In Thin Air

Like A Rolling Stone, Thursday 11th June 2009

2009-06-11T15:21:00.000-07:00

I’m leaving in the morning for Conakry, and flying to Paris on Sunday. Tomorrow I might take the bird, but there’s a chance I get to ride the Ho Chi Minh trail to the airstrip in Bayla. The last two weeks flew by so quickly. I’m beginning to reflect on the two months I’ve spent here but I figure that once I’m gone I’ll have plenty of time to think of all those things.

Pressed with time, I took on several tasks during the past two weeks. I pushed on with my four classes, every morning at 8am until noon from Monday to Saturday. I continued lecturing at the girls ‘Internat’ to prepare them for the BAC on Mondays and Wednesdays. I wrote the compositions for the 10th and 11th graders, helped them prepare, and supervised on the day of exams. After receiving the funds, we bought wood from Kankan and started renovating the ceiling and repainting the walls of the library. I spent an afternoon at the Kerouane hospital visiting the decrepit facilities to evaluate a possible NGO partnership to provide them with additional equipment and supplies. I watched Federer beat Soderling and Obama deliver the strongest speeches I’ve heard both in Cairo and on the shores of Omaha beach on June 6th: “You, the veterans of that landing, are why we still remember what happened on D-Day. You’re why we keep coming back. For you remind us that, in the end, human destiny is not determined by forces beyond our control. You remind us that our future is not shaped by mere chance or circumstance. Our history has always been the sum total of the choices made and the actions taken by each individual, man and woman. It has always been up to us.” It is the decisions we make and the actions we take in the face of coincidences and situations that we encounter during our lives that define who we are and how we live.

Inshallah, Wednesday 27th May 2009

2009-06-05T06:06:00.000-07:00

Work began on the library the day after my return from Conakry and within a week we tore down the rotting ceiling, fixed all of the shelves and woodwork, brushed down the walls and floors, and cemented the cracks in the ceiling. The Librarian told me that he prayed to God that we would continue helping them. The funds were allocated to the project within 24 hours of its commencement. The effectiveness of working with a multi-national allowed for rapid deployment of resources, and immediate action to be taken on the ground using subcontractors like cement workers, carpenters, etc... The hardest task was motivating students and the administration to volunteer to help rebuild their own library. They all ask for books, and especially for me to photocopy documents, but in the end, few of them really care about being part of the solution. I called for volunteers at the flagpole one morning, with over five-hundred students present, only two showed up to help. Drawn by curiosity, some kids from primary school who were walking by helped me scrub down the entire library. The same happened at the base: all the employees had asked me for English classes, and when they began, thirty five signed up, 6 attended the first class, and now on average I have four employees taking classes twice a week.

It’s hard to understand why the people here aren’t motivated to make changes or improvements in their community. Talking with the youth, it becomes apparent that they want things to be different. But they often say that they simply don’t know how to go about implementing change. But there is always an excuse. Are people discouraged by the appearance of a vastly more modern constituent in their community? Or are they too reliant on tradition? When you ask them why they don’t add broomsticks to their brooms, they say it is because of tradition and that it’s easier without. People simply don’t believe they can be responsible for bringing about change. They live thinking that it is not up to them to make a difference. Often things can only be solved by divine intervention, or by the presence of an outside motivator, such as our company. Consequently we become the miracle and have trouble handing over responsibility to the locals.

According to their traditions, society and religion, the woman are responsible for the household, and the husband in providing for his family. According to Islam, each man may have up to four wives and over a dozen children. These children in return, may provide benefits to the family in the long term. Using traditional methods, a woman has to spend an entire day accomplishing the basic tasks of washing dishes, preparing food, cleaning clothes, fetching water, and taking care of the children. Prior to the development of technologies that accelerated each of these processes, women in our own society use to be trapped often because of the same responsibilities. Modernization and outsourcing has allowed women to dedicate their time to other things like creating businesses and pursuing higher education. Because in Kerouane women’s work is so demanding, they often don’t have time to go to school, and their daughters are kept at home to assist in the daily tasks of grounding rice, sweeping, cooking, and cleaning. The girls’ volleyball team represents a huge shift in their culture and traditions, but the players struggle to balance the sport and their personal lives. Students, both boys and girls struggle to do their homework and keep up with classes because of their important obligations at home. Although tradition is important in maintaining an identity, technology has allowed new opportunities to flourish within a family. To understand the difficulties of motivating a community, one has to recognize the religious and traditional roots of many of the setbacks that restrain progress from thriving within a society.

Dr. No, Sunday 24th May 2009

2009-06-04T15:18:00.000-07:00

Riding shotgun was as much of a shock as flying back over Conakry. With barely any glass or tall structures in the city, there isn’t even a glimmer of hope shining at the horizon. Amazing to still see people in the capital living in such rudimentary conditions. Enough time in rural Guinea, and you begin to appreciate the things that we take for granted, like three meals a day, running water, showers and toilets. Essentially Kerouane is a victim of the corruption and negligence that trickles down from the big cities. Back home we're overwhelmed with such excess that we forget how developed we’ve actually become. We’ve gone beyond anything imaginable here. When I attached an ipod to a cassette player the other day, a local friend of mine in Kerouane said under his breath "aah, le blanc..."

First the noise hits you, then an airport shuttle picks you up for a twenty meter drop off. Once you walk through the military checkpoint and customs, two kids in uniform sitting on stools at the front door of the airport, you already think of the mismanagement and waste that corrupts the system. My brother’s driver arrived, and I jumped in and we began swerving down the highway like in BA. You can only close your eyes if you don’t want to see the carts full of garbage being poured over the boardwalk and pilled onto the beaches like seaweed. On one side of the boardwalk, a fire is burning in a lot, melting away some compost, plastic, rubber and other pieces of trash. Beside it is the skeleton of a swing set, and an abandoned playground, and just further along in the trees, some kids are playing football.

On Saturday, my brother, his friends and I, escaped to Ile de L’Os, apparently the islands that inspired Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island. Palm trees, cabanas, white sand, beautiful rocks and perfect waves, once the launching point for the slave triangle, it was now a little paradise. After a few weeks in the bush, it was the Bahamas, and all I could think about was the island of Dr. No, and Ursula Andress singing ‘Under the Mango Tree’ by Monty Norman. We ate freshly cooked fish in palm leaf huts by the ocean, laid down by the water and bodysurfed the waves until nightfall. We hopped on the boat back to Conakry, rolling through oil spills as we got closer to the bay. You could see the wake turn brown and the smell polluted the air. The scenery between the islands and the port was littered with ship wrecks, wooden fishing boats and oil tankers. Trash floats around like devil ducks in a bathtub. The supertankers would slowly creep past the local fishing boats, in the same way our land cruisers would fly by the cattle plows in Kerouane. Despite the presence of UNCEF, NGO’s and all these foreign multi-national companies in West Africa, there’s still a stark contrast between the old and new. Technology is simply inexistent, unobtainable, or unaffordable. They still haven’t invented the broomstick, so they use straw bundled together to sweep the ground. Either people don’t want to explore new methods because they are satisfied with the way things are, or they’re simply so far behind that it will take another hundred years for them to make a step forward.

The hardest part of coming back from Kerouane was handling the social scene in Conakry. I have to say I was impressed by the grungy night clubs, despite their local prostitutes grabbing you every which way and white expats running around intoxicated like “there’s no place like home.” There were Russians, Lebanese, French, Americans, British, South Africans, Rhodesians, etc… a whole clan of expats living and working in Africa. Some for the pleasure, some the adventure, others for the moral value and the greater cause, but most are here for the money. Working as an expat usually increases your base pay by fifty percent. So you don’t necessarily meet people that wanted to be here, but rather who were obliged to because they were assigned to the region for a few extra bucks. All I can remember is hearing them wishing for a MacDonalds and saying how they had enough and wanted out. Despite the few who were motivated by what they were doing, it’s generally a pretty rough group, and not necessarily the best diplomats for their country. After such an experience with the community work up-country, it was a real shock being back in the capital, and jumping between the social lines of money and customs.

