It is a common experience for volunteers to be compared to past ones. A returned peace corps volunteers told me before I departed that the community will compare you at the beginning to the previous volunteer at the end. Of course the previous volunteer was better in every way, you haven’t spent two years there yet. So I keep that in mind as I give myself a break. I know I’ve been working hard. I accept my capacity for what it is and see these comments in new ways. She got to be very good at Pular in THIS community. That means there are people here who took the time to help her excel. That means I could excel here too. People loved her and accepted her, that means they are open to outsiders and I have the opportunity to make a place for myself too. So when the next volunteer comes, they will hear about us, and Aisha, and the volunteer before her.

We are connected in so many ways, even if I don’t really know her. It is easy to feel like I am in her shadow and that I’ll never measure up. What worked for her will not work for me. Her priorities are not mine. And both of us are right. So much of this role relies on integration1 which has to do with personality so criticisms feel personal. Yet I must remember I am serving on her shoulders; I get to build on her work. She softened the hearts and I benefit. Sometimes when I ask a question or do something wrong and am told that Aisha knew the answer or did things correctly I will agree. She was so smart, she was so good at Pular, I hope one day I can be like her, thank you for helping me.

In Guinea I am now associating corn with rain, because the harvest falls around the hight of the rainy season. With a sudden surge of abundance of corn, it seems that everyone is now enjoying the tasty snack. Some of the harvest is put aside to dry, but often entire ears are shucked and put directly onto hot coals to cook. It is tough and chewy, which I originally attributed to the cooking method; however the more I consumed and boiling some myself, I have come to realized this is a different variety of corn. Its a lovely golden color, very starchy, and each kernal has a tougher skin; making it possible to pluck off individual kernals and toss them right into your mouth. It is somewhere between sweet corn and popcorn, in fact sometimes a kernal bursts while cooking and is extremely popcorn-like. Hannah and I both agree it is best consumed roasted. The dried kernals are used for later planting and cooking. There is a dish that boils and mashes the grains into a polenta consistancy and then topped with sauce (of course). It is quite tasty!

I appreciate the abundance of corn and the generosity from everyone to share with us. The corn I had planted in my garden has not taken off in quite the same way. Also having a hungry bovine come by does not help. My struggles were not in solidarity, as I noticed other corn stuggling to grow in other parts of the village. I now believe it is a nutrient problem since my corn got ample sunlight and water, yet did not grow well. I am a bit dissappointed to not have much to show for my garden, but also I feel good because the garden was primarily to pinpoint and address these issues. Im hoping to take note and make the next year a bountiful one!

My first experience “on campaign” came in Senegal during my semester abroad. The timing was such that during my six-week-long internship at a rural Senegalese health post there was a national campaign to vaccinate children under five years old against measles and rubella. I was given a t-shirt and went out with members of the health team to the various villages in the district to administer vaccinations. We arrived, set up tables, the word was spread (often via the mosque), and a steady stream of children came for their shots. We filled out cards and registers. We paused for lunch, then went back to vaccinating kids until there were none left. There was no discussing the vaccination with the parents, sometimes there weren’t even parents present just older children, as young as 6, sent to us with their younger siblings. The days were long but well-paced and by the end I felt a sense of accomplishment having helped with the documentation.

The CPS campaign, however, looked different. We weaved our way through the village going from house to house looking for children between 3 months and 5 years old. Sometimes having difficulty deciding which path to take as tall corn and cassava plants obscured our view. Older children, eager to help, sometimes led us around indicating which houses had young children. We explained to the mother or, if she wasn’t present, the next most responsible person, that we had medication for malaria and the child was to take it today and the next two days. Everyone seemed familiar with this process; indeed, it happens four consecutive months each year.

As we left, we marked the wall of the house with chalk to indicate we’d been there and the number eligible children present. I could see the fluctuation of households in the old markings, seeing children being born and aging out or visiting and leaving, in the changes in numbers. The day was long as we methodically moved through the village and did not stop even to eat1. After finishing up at the last house, we mounted moto and bike and headed home to recover before more of the same tomorrow.

This is a key example of public health in action. Children under five make up a large proportion of deaths from malaria globally, due to their lack of immunity. By giving them curative medicine during the peak malaria months, many cases of malaria are prevented and lives are undoubtedly saved. As I walked with the RECOs and marked houses with chalk, I was happy to be observing the process even if I wasn’t much help. My mind often wandered to if I had experienced anything similar in the US.

