The frat house at the end of the universe

I had a parade of commonplace experiences the other day. I woke off, stretched, and made a viciously strong cup of coffee to burn off the brain-fuzz that a couple cheap bottles of Spanish wine left in my head. I paced the house, picking up and pouring out the plastic cups full of booze into the sink, washing the dishes, straightening the furniture, and cleaning the floors before settling into a comfy couch with another coffee and a copy of the Economist. Nothing amiss, really - the aftermath of hundreds of evenings. This one, though, was in Conakry, the Guinean capital; not a place I had expected to be passing evenings playing tipsy rounds of apples-to-apples.

Here's how it came to pass. I was on my way in an overcrowded bush taxi to do some hiking in the little village of Doucki (more on that one in another entry) when we overtook a rather odd sight: a white fellow scurrying up the road on a mountainbike. It was odd enough to make our driver stop, and I chatted enough to figure out that he was an American Peace Corps volunteer based in the market town closest to Doucki. Our bush taxi being prone to troubles, we spent the rest of the 40 kms leapfrogging each other, until he rolled into the site only 10 minutes after I did. Justin (the volunteer's name) was a fine fellow who had picked up pretty solid command of Pulaar (the main local language) during his time working at the local health centre. After a time of the usual shit-shooting, he mentioned that he was headed down to Conakry to run some errands on the weekend, and did I maybe need a place to stay? The Peace Corps maintains "transit houses" at their national HQs for volunteers that need to come through the capital (almost all work in rural locales), and they can invite guests. Having failed to find anyone on Couchsurfing in Conakry, I was pretty pleased.

And so it came to pass that I rolled into Conakry on Saturday morning, killed the day eating chinese food and fiddling around on the internet, and after a long and complicated mission with a bewildered taxi driver (a Conakry universal), I found myself passing through the guarded gates and metal detector into the Peace Corps compound. The surrealness was just beginning. White SUVs with radio antennas were parked out front, while the house itself resembled a youth hostel - big dorms with air-con blasting, lounges with comfy sofas, a massive library of beat-up books, a kitchen, and a TV room where there was a continual movie playing. This all served as backdrop for a cast of characters that ran to around 20 people while I was there, as there was a conference on at the time.

Peace corps volunteers are stationed in little rural spots, usually alone, for 2 years. I have a lot of respect for their commitment - how many projects would do so much better with people who could stay that long? When they come in out of the sticks, though, it's all about the creature comforts, and largely about forgetting where they are - accomplished through care packages of snickers bars, delivery pizza, and an awful lot of beer. I certainly can't blame them, and I would be lying if I said that I didn't enjoy some good, solid vegetating on the couch. At home I'm a big putterer, and I must admit I've definitely missed pouring a glass of cheap wine and fussing in the kitchen, so that's exactly what I did. More importantly, it was nice to have some English-speaking company, especially with a bunch of varied backgrounds and a pile of local knowlege. Many of these people have lots to complain about - projects rarely go according to plan - and I drank it in. I'm still an inveterate optimist, and I find it damn hard to open my mind up to being bothered by anything here. It's a useful stance, as a traveller, but I do appreciate being filled in on the frustrations Guinea has to offer to others. Some of them I'll never share; I was, for example, the only dissenter in a hate-session against Guinean coffee (which I love). Others, though, I know well enough. Bureaucracy and the frustrations of the NGO world, corruption in Guinea, and all the sorts of personal struggles that come from being a long time away from home. On the downside, a big house full of short-term guests coming to let loose a bit definitely began to resemble the never-ending house parties of years past. Odd.

Was this a way of experiencing the "Real Conakry"? Not a chance. But the walled off compound full of white people is as much a part of the African cultural landscape as anything else. It's a world I usually view with some distaste - and I still will relentlessly mock all white land cruisers - but at the end of the day, a lot of important stuff happens behind walls just like that. The peace corps isn't the big spender that other NGOs are, of course, but in sending people out to rural locales, it is much more the face of the West. In Guinea, where few travellers go (I wouldn't be surprised if I'm the only backpacker in the country right now), I am continually assumed to be American, as they are the only white faces that really pop up outside the capital.

In any case, I'm not about to judge anyone for needing a few days off from the grime and grind of daily life. As much as we become comfortable with local norms - and I think I'm fairly far along this path, as travellers go - we remain foreigners. There's no point in denying that spaghetti, dvds, and heineken are more familiar to us than peanut sauce on the street. I certainly felt the battery-charge effects of all of it, and for the first few days in Conakry, was quite content. The days stretched, though (I was waiting for a visa), and even though I spent lots of time wandering the town, life in Peace Corps land was making me antsy. After 6 nights in Conakry, I finally bailed out back into the highlands for a bit of solitude, hiking, and 70 cent meals on the street - and it kinda felt like home.
Peace
Josh