One kid I met was working for the UN on a project that provided aid to refugees in Africa by using their expertise to offer them asylum abroad. They sift through refugees that come out of conflict zones, like Sierra Leone up until 2002. The idea is to find specific talent, like doctors, engineers, electricians, and other technicians that could successfully be integrated into a workforce in countries like Australia, the US, and Canada. I believe he said that Australia is actually the hardest place to get into because of their strict health policies. I was rather surprised because my immediate reaction was to ask why they weren’t reintegrated into their own country, or into other countries in Africa. If they export all of the talent, then who will be left in Africa to redevelop conflict zones and help improve the future of this continent? His answer was that the people wanted to leave, and feared going back to the countries they had left behind. Of course if I was from Sierra Leone, and one third of the country fled, while 200,000 had been killed back home, I would rather go anywhere else in the world. But then how do we rebuild schools, help educate the thousands of child soldiers left behind after the civil war, how do you rebuild when the qualified laborers aren’t there anymore? Exporting specialists limits development in Africa and reduces the effectiveness of reconstruction.

The weekend allowed me to revaluate the significance of my effort, and there are a few things that I have taken out of my experience in Guinea so far. You learn quite a bit about people, and human beings tend to be able to do great things. Never underestimate their capacity for good or evil. I learned quite a bit about perspective, patience, and the precious gift that is time. When you see the way people live and treat each other in comparison to where you come from, you tend to develop a sense of what does and does not matter. You develop a more patient outlook on the nuances of life. “It could always be worse,” (Donovan Campbell, Joker One). I learned from my experience and from Campbell that failure is an inevitable part of life. It happens whether you want it to or not. School tends to award for a lack of failure, but life isn’t always so refined. Through college my father taught me to learn from my mistakes rather than ponder over my losses. The question isn’t whether or not you will fail, but how you will overcome. How do you respond to failure? You can persevere through motivation and dedication, but most importantly you can get back up and put one foot in front of the other. Finally, in leadership, I have learned that it is about what you do and not what you say.

Riding Shotgun, Friday 22nd May, 2009

2009-06-03T14:16:00.000-07:00

Eight hours in the land cruiser and two on the plane. The time it took me to travel from Kerouane to Conakry and back, crossing all of Guinea. The company jet flew me three quarters of the way across the country, but the first 120 clicks to the airstrip are by Land Cruiser through mud and jungle between Kerouane and Bayla. A second time on Monday, I couldn’t have thought of a better way to see the country than speeding through swamps in a four by four and waving to the kids as we raced by little villages on our way back from the airfield.

There’s only one chance to catch the flight from Bayla, so the driver had to be swift and focused because of the wretched roads that connect the two towns. I had to wake up at 4:30 in the morning, pack my bag, grab a bite to eat, and had the time to listen to the morning azan. I strapped in and we set off at 5. “Three passengers on board, including the driver.” We pulled out from the base, waved to the guards, and headed out into the pitch dark. It’s a strange feeling moving around a town and only being able to see what is in front of your headlights. We accelerated and would have to suddenly break before the exit of Kerouane because some sheep or goats were stretched out on the road. Some kids were roaming around, the roosters hadn’t yet begun to crow, and the sun was still hiding over the mountains to the east. I couldn’t read a book because of the swinging motion of the car, nor could I put on my headset because of the roaring sound of the engine as we began picking up speed racing south. Soon after, the other passenger put on the only CD we had in the car, 15 tracks of 90’s techno that will constantly repeat over and over in my head as it did for the next four hours on the road that morning. He said: “we’ve played this one a hundred times.” Shaking our heads to the beat, we were looking for Charlie, accelerating across rice paddies, between palm trees, high grass, and ruthless terrain as lightning began illuminating the sky to the west.

As the sun began rising over 'Mont Tibet' to our left, I realized there was a shovel lying down across the floor in the back of the car. I thought, “safety first”, well done, we have an extra fuel tank on the roof, two spare tires, as well as enough communication gear to call in an airstrike from the Middle East. I lean up front, ask the driver and the other passenger how bad the roads were up ahead, and explained how I thought we were so well equipped for any sort of situation that we even brought a shovel in the backseat. “A shovel?” The passenger turned around, a veteran of the 120K drive, totally confused. So I leaned down, felt the side closest to my feet, and as I started to wrap my hands around the bag it was tucked in, I said: “There’s a shotgun in the backseat.” He answers: “Oh, that’s a twelve gage, I love to hunt, didn’t know the driver put it there.” No problem. I just found out I was rolling through West Africa, aka Apocalypse Now, with a 12g shotgun between my legs. Lekker. Next thing I know, I hear “stop the car,” passenger jumps out, opens my side door, pulls out the 12g from the case, squeezes two shells into the barrels, locked and loaded, he spotted two partridges ahead, walks ten meters in front of the car, and unleashes two canister shots of triple A ammo, the largest of its kind, usually for big game. The safari lasted for another hour as we adopted this shock and awe approach in handling the local partridge. (Pictures are withheld, and I’ll deny everything.)

We made it to the airstrip in Bayla on time, and already I could hardly wait to do it all over again.

The Dreamers, Thursday 21st May, 2009

2009-05-30T14:54:00.000-07:00

The Bac Blanc's began at the Lycee on Wednesday and the administration was hurrying to write subjects at the teacher meeting we had on Tuesday. On the morning of the mock exams, the teachers were still hastening to come up with their subjects. At first the English teachers didn’t want me to write the exams, but at the same time they were absent at the meeting, and showed up the next day at 10 without a subject for the students who were meant to take the exam that day. The Director talked a great deal about preparation and showing up on time, but unfortunately his words often wash out with the rain and nothing gets done. Classes are meant to start at 8 am everyday, and despite his lectures, no one is ever ready. They gather the students around the flagpole at 8:05, they raise the Guinean flag around 8:10 to the sound of a somber national anthem, and then at 8:15 the Director makes a heroic speech about standing around mango trees instead of being in class, and by 8:25 or 8:30 classes generally begin. In the urgency of giving the Terminale students an exam, they simply distributed last years BAC.

Since I was leaving for Conakry on Friday morning, I wanted to meet with the ex-English teachers to get to know what sort of exam they were thinking of preparing for the 12eme, or 11th grade. To pass, they have to write a composition on the 8th June. As I expected, the teachers agreed on handing me the torch, and letting me write the exam since I was leading the classes. Not surprising after what I saw at the Bac Blanc. So I'm actually rather excited since I have been teaching these students for the past month or so, and we've made incredible headway. Most of them had little English knowledge whatsoever and have improved immensely since we’ve started. Others still struggle but I’ve noticed that my youngest class, the 11eme have been highly motivated, and the Terminale highly talented. The program in Guinea has only been reintroduced this year, and 11eme is the first grade in high school in which the students can begin learning English. They only started in March, but they almost surpass the kids in the grade above. Most of the Terminale students will pass their BAC, and I’m hoping all of the 12eme will succeed in writing their composition. If I gave the same exam to the 11eme, they would probably do just as well. I remember they were the first class I taught, and they were applauding and shouting with joy when I first arrived.