Perhaps it all started with our electrical. Our house has a simple solar setup, complete with a single panel, a large truck battery, and an inverter. The inverter is what makes the outlets function properly, so me and my phone appreciate it greatly. Hannah and I have already had to purchase a new inverter since the one left behind at our site was already broken. A hop, skip, and electrician later we were thrumming with power and a new inverter. Misfortune struck when not two months later, something went wrong and we were alerted with a beeping alarm of a detected fault. Luckily, we were able to switch out the inverters with an identical model for a small cost since there was no good reason the other should have failed so soon. So here we are, eating breakfast when the new replacement inverter screams. Not literally, but it sounded like it! I ran over and shut it off quickly. I quickly deduced that something was wrong with the fan that cooled the unit. Screw by screw, I meticulously took apart the box and started to poke around to see if it was something that I could fix. Some tinkering later and hoping I had fixed the issue for now, I tested it on the battery. There was a soft *whrrrrr* of the fan on startup. Success! *Spark!* *Pop!* Silence.

I was cast into a proverbial darkness as I disconnected everything and look closer the circuit board. While focusing on one area of the inverter, I failed to notice a wire had moved upon disassembly and just made contact with another exposed part. This caused a short and a circuit burst like a lightbulb popping from an electrical surge. The unit was dead. So now my plans for tomorrow had changed. A big market day is happening in a bigger town two hours away, and this is my best change for someone to fix it. It is that or spend a bunch more money on yet another new unit, a would be third unit! Luckily this time, it was a quick fix with someone who had a soldering iron. ‘Phew!’

But this was just the beginning, and soon small tragedies followed in the wake. Bouts of rain fell while we were out of the house, coincidently so was our laundry drying outside. The laundry would not dry and developed a funky smell. Shoes did not dry properly and even started to mold! Leaves I was drying for a project developed mold too just by hanging in the air and absorbing the moisture from the air. Hannah and I were really going through the ringer. We had recently given up on buying tomatoes because of them going bad extremely quickly. Maybe I could have recognized that as foreshadowing in this unfortunate tale, because next was the peanut butter incident.

We had just bought a fresh kilogram of peanut butter from the market and started to dig in. Each kilo is usually a bit different from the next, and we drew a short straw on this one. There was noticeably more fibrous bits and sand. After some contemplation, we decided to attempt to filter by using a fine sieve. Brilliant, right? Well, it is so thick that we needed thin it out with water to get it to even start to go thought the sieve. It was a slow process and tedious, but in the end - Success!

Some sand still made it thought the sieve, but we were able to decant off the watered down PB and was left with a good bit of sand. Nice! All we needed to do was cook it back down to the right consistency. It was late and I decided I could get right to it tomorrow morning. When I arose from our bed and poured the creamy looking material into the pot. I knew something was wrong. It jiggled in all the wrong ways and had a concerning texture. Hoping it was just a product of sitting still for a bit, I started driving off the water. I managed to thicken it up pretty good and went to give it a taste. On a good note, is was pretty smooth with no plant-y bits or sand. Unfortunately it was horribly sour. The entire thing had spoiled overnight.

Sad from the peanut butter debacle we later had our spirits lifted with a nice cup of coffee using beans that I roasted for the first time. It was a delight. The next morning. *Crash* I spilled a scoop of precious coffee grounds. *Snap* The handle broke off of our one and only moka pot. *I screamed internally*

The jester of misfortune decided it was a delightful joke to call back to what began it all, electrical, but this time with a new twist! Our battery was dying. We knew it was old and hoped we could keep using it for a bit longer, but when a couple of phones completely drain a huge truck battery, we knew it was time for a new one. So back to the same town two hours away, but this time for a battery! Hesitantly optimistic, our trip had gone pretty smoothly! That is until I noticed something wet in the packaging, ‘Maybe it was put down in a puddle of water’ I hoped. Then I noticed the holes in my clothes. ‘Oh no...’ Some of the battery acid had leaked and melted the polyester fabric on my clothes and backpack.

Worried the entire battery was compromised, I meticulously cleaned my things and the battery when I finally managed to get it home. Holes in my things was disappointing, but a win that there were no holes in my skin! After confirming with a couple professionals that the situation was likely fine and I would be able to replace it for free if it did not work, I switched out the old tired batter for the new one. Maybe I was imagining it, maybe it was symbolic for the future, or maybe it was the brand spanking new battery I just installed; but I swear I think the lights were shining a bit brighter.

