A Story Book Ending

                It’s now been six months since I returned from Guinea. Going along with the barrage of clichéd feelings I’m experiencing, I must admit change is hard. Since leaving Guinea, I’ve seen 10 other countries, rediscovered my loving family, started two jobs, applied to grad school, and I’ve never been so restless in my entire life.

                I may post another, more cathartic, blog in the future, but I still want to keep my promise to my “readers” (I think they’re out there) about staying positive. So instead of a weepy, emotion-filled story about my feelings, I’m going to write about a weepy, emotion-filled story about my students and my last day of school.

                It’s no secret that teaching was not my true calling in Guinea, but I dedicated no less time or effort because of that. My school was my primary goal and I did my best to keep it that way, though malaria work was a close second. The students of Le Collège de Wonkifong still spent two full school years with me, and for my 8^th-10^th graders that was a lot of time. I went from a scrambled mess of papers and chalk dust to a composed educator striving to reach my students and push them to achieve more. I can remember so many instances of walking away from a full day of teaching just feeling defeated and wondered whether anyone learned anything that day. After my last walk home from school, I’ll never wonder that again.

                The day started like any other, I woke up, ate some oatmeal, drank my instant coffee and left Monkey asleep in the living room. Heading to school I knew that it was probably my last day. I say “probably” because the end date of classes in Guinea isn’t a firework-finale like we know it in the States. Instead, the students gradually stop showing up until the teachers give up teaching and admit that there are no more exams for the year. On this particular day, I figured I’d be one of a few teachers to actually show up. I found I was wrong, I was the only teacher there that day. With the lack of educators, I combined all of 10^th grade (normally two classes of about 45) with all of 9^th grade (one class of normally 55) to make up one class of 45 students.

                Feeding off of my excitement for the culmination of two years of teaching, I had spent the few days prior trying to think of fun activities followed with an Oscar winning speech for a “drop the mic and walk away” moment. I had nothing. As I began the class, I kept to routine and wrote the “Warm-up Activity” on the board. These questions are normally pretty easy, based off of what I had taught the week before, and most of all, made up on the fly. I began writing an English question about articles and verbs when I thought of a better question: “Qu’est-ce que vous avez appris de Monsieur Issiaga?” (What have you learned from Mr. Issiaga?) I explained that I wanted them to write what they had learned from me over the past two years. Not just chemistry and English but anything at all. I followed it up with the fact that I wouldn’t read their responses until I was back home in America. I was proud to see most students putting in a lot of effort to their responses. A few even asked if they could use more than half a sheet of paper, which was the standard for Warm-up Activities. I gave them extra time, using it instead to collect my thoughts and plan last hour as Mr. Issiaga.

Please ignore the mustache.

                I passed around a manila envelope for their responses and sealed it in front of them. The only fully planned activity for the day was to read the story of Cinderella. Thanks to the efforts of other volunteers who had organized a “mini-book” project, I was able to provide paper versions of the story for every student. We read it through together and I identified difficult words. Despite the story being written in French, many students still struggled to follow the action, so I would pause to retell major parts of the tale. I had promised myself that it would be a fun and happy day but I still ended up scolding multiple students- bad habits are hard to break.

                After the story was done, I knew it was no use trying to keep them much longer. I joked around with them for a bit then felt I had their attention enough to give my little speech. Based off of my earlier question, I began to tell them what I hoped they had learned from me.

                                “To all of you, I hope you have learned some chemistry and some English. I hope you’ve learned that education is important and that it can lead you to something better than what you have now.