The students who are usually the most fluent in English either come from more prosperous families, or have relatives that live in neighboring Anglo countries in Africa. Usually it’s a brother that made it to university either in Kankan or Conakry, the two main cities in Guinea. Once they have their university degree, they try and find work abroad where they can make more money to support their families back home. In Africa if you begin to make a healthy living for yourself, families expect every penny to trickle down. The importance of sharing is nothing like we know it, and it is very hard for a member of the family to become wealthy even if he has a far superior job. “If you have money, then why don’t you help us?” Of course all of us believe in supporting and helping our families in times of need, but it is rare to systematically distribute your earnings across your entire extended family. Because of their religion, a Guinean son who is earning new wealth in England for example, will have to support his seven brothers and three sisters living back home, as well as his father and two to four wives. And of course the son will have to cover his own expenses and family. Nevertheless the advantage of having a brother, sister or relative abroad is that it gives the rest of the family hope. Hope to one day follow in his footsteps, travel, earn more money, and head into the unknown. Therefore they realize that learning English can enable them to accomplish their dream, and thus they are motivated in class and enthusiastic about the material.

Two of my strongest students in 12eme and 11eme each have their own story of family wealth and community involvement that act as driving forces in propelling them to the head of their class. Since our first lectures, N’Faly and Bashir have stuck out from the others. N’Faly, 19, I found out is a community representative for the school that speaks with our company on a regular basis to update them on developments, sentiments, and movements going on with the youth in Kerouane. Bashir’s father on the other hand is in the diamond business, his sister lives in Mali, and brother works in Nigeria. He excels in class and on the basketball court, he's 18 years old. He goes by the nickname “Jay-z.” N’Faly is one of the few kids in town that is actively partaking in community projects, while Bashir is simply motivated by the widened perspective he received of the world from traveling and learning by example from his siblings. Both realized the necessity for English and the advantage it would give them in their future. Often the youngest kids are trying the hardest, somthing which is hard to distinghuish in some classes where the students range from 13 to 26 years old. N'Faly and Bashir are some of the few that don’t expect things to be handed to them, but rather actively partake in shaping their own destiny.

In an effort to promote student involvement, responsibility, and motivation, I’ve recently focused my attention on creating student groups to get kids involved with their establishment and their future. Two of my students volunteered to assist in the creation of a Library Club at the Lycee. At the beginning of the year when I asked the Director if he had any course books, he brought me into a decrepit house, eaten away by termites, bats, bees, spiders and dust. Some of the books had been chewed in half. The place was a mess, all of the windows were closed and as the Director handed me a course book, I quickly walked out. Recently I went over to Linko’s house for tea, one of my volunteers nicknamed after the village he is from, and he put two or three books in front of me like trophies. One in particular was on American Imperialism, so I tried to joke around and explain to him that it was Communist propaganda. He had no clue what I was talking about. If the students have no library how are they suppose to learn anything? They have no schoolbooks, no paper, just old notebooks that are often passed on by their brothers and sisters. They'll never know about the Civil Rights Movement in the United States, of Martin Luther King, Mohammed Ali, or even of Nelson Mandela and the ANC. They'll never learn the motivation and perseverance it took to end apartheid or to fight 'The Thrilla in Manila,' let alone inspire others and bring change to the community. The objective is to create an access for children to the schools abandoned library. It should be filled with students, but today it's littered with rotten books, broken chairs and tables, crooked shelves, and dirt. I have to teach the kids to mobilize and form responsible and cohesive student groups that reflect the improvements that can be made in the community.

Linko and I sat side by side on Wednesday and outlined a plan to form the Library Club. Once we rehabilitate the place, the most challenging thing will be to make it sustainable. The student’s organization will be essential in guaranteeing that the library does not return to its previous state. The importance is always to lead by example, but to teach them how to take responsibility on their own, sometimes for the benefit of the community.

At the end of the day Linko and I left the tree trunk we were sitting on by the checker players in town, and after a few games of foosball, he accompanied me back towards the base. I always have a grin on my face when I walk by those checker players, because each one of them works at the Department of Education right next door. Obviously at three in the afternoon they have better things to do, like play checkers. And then something surprised me even more, just as we walked by the local cell phone charging booth that runs on a generator, and after our long conversation planning the objectives and purpose of the Library Club, Linko turns towards me and says "Si vous allez a Conakry, achetez moi un phone, s'il vous plait, tout mes amis ont des phone." Essentially he wanted me to buy him a cell phone in Conakry because all of his friends had one. A Guinean will do anything to buy a car and a cell phone before he can even feed his family. I was shocked, but I smiled, touched him on the shoulder, and said that it was best if money never got between us since we were friends. Despite the hurdles, it’s crucial that we build trustworthy relationships with the youth, but it is inevitable that it will take time and patience. After all, “Rome was not built in one day.”

Before we went separate ways, we stopped at the local radio and paid them to diffuse the English revision schedule. Since the school told all the students to come at different times, I finally realized we had to take things into our own hands.

Catch-22, Tuesday 19th May 2009

2009-05-27T15:19:00.000-07:00

Sunday I got another taste of the corruption and calamities dealing with the administration in Kerouane. My plan was to head out in the afternoon and go for a swim at the waterfalls near the foot of the Simandou Mountains, about 45 minutes away by car. I went there once before with my bro, and kids usually go every Sunday. I was going to take one of the vehicles, with a driver and invite a few of my students and kids I've met around town to come along. That day it took about two and a half hours before we finally got there. The kids added the usual 45minutes to an hour to show up, they had no gasoline in their motorcycles, no water, and no food even though I told them we would be having lunch out there. After buying a liter of gas for each bike, I took them to the market and got them some avocadoes, bread and peanuts. Meanwhile, after a few coffees with some locals and my driver, my body was pumping caffeine and sugar. I was ready to roll. We hit the switch on the radio, and called in to HQ to give them our position and destination before we were going to head off. A few seconds later, a scrambled voice asked us to immediately return to base. At this point I'm irritated, we're nearly outside of town, so I grabbed the radio and asked for them to give me a reason. More scramble, the driver tells me we have to head back. After racing back to the main gate, I let him jump out and see what was going on. Apparently they wanted us to stop by the Director’s house of something or other to get his authorization. We get back in the car, and it's just past 12. We stop by his house to pick up an authorization, but he assures us it's no problem, and 'Inshallah' have a nice day. We mount up again, make the call on the radio that we were pulling out of Kerouane for the falls, and a after a brief pause, radio control calls in saying "negative, it's illegal," and the Prefet, or military appointee administered to the village, “banned any foreigners from going up there.” At this point the sugar wore off, and the caffeine was kicking in. I'm sweating and dizzy from driving in circles. After a few trips back and forth, we return to the Director's house who, quietly put down the dictionary he was reading since we had left, and now tells us it's illegal. Despite our request for a written authorization, he insists on calling up the guard who watches over the water plant a few kilometers from the falls. Coincidently he was in town. Finally in Malinke, he tells my driver that we have to compensate this guard for his displacement because he's going to escort us all the way to the falls. I was grinding my teeth when I learned this half way there from my driver. I’m not sure where things went wrong, whether it was over the radio, at the Director’s house, or the ridiculous claim that the falls were illegal to foreigners. It’s a typical example of the procedures in dealing with different levels of bureaucracy in Kerouane. At the end of the day, TIA, we eventually made it to the falls, and I threw myself in the water hoping I could cleanse myself of the whole affair. The few pictures resume the fun and laughs we had sitting underneath the cascade, oblivious to the corruption, problems and dishonesty we left behind.

