The Colonial Treatment

Okay, now for a funny one.

I visited Dalaba, Guinea last week, one of the smaller cities in the Fouta Djalon region. The Fouta is an area in West Africa unique to Guinea. The high plateau is called Le Chateau de l'Afrique Occidental because most of the area's major river systems (including the Senegal, the Gambia, and some tributaries of the Niger) are sourced in these highlands. It's an area that can boast some of the best hiking in West Africa plus the unique culture of the Peul people, who dominate this area and are almost single-handedly responsible for the Islamic faith in the region. It's become sort of a recipe for my favorite places to travel: combine awesome scenery with a unique culture and I'm there. So far I've found it in Boukoumbé, Benin with the Somba people and in Dogon Country, Mali. Now I have the Fouta Djalon in Guinea to add to that list. Next up? I could only hope for Niger's Aïr Mountains or the Andes' Incan ruins. I'll settle for the Bijagos Archipelago in Guinea-Bissau next week.

But for now I'll focus on the Fouta. I went to Dalaba for the hiking, but also for the climate and the colonial architecture. Dalaba sits high up on the plateau, making the days hot but dry and the nights cool, even bordering on cold, a rarity in West Africa outside of the desert regions. As a result, Dalaba became a sort of rejuvenation center for the French colonials during their time here. Unfortunately, the only colonial architecture left behind is the old governor's mansion, the Sili Villa. Luckily for me (and you), I got a personal guided tour of the colonial mansion and can share that experience here.

I'd had this kind of thing happen before, in Sassandra, Côté d'Ivoire, and, more memorably, in Klouto, Benin. You wander up a disused paved road (probably the only one in town) to discover a mansion, completely uninhabited, with one old man sitting outside as guard or caretaker. For a small "fee" (negotiable, but usually around a couple bucks) he'll give you the history of the house and a grand tour around the interior. The history usually goes something like this: The house was built around the turn of the century by the French governor (or bought by said governor from some citizen who decided he'd had enough and was returning to France). After independence, the state took over the mansion from an indifferent civil servant ("Fine, go. We never wanted you as a colony anyway."), and turned it into a retreat for a corrupt president and his cronies (or in Guinea's case, a corrupt, paranoid president and his equally corrupt, terrified cronies). The house gets used for various autocratic excesses and bacchanals until the people decide they've had enough and there's a coup.

By now, the new corrupt government wishes to distance itself from the past corrupt government and it rightfully does so by moving away from Presidential playhouses. At least in one's own country. It's the 80s now, and wireless transfers make it so much easier to funnel money out of the country and into a Swiss bank account. So the state-owned villa is allowed to go to seed. Anyway, why would you want a villa in your own country when, with all that stolen money, you can have several in France?

So now the house sits abandoned by all save one guard (I think to be conidered a caretaker the property must have some kind of value of which to take care) in the employ of, presumably, the state. He sits, day in, day out, with not much to do except stare at the marble statue of a horse. So when a white guy with a couple bucks comes along, he jumps at the chance to play tour guide.

"This is a colonial bedroom, where the governor had his bed. Take a picture."

Where's the bed now?

"Oh, someone probably used it for firewood. Take a picture of where it used to be. For a souvenir."

This guy was particularly enthusiastic that I take pictures of everything. "This is a colonial bathtub."

It's made of cement.

"I know. That's colonial cement. This is a lightbulb. A colonial lightbulb. Take a picture. And over here is the colonial sink. And here, the colonial toilet."

And is that a colonial turd floating in the bowl?

"Yes... Take a picture!"

Overall the houses are dilapidated shells just waiting for some enterprising individual to rehabilitate them as a hotel or private residence. But for now, they'll just continue to sit in their decay, year after year, with a little old man watching over as it slowly crumbles into dust.

"But colonial dust."

Take a picture.

Peace Corps Parties and Exile

I came into Niamey last week to plan the barbeque for the new stage. There were three of us working on a party for 120 some people, so needless to say, it was a bit stressful. It came off without too much of a hitch. A few people got sick probably because someone didn't bleach their vegetables. If I had to take a guess that's what it'd be. You can get away with eating unbleached veggies after you've had a half dozen stomach ailments, but it's generally a better idea just to take the extra time.

I also helped a bit with the Gender and Development auction and after-party. The after-party was ridiculous. There is nothing like a party in Peace Corps Niger. We are all so isolated and so deprived of "American" fun in village that we tend to let loose a bit when we're all together for big events like swear-in. It began to pour rain during the middle of the party, so what did we do? We danced in the rain. Why not? When the storm knocked the electricity out, we turned on headlamps and flashlights. A couple of people from team Tillaberi broke out their djambes (an African drum) and started playing. We had a real drum circle going once we added pots and pans from the kitchen. You'd be amazed the sound you can get from a spoon and a cheese grater. The electricity eventually came back on, but once you've got a good beat going, I don't think it's right to stop. So we just turned the lights off and kept going.

Friday the new stage swore-in. It's a bit strange no longer being the new kids. We're sophomores now. We've got some experience and we're starting up projects. We're the ones that they all think know so much, and I guess we do in some ways. We know the best places in Niamey, where to go for food, and generally what's going on.

This is a bit disconnected, but bear with me. Saturday was supposed to be my first full day of relaxation after the barbeque, GAD auction, and clean-up from both events. We were able to go to the Ambassador's house and use her pool. We played Ultimate Frisbee in her backyard and even had enough people for a tournament. I'm still sore four days later. The day was great, until my phone fell out of my pocket getting into a taxi. So I lost that. I also broke my glasses. If July was my sickness month, and August was my mental month, I worry to think that September might be the month where all my stuff breaks. I hope this doesn't sound too negative. I'm trying to take it all in stride. I'll be very Zen by the time this is all over. I'm trying to go back to post today, if Allah wills it. I feel a bit cursed right now, so I fully expect I'll return home to see the smouldering ruins of my house. I'll walk through the charred foundations while my maigari says, "Oh that was burning for four days, we just couldn't do anything about it. Kala suuru." I just hope my cat has survived.

So now I'm going on self-imposed exile until probably Halloween. I do not want to come back into Niamey for a while. I've just been out of my village so much recently that I feel like I'm losing touch. It's Ramadan, so it's a good time to just hang out at the mosque and joke around with my villagers. Unless I get hit with amoebas, bacteria, giardia, a bruised brain, or a whatever other things could go wrong, I shouldn't be in until the end of October. I hope all of you are well, please don't expect any mail/updates/etc. until then.

Kala han fo!