                                To the girls, I hope you have learned that I believe in you. That you are as smart and as important as any boy in this classroom. I hope I’ve inspired you to reach higher because I know what you are capable of when you try your hardest. ***eyes starting to tear up***

                                To the boys, I hope I’ve taught you respect. How to respect each other, how to respect the girls, and how to respect yourself. ***voice rising as I hold back tears***

                                I hope that you all will never forget me because you have taught me so much and I know I will never forget you. No matter where I go, I will always remember my students from Le Collège de Wonkifong. ***crying**”

                I took a depth breath to collect myself before I went to grab my bag. As I stood still for a few seconds, I noticed how many students, boys and girls, were crying with me. This touched me deeply, knowing how hard it is for Guineans to weep. They cry out all the time, but to come to tears is something that makes them thoroughly uncomfortable. But now, I had students openly crying at their desks. Finally, one student raised his hand timidly. A bit surprised, I called on Alseny Mariama Camara. He asked me if he could give me a hug. Laughing, I said of course, explaining that a group hug would be totally normal for this situation in America. I was quickly surrounded by the entire class. Each pushing in closer trying to give me an individual hug. I can’t express how I felt in that moment, just the best feeling.

                Breaking away after 5 minutes of hugs, I grabbed my bag and went to the main office to calm down and chat with my principal/counterpart Mr. Pepé. I resurfaced after I felt like my eyes weren’t so puffy and saw that all my students were still in the classroom I left them in. I should have suspected but they were all waiting for the photo opportunity that I had denied them for the past two years. The cell-phone photo shoot lasted 45 minutes.

           
                I photographed my last walk home and then sat on my porch like I would have on any other day. But this time I sat and reflected on the greatest feeling of accomplishment and pride that my students had given me that day.

               

Unexpected Homecoming

As most of you know, because by the time I get this blog post up it'll have been close to a month, I am home.

I've titled this post "Unexpected Homecoming" for many obvious, and some not-so obvious reasons, and --bearing in mind that the introduction to any piece of writing is always the hardest-- I'm going to use the obvious reasons as a spring-board to my not-so obvious reasons.

Unexpected. It's the easiest word to describe my departure from Guinea. I was returning from a standard trip to Coyah where I saw friends, stopped by the cyber cafe, and ate random street food to make up a lengthy 12-course lunch. I rode my bike back at a normal pace listening to my obsolete iPod on shuffle to drown out the more-than-occasional "FOTE!" I wasn't knocked out of normalcy until I arrived back home and passively checked my phone while watching Monkey celebrate his freedom by chasing my neighbors chickens. It was then that I noticed my screen was filled with the ominous:

"1 Nouvelle SMS"

"PC CD"

Numb to the intermittent messages from my boss, I opened the text assuming I'd glance over some health related warning and move on. Instead, I read the text. I read it again. I read it a third time still unsure of its seriousness but already feeling its gravity. I can't quote the text verbatim but to paraphrase: "PC Washington says time to get out." My candor on this issue is reflected in my summary, please assume that my Country Director handled it with more poise. 

I could continue to write out my sad little tale with a detailed day-by-day description but I'm going to do my best to stick to the mantra I chose when I started this blog; that is, to tell you all the truth but to avoid depressing rants. Yes, the days following that text were very hard. Five days of saying goodbye and finding that it still wasn't enough? Ok, really hard, but despite the somber tone of that weekend we all managed through, because we're Peace Corps Volunteers. No matter how long ago we signed up to go to Guinea, we signed knowing that it wasn't going to be easy. 

Unexpected. Once again I was surprised by the situation I was in, particularly, during the last 2 hours of my flight from Paris to Detroit. Up until that flight I had been comforted by the company of other volunteers, but once they left it was just me, sleep deprivation, and the greatest urge to time travel forward that I've ever experienced. Although the aforementioned sleep deprivation and two airplane bottles of Jack Daniels' -- always smile at your flight attendants -- knocked me out for a good proportion of that flight, my nerves keep me wide awake and jittery when the Captain announced our descent into Detroit. The rest of my journey was simple, but getting off that plane knowing that my Peace Corps service was finished seemed like a pretty daunting task. 

Again, the progression of the story is predictable, which is not the theme of today's lesson, so I will jump forward once more (I guess blog posts are an instance when time travel is acceptable). 

