nothing of the sort.

As the independent owner/operators wanted to get the most out of each trip, the word “cozy” doesn't begin to describe the seating arrangements across the rows of wooden slats connecting starboard and port walls of the boat. Time and again, I was certain there was not an inch to spare and lo and behold 3 more people would be summoned aboard. 

The structure of the boats meant that seats were often muddy from folks walking across them – experienced travelers brought a plastic bag to sit on – and because many of the boats had broken floor boards it wasn't unusual for someone to start bailing about halfway across. People seemed to take this all in stride, a routine part of the journey.  Panicking over the possibility that the boat was sinking seemed as strange a concept as using a clock to decide when the boat should leave. 

Yup – it is pretty damn simple – the boat leaves when the boat is full.

MARIA WANTS A NEW DRESS

It seemed everywhere I looked in Conakry I saw women dressed in a way that evoked in me “I want that dress.”  The bright colors, the boldness of patterns, the celebration of curves – yes those were dresses that I wanted. 

Most were long sleeved and all to the ground and while form fitting, the women appeared to move without constraint. The cotton batiks allowed for sun protection and breathe-ability.  Most were two pieces, a simple slip-over top with a boat neck, the hem overlapping the skirt with no midriff showing, and a skirt accentuating the hips yet full enough to straddle a basket of oranges waiting to be peeled. There was another more complex design: the bodice having several vertical seams and a back zipper creating a perfectly form fitting silhouette; sometimes the sleeves long and narrow, other time more bell shaped just reaching the triceps; necklines ranged from the base of the throat  to a hint a cleavage.  These skirts took yards of fabric as the seemingly intricate folds around the waist cascaded regally to the ground. 

And as elegant as they were they were also amazingly functional.  These women had babies tied to their backs and incredible loads balanced on their heads.  They climbed in and out of boats with ease.  They squatted, they bent, they cooked, they sold wares. Some dresses had trim or lace adornments, some looked more festive while others quite simple, and I wanted every one of them. 

Headwraps were frequent and spanned a range of looks: a variety of folding techniques, heights and silhouettes; wraps of fabric that were extensions of the dress fabric and others that contrasted.  What they   had in common is that while they looked casually construed I didn't see a single one fall off – not when heavy loads were placed upon or removed from head tops, not when dancing enthusiastically, not when bending and stooping.   The mystery of the gravity defying head wraps is not something I solved – the mystery remains!

As I imagined Maria (the name I was repeatedly called as Guinea natives struggled to find Lydia on their tongues) in any of the dresses that caught my eye, I began to notice that I stood a little straighter, head held high, and that while imagining myself in this beautiful garb I felt more confident.  It dawned on me that while the dresses were attractive, what I was really attracted to was the way the women carried themselves and that was what I desired.  More than just a posture embedded from years of practice in balancing wares on their heads, being able to bend over with a flat back & straight knees to touch the ground, and squat with heels flat on the ground (a move I have been seeking to perfect in yoga classes), these women exuded ease with their bodies, a comfort and self- acceptance that I craved. It was not arrogance nor superiority, simply an ease with self that did not seem to take away from anyone else, an ease with what is rather than what is missing. 

That’s what I  want - the ease! Can I get if from wearing their clothes?  Will donning their garb imbue me with that spirit?  Will wearing one of these dresses remind me of how these women stand and carry themselves and encourage me to do the same – being content with what is?  

I have brought home some of the fabric - the fabric of joy and contentment, the fabric that is bold, yet not offensive, the fabric that makes a statement without denigrating others.  Will I find the right dress pattern, one that cherishes my body rather than trying to re-contour it to accent what this society says a woman should be?  Or will I allow whatever I create to be perfect as is, to allow myself to be perfect as is?