My rough days appeared to had passed and things were looking up. I made a new batch of coffee that was much better than the first, our electronics are charged, and our next container of peanut butter was quite smooth with a yummy toasty taste. It is humbling to be reminded that many little disasters can add up and really feel like a slog. It feels good to be out of a rut and moving forward.

Oh and after all this a cow got into my garden...

C’est la vie! ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Palu, the patient responds1.

The doctor chuckles and sighs, before asking, what are your symptoms? Because that is what he is trying to document.

Headache, fever, vomiting.

He runs the test.

It is almost always malaria.

Malaria is a disease caused by a parasite that is passed between people by mosquitoes. After it first enters the body, it multiplies in the liver until it eventually enters the bloodstream and the infected person starts to have symptoms, commonly headache and fever. Malaria is endemic in Guinea, meaning the disease is consistently and predictably present. In 2023, there were approximately 175 cases of malaria per 1,000 people. The United Nations considers transmission high when it is >1 case per 1,000 people2. It is safe to say Guinea has a lot of malaria. When I started spending time at the health post in April, there were very few cases. Then it started to build, occasional cases in May, more frequent cases in June, and an explosion of cases in July. Nearly every patient at the health post is there for malaria treatment. From young children to village elders, people of all ages are showing up with the telltale symptoms.

Malaria is particularly dangerous for children, pregnant women, and me (i.e. people who did not grow up in a malaria endemic region). What do these groups of people have in common? A lack of naturally acquired immunity to malaria. People who consistently live in an area with malaria and are repeatedly exposed to the parasite can develop an immunity that can protect again severe disease and death. Children and foreigners do not have enough exposure to gain the immunity and pregnant women have changes in their immune system that increase their risk of severe illness. So these groups are of particular concern when thinking about malaria prevention. Foreigners in malarial countries, like me, are advised to take a malaria prophylaxis to prevent infection. In Guinea, pregnant women receive a medication that kills any malaria in their body at a few timepoints during pregnancy3. And children receive similar medication periodically throughout the rainy season.

Toward the end of July, I joined a team of community health workers from my health post during a campaign to give malaria treatment to all the children between 3 months and 5 years old in the district of my health post. Sitting on the terrace of a house in a nearby village, I watched a mom mix some tablets into a small sip of water. A confident child stepped forward, ready to take what was being given. It’ll taste good, the community health workers promised. The child raised the cup to their lips and as they tasted the visibly gritty liquid, I watched their face fall. Tears welled in their eyes as they realized they were lied to. It, in fact, did not taste good. Either dutifully or by the force of their mom, they finished the medicine and we moved on to the next house.

That being said... I still yearn for a special cup.

Thankfully, Guinea has a tradition of coffee.

I have come to learn that 'café' could mean instant coffee or black tea, or any hot steeped drink for that matter. But 'café noir'... That is the special stuff. This can be found at Cafés (the shop not the drink). Café noir is made with local dried and roasted coffee beans. It is then brewed using a large moka pot, stored in a thermos, and served in tiny cups. It is similar to espresso, but much more bitter. The flavor is different because many local beans are Robusta, a different variety of coffee plant, and not the world-popular Arabica. But mostly the flavor is bitter because the beans are very burnt. At my site roasting is done in a pot over an open fire with furious and continuous stirring. The roast is finished when the beans are black - hence the name 'noir'. Think of it like a extra strong double dark shot of espresso with - you guessed it - sugar, because you shouldn't drink it on its own. I tried. Just because I wanted to see what is was like in it's base state, and my local friend was right. It is best with sugar.

I hear a waterfall, let’s find it.

That’s a really nice tree.

Yikes! I almost walked into a spider web!

Take a picture of me on this rock.

We stopped at a rock platform for a picnic of boiled eggs, roasted peanuts, and hard candies. Staring out over the valley, I thought about the Lion King (everything the light touches…) and we discussed life as one is wont to do with such a view in sight. We agreed we were given the best site in all of Guinea (shhhh… don’t tell the other volunteers). As dark clouds threatened to arrive, we made our way toward a road and ran/biked home before the water could catch us.

Chorus sounds too melodius a description. In my fogged morning mind, I think it sounds like a rude shrill cry. The roosters have roused...