Unexpected. For a guy who knows himself to a reasonable extent, I've grown acclimated to the fact that my Mediterranean blood makes me susceptible to any range of emotions and their accompanying physical representations, i..e. I'm a man who cries. Knowing that, I've prided myself in keeping it together throughout this carnival ride of emotions, again, to a relative extent. But mon dieu! it is not at all what I had anticipated! I knew I'd be behind on pop culture references, technology, TV shows, and any number of other news-worthy topics because I left for Guinea and, despite my requests, the world didn't stop. I never thought I'd feel so far away while sitting in my childhood room. It's such a depressing sentence, I know, forgive me, but this time around I'm not on a brief vacation back home; it's a homecoming.

So as I fumble through the tangibles of "what I missed", please, please, puh-lease, give me time to catch up on the intangibles. I don't know how long it will take and I don't even know what it will take, but I'm definitely in a weird place right now. I'm comforted by food, friends, my bed and, of course, my family, but there's a lot I'm still absorbing. 

To summarize, my departure was unexpected. The intensity of my nerves upon arrival was unexpected. Feeling readjustment to an anxious degree was unexpected. But you've read this far, and maybe even for the past two years, so be there when my blog posts turn into over-dramatic re-tellings, because that's expected.   

My Failed Spring Break

The guys of Team Minimal Effort

My experience as a teacher here in Guinea has had many ups and downs, yes, but one guarantee for both my first and second year is that one great benefit of being a teacher: vacation time. Flights to West Africa are not cheap and I know that I may not be back for many years to come, thus, to take full advantage of my time off, I planned a big trip to Sierra Leone with three other volunteers. Lots of other Guinea PCV’s have taken trips to Freetown and their photos and stories make quite the argument for calling Sierra Leone a “must-see” while in West Africa. My group had made all the necessary plans, filled out the required papers, and dealt with the insanely rude staff at the Leonean embassy. We had a hotel booked in Freetown and plans to spend 4 nights at a surf camp on a beach outside of the big city as well. We were only waiting on the final meeting at the Leonean embassy when everything got ruined, RUINED BY EBOLA!

                

Sunrise beats sunset every time.

Yes, Ebola, the disease that put Guinea on the world stage for the first time in years, if only for a few weeks. I do not want to make light of a tragic and scary breakout, but I also refuse to join in on the sensationalist rhetoric that creates panic where clear reasoning should prevail. In brief, the Ebola virus found in Guinea is different than other strains found in other African countries (also, I think it’s worth mentioning that those other countries are really far away). The Ebola strain found in Guinea has a different fatality rate but still manifests with the same symptoms. Now the hard truth, it’s honestly difficult to contract Ebola if one takes the minimum of proper precautions. I don’t have any contact with the dead or dying and thus my risk is quite low. And despite this clear lack of threat, my group and I were denied access to Sierra Leone. I won’t explain the politics behind the decision, but just add my vacation plans to the casualty list. After one brief meeting with my boss, my spring break plans were wiped clean.

Looking out towards the ocean          

Without our surf and sun plans in Freetown, we were left without direction for a few days. We passed them by watching continual episodes leading to full season’s worth of TV shows that we’ve missed out on while being in Guinea. After finishing a season of vampire-themed show I wouldn’t like to admit I watched, our doctor recommended we do something. We had tried making replacement plans but everything seemed to involve too much effort. We finally worked up our meager strength to make a day trip out to the islands off the end of the peninsula that Conakry sits on.

               

Despite our clear lack of motivation, the day started quickly right when we got in the boat on the way to the islands. It was a slow 45 minute ride over to the farthest island called Rhume, but the ride was gorgeous. The views off the near coast of Conakry were both gorgeous and disappointing. It was a bit sad to see such natural beauty interrupted by a mass of industrial sized cranes indicating the large port of Conakry.

