English Lessons with Mr. Sylla

I’ve been doing English lessons with Mr. Sylla, the local representative of the National Tourism Office.  He already knows quite a bit of English—vocabulary and grammar—but, like many adult learners, doesn’t like to use what he’s got because he knows he’ll make some mistakes when he speaks.  I’m not very well qualified to do this kind of teaching; I can explain how to say things but not why.  Not the why of the grammar rules, and not the why of practicing speaking even when you’re unlikely to need to communicate with someone in English.  We do have a fair number of tourists coming through who aren’t fluent in French… but very few of them find their way to Mr. Sylla’s office, across the street from the prefecture, in a building that still bears the signage of a community bank.  Mostly the tourists stay at the hotels in Tangama, pass through the market and the bush taxi station, and sometimes come to ALDET’s tourism center in Tangama, but I’ve never yet come across anyone anywhere near Mr. Sylla’s quiet office in the slowly decomposing bank. 

Still, he wants to learn, so we practice together, on Mondays and Thursdays.  We’re trying to make our way through Bill Bryson’s “I’m a Stranger Here Myself,” about moving back to the US as an adult.  It’s a good text—his writing style is informal, closer to the way people speak, and the topics are easy to relate to—but—we’re still only on page 3.  We read a little, he struggles through translation, I explain weird words, and then we try to have a conversation about what we’ve read.  Not much progress on getting Mr. Sylla to express himself—he likes to answer questions, not pose them, and tends toward one-sentence replies—but I’m enjoying learning more about his life and this town through all the questioning. 

Yesterday we read a bit on going to the hardware store, so we chatted about hardware stores and home maintenance.  Mr. Sylla’s favorite hardware store is Alhassane’s, kitty corner to the hospital—but—he’s never actually bought anything there.  Anything.  So I switched to another line of questioning.  His last home repair was to fix the steps in front of his house and also some cracks in the kids’ room with cement.  His house is owned by the government (most government employees get their housing this way), he pays no rent, and he got no choice: he was given the house that his Tourism predecessor lived in.  Does he like it?  “I have no choice.” 

Last week we’d talked about Dalaba town.  Bryson talks about why he and his wife chose the town they moved to:  good schools, walkable downtown, nice restaurants, a college campus, a good public library.  Oddly enough (this is why I love Bryson’s book for this purpose), Dalaba’s got all these things, too.  I was surprised, though, at which ones were most important to Mr. Sylla.  Turns out he spends a lot of time at the library (each morning, he goes there to read.  Each afternoon, he goes to play cards.  I’m not sure where he fits in his official work for the Department of Tourism, but this seems pretty normal here.  I’m recalling a conversation with another volunteer talking to someone higher up in the Tourism department, about getting official admission tickets for the governor’s mansion.  “If we printed tickets,” this man reportedly said, “More tourists would visit.  And that would degrade the mansion, which is a historical site.”  There are so many false connections in those phrases that I don’t even want to start picking it apart.  But you get the general attitude of this department.)  Back to Mr. Sylla.  He knows all the restaurants in town—but he’s never dined at any of them.  “My wife cooks.”  He knows all the movie theaters in town (little cafes that show a lot of football (soccer) and movies in Pulaar), but he’s never been to one.  “I have a TV at home.”  I asked Mr. Sylla what attracted him to Dalaba, what made him want to move here.  “I had no choice,” he said.  “I was assigned here.” 

Too many questions end with that response.  “I had no choice.” 

Apres les elections...

It’s been a while since the last blog post.  I keep waiting for the elections to be over, so that I can write good news.  So, the elections were supposed to have been September 24^th; then they got moved to the 28^th.  The results are supposed to be out within 72 hours, according to the constitution.  It’s more than a week later and we’re still waiting.  

Waiting is boring.  It’s frustrating.  It’s stressful.  And it’s something that Guineans are much better at than I.  I’m starting to lose patience already, wondering if I should give up on this, move back to America.  But people here have been waiting for these elections for years.  All their frustrations with government are supposed to wait until there’s a legislature in place; the truth is, everyone knows that even this doesn’t mean an easy solution.  The government is deeply dysfunctional, and one round of elections won’t solve much.  It’s just a start.  