Somewhere the first lets loose his cry, and like a chain reaction, the next rooster in earshot replies. It made me smile at first, hearing the subsequent calls get further from the source and travel from flock to flock in the distance; but then I remember this is the mind of a chicken. Hearing the cries in the distance, the first must respond, because the others just need to know who is top bird.

So while the avian alarm clock continues to ring and cannot be snoozed, I roll out of our stiff spring mattress bed to start breakfast.

Guinea has a publicly administered national health care system. At the highest level, the Ministry of Public Health organizes the system and national hospitals exists in Conakry. From there, Guinea has eight administrative regions and the capital of each contains a regional hospital. Within each region, there are prefectures, which each have a prefectural hospital. The prefectures are further divided into sub-prefectures that contain health centers. And under the supervision of health centers, there are health posts. Health posts exist to provide care at the community level, be it in neighborhoods in urban areas or in rural villages (that’s me!). While a few of us health volunteers are located near a health post, most are associated with the larger health centers.

The physical building is a moderate size. It has a few consultations rooms, a birthing suite, and a few treatment/observation rooms. There is running water (when the pump is working), and electricity (when the sun is out). From what I’ve heard, it is a relatively nice and relatively big health post facility. Unlike any US health clinic I’ve been too, there is no waiting room or reception. Instead, the patients wait on benches outside and pay attention to who arrived first themselves. Unless someone with an urgent illness or injury arrives, patients are seen in the order they arrive. They are evaluated by the Chef de Poste and he is supported by a five other people, most often described as “interns.”1 While none of them are currently in school, there are three younger recent graduates of Agent Technique de la Santé (Technical Health Agent) programs. Additionally, there is one matrône2 and one midwife. On any given day, the Chef and two or three of the five are present at the post.

The health post delivers primary and urgent care to the community. It is equipped to follow women through pregnancy and childbirth, vaccinate children, and treat certain illnesses and injuries. When I am present at the health post, I spend my time observing and building relationships. As I consider ways to facilitate improvements to the health of my community, I think mostly of working with the true foundation of the health system in Guinea: community health workers (CHWs). They are volunteers associated with the health post who are tasked with visiting community members in their homes to provide health education and refer people to use services. The health post cannot support the health of community members who do not visit the health post. This has made my limited the time out with CHWs encouraging pregnant women to attend prenatal visits and reminding mothers to bring their children in for vaccinations all the more meaningful.

So there I stood. Bent over. Pressing down and agitating a pair of pants in a tiny bucket of water. I felt the usual strain in my hamstrings as I squished the pants aginst the bottom of the bucket…

The bottom…

Wait hold on a moment!

Excitedly I went to touch my toes. Something I could do before coming to Guinea, but just barely. But now—now it was easy! And I could go further!

Turns out days of washing laundry, sweeping, weeding, planting, and a heap of other hamstring-stretching activites has really paid off.

I was hoping to gain some flexibility but I didn’t expect this much in only 6 months!

While settling into my new home was fraught with stress and doubts, overall I felt good. I am doing my best and am glad to be here, the two most important things. Yet, I sit in my house asking questions of my quilt that I could be asking of my service, too. Are the challenges too big for my capabilities? Do the resources to address challenges exist? When I’m back in the U.S., will I think of my service as a success? Do I even know what I’m doing? My quilt has become the fixation of my worry. I oscillate between being happy with my progress to thinking I am not working on it enough to being convinced I will never finish to being happy with my progress again. I’m sure there is a lesson in there about life, but I haven’t figured it out yet.

Sitting in our house, with a part of my growing quilt on my lap I unwind while listening to a podcast. I sit on one of our leopard print armchairs with my feet up and attach hexagon to hexagon. When the light starts to dip, I pull out my headlamp. While we have light in our house, it is too low for me to comfortably see what I’m doing.

Sean offers me a cup of tea. I let my mind relax after a day spent speaking only French and Pular. I let myself be after a day spent monitoring myself to act in culturally normative ways. And I sew my quilt. Fixing my attention and body toward each little stitch, trying to get them as even as possible. After a few months of effort, my progress has started to show. I am 10% finished with my quilt and 20% through my 27 month commitment.

P.S. I brought the headlamp for reasons related to walking around in the dark, but haven’t once used it that way since being here. Instead, I use it for its known second purpose, sewing.