I got away from town when Victor, one of the geologists at the base, asked me if I wanted to hitch a ride on the ‘Squirrel,’ our helicopter heading to the drilling sites up on the mountain range. It was Monday, and what a great way to start the week flying around West Africa at 200 kilometers per hour through the mountains in a chopper. The Rhodesian pilot, Julius, made it memorable, or “lekker,” “cool” in Afrikaans. We took off from the helipad in Kerouane in an upwards spiral and accelerated across the plains and over the tree tops to the waterfalls on the other side of the valley. The same place I went with my bro and had so many problems getting to the day before. And there I was in less than a few minutes from the time we took off, looking at the water plunge a few hundred feet into the reservoir. We hovered at the bottom of the falls, just enough time to snap a few shots of the landscape, and then accelerated upwards over the hill and across the mountains. We were racing at about 20 meters from the treetops until we reached the drill site.

The reason things here will only transform with the investment of a foreign development team working hand in hand with the people is essentially because the ruling party is inept at implementing any change. It is essential to lead by example so honest men can follow in our stead. The presence of our toys, our cars and helicopters have certainly impacted the local population, and if drilling does in fact commence once the mining concession is recovered, allot more action is going to be taking place on the ground and in the air. The effort to mobilize the youth is important because they are the leaders of tomorrow, and in Guinea, the force of today. The improvements we have made in the community are vastly done unilaterally, employing local work forces and using the dictatorial powers of the Prefet because the system in place is incompetent in making quick decisions and being honest and efficient. Everyone will try to pocket a little something, and those who strive to help the people end up being neglected or stifled, giving them little passion or incentive. It is essential to respect the elders and put ourselves at their disposition, but also maintain our initiative to accelerate projects that are continuing to help the people in this region. Many new technologies are being introduced here as a population is pushed into the twenty-first century. The idea is to earn their support while motivating them and preparing them for the future, whether it is by teaching at the school, encouraging sports and youth activities, to developing and improving infrastructure and public facilities. In order for us to succeed, a fine balance has to be drawn between each group in order to have their respect, yet it is important to always be pushing forward to avoid getting tangled in their web of setbacks and catch-22’s.

Outside The Wire, Saturday 16th May 2009

2009-05-26T15:35:00.000-07:00

The first crack of lightning blew the power sockets, and the second shut down the electricity on the whole compound, followed by the smell of burnt plastic...The thunder rolled over and the lightning struck us right on our heads and hit the cable box in the office next-door. Can't even imagine what would happen if you got struck by lightning. Apparently total disintegration! I had class this morning, teaching roughly sixty students present continuous and prepositions in English. The rain had dried up, but I was a little unstable this morning because of another rough nights sleep in Kerouane. Coming from the loudspeakers of the nearby Mosque, I hear "Allah Akbar" over and over recited with verses from the Koran at four then five in the morning, some roosters trying to add their two cents, and then the kitchen crew laughing hysterically and catching up on their life stories in Malinke at six. Together with the whistle blowing from the feeble flag raising ceremony at seven, you begin to understand why everyone goes to bed at nine.

Yesterday was quite different form the other days. For the first time I was invited to go over to a kids house to have tea, 'pour prendre le the', and I accepted. In the first few days I arrived, kids had asked me why I didn't hang around more often, come by their houses for tea, and that it's hard to see me apart from when I'm at school and on the basketball court. I've realized that I've built a stronger bond between my students and the other players than I had thought and that they really enjoy having me around, both as a friend, and because with our community work here, we've been able to trigger their curiosity. Also, I quickly realized when I first got here, that sometimes I spent too much time within the confinement of the space station, and not enough time outside the wire. I usually get dropped off at school via landing pod, since while adhering to my style I'm preparing the class up until the last minute. Then I would use my radio to call in for extraction. For the first few days in town, it seemed like a safe way to move around and for me to get to point A and point B without any trouble. Once I got to know the back alleys, I started to venture out by foot to explore the market, to get to the basketball court, and to adventure through the rice paddies to find trouble and build a relationship with the locals. Almost every kid now calls me by my first name.

Everyday now I set out on a little adventure to meet new people and try and practice my Malinke. The other day I packed for a little expedition through the back alleys of Kerouane. After only fifteen minutes, I was invited to sit down with some young men drinking tea, and in the next half hour, with a caffeine buzz and a new guide Doris, I set out for an exploration through the rice paddies on the outskirts of Kerouane. They drink a sweet green tea, a similar version to a Moroccan tea, except they sometimes add peanuts to it, something they produce in excess throughout the region. They make 'tia' or peanut butter in the markets that they sell in little plastic bags. Organic, fresh, excellent. Doris Barry, my guide, was one of the few I’ve encountered who speeks Malinke, Susu, French and a little English, so he also became my translator. Surprising for a little boy from Kerouane, I quickly learned that he grew up in Conakry before moving to 'Haute-Guinee'. We spent an hour or so, maybe more, walking through the rice paddies, the 'cages' and houses that outline Kerouane. We sat underneath the mango trees and I took some great pictures of the locals who were more than happy to hear me say a few words in their local dialect as we walked past their yards. “I ni soma, inike, tama tele?” or “Good morning, hello, how are you?” in Malinke. Women would put their hands up to their eyes, as if they were looking through binoculars, and I realized they were asking me to take their picture. Soon I had a troop of little kids, boys and girls running after me, screaming 'babouni'... impossible to blend in!

When I joined one of my students for tea, it quickly turned into a four hour conversation with kids from my other classes gathering around as well. I was expecting questions about the US, and how it was the land of opportunity, and sure enough, many of them wanted to know what it was like, and if white women liked black men there. Talking about girls was more of a touchy subject than I thought. When I asked who was the best at chatting up girls, they resisted at first, but I soon learned that they all had more than one girlfriend. And when you ask them where they all are, they answer that “they’re at home", always, either at home, making food, cleaning the house, or doing some other manual labor while the men sit around and drink tea, doing nothing but talk talk talk, or sleep. Today I organized the second ‘match amical,’ College vs. Lycee, basketball game. I thought that I could leave some space to allow them to take some initiative and test their team captains, but everything sort of fell apart. Even though they are all close friends, they will easily trigger one another into a rage that disallows any sort of reason. They will still fight over water bottles, many of them won’t share, even though the captain is put in charge of distributing it among the players. They can’t make teams, trust each other, or follow the rules that the trainers set up in order for them to progress. Only with better leadership will they learn any sort of discipline.

The inability of the team leaders, or captains, makes the team structure incoherent and nonexistent. But despite their inability to work as team, they progress consistently as individual players. With time, and the right training, we can motivate them to trust each other, believe in each other, and especially be confident of their talent and believe in themselves. They are capable of so much, and have such a vast playground, that I hope we can at least teach the youth the power that is in their hands.

Veni Vidi Vici, Monday 11th May 2009

2009-05-21T09:43:00.000-07:00

The rainy season has officially begun in Guinea. This means sunny days with one to two hours of torrential rain in the evening. It began with a hail storm the other day and hammering rain last night. I'm hoping that the canals in town will keep the town from flooding, ‘Inshallah,’or did he dig them deep enough this year?

Over the weekend we held the first ever basketball and volleyball competitions in Kerouane. The competitive spirit was strong, and fortunately everything went according to plan. It was difficult coping with some of the people. It's very hard to understand some of them and their ways of doing things, and you realize that it might take a long time for change to occur. The adults tend to try and get involved, everybody wants to add their two cents even though they may have nothing to do with the situation at hand, or the qualifications to instruct or teach the kids. I explained the other day how I was disillusioned with the way they treat each other, and I dislike having to see someone yell at these little kids or push them around like live stock. Unfortunately, you have to be very careful with the way you treat these adults, even to the smallest detail of facial expression, because they will smile in your face but tarnish you name in the café’s and throughout the community. The strategy is to educate the youth responsibility, initiative and motivation. If we have the youth on our side, in Africa, you have the muscle. In 2007 they made the government declare martial law. A few months back an employee at the company witnessed organized groups of youngsters storm a merchants shacks, burning an entire block down because he was selling drugs and was involved in other spiteful activities. The importance of my brothers mission with the youth and with community development here is thus very important in creating change for the people of Guinea.

