Vicarious Tourism: Roum Island

A week ago I said I had probably had my last beach day, what with the rain starting and all. I was wrong. While we've had some pretty wet spells lately, we were lucky today to have a full day of sunshine - perfect beach weather. As I was splashing around in the ocean it occurred to me that I had never really talked about the islands, which is a shame since its one of the best day trips you can make from Conakry, one I have made many times.

Conakry is a long skinny peninsula jutting out into the Atlantic. At the end of the peninsula and a little ways out there are three islands that look like this: ( o ). The long skinny curvy islands are Kassa and Fotoba/Tamara, and the little round one in the middle is called Roum. Roum is where we go on weekends with the embassy boat. Did I mention the embassy has a boat? It's for emergency purposes, in case we ever need to evacuate but the roads are closed and the airport is shut down. But a boat isn't really something you can keep on a shelf until you need it, so we keep it in good order with beach trips during the dry season.

Most of Guinea's coast is rocks and mangroves, and that goes for Conakry as well. There are some small sandy beaches in Conakry proper, but so unsanitary as to be pointless to visit. Roum is different. It has some nice clean stretches of beach, far enough away from town to be out of its trash and sewage. There's a little restaurant that serves tasty seafood and chicken, as long as you order several hours in advance. And that's about it really. Sand, water, palm trees, fish, and sunshine (weather permitting). It wouldn't win any prizes against other beaches in the world, but it feels a world away from the chaos of Conakry, which is all I'm looking for. 

Crash

This evening I was just hanging out, watching some 30 Rock on my laptop, petting the cat, having a nice quiet evening at home, when disaster struck. The cat got tired of me, as cats do, and jumped off my lap to go entertain himself elsewhere. In the process he got his feet caught in the power cable. I watched, paralyzed with horror, as my precious computer leapt from my lap, spiraled through the air slo-mo Matrix style, and descended to the tile floor with a sickening crash. BAD kitty!

My precious baby is gone. The screen, while outwardly intact, has ceased to be a functioning feedback mechanism and now more closely resembles a high-concept contemporary art piece bristling with social commentary on the ever-increasing role technology plays in modern life. I'm thinking of selling it to MoMA. 

As for the rest of it, the diagnosis is uncertain. The video I was streaming actually kept running after the fall, so I have some hope that the innards are more or less intact and my data can be saved. Later I tried plugging it into my TV in the hope that the screen was the only damage, but alas, that does not seem to be the case. The few pixels that are still working now show the characteristic hue of the Blue Screen of Death. I'll pull out the hard drive and bring it home with me to see what can be done. At least I no longer have to figure out how to fit a cat and a laptop in the same carry-on bag.

I was planning to upgrade to a new laptop this summer anyway so I'm not terribly upset, but the timing is inopportune. I obviously can't just run down to the Best Buy in Conakry ville, so I'll be iPad-only until I get back to the States. I bought this thing to be my travel computer, and I guess now is as good a time as any to put it to the test. I have already decided that a keyboard might be a good idea. Hand cramp!

Lasts

I now have just under a month left a post. Sometimes this still seems like a very long time - a MONTH - especially since I have come down with a severe case of short-timer syndrome and am spending my every waking moment obsessing about home leave and Dublin. I think about these things, dream about them, so much that I wake up every morning surprised to still be in Conakry.

But really, when I break it down, a month isn't very long at all. Six more visa days. Four more ACS days. Four Country Teams. Four radio checks. Two more tanks of gas. One more big grocery trip. I may have had my last beach day already, since it started raining this week. I'm duty officer this week for the last time.

In the kitchen I've started to run out of things and not buy more, because I'm leaving soon and I won't use it. The last salsa. The last fish sauce. The consumables I've carefully rationed are finally running out. The last steak. The last Shiner. The things I have in surplus I'm starting to bequeath to deserving individuals who will survive me at post: some sweet tea vodka here, a little fig jam there, some truffle oil over here. (Yes, I own these things. Don't judge.)

And at the same time I'm racking up all of these lasts, I'm also starting to pack the first boxes. It's really starting to feel like I'm leaving.

