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?

GETTING TO ROOM

For the first time in my life I think I had a glimmer of what it must have been like for my grandparents when they left Italy and landed at Ellis Island.  I had listened to their tales as well as read descriptions of immigrants trying to find their way in new lands. 

There we were standing at the water’s edge in Conakry with hundreds of other folks, on New Year’s Eve Day.  Tex had arranged for us to be transported to the Island of Room, where we would ring in the New Year among folks we had yet to meet.  Even with Tex’s expert assistance, I was discombobulated as negotiations took place which I couldn't follow.  The seesaw of starting and stopping, hurry up and wait, left me wondering if we were indeed going to get to Room. 

I couldn't help but wonder if this is what it feels like for folks waiting to board a ship to emigrate to a foreign country or upon arrival feeling completely lost.  Was this brief experience we were having a taste of what my grandparents went through?  Being in a strange land, not speaking the language, nor understanding the customs, and being at the mercy of those who seem to be in charge?   Trying to find the balance of not being taken advantage of while not pissing off the officials?

Much chaos, being shuffled from one spot to another and then back again – this boat that boat yes no wait come -  loud voices getting louder as we failed to respond to words we didn't understand, animated gestures trying to fill in where words had no impact.  The saving grace for us was that we could indeed bale out at any time before getting on the boat. We had charge cards and could walk back to the “European Hotel” where they spoke English and get a room for the night.  My grandparents and many immigrants who come to this country don’t have that option and genuinely are at the mercy of others.

But we wanted to go to the island of Room, a little bit further off the mainland than Kassa.  It was New Year’s Eve and we had paid for a boat ride, a party and a place to sleep for the night.

In the midst of scurrying around, picking up our belongings again and following yet another person out onto the pier,  seeing more gestures and hearing more unknown words, there came a familiar yet out of place sound: in perfect English a voice asked “may I share your boat?”  It wasn't until much later that I came to understand that we had actually paid to charter a boat and therefore could determine who else shared our boat.  This woman, a German ex-pat who had lived on Room for at least a decade was trying to get back to the island and wanted to hitch a ride with us.

More flurry and movement and then we were walking through the garbage strewn water and being hoisted onto a boat. As we pulled away from Conakry the din and confusion gave way to the gentle rhythmic lapping of the water.

Sabine –our German hitchhiker – turned out to be a font of knowledge, and became our tour guide of sorts.   Grateful to have a ride home  she was eager to make it worth our while…..She pointed out sights, explained the off-shore foreign fishing boats and their impact on the local economy, told her personal tale and intervened when our captain, T-boy, tried  to charge us extra for our life jackets.  As we approached Room she explained the different folks who had settled on different parts of the island, and how to get to the village in which she lived, should we want to explore.

Initial relief at landing on the island and finding our way to our lodging blossomed into wonder and delight as we were shown our room and offered dinner.   The earlier confusion at the dock in Conakry faded as the hospitality of the people we met on Room took hold.  And while my grandparents had it a lot harder for a lot longer than I did this New Year’s Eve, I remembered snippets of stories of people who extended themselves to my grandparents as they found their way in America, the kindness of strangers so very welcome.

SEVEN NIGHTS SIX BEDS

Night One Saturday 12/28 –excited, last night before the adventure begins, well fed, bags packed, my bed with Don, cuddled under against the New England winter, nestled in the familiar, just the right pillow, drifting off to the sound of frozen rain hitting the roof and the wind whistling up the street.

Night Two Sunday 12/29 –pre-bed prep in a bathroom I can barely turn around in, took out contacts  but left my glasses in  backpack under the seat in front of mine  - can I make it down the aisle back to seat with uncorrected 20-800 vision? slumped with horseshoe neck pillow and Air France economy seat reclined, hard to get comfy, hard to sleep, play a movie, head phones in, crossing the Atlantic in the dark, baby crying,  reach out to hold Don’s hand as I doze in fits and starts until the sun rises.

Night Three Monday 12/30  -Novotel “a European Hotel in Conakry”, desire to be horizontal overrides any quirks the room might have, had I known it would be the last time I had running water for 2+weeks I would have shaved my legs, money bag plastered to abdomen, electricity goes out temporarily,  tomorrow I can trade my winter coat for shorts and T-shirt,  I must be getting old if one night on an airplane has my body so out of sorts, vague feeling in the back of my head that I SHOULD be taking advantage of this “luxury” and celebrate our safe arrival by jumping Don’s bones, but all I want is sleep, so sleep it is.