The 'match amical' held on Saturday gathered a rather large crowd on the basketball court and despite the rain on Sunday, the girls Volleyball teams played on. We had the speakers running on a generator, with the local boys of the ‘Discotheque’ chanting, playing music and narrating the game. The wood benches that my bro had made were set up all around the court, with people sitting and children running around and watching the match. I spent my time outside of the classroom working on a scoreboard for the weekend tournament. It would be the first time the kids ever had one, and that they ever really kept the score and counted basketball points by 2 and 3 point increments. Being the first time ever keeping an official score, they were so harsh in making sure it was exact!

The game had Lycee and College competing against each other, kids between the ages of 16 into their mid 20's. As Lycee was leading by 10 point by the second period, College discovered the importance of team play and slowly overcame and won the game by 10 in the fourth. Once the Lycee players began fighting over the water bottles we gave them at half time, I knew they had no chance. Sure enough the team fell apart, each man for himself, shooting three point shots one after another in the hope that they would catch up. The competitions had a great effect on the way they play now. They loosened up and discovered the importance of leadership and team tactics. On Monday they put all of this into play as they cheered each other on and practiced in the rain.

Something incredible happened when we were out on the court this afternoon. During the game, the kids started screaming, and I realized they were warning each other and the Babou that the rain was coming and to quickly move to shelter. I couldn't feel any drops on my skin nor could I see any water on the ground, but a deafening sound of gushing water on tin could be heard nearby. As I turned around I could see a torrent of water pouring off the roof of the youth center roughly twenty meters away. The sky above me was blue, the basketball court was still dry, but the rain was pouring down on the children running to take cover under the tin roof of the youth center. The rain moved like an advancing waterfall, from the roof of the building, and across the volleyball court that stood between us, until it finally reached the edge of the basketball court. Then it stopped. It didn't stop raining; it just sopped advancing, so I was still standing now only ten meters away from a complete downpour, completely dry. Each one of us was staring at the other in total shock, it was unbelievable. The rain moved onto the court, slimmed out, then stopped and we continued playing.

Leaving the base in my white Toyota four by four landing pod on Sunday on the way to the game, I had one of those hallucinations you get every once and a while here on the red planet. Another downpour flooded the land for an hour or so just before the 4 o'clock volleyball game. I was determined that the sun would dry everything up rather quickly so I was heading over to sweep the court, begin installing the benches, sound, scoreboard, and to distribute the new rubber shoes we had bought for the players that morning in the market. As we drove down one of the main mud streets of Kerouane, I was gazing out the window, staring at the mud huts or 'les cages' as they call them in French. Children were picking mangoes out of the trees with eight meter long sticks. Some children were waving at the passing vessel, others screaming 'babouni', yes the little white man was flying by, the conquering hero. Some women were setting clothes out to dry, others were using long heavy sticks to ground rice or grain in large carved wooden pots, or ‘meneoc,’ that look like drums. Men were sitting back in their chairs and drinking their afternoon tea and sweetened coffee. Some of the 'cages' are set up next to one another, often circled by a little pile of rocks to delimit their yard. Open fires burn on charcoal and pots of boiling water let steam escape and mingle with the trees. The dirt roads wind through the huts and houses, while bright green weeds tangle with the trash that litter any empty lots or ruins. Goats and chickens roam between the 'cages' and the abandoned skeleton shaped concrete structures left over by diamond diggers. Wild dogs appear and disappear between the houses. Along with the noise of our space engine, small generators, motorcycles and some old Renault trucks growled and spit out chocking grey smoke that filled the air. Repeating through my mind was this story the company's French doctor told me about a family that had turned towards their local medicine man to heal their child. Instead of going to the hospital to help their child recover from burn wounds after spilling boiling oil all over her body, the medicine man used rabbit hairs to heal her wounds. Using a local herb, he blew a magical smoke onto her skin so that she would recover more rapidly. The little girl died from the infection of bacteria in the rabbit hairs. It's just hard to come to reality with the situation here. Without any communication with the rest of the world, no post office, newspapers, or any paper whatsoever, only the local radio, Kerouane could remain in the dark, unheard of, and using century old customs and traditions for another hundred years to come unless we intervene.

Everyone at the company talks about the fact that the people sit on some of the largest deposits of natural resources in the world, like iron-ore, diamonds, gold, oil, hundred of thousands of mangoes, but despite all of that they still live traditionally, in poverty, with the customs passed on to them by their predecessors. They still have no electricity, proper sanitation or infrastructure, the government and leadership are corrupt, nothing happens without the accord of the elders, they have no proper army, and they have no police force to provide any sort of security. And unfortunately putting the responsibility and fate of the community in the hands of a divine power will not bring change. Unless people are educated and learn from our involvement that they can each make a difference and a contribution, everything for them is fine the way it is. Men will keep drinking tea all day, and they'll continue sitting around and sleeping under the mango trees, on top of billions of dollars of natural resources. For that reason I think the presence we have here is crucial. But in the end business is business, and without a complete involvement, both in personnel and financially, we can only achieve results on a small scale. Unless your business in Africa is focused in giving back to the people, then history will just keep repeating itself...Veni Vidi Vici

This Is Africa, Wednesday 6th May

2009-05-20T09:35:00.000-07:00

I had my first day of school this morning. The teachers had told me that there were more than sixty students per class, so I was sweating and my heart was pounding like I was going into an audition. My goal in the first few days is to help them develop simple conversational skills and introduce them to ways of greeting people. I figured that if I could get them to learn as much English as I know Malinke, it’ll be a good start. But everything turned out to be a lot more complicated than I had thought. The two hour lecture had to be cut in half, because everything has to be repeated so many times, in so many different ways. Things you thought were going to be simple, like sentence structures with a subject preceding a verb, end up being the most complicated. I realized how difficult it is to prepare for the questions they might ask. I had to be on my toes at all times to quickly respond to the changing course of the lecture. The students had a great deal of respect for me and I was greeted with a round of applause when they learned I was teaching their class for the rest of the school year. The teacher who was going to assist me on my first day walked out after exactly 15 seconds. After introducing me and saying goodbye, the clapping provided the soundtrack to his sortie. And there I was, in front of roughly fifty or sixty boys and girls of the ‘classe de 11eme,’ mostly between the ages of fifteen to their mid twenties. I actually counted only three or four girls in the classroom. I got everyone to come up to the board as much as possible to interact with the class, express themselves individually then dialogue in groups. I wanted to see them participate and move around the classroom as much as possible and they were really excited with the new approach. A few kids shined allot more than the others, especially one kid who introduced himself as 'Philosophe'. They kept their eyes fixed on me, they repeated nearly every word I said, and with every hand that went up they were screaming “teacha, teacha.” I underestimated how much these kids were motivated, and none stood up before the end of class, even though time was up. In the first classes I sat in on after meeting the teachers, all the students would get up and down as they pleased, and immediately took off when it was time to leave. It’s a real draft having them going in and out, so I gave them a time out after an hour, since it was a two hour lecture. Two hours go by so quickly when you’re the one in front of the board! It's quite fun really, but I realize how exasperating it would be to teach a bunch of spoiled kids in the high schools I grew up in. These kids actually envy me, and would do anything to learn the expressions, the accent, and information I have to offer them. At the end of class, nearly ever one of them shook my hand, with a “Good-bye, see you tomorrow, an be soma” and “Good, teacher, Good.” Pronounced ‘an bay soma’ in Malinke, meaning see you tomorrow.

