Noise

There are more mosquitoes here than there were where I lived in Senegal. There are so many mosquitoes here that if I wake just before dawn I can hear the shrill drone of their collective whine through the closed (but admittedly drafty) glass of my bedroom window. (Some of that high-pitched din is surely from gnats and other insects; in any case, the overall effect sets my teeth on edge.) Sounds travels well though my rooms here, with their big white floor-tiles and painted cement walls - sometimes I wonder if all those hard surfaces amplify sounds, making a small cloud of bugs sound like an insect battalion. (Is that really how you spell battalion? Apparently so.) Mosquitoes may be the source of one of my least favorite elements of the soundscape here, but it's mercifully easy to drown out their noise, even with the tinny little built-in speaker on my iPod. 

The generators are a different story. Generators are loud. And big generators are really loud. If you're in the vicinity of a decently sized generator (and don't have the benefit of one of those little generator-houses that some people have built) the racket of the pistons (or whatever's spinning around in there) can echo in your ears long after the motor shuts down. The office here has a solar panel and a pretty reliable battery bank, and while that lights my life most evening and weekends, it isn't enough to support the internet router and computers and everything else that people plug in on any given workday. Gas is expensive, so the hours of generator use are restricted - approximately 10:00 AM to 1:00 PM and then 3:00 PM to 5:00 PM on weekdays when there are enough people in to justify the fuel use. 

The generator that was running today. 

As unpleasant as it is, it does make a person more aware of the value of electricity, which seems like a good thing. Like visiting a slaughterhouse, it might not turn you into a vegetarian, but it puts you in directs contact with the sometimes unpalatable origins of your lunch. It makes a person consider if what they want to do is really worth all the effort and noise and the cost of the gas - and even though most of the time they might decide it is worth it, (especially if they have the means to buy the gas and build a generator-house to muffle the noise) it seems like it's better  to consider it for a minute than to just flat-out take it for granted. (That seems like the kind of thing that builds character.) 

The other generator. I shudder to think
 of them both running at once. 

Not that I don't miss power plant-supplied electricity, which I suppose is far cleaner and more efficient, but I can't make the generator go away, so I'll take silver linings where I can get them. 

Rain boots & Rainbows

Last week Ramadan ended on the rainiest day I've seen so far in Guinea. The morning was overcast and calm until the wind kicked up, bringing in the kind of horizontal rain that makes you circle around the house double-checking that everything is closed and latched and that water is not streaming in under the doors. (Happily, my rooms stayed dry.) After awhile the wind tapered off but it rained steadily for most of the rest of the day, putting a damper on everyone's end-of-Ramadan festivities. 

The next day people were out and about and making up for lost time, all dressed up and carefully skirting the pond-like puddles on their greeting rounds. The theme of the day seemed to be Small Children in Sunglasses, and it was adorable. Just on the streets right by my place I saw at least a couple dozen little kids in brand-new frilly dresses, little brightly striped t-shirts, fancy new sandals and neon sunglasses. (I really wanted to take pictures, but feel weirdly about taking photos of people I don't know. One of the big drawbacks to not living with a host family is not having a constant supply of people around who're more than happy to pose for the camera.) 

It rained a lot yesterday, too, and I took some pictures of the street-turned-stream outside the Save the Children office, and also of the amazing complete double rainbow that followed. (It was a lot more impressive in real life, but you get the idea.)

This is why I brought rain boots to Guinea. 

After work I walked around the neighborhood, surveying the water levels and picking up things for this morning's breakfast. I tried to make it over to the Pulaar vendors who were so amused by my mediocre Pulaar the other day that they gave me a free loaf of fresh bread, but I didn't feel like wading so I settled for bread and eggs from the vendor lady just down the way.

The vendor lady is also nice, as are her kids, who very expectantly watched me leap over a decent-sized puddle and were impressed (and possibly disappointed) when I made it. She wears a black burqa-type veil, made of very thin fabric that she seems to be able to see through just fine. (I can't recall seeing any burqas in Senegal, but I see them here pretty frequently.) As someone who hasn't done much interacting with burqa-clad women, when I first went by her boutique I wasn't sure if I was supposed to look at her face-area while talking to her or what, but I think any awkwardness on my part probably blended in with the general awkwardness of being a foreigner who doesn't know where to find pasta or what that white powder is or how much anything costs. In any case, she seemed pretty relaxed about everything, and I go by there pretty regularly, partly because she's patient with my questions and partly because she always has fresh eggs. I've been by around prayer-time a few times and noticed that she just flips up her veil to do her ablutions there in front of her shop and doesn't seem to mind coming over to sell me some eggs and onions while bare-faced, which I found slightly surprising. I suppose I didn't expect her to be so laid-back about it, but then I'm the one who's not used to veils and washing up at prayer-time and running a little side-street boutique and all the rest.

Anyway, yesterday her shop was not totally surrounded by a rainwater moat, so I stopped and bought my bread and eggs and continued on my way. It's remarkable how quickly the earth soaks up the water - roads that are completely flooded can be partially clear after just a few hours, and dry up almost completely if the next day is a very sunny one. On the days when it isn't raining it's been really nice out, blue sky and extremely green grass and billowing clouds. Here's a recent sunny-day photo of the welcome sign on the main road not far from the Peace Corps office, the phone company Orange puts them up at the edges of cities and towns all over West Africa. 

Rained Out

A few of the PCVs and I had big plans to go to the bank and a supermarket today, but it rained heavily last the night and torrentially all morning, flooding the streets and foiling our errand-run. 

Balcony-view of the rain

Also, in transportation news, my departure for Kankan is now tentatively scheduled for Sunday, so I should have all day tomorrow to take care of items on my To-Do list. I've also been reassured by several Peace Corps Volunteers currently living in or near Kankan that pretty much anything one (assuming one is a PCV) could need  - from olive oil to nice buckets to curry powder to hair conditioner to coffee - is available for purchase there, which is nice to hear.

It's later in the afternoon now, and it this is still pretty much exactly what it looks like outside. I'm definitely glad that I brought that nice rain jacket and those rubber boots.