Luckily, on the islands, there’s enough of a distance and land mass between you and the port that all you can see for miles in any direction is open water. I can honestly say, I’ve never been in a more tranquil and relaxing place in my life. The beach was clean, the beer was cold (enough), and the waves were rolling. We spent the entire afternoon playing in the surf and sleeping on the sand; a true beach paradise. The night somehow managed to meet the high bar the day had set, starting with an amazing dinner of fresh crab and fish cooked specially for us. We awed at the amount of seafood set in front of us and relished in its deliciousness. We followed that up with a bonfire and drum circle on the beach with 13 volunteers and 5 Rasta Guineans, I’ve never felt more Peace Corps Hippie in my life. We sadly left the islands after one night but I’ll do my best to block out the wasted days of TV watching with the memorable perfect day we had out on the islands.

Tropical paradise. 

So there it is. A massive vacation plan squashed and almost lost to the crevices of a decent couch, resurrected by clean beaches and complete disconnection on a not too remote island. I’m not giving up my quest to attempt to surf Freetown’s lovely beaches but it’ll have to wait until school is over!

Spanish Interlude

We were learning together.

When I made the vocal agreement to serve in the Peace Corps, I knew that to some extent I was agreeing to be super isolated, at least as far as my contact with the Western world goes. What I did not account for is my random encounters with other travelers. It was ignorant for me to think that I’d see no one besides Peace Corps volunteers because in the grand scheme of things, I’m not that isolated, but my point of view from the States was just that, ignorant. I’m still surprised, and probably overly excited, when I do run into the occasional foreigner in my little area. I’m the only volunteer in my prefecture (think county) and thus I’m not accustomed to seeing others in my area but at the same time, my village is off the road between Conakry and Freetown, the capitals of Guinea and Sierra Leone, respectively.

               

Alya. This man kills it on the balafon (instrument in front of him)

The most recent encounter I’ve had with other Westerners was by far the most extraordinary. Normally, if I do pass by the occasional tourist, it’s in Coyah, a big suburb near my village. This last visit was special because not only did I run into two very nice musicians but they were staying in MY VILLAGE! I couldn’t believe it. For a week before hand, I had noticed the addition of drumming disturbing the normally quiet ambiance of my village. So one day I decided to investigate. It’s pretty standard practice for anyone just to wander wherever he or she likes in Guinea. Many of the neighborhoods consist of houses pushed close together without too many specific routes in and out, thus passing by someone’s house is never perceived as intrusive. Using that and my special treatment as the village white guy, I walked straight to the source of the drumming.

The dancers of the group. They're really good!

When I turned the last corner of a house I found a small group of musicians and dancers. Two of which, I quickly identified as foreigners. Turns out that Hector, a Spaniard, and his wife from Mexico, Najeli, were taking some time to learn traditional Guinean dance and drum from one of the most talented artists I’ve come across here in Guinea. His name is Alya and the man is a boss in front of a balafon, a naturally made xylophone with a beautiful hollow sound.  Along with his friends, the group was practicing multiple hours a day, which if you’ve seen Guinean dance and felt a true djembe, a Guinean bongo-esque drum, you will understand how impressive that is. I did not attempt to join in on the dancing, it is a very athletic style and mostly left to women (at least the style they were practicing was). So to be part of the team, I tried my hand at drumming. I found out quickly that my hand is way too soft for drumming. Throughout my entire life I’ve shook the hands of masons (my uncles and cousins normally) and known how rough they are, but frankly, the hands of a Guinean drummer make them feel Downy soft. Shaking Alya’s tremendously callused hand was like grabbing a mitten that’s covered in sand paper. Knowing I wouldn’t last long on the drum, I was happy to take a break when they asked if I would film them. I obliged quickly and put on my best impression of a professional cameraman. It ended up being a lucky job on my part because now I have 35 minutes of true Guinean dance and drum in HD quality!