In the afternoon I decided to go help out Sekou, aka 'Campbell', one of the Guinean workers that runs the canal project in the village. My brother introduced me to him the other day, and I promised him I would stop by. About twenty workers in hard hats were digging away on each side of the road near the center of the village. I found Campbell, got some equipment, and to his surprise I insisted that I wanted to help. I jumped down into the deep trench and began digging. After about a minute, maybe less, one of the workers reached over for my shovel and asked if he could help. I refused. Then Sekou volunteered to replace me so that I could take a break. This continued for quite a while, and I was surprised how much they insisted, so I persisted and continued digging. Eventually I proved to them that I could manage the work and that I intended on staying and doing the job. I only put down my shovel when it was time to leave. Their perception of who I was made them believe that I was either incapable or that I wasn’t meant to be doing such a labor.

As a ‘Babou’, or ‘white,’ I immediately became that astronaut I described earlier. But people determine your status not only from the color of your skin, but also by the way you conduct yourself. Perhaps it was a 'faux pas' to engage in manual labor with Sekou and his employees, but on the other hand, if I was to be judged, I sure as hell wouldn't let any of them stop me from digging. I was breathing hard, geared up with my hard hat, and gloves, I filled my shovel up with as much dirt as I could and threw it as far as I possibly can. After trying to replace me roughly a dozen times, they realized I was there to stay, do the job and soon they congratulated me for my work. Funny enough I even had a few men walking by asking me if I had a wife, I answered “no, not yet”, so they asked “a fiancé?” I guess I proved to be the ideal candidate for the Kerouane elders’ daughters. Sekou would ask me later if I needed any women.

I learned from the experience on the road that every action you take is analyzed and judged to the smallest detail. And there being only a few Babou’s in town, our reputation quickly spreads across the airwaves. I knew that I wasn’t going to take on some sort of arrogant or superior attitude. Instead I would try to teach my students from then on to treat everyone as an equal, whether younger or older, smarter or dumber, handicapped, boy or girl. At the basketball courts that afternoon, I decided I would keep playing with the kids as much as possible, but since we were just starting classes, I wanted to maintain a professional distance between us. I came, I played, and at the end of the game, left the court after a few handshakes. I wanted to make sure that being the first week or so that we were in contact, they’re able to distinguish between friend and teacher. With time, we’ll all have to earn each others friendship. I still played until I was the last one of the court, putting my hands on the ball as much as I could.

I had this great conversation with Dennis on our way to set up beehives for his little honey collection he makes in every country he travels to. Dennis is one of the guys running logistics here at the base. He drew an interesting comparison between the ‘patrons’ of classic antiquity and the system of elders that is in place here in Guinea and across Africa. He explained how the Romans would build their houses with a courtyard in front to greet the people of their neighborhood and help them solve the problems in their community, much like the elders in Kerouane. Indeed the presence of private and public spaces to interact with the people reminded me of the Palazzo's in Venice. The Medici Palazzo for example was built to both defend the family business against the threat of public revolt, but also to create a space to interact with individuals, both by setting up benches and communal spaces on the front of the building, and also by creating an inner courtyard to greet their guests. The 'patron' or elder would use this space to consult, and often to do business with the merchants and people around the district. People could let him know about the problems disrupting their work or business, they would tell him what needed work, or that his child was being bullied, that he needed money to start a specific trade or that the schools and medical clinics were not providing the appropriate care in specific areas. The same thing still goes on here, people create a sort of emblem out of certain people from the actions they perform, from the way they talk, from the contributions and the results they have brought to the community, and they become the 'patron' or elder. That patron is often someone who can provide security, food and who can deliver on the needs of the people in his neighborhood. Today we have civic representatives that report to the government and to a structured system that then provides relief efforts and who can implement important change within a community, whereas here they still rely on the basic idea of a local 'Don' who can help them solve their problems. With the fear of either addressing the Prefet, military Governor, or challenging the corruption of some elements of government, they rely on elders and 'patrons' to help them with their daily lives. My bro has become one of these men from the responsibilities he has had with dealing with people both in Conakry and in Kerouane. His driver told me when I first arrived that he was always listening when others weren’t, that he was curious and could help solve people’s problems that others ignored. He became an important figure recognized throughout the community, a ‘patron.’

If the ‘patron’ fails to satisfy his neighborhood, he will loose the faith of the community. If the people don’t believe in him, in the way he acts, talks or behaves himself, then they loose confidence in him and the patron looses their trust. Soon they begin to judge him and tarnish his name throughout the community. Thus if the individual who has the responsibility of the ‘patron’ looses that respect, he not only tarnishes his name, but in the case of our company, he will loose the peoples and elders’ respect in the name of the entire organization. At a conference meeting, if you fail to impress the buyer, or they dislike you for the way you present yourself, they may not loose interest in the product, because the individual at hand does not represent the aid and large scale effects that the product may have on the consumer. In Africa, you are the product, and everything is dealt with through human emotion, feelings, and sentiment, no matter what the effect of that product may be. Despite our company’s promises of community development, we lost the trust of the elders and Prefet because of the prior PR executive in place. The fate of a multi-million dollar company was decided through the ‘feelings’ they had for one man rather than the benefits his company had to offer. They passed their words on to Conakry, and decisions were made that removed the concession the company has been working so hard to obtain. I’m here to get it back. If we win the youth, we win the families, if we win the families, we win the elders, if we win the elders, we win the trust and stability of conducting business in Guinea. “Inshallah, all is in the hands of God…” says the Prefet at our first meeting. I disagree, the fate of the community is in all our hands and with our help and the motivation of the youth, families and elders of Kerouane, we can bring change to thousands of lives.

There’s a quote that I’ll always remember from Edward Zwick’s movie ‘Blood Diamond’ that explains the way of life in Africa. When Archer asks the Sierra Leonean barman where he plans on going once the rebel army enters Freetown, he says: “This my country, man. We here long 'fore you came, long after you gone.” In essence, things have been done here for hundreds of years, the beliefs, the traditions, and the culture are something that will always be the same, whether the community and cities develop or not. This is Africa. After the digging I walked through the market with Sekou and back to meet his family and to see where he lived. It’s a great honor for someone to invite you to their house. He invited me 'pour prendre le the', an invitation that would be disrespectful to refuse. Even when he then went on to offer me a sip of cow's milk they had preserved from the day before, I couldn’t turn it down. It tasted like yogurt, real sour yogurt, with an incredible sweetness from the sugar they added. I lifted water from the nearby well to help his little son fill his tin bucket, and then asked him what the collar was around the neck of his youngest boy. It was a thin, colored string necklace with a small bone hanging from around his neck. He told me that it was a shield, a protection against the sorcerers and evil spirits that roam the villages of Africa. Knowing that the life expectancy of a child is quite low, and that the chance of him getting infected and dying is quite high, I immediately associated the high mortality rate with Sekou's fear that his son may be hurt, and that he would therefore take any measures to protect him. There being only one hospital in town, with little medicine and solar panels just recently running its electricity at night, I can't imagine they are of any use in educating villagers to the advantages of modern medicine. The necklace was made for his son by a medicine man, in fear that the sorcerers, often in the form of birds, may try and take him away.

Lord of the Flies, Monday 4th May

2009-05-19T14:58:00.000-07:00

Only 4 days in the red sand but I feel like I've been here for ages! You get to know the children so quickly, and there's nothing better than the smiles and curiosity they have for the new kid in town.

