Potato Fete!

Okay, it's near 11pm my time here, i'm a little tired but will try to catch you up on the highlights of this last month. Well, if it wasn't obvious before that it was rainy season, the rainiest month of the year (September) is making it loud and clear. The 80km dirt road to Dinguiraye has been part submerged, and I made my record longest trip EVER Dinguiraye Dabola, the 100km took 10 hours. Here's the overview:

the setting: Dinguiraye, early morning after a night of rain
the cast: myself, the chauffeur, one other guy, and 4 old ladies all trying to get to Dabola
the villain: an innocent looking 4-door sedan, actually alot nicer looking than other beat up taxis
the schedule of events:

7:30am: arrive at Dinguiraye Garr (taxi stand) bright eyed and excited for the upcoming voyage- dressed in jeans, tank top, long sleeve shirt and driver's cap

8:00am: choice between Conakry taxi that agreed to take me to Dabola (but was empty and would probably take all afternoon to fill up) or forementioned 4-car sedan with 4 passengers already to go- I decide to go for the sedan. After the mandatory pre-departure argument and fueling that could have been done earlier, we take off.

8:30am: only 10 km out of Dinguiraye, we come to what was once a large rut in the muddy road and is now a 20foot wide river. Other cars charge past us and seem to make it across alright- our chauffeur takes a different approach. Seeming to think slower is better, he aims for the deepest part of the river (about 3 feet) and inevitably gets us stuck. There is water up to my window, and is starting to pour in through the floor- I open the door and get out, waiting for them to push the car through the river to the other side. After the 4 old ladies join me on the side of the road after wading through the flowing water, I realize that I am "them". Pants rolled up, me, the chauffeur and other guy push the car through the 2 feet deep river and ankle deep mud. Good thing I wore flip flops.

9:00am: car won't start- chauffeur claims spark plug failure. He opens the hood and pounds something with the end of a screw driver. The first hint of many to come of his mechanical inabilities. Apparently the car needs a push start- so of course it's me and the two guys who push the taxi complete with luggage (2 live chickens among the assorted tied baskets, and a large hunk of meat on a rope) First we push the car up the hill just beyond the impromptu river, then help turn it around and give it a running start back down the hill. It doesn't start after the first attempt.

10:00am: Have made at least 4 other attempts. Long sleeve shirt and hat have been removed. Car is still not starting. Chauffeur opens hood after each exhausting pushing attempt- and pounds on random things with the butt of the screw driver. Cars start driving past us, from Dinguiraye to Kobala (the town 25 Km south of Dinguiraye) for the market day. Every beat up car and mini bus that charges through the river which defeated our shiney sedan adds insult to injury. Laughter speeds past us at the site of the white lady pushing the car up the hill, trying not to get the chickens riled up.

10:30am: Chauffeur has caught a ride back to Dinguiraye to buy new spark plugs (why travel prepared?) and has left his charges sitting on the side of the road by the defeated car. More Kobala market cars pass.

12:00pm: Chauffeur arrives with new spark plugs. Two more up the hill down the hill push starts- IT'S ALIVE. and there was much rejoicing. I sport my long sleeve shirt and hat again. The pants are rolled down.

12:15pm: 5 more km down the road from the first river, and an even longer more heinous surprise river comes into view. Surely the chauffeur has learned his lesson about going slowly and not testing the depth of the water. When the water is once again up to my window and the car stalls a quarter way through the 30 foot wide flood, I realize this is not so. The shirt and hat come back off. The pants go right back up. Rocking it loose of the sticky mud and walking the car slowly to the other side, chickens nervously sqwaking and large hunk of meat dangling lazily from its rope in the open and over stuffed trunk with elaborate tying system to hold all luggage in place. Another, more steep hill awaits us on the other side of the flooded section of the road.

12:30pm: Pushing starts again.

2:00pm: After no less than 8 trips up the hill with the car, chickens, and hunk of meat and failed ignitions on the down slope, morale is low. One of the old ladies is snoring loudly on her back in the weeds on the side of the road. Market cars actually start returning to Dinguiraye from Kobala. We haven't gotten to Kobala yet. After shaking my fist at Allah, I resign from pushing the car, and the chauffeur makes a big show of tinkering with things he doesn't understand underneath the hood. We wait. The Conakry car I didn't want to wait for this morning passes us.

3:00pm: A large semi truck (camion) rolls up and hails our waves- he's going to Conakry. After a second pre-departure argument, it is agreed that the Camion driver will take the entire contents of this failed sedan- so me, the other guy, the four old ladies, assorted baggage, 2 chickens and large hunk of meat on rope mount the camion, fitting snuggly in the bench seat behind the driver in the cab. I'd never ridden in a semi truck before.

6:00pm: Arrive in Dabola. Eric was hoping we would catch a ride to Mamou that afternoon and had given up hope on me, but we had much better luck the next morning.

So yeah- that's just one story of transport here, it's not always so bad, but that was pretty amazing.

I'm in Mamou on my way back from the Potato Fete in Maliville, and had a great time. Unlike the Fish Fete, this festival was set among the high mountain town in the Fouta and hosted by the Puhls, as opposed to the Malinkas in Haute Guinea. It was a more chilled out occasion, and instead of dancing and drumming, the main part of the festival was doing a 7km hike up to the highest point in Maliville to a cliff drop where at a clear moment you can see Senegal. Maliville was freezing cold (at least for us Hauters) and rained almost non stop while we were there. But we enjoyed the hike, ate some potatoes on top of the mountain, hiked back down and went shopping for indigo. Mali is famous for their high quality hand woven Leppi fabric died in beautiful shades and designs of indigo. On the last morning, myself and 4 other volunteers did another hike to a wild 3 story tall waterfall in the middle of the mountains. Just as we got there, the drizzley rain subsided just long enough for some sunshine and a refreshing swim in the waterfall pool. So the Puhls don't party quite like the Malinkas, but they have some beautiful country. Maliville itself looks like something out of an Indian Jones movie, a midsized town of houses, not huts, sitting literally on top of a cloud covered mountain. It was a great reason to take cultural days.

So I'm headed back to Dinguiraye tomorrow afternoon, lets hope I have a little better luck getting there. Less than 3 months until I visit home! Can't wait to see you all, thanks for reading.