Night Four Tues 12/31 -“cottage” on the island of Room, private building, up stone steps among the tropical foliage, putting our sheets on memory foam mattress, patterned contact paper covering the concrete floor,  private bath is a  tiled stall with a trough in the floor to squat over, single bulb light on only for the duration of the generator, romantic and delightful, fall asleep curled up with Don in bliss after a few New Year’s Eve drinks and much socializing with newly made friends, awake to pee, claustrophobia attack in the complete new moon darkness, open door and sit outside amidst night sounds willing dawn to arrive, repeating mantra “this is temporary” each time panic resurfaces until shapes reveal themselves as light finds its way to this piece of the world, back into our little hut, crawl under the mosquito netting and snuggle up to Don.

Night Five Weds 1/1 –  Tex’s** Conakry studio apartment, up 6 flights of stairs with flashlights, 1 medium sized  room for sleeping and living with a tiny kitchen area comprised of non-operating sink, hotplate, and a glass faced vertical rectangle that was a fridge, running water a thing of the distant past,  assist each other in taking “African showers” scooping water over each other, lathering up and rinsing from tubs Tex has paid to have hauled up the 6 flights, shuttered windows bring lovely breezes throughout the night and no mosquitoes,  following a day of wandering around the city with much being closed due to the holiday – bed is welcome,  slept soundly, touched by Tex’s generosity and this moment to experience life in Conakry from the view of the residents.

Night Six Thurs 1/2 – Kalifa arrives, too late to cross to Kassa, back at Tex’s for the night,  3^rd time we have paid to have 4 large duffel bags hauled up the 6 flights, comfort in being in a place we “know”, our sheets back on the bed, open the shutters for a breeze, improved skills in “African Showering”, planned well and brought drinking water up with us – good for taking malaria pills,  emotional exhaustion setting in, weary of treadmill of hurry up and wait, wanting the relaxing part of vacation to begin, fading out to the sounds of the city.

Night Seven Fri 1/3 – huzzah! Kassa at last, drop our belongings, unpack, establish  dirty clothes pile, nest,  our own doorless room and bath which while modern looking has no running water,  so while there is a toilet to sit upon, it’s back to African showers,  Don wipes the plaster dust off the tile floor by candle light, we roll out our sleeping  mats (later replaced by an air mattress),  enjoy absence of mosquitoes and sounds of surf and crickets and the village up on the hill, our space for the next 11 nights!

**Because Tex can converse in English, he was the friend Kalifa designated to pick us up at the airport; although not part of Tex's plan, he graciously became our tour guide/ babysitter until Kalifa arrived 3 days later. For all Tex did for us, he holds a special place in my heart.

FIRST DAY BACK

(Written 1/17/14)

When the need to pee woke me up around 4:30am Thursday morning  I was disoriented for a few minutes trying to figure out where I was. As my foggy brain cleared, and the sense that I was somewhere west of Boston and had to catch a plane lifted, I realized I was in my own bed, wrapped up with Don in very nearly the same position we had fallen asleep in 5+ hours earlier. I was flooded with relief at not having missed the last leg of our journey home; actually being home after 17 days of the unfamiliar, felt sooooo good.

As much as I reveled in the warmth and sunshine of a climate so close to the equator, the humidity imposed limits on intensive cuddling. How delightful to be in my bed, nestled under a comforter against sheets free of sand and construction dust, entangled with a guy with whom I feel even closer to after a roller coaster ride of an adventure.

In just the few hours since arriving home I had already taken much pleasure in what I had previously taken for granted: multi-temperature water coming out of a faucet instead of non-heated water hauled from a well in a bucket and dispensed with the bottom half of a plastic water bottle. The upside of "African Showers" as our host termed them, was an increased intimacy between my partner and myself.  While we have showered and bathed together countless times here in the US, the acts of scooping water over each other and helping to rinse away dust and grime from all the nooks and crannies was a deeper level of interdependence and reverence. I noticed that I barely batted an eye when a faulty desk lamp didn't turn on -after living in the land of sporadic electricity and unreliable generators, a single malfunctioning lamp in a home full of lights didn't register as a problem.