I met with the schools director and teachers this morning at the Lycee Ahmed Sekou Toure, named after the first President of Guinea who ruled the country for 26 years after the French took off in ‘58. They’re an interesting group of men with great rhetoric but little enthusiasm. I put together a schedule with just over 14 hours of classes a week, not including the extra time I wanted to put in with BAC preparations but I think I can handle it. The two English teachers actually speak little English, and one invents the class as he goes along, unaware that the second has the schoolbook. The book is on how to teach English in Guinea, published in 1995. The first teacher didn't even know the other guy had one, let alone that the school has a library...I think I had them in a room together for the first time ever. Unbelievable to think that even the teachers refrain from sharing. In the first few minutes of the meeting it became clear that they wanted to unload all of their classes on me. Not suprising when they are only paid less than 2$ an hour, and that all of the English classes are unpaid overtime.

I know I can do a better job, so I’m confident I will succeed, but I realize it’s going to be quite challenging. My first 2 hour lecture starts Wednesday, and I plan on making use of the accessibility I have to printing equipment at the company’s headquarters. The students never received a handout before since they have no books, no electricity, and no paper. I brought a book from California, but I’ll have to make some heavy changes to adapt some of the context, names and places to local customs. I also got my hands on a Peace Corps guide on teaching English in Guinea... The real challenge will be in seeing how motivated they are and what triggers their interests. How I can focus a lecture on something that concerns them, and turn their attention towards issues that could get them equally involved in school and in the community.

I think most at the base have realized the opportunity they have to get some free English classes. The Guinean employees around the base are also asking me for lessons and are jealous that they’re being left out so I’m organizing a few classes a week to get everyone involved. It seems like they’re really motivated and it’s great to see when there’s so much room for learning and change. My driver Balde, pronounced ‘Balday,’ sat down with me for an hour and a half or so and we went through some basic exercises, name, number, address, date of birth kind things. I quickly recognized how hard this was going to be. The pronunciation was something I left out, and from French to English, some even from Malinke, the dialect spoken in the region, each letter comes with different ways of moving your tongue, your mouth and your teeth. Everything you plan for has to be stretched out and takes twice as long as you thought it would.

I got a little black Casio for 4 dollars in the market today, although everyone told me I could have gotten it for 2$. I got the Babou price, the ‘white mans’ deal. When I was walking down the road the little kids with huge smiles on their faces were pointing at me and screaming: “Babouni, Babouni Babouni!” Essentially meaning: 'petit blanc, petit blanc!’ And then they wave at you, and you wave back, and they jump up and down with a smile and a swirl, sometimes even a little dance. It’s a triumph for both of us. Once I started shaking hands with one of the little guys before I had to embark in the Cruiser and 20 or so wrapped all around me to touch me and shake my hand or get a high five. It was so cool. They were standing around the entire time watching me until I finally broke the status-quo and touched one of them, so green light and they all jumped on the occasion to meet me.

I went over to the basketball courts around 5 to see if I could build a stronger relationship with the kids and keep up the daily workout routine. Since the last time I played basketball was in high school five years ago, I was awful. But I figured if I could at least last as long as them, if not longer, and run for every ball, I could gain their respect. So they encouraged me for my effort since I had some strength left despite the pain pumping through my legs and right shoulder from the game we played with my brother on Saturday. Unless you’re used to running and sprinting, a one and half hour basketball game can come as quite a shock to your body with no water or time-outs. They have no way of keeping time or score so we play until it’s dark out or until they insist on stopping. Some of them asked my how I kept in shape, and I just answered “swimming,” knowing that surfing was a tuff one to explain. In Conakry I was trying to demonstrate it to a guy, using one hand as the wave, and the other as the surfer, and when I began weaving them between one another he started laughing. I don’t think he believed me. So I stuck to swimming for now.

The one thing that bothered me the most was the kids failure and inability to get along with each other, and the way they treat girls and those younger than them. We're taught to resort to violence as ultimately the last resort or in self defence. But here emotion and violence often come first. I can't say I never saw two players fight because of a bad call or foul play, or a boy throw a ball at a girl in the face, or maybe even an older teen pushing a kid to the ground, but it was a wake-up call seeing all of this in context. It just made me rethink the way we act back home. The players couldn't argue, they could only yell and fight if something went wrong. They would often violently throw the ball at each other, if it wasn't at a girl, for no particular reason. As little kids gathered around the court to watch the 'Babouni' in action, the older players would chase them off, push them around and herd them away like the little goats that hop around the village. I will teach by example, impose myself when I think something is wrong, whether it is in the school or elsewhere. I'm here as a volunteer but also as myself. And even if our customs differ, I won't just sit by the sidelines and watch. I can teach them the meaning of equality, of hard work, and guide them so that they can inspire to lead their community by the right example.

The situation in Kerouane at the school, between the teachers, the leaders and elders of the community, between the children in the streets and on the basketball courts, can be seen like an allegorical novel. But unlike William Golding's book, the ambition, and the will to achieve and compete that we are familiar with is replaced by a disinterest and inability to strive to reach a greater position. People believe instead it will be handed to them or that it is beyond their control, “Inshallah.” So people tend to think individually, but strive for different things than we would in such a stripped down environment. Rationality is rapidly replaced by emotionality and disputes immediately turn into screaming and violence whether between grown men, or children on the basketball court or in the market. I hope that in the time that I am here, I can help the kids learn that ambition, initiative, and motivation can be used to improve the community as well as breed individual freedom and morality.

"One Small Step For Man, One Giant Leap For Mankind," Sunday 3rd May bis

2009-05-19T08:39:00.001-07:00

During my first few days in Kerouane, I've quickly realized my brother built a great amount of confidence and energy amongst the people. Most of them know him by his first name. Hopefully with my help both in the community and at school, I can keep the motivation high even after he flies back to Conakry on Monday. So far the hospital has been operational around the clock, the soccer stadium is slowly but surely rising out of the red earth one brick at a time, the kids gather at the new basketball and volleyball courts every single day, music is playing through an old sound system set up by the local radio kids, and the town is still above water. We met with some of the community leaders and elders around town, and I realized that without continuous intervention and dialogue, some of the projects would simply be abandoned or ware off. Without any initiative or outside motivation, it seems like people will just go on with the way things are for the next hundred years unless we do something. If someone is here, constantly pushing them forward and teaching them to take responsibility and use their initiative to bring change to their community, great things can be done. Lots of the people here look up to my bro and are very proud of his motivation which has greatly influenced the youth and determination of the people. This is Africa, and people tend to talk allot yet it takes time for things to actually happen. I'm curious to see how the village and surrounding region will develop by the impact of our presence.

Driving around the village for the first time, you feel like an astronaut approaching an undiscovered planet. A place where people had just never seen anything like you before. The earth is the color of ‘ocre’ and reminds me of the cliffs that stretch across Provence in southern France. We fly by in white Toyota land cruisers that stand out like the white guys driving them. As I leaped out of the vehicle, I thought to myself “one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” Halfway across the world, from the beaches of California to the red sands of Kerouane, I realised that everything I did from then on could impact the community in a way that had never been done before.

When you look around, like in Conakry, it’s hard to believe people have been left in these conditions. How the world essentially forgot about them. Every government should be responsible in providing their people with at least the most basic human necessities: water, food, infrastructure and security. My brothers presence in itself has boosted the moral of the town and his concern for the people has helped motivate many others. But there is no electricity, no sanitation, no running water for every household and little security apart from the prefecture and its few officers who rarely leave their tea. Everything otherwise is similar to what you see on the BBC all across Africa, and the Middle East. I just recently finished a book by Donovan Campbell called Joker One that describes the people, colors, sounds and smells of Baghdad from a soldiers perspective. And apart from the fact that no one is trying to shoot us here; the loudspeaker at the Mosque every day, the sand, the base, that feeling between the ‘inside’ and ‘outside' of the compound, the people, the children, it's all very real.