Pastime

My home internet was out for five days last week, which was a bit of a trial. But I did what I always do when I'm bored - I cooked. A lot. I made BBQ chicken pizza with my new pizza stone. I made poached eggs on toast and cucumber salad. I took my long-owned but never-used pasta roller for a spin with from-scratch fettuccine with sun-dried tomato cream sauce. I made a fallen chocolate cake and topped it with Bailey's ice cream. I made a giant mess in my kitchen.

Fruits of my labors

I learned things. I learned that smoked gouda on a pizza is definitely a good idea. I learned that this recipe for fallen chocolate cake is actually more of a pudding than I really had in mind, but it's tasty and I think gluten-free, for those of you who deal with that sort of thing. I learned that the cat is crazy for Bailey's ice cream. I learned that kneading very stiff pasta dough is an effective full-body workout; I expected a twinge or two in my arms the next morning, but my aching abs caught me by surprise. I learned that tiny Guinean eggs do not result in the same rich yellow final product I was used to in Italy, but it still turned out okay. I learned that setting 5 on my pasta roller is still a bit too thick for fettuccine.

I learned that I am not half bad at this whole cooking thing, but then, I knew that already.

Wrong

I was one of those kids who was good at school, especially at tests. I always had the right answer, and I felt good about that. I got lots of positive reinforcement from gold stars and smiley faces at the top of my paper and it worked on me just like on Pavlov’s dog: I still love being Right, and I hate being Wrong. To this day, being Right fills me with sunshine and rainbows. On the other hand, I sometimes get this horrible sick feeling and something a little like brain freeze for a second or two when I realize that I have done/said something Wrong, Wrong, Wrong.

This is not a mindset that is well-suited for consular work (or, let’s be honest here, adult life in general). At the end of every visa interview I have made a choice – yes, or no. The applicant goes away happy or sad and that’s pretty much it as far as I’m concerned. I made a decision – was it Right? Who knows? Most likely I’ll never find out. There’s no teacher to pass back the exam, no answers in the back of the book. No one pulls back a curtain to show me if there’s a car or a goat on the other side. I just make the best decision I can and move on to the next one. 

On some decisions I never can know if I was Right or not: if I decide not to issue a visa no one can ever know if the applicant would have used it responsibly or not, because he didn’t get the chance. Have I denied visas to people who would have been good issuances? Almost certainly. And I feel bad about those, in a general sort of way, though I’ll never know who they were. 

Most of the time I never know if my issuances were Right or not either; they pick up their visa and I never see them again. But sometimes, every once in a while, word filters back that one of my many decisions was, in fact Wrong. I learned recently that I gave a visa to someone early in my consular tenure and that person never came back. I’m sure this person isn’t the only one. I may have been Wrong dozens of times and just never found out. But there’s something about having a specific concrete example of Wrong that’s infinitely more crushing than all the amorphous hypothetical Wrong you can throw at me. I do not like this at all.

Things I've Liked on the Internet as of Late

Some guy is filling a giant sculpture with human hair and blood and dropping it in the Mariana Trench. Because why not?
Best. Treehouse. Ever.
What do you do with a camera small enough to put in your mouth? Well, put it in your mouth I guess. 
Jerusalem in 1896 on video
Economics of Westeros 101: Why House Tyrell is richer than House Lannister
More Game of Thrones awesomeness: an interview with the guy who invented Dothraki
Yea verily, thou art a bad cat!

Crazy hyperlapse video made with images from Google StreetView:


Google Street View Hyperlapse from Teehan+Lax Labs on Vimeo.

Infestation

One of my coworkers has a snake infestation in her yard. And not just any snake: spitting cobras. They've killed five of them so far, fortunately with no injuries. My yard has also been invaded by wildlife recently, with one tiny difference. Instead of snakes, I have an infestation of kittens.

The whole family

Yes, kittens. Four of them, clearly the offspring of grey-striped Mom and black-and-white-splotched Dad, who Jabberwocky likes to howl at through the screen door when he gets too close to the house. They have completely taken over my yard - licking each other, rough-and-tumble roly-poly fighting, playing hide-and-seek in the bushes, pouncing each others' tails, and generally being adorable. I haven't been able to get close enough for good photography without breaking up the party, but trust me, they're super cute. [EDIT 5/5: now with photographic goodness!]