The fun didn’t stop there. When Hector heard that I lived nearby and that I have the basics of a Western kitchen, he insisted on cooking some Spanish cuisine for me and the group, if I would host. Since getting back to Guinea after my trip home in August, I’ve lost all motivation for creative meals and have contented myself to a routine of peanut butter/banana sandwiches and hard-boiled egg sandwiches. It follows that I was super pumped to have someone cook a good meal for me. Despite his ambitions, Hector only achieved something close to cuisine (due to the lack of ingredients) and, at the request of Alya, he added spaghetti into the mix where it clearly didn’t belong. Overall, it wasn’t Spanish cuisine, but it was good.

Mr. Issiaga is the "Cool" Teacher

During my two years of teaching in Guinea, I’ve attempted in many ways, through conversations and analogies, to convey our different approach to education in the States but I can’t help feeling that they never quite grasp what I’m talking about. In the same way, I don’t assume that anyone back home will really get a true image of my school without seeing it for themselves. With this in mind, I was happy to participate in bringing the American tradition of Spelling Bees to my school. A group of education volunteers took it upon themselves to organize a country-wide Spelling Bee via our already existing volunteer network. I had no reason not to join in and I knew that it would be a good way to get kids more excited about education.

I held three individual competitions for the 8^th, 9^th, and 10^th grades. The top two winners of the 10^th grade competition (clearly the strongest spellers) were also chosen to attend the Regional Competition in Kindia. My two winners were Mariama Abdoulaye Bangoura and Mohamed M’Mah Camara. I was happy to see that Mariama came out on top, because we always try to keep things equal between the boys and girls but fairness for fairness sake isn’t always just—if you don’t know what I mean by that, ask. Circumventing that thought entirely, Mariama won and Mohamed got second place so off to Kindia we went. ----I need to add here, to clarify who these students are, that 10^th graders here are normally 16-20 years old. Both of my two representatives are 18. Mariama even has a three year old, named Mafoudia, a cute little girl who surprisingly wasn’t afraid of me and instead attached herself to my hip. Before leaving, I had to clear the trip with the student’s families, as well as Mariama’s husband/fiancé/baby daddy.

It was a weekend affair for my students and I, being as Kindia isn’t too far. I have made this journey more times than I can recall at this point and thus its novelty was lost on me, but it made quite the impression on my students. I forget that despite how much smaller Guinea is than the US, Guineans do not travel too often and many have never left their native villages. I enjoyed answering my students as they asked endless questions with wide eyes gazing out the windows. It was in the middle of this ride when, Mariama, in between questions, told me how “cool” I was for taking her to Kindia and for knowing so much about Guinea. I smiled, humbled by my student’s awe, and laughed at myself for officially reaching the status of “the cool” teacher.

The competition took half the day to wind down but unfortunately it ended quite early on for my two representatives. Mariama and Mohamed lost during the second round. My heart went out to them and did my best to show them that I was still very proud of their efforts. Mariama even texted me from her seat as the competition continued, “Monsieur, I’m disappointed.” Comforting a student from the role of a chaperone is a bit tricky in the Guinean context, mostly because they don’t hug often here, at least not in the same situations that we do back home. So I told her how proud she should be for making it this far and for being the only girl to make it to the regional competition. The additional events of the afternoon helped her to forget the loss and enjoy the experience.

The rest of the weekend was a bit of a struggle for me as a stomach flu fatigued my whole Saturday. Sharing bowls of rice with small children will almost guarantee that. In the end, both of my students really enjoyed getting the opportunity to travel, to meet other students, and to meet other volunteers. Personally, I’m glad that I got a chance to hang with two of my better students and get to know their personalities a little better. School uniforms stifle my chance to see what kind of style they have but seeing them outside of school was a good way to see their true selves for once. I may not have gone home with a trophy but I was quite proud of my two competitors. I guess chaperoning isn’t too bad.