Yes We Can, Sunday 3rd May

2009-05-17T14:47:00.000-07:00

Day 3 in Kerouane. After flying private charter from Conakry International to the airstrip in Bayla, “Guinee Forestiere”, we boarded 'The Squirrel,' a six passenger heli flown by a seventeen year British Army vet. The chunk of metal flew from Bayla to the Kerouane helipad where we disembarked greeted by local farmers transporting their local collect of mangoes to the village. We also made a stop over at one of the drilling rigs where I got my first glimpse of the Tasmanian and Australian “foreurs.” The HQ in Kerouane is safety first all the way. It sort of appears as a slacked out version of what you would imagine a military compound would look like in Iraq. Four meter tall walls elevated a second time by a wired fence and an empty guard tower by the main gate with a few sitting areas spread out between the mess hall and the one-story high barracks. With all of the comforts of home, and after the quick journey from the helipad through the mud huts and straw roofs of Kerouane, it’s four stars.

Within twenty four hours everything becomes pretty obvious. There’s room for improvement. To start off the high school has no functioning library and lacks in teachers. The ones who work there sometimes decide not to show up at all. Not suprising when they are paid less than a dollar per hour. Since the town has no electricity, the hospital has none either. In his first community project, my brother had solar panels installed on the roof of the one-story building. Prior to that, doctors were operating at night, mostly for births and emergencies, under candle light. Children couldn’t study at night since they can’t all afford to buy candles, so bro installed a generator and lights that illuminate the high school two hours every evening. The school and hospital became the only places in town with public electricity. Like in Conakry, the children often roam the streets with nothing to do, nowhere to go, so a soccer stadium is being built on the edge of town, the basketball and volleyball courts got new nets and a patch job and we now have competing teams, tournaments, and daily activities that gather the entire youth of Kerouane. The construction of the stadium also provided labor and jobs for the local work force. The roads were in such bad shape that a local team was equipped and organized to flatten and enlarge them, as well as dig canals and trenches to prevent flooding from the upcoming rainy season. And they will continue improving the roads to connect each of the neighboring towns and to encourage trade and communication.

From my first encounters, it's obvious the people have the ability and motivation to improve their way of life. It will take leadership and initiative for projects to evolve. And our motivation is an important factor in jump starting the youth and local work force. So to make a difference here, the co. must act as a guide and driving force for the younger generations to seek change.

Ablution, Thursday 30th April

2009-05-17T14:43:00.000-07:00

I landed at the airport in Conakry last night just after six o’clock. Sleeping through the entire flight I was exhausted after the two and half day trip from California via Washington DC and Charles De Gaulle. Fortunately I had an unbelievable stop-over poolside in DC. Adrenaline pumping and still unfamiliar as to what to expect, I stood up from my seat ready to disembark at Conakry International. We got off old school on a starboard side ramp from our Air France 747. Uniformed soldiers immediately surrounded the plane, a reminder that a coup d’état just occurred by the CNDD in December. They were there either to prevent anyone from running out onto the runway, or to assert some sort of legitimacy, which I was soon going to get a taste of. The arrival was quite a spectacle. Soldiers were ordering others around as if it was the first time a plane ever landed in country. Making sure I had written down my telephone number at the top of my registration form, They let me threw.

After breakfast at Le Damier, a comfortable and elegant little French café nestled between the shacks and street vendors of Conakry, Asmine, my brothers driver was meant to come pick me up at 10. He arrived around 11, no problem. You quickly get use to the routine when everything has to be done and redone a second time, when everybody is late, and allowing extra time for about anything. TIA. While I was waiting in front of my brothers place, I had time to introduce myself to Toure, the security guard, and the other guys sitting around the ground floor entrance. Something I learned in my travels in Namibia and South Africa, is always greeting others with respect, paying attention to detail, making eye contact, and trying to memorize their names, because they will often ask whether or not you remember them. In Guinea, each person introduces himself with his full name, for example, Bashir “Jay-z” Barry, the name and nickname of one of my students up-country. So far everything seemed alright from the balcony of my bro's seventh floor apartment. It’s undeniable that you feel guilty in the lavishly decorated penthouse in the middle of downtown Conakry. A city with almost no electricity, dirt roads, water taps for every neighborhood, and a nonexistent trash disposal system. No trash bins at all. Ornate ceilings, large white Christian Liaigre style couches, hand carved table lamps, dining room table and matching black side tables in the living room. African masks and articulated details on the lamps in each corner of the room, can't complain. We have running water, sinks and flushing toilets. The most basic elements, yet so hard to come across in this country. Only in these conditions do you begin to appreciate the food on your plate, the shower you can have at the end of the day, and the water you can drink and use for basic sanitation. The water in the streets is distributed drop by drop into yellow and white plastic jugs that women carry on their heads and toddlers haul down the little streets of the city. The trash is swept up into piles at the corner of each street, but unless that block paid their 5000 Guinean Franc free, equivalent to $1 each month, they carry their waste to dump it by the harbor. I immediately came to familiarize myself with the lifestyle after I heard two men greet each other that morning: “Ca va?”, and the other answers “Ca va…a la Guineene.”

The first day in country was unforgettable, everything you know and are familiar with goes right out the window. Before you can even notice, you’re disorientated by the sounds that echo throughout the city. Exhaust pipes fuming and grumbling from the passing cars, an old Honda 125cc changing gears, a herd of goats yelling for attention, the arguments going on between street vendors, the laughter of children playing soccer and little kids screaming in the streets, the whistling of the birds flying through the mango trees, and the morning prayer coming from the minaret of the nearby mosque.

Asmine was to be my guide for the day, since after another half hour we quickly realized the guy who was originally going to show me around, never really wrote it down in his daily planner. We hit the Marche Du Niger, then an abandoned train yard that resulted in my first in-country payoff for taking “unauthorized” pictures of the ruins. A little something “pour le the.” Just after the raw meat section, chunks of red flesh displayed with a fresh layer of flies and topped with an odor that could kill a European fly, a brawl was going on in the market. Sort of frightening when the “coupe coupe’s” are sitting in the next stall. I quickly moved on. We reached bro’s HQ, Direction General, just on the outskirts of the city. Dug in to a killer sandwich prepared by his cook, then moved on to visit the Botanical Gardens, one of the calls to fame for the city. Some old French colonial villas were left over among the trash, and students were littered through the area reading books or whispering underneath the imported eucalyptus trees. We moved on to the US embassy, where I registered so that at minimum I would appear in a head count if shit hit the fan. The place kind of looked like an aircraft carrier with a control tower overlooking the Conakry peninsula… a perfect observation post to watch the whole Black Hawk Down scenario play off from the safety of a precinct that looked equally protected as the Pentagon in DC. Before that I was the Grande Mosque where I had to abandon my faith as an infidel and slip into the skin of someone who knew the Koran and just happened to drop in for the afternoon prayer. Tricky. Asmine walked me through the ablution ritual, the washing before prayer, to purify oneself and to obtain true guidance and respectful worship of Allah. At the taps outside the mosque, I removed my shoes and washed my hands, mouth, nose, face, arms, forehead, and feet. It was an incredible experience, so focused and trance-like that you forget everything around you, the past, the future, the noises, and the people. The mosque, I learned, was not only a place of prayer, but also an important abode for congregation. Men and women gathered to share stories, whisper conversations, rest in the cool air, and listen. The mosque transforms into a podium of orators, and an amphitheater for gossip, and with a loyal audience, possibly for confrontational rhetoric.