My Best Day in Guinea

They say the first three months at your village are the worst months of your Peace Corps service. I'm only a month past that mark, but things have taken a turn for the better. Overall, school is going well, I've repeatedly seen evidence of the Guinean hospitality I'd heard of, and overall, I've become much more resilient.

The day started out normally. I woke up and went to school, ready to teach my two classes. As usual, many students were late, and tried to enter my classroom anyway. At one point, the Director of Education walked in, students in tow, and asked me to let them into class. He explained that they come from far away, and so I reluctantly let them in, giving the typical speech that late comers are distractions to the class. After school, I headed home, glad it was finally the weekend. Not five minutes later, a huge fight broke out next door between a husband and a wife. While this is a pretty normal occurrence, I knew I couldn't unwind with the sounds of screaming and beatings in the background. So, in the midst of the chaos, I was able to slip out, with my bike, unnoticed. Not an easy feat as the only white person within miles. I had no goal, and no time to be back. I think that's how the best days always start.

I headed down one of the many dirt roads around here, choosing one that I rarely take. In about half an hour, I had passed into unknown territory. I passed over a pretty sad excuse for a bridge that looming over a dried up riverbed, and the occasional hut with wide-eyed, toothless, old ladies who would beam when I greeted them in Susu. At one point, I saw a sign in Arabic with “3k” painted underneath it and figured, why not? I was soon walking my bike up a pretty mean hill and a very bad road. The “road” kept going up and up and soon I had a great view of the surrounding area. Where was my camera when I needed it? Before too long, I had returned to the “main road” where I continued my journey. After a little while, I heard the sound of a group of people on bikes. It turned out to be three of my ninth graders, the same ninth graders who had showed up late for school earlier. Now I understood why. They had to make this trip everyday and considering the fact that it's dark until 7, I am amazed they are able to make it in by 8:15. Even though I was about to turn around and head back, I decided to continue with my students and visit their village. While they claimed it was far away, we arrived in about 15 minutes. Now I'm not exactly sure how this next part happened, but I agreed to rest before heading back. One of my students sat me in a plastic chair and that's when what seemed like every person in the village came to stare at me. As usual, the kids were first to the scene, eyes bulging, and a little scared. Next came the old men who greeted me a little too enthusiastically, and then sat with me. Finally, all the women came over to greet me. Surprisingly, most of them attempted to greet me in French, not Susu. “Ca ba?” They would say. “Ca ba bien?”

A while later, the student who had sat me down suddenly reappeared with his mother who was holding a little plate with vibrantly colored pink kola nuts and a 5000 franc bill. I nu seni, welcome, she declared, and after the gift was approved by the elders, she placed it on my lap. Kola nuts. I had heard lots about them. They are the traditional gift for marriages, funerals, and any other important occasion. I had eaten them before, so I knew how nasty the taste was, but I had never been given them in a setting like this. I awkwardly asked my students if I was supposed to eat them here, under the watchful eye of every villager. They said “yes”, so I took a big ole crunch out the bitter, dirty, “nut”. As I'm trying to get down an entire one, I was presented with 4 little white eggs which they placed upon the plate. Not 5 minutes had gone by when they brought yet another gift. A sack of about 20 oranges. I was so taken aback. I was speechless and overwhelmed by the gesture. I won't lie, I even teared up a little. I also wanted to know how I would bike back with this burden. I couldn't worry about that for too long, because another gift was on the way. Papaya! Only one papaya, but it looked amazing and turned out to be the best I'd ever had. After this, the flow of gifts finally stopped. As I continued to sit there, the elders talked among themselves and the women returned to their chores. Before too long, I got a marriage proposal by a man who later asked me to think of him as a father. So father or husband? Maybe he was just trying to fill what he perceived as needs on my part. I didn't want to be rude, but after an hour of just sitting there, I stood up and announced my need to leave. I said farewell to everyone and headed towards my bike. Before I could make it there, they sat me down in the chair again asking me to wait until my “escort” was ready. Since my bike doesn't have a rack, they sent along a student, whose bike did have a bike rack. As they were attaching all of my gifts, they brought out a final one. They dumped what was about 1.5 kilos of peanuts into the sack with the oranges and the papaya. What could I say but thank you? It wasn't enough, but it was all I had at the moment. The kids escorted me out of the village where I was finally given my bike and allowed to head home. I was blissfully content on the ride home. The view was gorgeous, the ride refreshing, and the promise of a great two years hung in the air.

Now, a week later, the gifts are gone (minus the peanuts). The original oranges eaten, have been replaced with new oranges given to me by my students. In fact, just the other day, a student stopped by the house to give me not one, not two, but TEN oranges. Again, I had nothing to say but managed to gasp thank you. These gestures, and they mean so much here, show a more generous and giving culture than I'd encountered in my first six months here. It's the Guinea I'd heard about since arriving here last July.