WOFA comes to Wonkifong

Through this blog I’ve done my best to show friends and family back home a little bit of what I see everyday living in my little village, Wonkifong. If you’ve read any of my blogs there is almost always one or two references to someone’s surprise, shock, or disbelief at seeing a white American guy wander through their village. The reactions vary from levels of “check this out” all the way to “NO EFFING WAY! THAT’S A WHITE GUY! SERIOUSLY GUYS, EVERYONE COME LOOK!” I want to stress that this is my experiences but it’s also a within reason generalization for a villager’s reaction to one, only one, foreigner. Now take those reactions and multiply them by a group of 15! That’s what I got to see this year when a group of high school students from Massachusetts came to stop by.

                



Wofa and my students!



For about 6 months prior to the planned visit, I had been in contact with one of Wofa’s lead chaperone. She had put up a post on a PC Guinea facebook group, explaining that her group was planning a trip to Guinea and would love to meet some students around the same age. I loved the idea of setting up pen-pals for my students and then the amazing opportunity for them to meet their pen-pals! That would have been enough for me to get on board but then the group sweetened the deal when I found out that they were not your average group of Guinea-enthused high schoolers (everyone knows that group right?) but a group of dancers and drummers who specialize in Guinean traditional music. I couldn’t believe it. If you know me at all, you know my passion for dance and this helped to push me to make something amazing happen with this incredible group.

                

As Wofa’s impending visit got closer, I did what I could to facilitate the letter exchange between the two groups of students separated by an ocean and a language barrier. Before the group even landed in Conakry, my students all had the names of their assigned pen-pal memorized, well they knew how to write their names, pronunciation was still a work in progress. In their defense, I don’t know many French speakers who would pronounce Wyatt, Iris or even Ryan in the American way, at least clearly. Despite these, and many other, linguistic problems, my students were very excited to receive their pen-pals in their own village.

                



Improvised drums!



Wofa got to my village in the late afternoon where a decent crowd of students was mixed with other interested village neighbors waiting in the community center. The group stopped by my house first to prep as best they could after their morning travels. They ended up using my empty buckets and bidons (big water container) as improvised drums and the dancers started to stretch out the cramps of the bus ride over. The students and their chaperones were a bit nervous upon arriving but all worries subsided as they entered the community center amidst the claps and cheers of a sizable audience. The group wasted no time and got the performance started right away. After a shortened version of their full show, the mic was passed off to Wofa’s leader, Alpha Bisko Kaba. Once I met Bisko, I understood the group’s origins much better. I admit Guinean dance is complex and beautiful but I couldn’t understand how a dance troupe from suburban Massachusetts picked it up for their focus. Bisko is originally from Guinea and leads the group of dancers at a local arts-focused high school.  

               

The event ended with the two groups of pen-pals meeting on stage. Everyone involved played along like good sports despite the language barrier between the two groups. Inspired by the initial performance, my students insisted on dancing for their new American friends. They all clapped and laughed along as a few key students took the spotlight for a few minutes. To end the day, my students told me they wanted to sing for the group as well. So without needing more than the go-ahead from me, my student’s busted out the one English song they all knew: Nas’ “I Can.”  Wofa was clearly shocked to hear the opening phrases of a dated hip-hop song come from my students with confidence.

“I know, I can

Be what I want to be,

If I work hard at it,

I’ll be where I want to be!”

-Nas “I Can”

Even though the group had to rush back to Conakry before losing the daylight, I got to see Wofa once more the next week at a special performance at the American Ambassador’s house. I was pretty shocked to get such a special invite, but also I was happy that I’d get to pass off the newest batch of letters in person. After watching their set for a second time, I got a chance to chat with Wofa a little more. I spent the better part of the evening talking with the group and the one thing I could not get out of my head was the realization that I was nowhere near this cool when I was in high school. I definitely did not have the guts to fly off to Africa let alone dance, sing, and drum while interpreting hand signals accompanied by phrases in Sussu. I was quite impressed.

