'Til Death Do Us Part

Somewhere on the unofficial “are you a good volunteer” checklist, is the question, do you attend cultural events in your community? Here in Guinea, that mostly means weddings and funerals, and I was lucky enough to go to both within a week of each other. I realize this is not the first time I'm writing about both a sad and a happy event as if they were the same thing. I've noticed that I leave each of these events feeling pretty much the same: emotionally exhausted, frustrated, mortified, etc. I could continue, but you get the idea.

Last month, I spent a week worrying that one of my students had died. After attending a funeral next door, I ran into one of my female students, who in tears, said a word I never caught, then one of my student's name, and then “is dead.” I thought back to what people had been talking about during the funeral and realized they had used the word xarandi (student) quite frequently. So, I was left feeling horrible about myself because I had been at one of my students funeral and didn't even know it. But that unknown word kept haunting me...it could've been anything, including brother or sister. A few days later, I was outside in the dark, and someone greeted me. I could've sworn it was the student in question, but it was dark, so I wasn't sure, which made it even worse. Finally, about a week later, he walked by my house and I sighed in relief. He was very much alive, and I still had all my students. A similar event occurred this past week. My principal had gathered all the students and was lecturing them about how they need to stop riding on the tops of semi-trucks, because of how dangerous it is. He then proceeded to mention that several students had died in an accident the night before. Horrified, I scanned the ranks to see who was missing. It was only later that he told me it wasn't anyone from our school and I was able to once again sigh in relief. I'm terrified of the day when that won't be an option, and when I do end up losing a student.

This brings me to the wedding. I was coming home from a run, and found a crowd of people at my neighbors and DJ's setting up speakers. I went over and asked what was going on. A marriage, they told me, pointing to the bride who was getting her hair done. She didn't look very happy. She looked young and terrified, and I couldn't blame her. Girls here are normally married between the ages of 15 and 18 to men who are much older and who may already have 1, 2, or 3 wives. Several hours later, the music started up, and people old and young flocked to it. Even though it was around 10 PM, I ventured out of my house and picked a nice spot in the shadows, away from the speakers and the light. I wasn't permitted to stay there long, but instead was moved next-to the speakers, which were loud enough to cause a pounding headache and the illusion that my ears were bleeding. I refused to stay there, and so they moved me about 5ft from the speaker, right in front of the DJ. It took him all of about a second to notice me and then it was what I had dreaded. “Look here everyone! Look at the FOTÉ. FOTÉ come dance with me.” To which I shook my head and vehemently refused to move. This little exchange went on for about 5 minutes before one of my neighbors grabbed my arm telling me I had to do it , and that I was being an embarrassment to the community. So I got up, and “danced” in front of hundreds of people who were all cheering and whistling at me. As mortifying as this was, it wasn't however the worst part of the night. People then came up around me and started putting money into my hands which I then had to place on a platter in front of the soon-to-be couple. Only after this was I allowed to sit down. Once I was back in my seat, the DJ began calling up all the other rich people who were present. Little did I know, they do this at every wedding. They call up the “patrons” and then it becomes a contest of who gives the most money to the bride and groom. Honestly, the scene brought to mind the part of the Ten Commandments movie when they are worshipping the golden calf. They were doing the same thing to the money given by the rich people. And here I was, the obviously rich because of my skin color, a stingy grinch who didn't give my money away to complete strangers.

Here in Guinea, I'm asked, every day, why I'm here but don't give people my money. I've stopped explaining that I'm here as a volunteer, because most of them could care less that I'm here to help their children. Instead they demand that I buy them dinner and get offended and angry when I tell them that I can't. I guess a lifetime of receiving handouts from aid grants and other sources has conditioned them to expect white people to throw money at them. This fact has made me more than a few enemies in my village, and the wedding only made it worse. At this point, I had to either leave or cry in front of my entire village, and so I left by faking a phone call, and proceeded to lock myself in my house. I then decided that I never want to attend a wedding again. This decision was reenforced by the blaring music that kept me up until 4 am and the mocking that ensued the following day. I never thought I'd say that I would rather go to a funeral than a wedding, but then again, this country has made me say and do a lot of things I never thought I would.