Q: why did the chicken cross the road?

A: To get run over by the motorbike.

With so many chickens about, it was always a case of when, not if.

only half the story

As it turns out, all that business about mould and termites was only half the story. The real disappointment, the thing that launched the weekend straight past plain bad and into the realm of the absolutely miserable, was what didn't manage to make it onto the container: the keys - the only set of keys - to the motorbike.

It is difficult to capture the intense despair this final assault cast down upon us, particularly T. While the movers continued to bring in more boxes and I tried to comprehend the true breadth of the mould proliferation, T, all alone in the back room, frantically tore open boxes in search of the second half of the only thing he'd really been waiting for the last few months: the motorbike and, of course, its key. But alas, with each box he unpacked it became less and less likely that he would find it. Every few minutes I would hear a crash and a thud as another box was dumped onto the floor and then thrown against the wall. As time wore on, a corresponding groan joined each chorus. Partly to escape the sight of mould, I eventually retreated to the back room to join T in his search. Within moments I knew it was hopeless. Everything worth looking through was already unpacked. Still, to appear helpful and hopeful, I began sifting through the wreckage.

"I've already looked through all of that," he snapped with an irritation not meant for me.

"Well, I packed that box before I left. The key's not inside," I lashed back with an irritation not meant for him.

He looked about the room for another box and settled on the only one still taped up.

"I packed that one too. Don't bother."

"Yes, but maybe..."

"No. You used the bike after I left and I packed these before I left. It can't be in there."

"Fine." He stomped off to the next room, to the last of the unopened boxes.

"That's the printer," I said dryly from the doorway. Crouched motionless over the box, T stared at the photograph of a printer covering its side as though it were mocking him. Then, in one fluid motion, he turned to me, stood up, and slid his hands down the sides of an anguished face, his mouth dropped in a silent cry of despair and disgust.

The rest of the morning passed in a haze. The movers trudged back and forth through heaps of mouldy cardboard. I fluttered about, dizzy and overwhelmed. T sat in the corner of the living room, next to the termite infested lion couch and the mouldy TV stand, stupefied by the horror of it all. And then, suddenly, the movers and their cardboard were gone and we were alone.

"Don't worry. I'm sure it will turn up. Once I start cleaning and going through everything I'll find it," I found myself saying, stupidly.

But we both knew it was hopeless. Our only chance was to try to have a new set of keys made, a task so daunting, T didn't even believe it possible. If you've ever tried to have anything fixed in this region of the world you know that any attempt to find a skilled craftsman generally ends in an unbearable test of patience and the irreversible maiming of your property. Needless to say, we were none-too-pleased at the thought of unleashing a Guinean locksmith on the bike, but without a choice we called Ousmane, T's driver, to help us find one.

I'm still astonished to report that the locksmith Ousmane found was alarmingly good at his work. He arrived with a blank key and a set of files and managed to pry open the lock to the fuel tank in less than five minutes. This was impressively convenient at the time, if not a tad disconcerting upon later reflection. (When asked how he'd done it, the locksmith merely grinned and shook his head.)

At any rate, the original key had worked on both the fuel tank and the ignition so our prospects were looking hopeful. We returned to the locksmith's humble workshop with the cap to the fuel tank in tow so that he could disassemble the locking mechanism and make a proper key for us. Just as we were beginning to think that the price we had agreed to pay was far too much for an half hour of work, it became clear that the finer details of key making were slightly more complicated and time consuming than the magic we'd witnessed with the blank key. We spent the better part of the afternoon loitering about the down-town street the locksmith called home, trying our best not to draw attention from the street vendors and beggars, the most persistent of whom was a man who, at his best, stood no higher than my belly button and was surely accustomed to a warmer reception from tourists than the one he was presently getting from us, seasoned residents and frequent recipients of shameless demands for un cadeau.