I savored my morning coffee in my favorite ceramic mug and am still not sure if this new brand is THAT good or just a vast improvement over Nescafe crystals in a plastic drinking glass doused with hot water - time will tell!  While the bread baked on the island was delicious and the mornings we had freshly picked coconuts were quite the treat it was wonderful to have a breakfast of my choosing complete with protein.

I later walked to the post office to mail the postcards I was unable to mail in Guinea - the days we were in the city the post office was closed. The irony of carrying post cards across the Atlantic only to mail them from Boston makes me laugh.  En route, I passed the neighborhood pre—school during recess time and smiled thinking "these kids are just like the ones on Kassa - making up their own games, running and squealing, chasing each other around."  While on the island I was fortunate to have some play time each day with the children - drawing pictures, swimming, learning words in their Native Susu.  It wasn't always the same kids, just whomever happened to be wandering by and was curious enough to approach me. I reveled in finding ways to communicate with these youngsters with whom I don't share a common spoken language. Laughter, music and pictures are wonderful bridge builders.

Coming through my living room I tripped on the stack of djembes yet to be unpacked. We went to Guinea with four filled duffle bags and came home with one, the other 3 replaced by 6 drums. We had transported toys and school supplies for the island children. Having distributed those as well as our bedding, towels and most of our clothes, we were able to use our luggage allotment for custom made drums - true works of art! We haven't yet unpacked the drums and I am curious to see what the artist created – after watching us look at the drums in his shop and some brief discussion, he made drums that he felt matched us.  I am looking forward to seeing his interpretation of our energy.

I got teary at the supermarket in the produce aisle for in all our time away we had eaten cooked  green vegetables only once.  I probably bought more than I can eat before they go bad, but as a vegetarian who had felt deprived for 2 1/2 weeks, I was like a kid in a candy store, feeling gratitude for the bounty we have in this country.

This time in Conakry, Guinea, both on the mainland and the island of Kassa, was one of the most challenging trips of my life. I am glad to be back home. While I have tried to be responsive to emails and calls from friends and family, I find myself craving the quiet, still needing to sort through for myself all that I learned. I am surprised to find myself wondering what Alciny our drum teacher is doing - is he still repeating the inside jokes that evolved over our time together? And Nana - the 5 year old who was abandoned by her mother and was taken in by Daniel and his wife - is her anger continuing to result in fist fights with the other girls? I wanted to wrap her up in love while her tears flowed and tell her it wasn't her fault and that she didn't deserve it until she could believe it for herself, but that was my need in the moment - not hers.

Yup - more stories to write but I will close for now.

Background/Introduction

My partner Don Nolin has been taking African drumming lessons -  specifically djembe drums – for several years now.  When Don’s drum teacher took a one year hiatus, he turned over his advanced drum class to his teacher, known in these parts as Mohamed , but in his homeland of Guinea, West Africa as Kalifa.  A member of the faculty at Berklee College in Boston, Kalifa has offered drum and dance workshops in Guinea over winter break for several years.

Seven years ago I spent some time in four countries in the southern part of the African continent. I was enchanted with the people I me  and have been wanting to explore more of Africa ever since.

So when Don tossed out the idea of going to warm tropical Guinea in the middle of a New England winter, and instead of being on a tour, living near a village on an island – well it took a New York minute for me to say YES!!!

We arrived with four large duffel bags, most of  the contents of which were to stay in Guinea – toys and school supplies for the children on the island, and our own summer clothes and personnel belongings that we hoped would be of use to the village inhabitants.  We came home with one duffel bag and six custom made djembes.

I cannot possibly capture all that this trip was – the incredible challenges of being in a place where I don’t speak the language and in a culture is so very different from my own– a combination that requires much more energy than I had anticipated in just getting basic needs met. But then there were the incredibly sweet moments when connections happened with people despite the limitations of spoken language and culture, where we looked at each other and shared the universal languages of laughter, dance, music, and kindness, where we reveled in being human together.

What follows are my attempts to share what the experience of our time in Conakry and on the island of Kassa was for me.  In peace and with gratitude, Lydia