I never got a great opportunity to thank Wofa for their willingness and courage to visit a random Peace Corps volunteer. Thanks Wofa, you’ve truly made memories for my students, for my village and most of all for me. I nu wali.

It Doesn’t Look Like Christmas Part 2: New Year’s Glory

 Though our little traveling group had already crossed the entire country over a three day span, the journey continued. The second leg of our adventure took us from the southernmost point of Guinea to almost the northernmost. Much like our trip down, the trip up looked daunting but went for the “Band-Aid” technique and tried to get it done as fast as possible. It started with an 18 hour drive from Lola to Mamou. Once again, we bought out the entire taxi so we sat comfortably and I even watched a movie as all my friends slept. It was a nice moment, reminiscent of long car rides with my family – everyone sleeps except for the driver and me who occasionally exchange glances of “whew, almost there…”

La Dame de Mali

Part of the reason for our rush up country was to make it in time for a fun New Year’s Eve party. Coincidentally, I was spending New Year’s 2014 in the same place as 2013: Labé. The crowd was a bit different but a great time was had. If only for a few hours, we felt very American while playing beer pong and other drinking games after having pizza for dinner. I realize I just drew a sad picture of American life but that’s what I miss sometimes.

The real reason we forced ourselves to drive so far so quickly was to make it to another grand installment of Coup de Pied Contre le Palu (Kick Against Malaria – the same soccer event I hosted in my village back in April 2013). This time the game was being held in the beautiful, but secluded, village of Mali-Yembering, which is home to La Dame de Mali. It’s a would-be tourist attraction that features a cliff side that resembles like a woman looking off in the distance. The folklore comes with sexist undertones of female obedience, but it’s a beautiful natural site by any standard.

The weekend started with a quick trip to La Dame de Mali but she was hardly the main attraction. Our first full day in Zac and Caitie’s village was highlighted by a “friendly” basketball game in the evening. I would not declare myself a basketball player but I would declare myself competitive, sometimes overly, thus I went for it. It was fun to play a different game with Guineans being as it’s almost always futbol.

Victor's wear maize.

The next day we prepped ourselves for the big game. After the loss in my own village I was determined to turn it around for Zac, who was a week away from the end of his service. Getting our matching jerseys pumped us up as we walked over to the big dust bowl that serves as the city’s stadium. With perseverance, luck, and some help from three Guinean ringers, the American team came up with a 3-1 win! I couldn’t believe it but the scoreboard tells no lies. Again for those following at home, that puts the American team at 2 wins and 1 loss thus far; and there are an impressive four more games coming up in the next month!

The game was followed up by a Malaria Fair at the Maison des Jeunes (Youth House) complete with DJ. The night started with a slam poem from the local youth group’s leader who opened for the group’s sketch on malaria. We then lead a crowd of close to 100 teens through an eight booth fair showcasing all the important pieces of malaria prevention. The first stall they all visited featured a "Promise Banner". In signing the banner, the participants were promising to do their part to protect their community by sleeping under their net every night. It seemed like they were having a good time but the fair may have been out-shined by the dance that followed. Overall, we got our message out there and informed lots of teens on vital malaria prevention skills.

Presenting the "Promise Banner"

The next day I started my trek back to Wonkifong, which took a few extra days than normal. I had already agreed to give a malaria session to the newest group of volunteers, thus I passed up my own village to head to Dubreka. After all was said and done I had traveled more in two weeks than most Guineans do in their lives, and I was ready for a vacation from my vacation. I loved every step of that journey but I don’t think that my next vacation will be as active as this one. I’m thinking beaches.

Any who, that was my second, and final, Christmas vacation in Guinea. All I can hope is that my next Christmas will involve snow and, more importantly, my first family. With that said, I’m glad I got to spend such a nice time with my second family - my Peace Corps Family.