Watching them gambol and frolic and cavort and feeling my heart melt into a puddle of ooze under such an irresistible onslaught of cute, I can't help but think that I am betraying my Jabberwock. I mean, I'm not going to do anything about it. I won't feed them; that introduces a whole new layer of responsibility I don't want, especially given that I'm leaving in six weeks. I won't play with them. I'll certainly never scoop them up and nuzzle them. Even though I really want to. Especially the dark striped one, he's my favorite. But I'm just looking! And that's okay, right? Right?

Weight Loss

One of the defining features of the Foreign Service lifestyle is its mobility; every two or three years you WILL pick up and move. You WILL pull your every possession out of whatever shelf or drawer or corner you have it crammed in, look at it, and have to decide what to do with it. This biennial migration provides both an excellent incentive and an excellent opportunity to really think about all of your stuff and what it means to you.

As FSOs go, I'm already traveling light. It's just me - no spouse, no kids, and none of the stuff that comes with them. Granted, Jabberwocky has a surprising quantity of toys and furniture and other accoutrements, but nothing like the amount amassed by another human being. I hardly owned any furniture before I joined and I gave some of that away when I got assigned to a post with furnished housing. My earthly possessions fit comfortably in the back of a U-haul.

And yet, as moving time rolls around again, I find myself overwhelmed by all my stuff, particularly the stuff that just sits there. Clothes I don't wear, books I don't read, gadgets I don't use. I could just toss these things in a box and cart them across the Atlantic again - I've sure got the weight allowance - but why? They don't add anything to my life. Last time I moved I mostly did just throw everything in a box because I was so busy preparing for this new life that I didn't have the time or the energy to really consider each and every item. This time I'm getting a head start on the sorting and packing process, because it's time to slim down.

I set aside about a hundred books - old textbooks, novels I didn't bond with, classics I can get on the Kindle for free - for donation to the embassy's Information Resource Center, which serves as a public source of information on the United States and one of Guinea's rare English-language libraries. This probably accounts for less than a fifth of my current collection, but it's a decent trim, and except for travel guides I haven't bought a physical book in years. I went through my drawers and my closet and came out with a huge stack of clothes and shoes that don't fit my body or my lifestyle anymore. Some of them were nice pieces, expensive pieces, that were hard to put in the pile, but if I can't wear them they aren't doing me any good so they may as well do good for someone else. I also have a plastic bin I like to call The Box Where Technology Goes to Die: it's full of old external hard drives with less memory than a flash drive has now, blank CDs, and cords, cords, cords. I'm not quite sure what to do with that stuff, but I'm sure I can find someone to take it off my hands. And there must be plenty of other things lurking in dusty corners that I'll want to get rid of but haven't yet unearthed.

Of course, even as I'm working on divesting all these old things I am simultaneously dreaming up new things to acquire for Ireland - a sunlamp, a bicycle, basically an entirely new wardrobe. The cycle of consumerism continues. I'm trying to slim down more permanently, I really am, but somehow I suspect that when I move again in two years I'll find myself right where I am now, wondering what to do with all this STUFF.

Conakry: Hipster Paradise

The other day I was talking to my sister about food trucks, which have recently started popping up around town here in Conakry. I haven't tried one yet, but I'm pretty sure they're not selling designer cupcakes or upscale mac'n'cheese. I made a joke about Conakry turning hipster soon, but after further reflection it occurred to me that Conakry actually already has plenty of hipsters' favorite things:

• Farmers' Markets - Everyone, and I do mean everyone, gets their produce at the farmers' market. Except for a very few grocery stores selling overpriced wilted imported arugula to expats, there's really no other choice. Guinea has no cold chain and farmers can't afford fertilizer, so you can be sure it's all organic and locally-sourced!
• Thrift Stores - No one loves a great bargain on secondhand clothes like Guineans. People buy used clothes in 100-pound bales to bring to Guinea and feed the insatiable demand. And the prices here are way better than at the Goodwill in Williamsburg, by the way. 
• Pre-Gentrified Neighborhoods - Your tiny shared apartment in a converted factory in a rough part of New York is SO mainstream. Conakry hipsters live in handcrafted shacks made of scrap aluminum and plastic sheeting with no electricity or running water. Edgy.
• Not Having a Television - You're so above and beyond mass-market popular culture that you don't even own a TV. You're in good company in Conakry, where no one else has a TV either because no one can afford one. 
• Obscure Bands - Most of the music you'll hear in Conakry will never be found on the Top 40 hitlist. It's so niche it's not even on Pitchfork. I could give you some names, but you've probably never heard of them.
• Urban Farming - Raising chickens is not enough to set you apart anymore. To really make your mark as an urban farmer you also need ducks, goats, sheep, and maybe a cow or two. Conakry will show you how it's done.
• Vintage - So you've got an old turntable or a pillbox hat. How about a 1950's farm truck? A foot-pedal sewing machine? These items and many more can be found in Conakry, not as museum pieces but as integral parts of daily life, because people here use things until they can't be used anymore. Besides, people just don't make things like they used to. Now they make things that require electricity, which is in short supply around here.

Sure, there are a couple of hipster touchstones that haven't quite caught on in Conakry yet - oversized plastic frame glasses, Instagram, fixed-gear bikes (it would help if the roads were paved), mustaches, irony. Minor details. Look out Portland, Conakry is gunning for you!

Adventures in Guinean Health Care, Round 2

One of the many things I need to do to get ready to move to Ireland is health paperwork for the cat. Ireland is a rabies-free country and they plan to keep it that way thankyouverymuch, so any pet coming into the country from a place like Guinea, where rabies is endemic, needs to prove that it is rabies-free. You do this by having an approved vet take a blood sample and sending the sample to an approved laboratory in the EU for analysis. Sounds simple enough, right? But this is Guinea, where even simple things can become an adventure.

Per EU regulations, the blood has to be drawn 3 months before traveling. I planned to get it done a week or two ahead of time, as I had a sneaking suspicion this might be a somewhat complicated operation. However, a poorly-timed week's worth of violent protests put the Jabberwock and me under house arrest. So much for planning ahead. Fortunately, things cleared up before the deadline, but only just before.

I took a Monday morning off work, shoved the cat in his despised carrier and took him to the vet we used last time, who looked over the paperwork and said this was not something he could do. He suggested that I try the Ministry of Livestock, all the way downtown. My little princeling has never been referred to as livestock in his life, but you gotta do what you gotta do. We showed up at the Ministry and the charming office director told me he had no clue what I was asking for, but whatever it was, they couldn't help me. He suggested I try the Ministry of Agriculture a block over. So I traipsed over there in my kitten heels with my kitten in his bag on my shoulder, and found some guys who did know what I was talking about. But they don't do that either. There is, they told me, one man in all of Guinea with the training and qualifications to perform this task, and after fifteen minutes of watching five men frantically flipping through cell phone contact lists and rifling through desk drawers I had his phone number.

We drove to the other side of town and found a guide to Dr. Keita's house, where he has a small clinic in a spare room. Dr. Keita appears to be about eighty and is assisted by his son, who looks about seventeen. We filled out the paperwork together, assisted by flashlight since the power was out. We weighed the cat to determine the appropriate dosage of anesthesia; this was accomplished by having the son stand on a bathroom scale twice - once with the cat and once without - and doing some math. With the cat knocked out, I sat in the waiting room next to a partly-disassembled dentist's chair while they shaved his leg with a drugstore razor and cleaned the area with hand sanitizer, as they didn't have any rubbing alcohol. I trembled as a headlamp-assisted Dr. Keita said, "where's the vein?" and Keita Junior said "it's right there!" But they got what they were after, and we settled my zonked-out Jabberwocky back in his carrier as the son ran out to turn on the generator for a few minutes so they could use the centrifuge. After a quick spin, they put the blood serum in a little vial. They put the vial in a film canister - remember those? - filled with ground-up wet grass to keep the vial from breaking and to maintain humidity. They sealed it with packing tape and I had my sample.

Given the low-tech veterinary medicine I had just witnessed I had my doubts about the viability of this plan, but I popped it in the mail and hoped for the best. And it worked! I got the results back today - my beamish boy is officially rabies-free! As if there was ever any doubt. But now that the paperwork's sorted out, that's one less thing to worry about. Many more still to come.