And so my neighbors are much better than I at keeping this in perspective: yes, they vote; yes, they follow the news; they care deeply about the results.  But in the mean time, they plant cold-season vegetable crops; harvest their potatoes and fonio; plan weddings; celebrate the births of new babies.  They talk about who’s sick with malaria and who has the wretched cold that’s going around.  They think about whether or not they can afford new school uniforms and notebooks and also new shoes for the little kids—it’s amazing how fast the little kids grow.  

So I’m trying to learn to just keep going, to let drop all the things that really do depend on elections, and stay focused on the things that keep going.  In lieu of election results, here’s the news: 

Tierno, Azizou and Salimatou’s youngest, has learned to crawl.  He and his mother went to Conakry a few weeks back to retrieve Habi, their oldest girl, from her summer vacation with relatives there.  While he was gone, he became mobile: not only does he scoot across the floor on all four with lightning speed, he also can pull himself up on furniture and cruise around the room on his own two feet, so long as he’s got something to hold onto.  With his new mobility comes new risks: he’s already got a good collection of bumps and scratches on his head.  

In Sebhory, Tierno Boubacar, the tailor whose workshop is next to Mariama’s house, has gotten married to Jarai, his sweetheart and former apprentice.  I arrived for the wedding on Thursday and managed to find three of the parties: I skipped the one in Pouké at the bride’s house, but still got to help out with some of the cooking in the courtyard of my old house.  Riz au graz Fouta-style is good: lots of cabbage, potatoes, and hibiscus leaves on top.  Alas, I left before the bride arrived, but on my way out of town, I saw the wedding procession: three cars filled with friends and family, horns blaring, weaving back and forth across the road, followed by a cloud of motorcycles.  My camera is still somewhere in Sebhory: I lent it to Tierno Boubacar to record the excitement.  Today he’ll bring it to market and we’ll transfer the pictures and video to a memory card.

Here in Dalaba, we’re still waiting for the triumphant return of the ice cream machine.  It’s been ailing for weeks now, and last week was sent off to Conakry for repairs.  Its much anticipated return has been leapfrogging the election results: first last Sunday, then Thursday, then today.  Still no sign of it.  Perhaps I’ll be able to track down the man who brings a cooler full of bright pink sherbert to market every once and a while.  

Tourist season should be starting, but, you know, elections.  Still, guests are making reservations for November, and the guides at ALDET are getting ready to receive visitors at the newly refurbished Case de Tourisme.  We’re slowly acquiring handmade local goods to sell, and the tree nursery is growing.  This last week we planted 30 avocado trees, a bunch of Moringa cuttings, and some more cuttings from ornamental flower bushes in the neighborhood.  In a few years, we will have the most gorgeous yard in all of the Tangama neighborhood— now we just need to find some more tree seeds.  Flowers alone are not enough to combat deforestation.  

School started last Thursday, which means people might actually start studying on Monday.  My favorite girl in the whole Fouta Djallon, Hassanatou, is starting first grade in Sebhory this year: her older sister Manimba is entering fifth grade at the Sebhory school, instead of returning to Pita where she studied last year.  Mama Jiwo, Ousoumani’s bride, is going into ninth grade (which makes her sound really young by American standards; she’s actually 17), but she’s supposed to start school in Conakry, and, you know, the elections.  

In the absence of other meaningful work, Christina and I did some cultural exchange yesterday: brought our hand-drawn board games to Kenny’s Fast Food, the open-air restaurant on the paved road.  We played Nine Men’s Morris and Volga Bulgars and Dalmation Pirates (also known as Fox and Geese) until we attracted attention from some of the regular customers: then we explained the rules, invited new players, and eventually turned over the game boards to the crowd.  Much fun: we found a young man who’s just as competitive as Christina about board games, and watched as he picked up the rules immediately and smashed the competition.  We sent him home with the games—they’re just done on flip chart paper and easy to remake.  Now I need to track down some other easily transferred games: Christina’s thinking about starting a club and tournament at the local middle school.