We sit across the street in the grass and in the shade of a structure behind us. I smile and chat with my friend, his wife, Hannah, and two of his children. He was correct, it was cooler on this side now that we were out of the sun. "Peaceful" he says. I agree, looking out across at the green landscape and clouds billow and drift in the sky. I start making attaya for everyone. His two children run around and pick leaves from a nearby plant to hand them out, pretending that they are money. They were sharing a lollipop, passing it between the two of them; eventually in a classic older sibiling move, the older kid crunched down on what was left while the other chased them around starting to cry at the unjust act. All was resolved and soon we had to hastily clean up as the clouds we were watching had grown and a curtain of rain was fast approaching.

I sit eating some leaf sauce as thanks for chopping some wood with the ax I had purchased earlier. The day was hot and I was already tired and drenched in sweat from my day in the garden, but was relieved at having some rest and a bite to eat. The woman went back to what she was doing, ocassionally answering my questions or asking if I needed more rice. At one point she carried a pair of pants from her two-year-old (I assume that is his age as it fits fits his chaotic mischevious energy). She give me a look and turns the pants sideways. They were so caked in dirt that they were as stiff as a board. I laugh and say the kids name and she smiles tiredly, and nods confirming the owner of the muddy pants.

Hannah and I are in a group. We meet some new people whom are visiting from Senegal and we try some new fruits (new to Hannah and I) which were in season. There were stories, laughing, and an intense discussion about the price of a mobile scooter models compared to motorcycles. The shadows were getting long and the the call for prayer echoes out across the village from the mosque. The men eventually got up and started to leave, but not in the direction of the mosque. "Where are you going? A woman chided. "To watch the (football) match" one of the men replied. "Don't you need to go pray?" She teased back to the group. "Eh... we will pray after!" They called back as they rushed of to find somewhere to watch the game.

So I suppose to describe the people briefly, yes, they are nice. Nice and normal. Before coming to Guinea, I didn't really think about what to expect. Differences, sure, I knew there would be many changes for me. I figured that due to cultural differences, people might be different than I was used to; but after I spent a significant time just...existing and living with our village, I found immense contentment that dispite being thousands of miles and a very long and bumpy taxi ride away...

People are still just people. Nice and normal.

The taxi rides in Guinea are overcrowded as a rule. Early in my time here, sitting in the Conakry volunteer house, I picked up a West Africa travel book. I flipped to Guinea curious what I could learn about my new home. In between reading about hotels in Conakry and sites to visit in Kankan, there was information about domestic travel; taxis and minibuses are Guinea’s version of Greyhound. They are how everyone gets everywhere. The book informed the reader that in Guinea taxi drivers sell nine tickets where other West African countries sell seven. The hatchbacks and wagons take two people in the front passenger seat, four across the middle row, and three passengers in a row of seats put in the trunk. Not noted in the book is that youth do not always count. Two adolescents might take the place of one adult and younger children go on laps. Quickly a reasonably cozy, slightly squished ride can turn into an over-stimulation nightmare as the 18 month old sitting on his mom’s lap next to me is pressing his feet into my legs and grabbing at my purse for six hours.

Some rides are more comfortable than others. While I can opt to buy extra tickets for more room, I do not always find it worth it1. Sometimes I find that the shoulder to shoulder seating braces me against the rocking of the car. Other times no amount of math with get the linear width of four adults to fit. When the taxi we had reserved seats in stopped to pick us up, it already looked full. As our bags were put in the trunk, the other passengers changed spots to accommodate us. We slid into the middle of the middle and as the fourth person got in there was nothing I could do but stand up to make space. I ended up sitting half on Sean’s lap and half on the strangers lap. I began shifting to try to find a way to not be sitting on him but he gave me a look that told me to stop. We are all in this together. It will be what it is.

One of many storms which has graced us so far this rainy season. An average representation of a storm I would think. We get rain most days now, commonly happening in the afternoon or later. There are some days where it is a light mist all day, perhaps one tiny sprinkle lasting 5 minutes, or maybe an absolute deluge where the footpath in front of our house becomes a river in a matter of minutes and stops just as suddenly. Fitting for the rains to be wild and unpredictable. I wonder if being on an elevated plateau has anything to do with it, as sometimes we can watch the cloud rise out of the valley before enveloping our village in rain or fog.

With the rain and clouds comes the lightshow as well. I am reminded of the storms from my home in Colorado with lightning that arcs and crashes. The rumbling booms that resonate in the air and buildings. However, perhaps we are in a charged hotspot, because it has surprised me how many strikes have felt nearby... well that, and the classic

flash-BOOM!!!