Finally, the key was finished. Reassembling the locking mechanism, however, proved too complicated for the man who had hours ago disassembled it. More than three quarters of an hour must have passed while the locksmith fiddled with this task. T had long ago slipped back into the morning's stupor and hadn't seemed to notice. I, on the other hand, had noticed and was just nearing the end of my wits when the locksmith finally gave up in the hope that we wouldn't discover the fuel cap's deficiencies until it was too late. Panicked, I roused T from his meditative cocoon so that he could intervene. Within minutes the cap was functioning properly and we were returning to the bike to try the key in the ignition. The key was so close to working that it was dangerous to the nerves. With the application of an unreasonable degree of violence it almost worked. Almost, but not quite. Another key would have to be fashioned. The ignition switch would have to be removed from the bike. A mechanic, a term used so loosely here we might as well ask for a professional clown, would have to be called in.

I'm ashamed to say that at this point I could handle no more. That was it, I was done. No more motorbike madness for me. Back to my mould I went, leaving T to face the imminent destruction of his bike alone. I spent the next few hours scrubbing mould off the furniture, wondering what atrocities I had narrowly escaped witnessing.

T came home that night looking defeated and deflated, like a helium birthday balloon two weeks past the festivities, limply hovering inches from the floor. The key was not finished. Another long day awaited him. Another day of incompetence, of mechanics without tools, of pointed fingers and harsh words, of narrow escapes. In short, another day of horrors.

like a poisoned apple

The container carrying all of our stuff arrived last Friday, full of promise. After two months of the extreme minimalist lifestyle, we welcomed the arrival of our possessions with glee. Unfortunately the joy was short-lived. Once we started opening the boxes and tearing the cardboard off the furniture it became clear that we had got more than we'd bargained for.

What we got was MOULD. Everywhere mould. Growing on the furniture, the clothes, the pots, pans and dishes, the pillows, the bedsheets, the mossie net, the computer, the books... the list goes on and on. The damn stuff followed us from Benin. After four days of solid scrubbing, there's still mould left to contend with. I HATE mould.

In a fit of determination to see the bright side of things, we turned our attention to the famed lion couch, which I had not yet seen fully materialised (for those who have no idea what I'm talking about, it's an over-the-top piece of custom furniture we had commissioned - but there'll be more on that in a future post, surely). Lo and behold, TERMITES! No kidding. Luckily there isn't too much visible damage, just a couple of small holes in an inconspicuous place. Hopefully we can find someone here who can deal with them.

feeling disconnected

It's funny which things remind one how cut off from the rest of the world one is when living in a place like Guinea. For me, right now, it's the Olympics. I admit, I haven't been glued to Olympics coverage since I was 9 years old and still dreamed of becoming a figure skater; yet, for some reason I feel like I'm really missing out this year. The fact is an Olympics hosted by China is more than just an international sports gathering; it's history. I'm twiddling my thumbs in Guinea and history's blowing right past me. *insert exasperated sigh here*

Thank goodness for the internet. At least I can read the news online, but too bad all the articles I'm reading are on things like how the Opening Ceremony fireworks were faked and so on. Well, I can honestly say that they didn't look particularly authentic or fake to me. But surely I can find some video coverage online? you ask. In theory, yes... if I want to wait two weeks for it to download. Don't even mention streaming video; our connection is far too sluggish. Just the other day T exclaimed, "Why is everything on the Internet a video!" Yes, why indeed. Oh, now I remember, because videos are fun... except for when they skip, stutter and stall every 3 seconds.

But then Russia invaded Georgia (or Georgia threatened Russians, depending on your perspective) and everyone forgot about the Olympics and felt just as disconnected from the 'truth' of things as me, and all was well again... or maybe not.

did i mention the sunsets?

I know I've said this before, but the sunsets in Conakry are truly spellbinding. Last evening T and I looked out our East-facing living room window to see a spectacularly red sky and knew that we had to make a dash to the other side of the peninsula to see the real sunset. It's only a short drive to the other side, but by the time we got there the best of it had already passed. Still, it was worth it. Next time we'll just have to be a little quicker. And there will be a next time - expect a whole photo-gallery of sunset shots on this blog before we leave. And no, I didn't Photoshop the colours ;)