(Caution: The following slow motion video contains flashing lights)

Sean and I decided to capitalize on being in Dubreka and headed to the beach for a few days to decompress before returning home. It felt a bit odd to be vacationing. My vacations before Guinea were often motivated by exploration and having novel experiences. After six months in Guinea, I am still getting those things every single day. So, instead, this trip was motivated by being in a little bubble of familiarity. We got away from the interested eyes of our neighbors and the difficulty of communicating our needs in local languages and headed to Chez Fredo. There we chatted in English with each other and could have all of our needs met by using French. We played cards, read books, lounged, napped, and ate so much chicken and fries my cravings for Western food melted away. Just what I needed.

Oh… and Sean got a haircut!

However I was turned on my head when our spigot ran dry. I was pointed to another one not too far away. To muly surprise, that one had water! My confusion grew. Were these both from the tower? Was it a different source? As I pondered these, our valve was left open with a bucket under it so we could hear when the water returned. Sure enough as the sun set, the sounds of gushing water filled the bucket rapidly.

What was happeneing?!

The following days, I tried and failed to detect a pattern. Water came in the morning, the evening, and even midday after the sun was smothered by clouds. Was it a forgetful someone in control of a switch or just one of things you shrug at and quip "C'est la Guinée".

I squint my eyes at the spigot, my mind entertaining numerous 'what-ifs' as I wash our dishes with the bucket of water I squirrled away from the previous day. The mystery continues...

We did see him the next day at the market and exchanged hellos. Then we saw him a week later at a soccer game. I’d like to show you my village, he said.

He grew up in a village walking distance from our home. We are situated on the a ridge of a plateau with a beautiful valley to our west. From our house, it is a short walk to an overlook where we can see the panorama of rolling hills. From Alfa’s mom’s front veranda we looked out at this beautiful view. Upon showing up, he immediately fired up the ataaya and began making us some tea. In Guinea, hospitality is food. He shared ataaya, then mangoes, then fonio and sauce, then peanuts while we talked about life. That’s the problem, he would say after describing the rural exodus or an opinion on Guinean and African politics more generally. We talked about the difficulty of agricultural work, the challenges people face, and the importance of education. Once we finished eating, he took us to a stream where he swam as a child.

Sean and I were unprepared to get in but we noted the spot with the intention of returning another time. The trip to the stream was rushed as clouds began to form and threaten rain. On our walk back the clouds delivered and rain began to fall heavily. We ran from house to house staying under awnings during the worst of it while making progress back. The storm passed and as the afternoon light turned into the evening glow, we headed home.

Insecticide is a common solution, and chemical varieties are expensive. Price aside, the substances can be dangerous to the user, consumer, and benifitial insects in the environment. Potential solutions I learned about during my training were a handful of biologic insecticides. By using natural insect repelling plants like neem, papaya leaves, and a specific native seed casing; a biologic based insecticide can be made quite easily. It is cheaper and there are less health risks to the people involved.

Naturally I want to first give one of these recipies a shot and start protecting my garden. I would have preferred something with neem, but dispite days of searching I was not able to identify any wild trees nearby. The runnerup was a promising recipe I have heard good things about, with ingredients I did not expect would work.

The insecticide starts with spicy peppers, garlic, and ginger; all mashed together in a paste. Sugar, water, and alchohol are added which left me with something that looked a lot like salsa. The aroma had me drooling. Part of me wanted to season and cook something right away, but I had used some old produce that had started to spoil. Not great to eat, but perfect to use in the garden.

The last step is to let it sit, dilute down, then let sit some more. Unlike the kimchee we made as an experimental first try, my garden blend developed a bit more of a wild funk. As it fermented the smell soured and was soon pretty unplesant. A small price to pay in order to protect a garden. I'm a bit curious if the spice will linger on some of the future vegetables. I guess time will tell if they have a certain je ne sais quoi about the flavor.

The thunderstorms were something spectacular. After our sessions one afternoon, we decided to go to the market with Jenny. We hoped to be picked up by a taxi on the way but as car after car flew by us we soon resigned to walking the four kilometers. Looking out at the familiar mountains in front of us we saw ominous clouds brewing. The storm covered miles in minutes and soon the rain began. We scrambled under the nearest awning with all conversation drowned out by the heavy rain and rolling thunder. We stood and watched the roads turn to rivers as lightning flashed across the sky. As the storm passed and the pouring rain turned into a sprinkle, folks began to filter out from under roofs. We joined them and continued our way forward on foot. I don't see many umbrellas in Guinea. The general approach to staying dry when walking around is to find the nearest roof and stay under it to wait out the worst of the rain.

With the change to rainy season, I saw new critters out and about. Our first night at the training center we opened the door to two frogs hopping around and a big centipede crawling up my bag.

Thankfully we had no other critters in our room that week (that we know of). Walking through a grassy alley, we came upon two huge (fist-sized) snails. There were new moths, caterpillars, spiders, and bugs to be seen.

I enjoyed the novelty of being back. It was wonderful to see our training host family again, hear about other volunteers' experiences, and see Dubreka green and lush. Seemingly recognizing the significance of our departure, everyone will not be all together again for nine months, we were sent off with a bang. Around 5:30 am the morning of our departure everyone awoke to a blinding light and the sound of air ripping apart as the loudest thunder I've ever heard shook the building we slept in. My ears rang a little with the force of it. Others reported being certain they would see destruction when they finally emerged a few hours later. Instead, the grounds looked as tranquil as ever as we filed out to continue our adventures.

A mud hut is a neat little piece of engineering, with air flowing through the doors or in and out of the breathable roof. My hut, however, is ruined by the addition of a taut plastic tarpaulin to keep the bugs out (it doesn’t), making the hut an oven in an already roasting tropical savannah. It’s been a tough gig balancing the time and money required to fix my temperamental solar system and rapidly deteriorating, pest-infested hut while doing what I’m actually here to do.

As of this writing, my pest kill count stands at:

• 2 Whip Scorpions,

• 3 Mice,

• 3 Actual Scorpions,

• 5 Camel Spiders,

• 74 Cockroaches.

I include all the above whining not only as it is a great hobby of mine, but to give you an idea of the obstacles in the way before even starting work. Multiple scorpion stings on the finger/wrist/ass first thing in the morning tend to put a slight damper on the rest of the day, even worse if it’s also laundry day. I’m starting to think the local uncles are right and I should integrate properly, find a wife here for no other reason than to divide the chores. I’m pretty sure that whole “love” thing comes later anyways.

With a name roughly translating to “River of Sand”, you can picture the water situation at site, dire. Local farmers rely almost entirely on the rainy season to grow food, prioritizing cashews as a dry-season cash crop to buy food at the bigger markets. The main goal here is to help improve community diets. The Guinean government and the Peace Corps have targeted this issue by training us to plant heat-resistant trees like mangoes and oranges, with a major focus on moringa because of its many nutritional benefits.

Saluting any local here with a “Ça va?” inevitably results in the response of “Ça va un peu”, explained as things could always be better: More money, more children, more wives (Inshallah). This mindset pairs nicely with my mantra of “hope for the best, expect the worst” and means that making it through the day, cooking a meal, and taking a shower is a win in its own pathetic way.

The greatest perk of being assigned to an under-resourced village is that doing anything is technically an accomplishment. Nothing is really expected of me but there is so much to do. It’s already clear that my placement’s ultimate conflict will be the unstoppable force of my optimism meeting the immovable object of limited local assets.

Even with rock bottom expectations and more than the occasional day of festering inside my hut, the U.S. taxpayer will be pleased to know that I am hard at work. The “typical” agricultural work of starting various tree nurseries and running informative workshops is well under way but more exciting prospects lie in expanding into the agribusiness sector.

Although it can be a slog, meeting every bureaucrat within 20 miles (yes, even the sub-assistant to the deputy minister of lazing about) has certainly yielded results. I now work closely with a farmer cooperative producing honey and shea butter. My current fixation is aiming to get a peanut oil factory back online, whether or not this remains a pipe dream is anybody’s guess. These projects are particularly exciting, as the political and industrial infrastructure already exists, just waiting to be utilised. I’d like to think I have a chance to affect both small, local-scale and real regional change during my time here.

A stiff upper lip can only carry you so far; a masochistic personality, maybe a little further. Nothing gets done here without support, so one must play nice with others. To that point, I am surprised by, and grateful for the kindness and assistance from other volunteers and my community as a whole. All the hesitations I have about receiving help are always assuaged with an “On est ensemble”. To that, I say, I can’t wait to see what we can build together.

- Henry/Mohamed