I write to you from the ikea chair in our cabin.  (For those of you who just did a double-take, there was an ikea in Tenerife.  As everyone knows, ikea is the place to go for inexpensive furniture and hip decorative doo-dads, ergo every cabin bears the thumbprint of that thrifty Swedish emporium.  I like it.  It reminds me of home.)  Why, you ask, is a robust young thing like me holed up in her cabin on a bright and festive Friday afternoon such as this?  Well, it's because I'm sick.  I've got some nasty bug or other, and although it involves a good bit of what the West Africans refer to as 'fast-fast,' I can tell you categorically that I do not have cholera.  The crew doctor told us what cholera looks like, in unpleasantly vivid terms, I might add, and my symptoms do not match that particular bouquet of gross.  (I don't know if I'll ever be able to look at rice milk the same way again.)  In any case, I bit the bullet this morning and called in sick.  I hate doing that because it means that my colleagues have to absorb my duties themselves.  There are no substitute teachers on the Africa Mercy.  But it was either that or risk sharing whatever contagion I have with them and my students, and that just didn't seem right.  Funny how priorities shift when you are literally living in the same boat.

Anyway, one good thing about my predicament is that I finally have a moment to stop and share what's happening here with the wide world of people who love me but don't happen to be right next to me to share it all.  We arrived in Conakry last Wednesday, amid much pomp and excitement.  There was a military brass band which played several marches for us as we slowly docked.  Then the gangway was lowered and we were officially welcomed by several important personages (among whom were the Prime Minister of Guinea and the head Public Health official--sorry I don't have official names or titles, my French is still pretty rudimentary).  Oh, and speaking of rudimentary French, guess who is now taking French lessons!  After two lessons, I can already say the days of the week, the months of the year, and several numbers.  You would not believe how complicated French numbers are.  It's like a math problem just to say 93.  I honestly found myself wondering why the French didn't just give up and write it down instead.

Last Sunday, I got all dolled up and finally set foot on African Soil.  I went to a local church with a smallish group of Mercy Shippers.  It was amazing.  The dirt is bright, like the 'red dirt' in Kaua'i.  The trees are a rich and vibrant green.  The people themselves are beautiful, and their clothes are rainbows on steroids.  Before I leave, I have got to get a dress (or three) made from some of that beautiful cloth.  I felt pale and washed out in comparison.  The church service itself was wonderful, if a bit overwhelming.  Everything except for the singing was translated into three languages (French, English, and Su-Su), often right on top of each other.  We were in a large concrete building in a congregation that felt like a thousand people, and when everyone started singing and dancing I felt like my heart would burst.  Of course, it would have been lovely to participate in it all, but since I knew neither the language nor the moves, I just swayed unobtrusively and grinned like a fool.  Note to self:  find someone to teach you to dance, because in all honesty, standing still is not an option.

School is going well.  We are now three weeks into the school year, and I am beginning to find a sort of rhythm to it.  I may have started off a little stronger than I needed to.  It's been a while since I was in eighth grade, and sometimes I forget that there was a time when a 40 page reading assignment felt overwhelming.  Nevertheless, the kids and I are finding our way together, and I find myself more and more grateful for the honor of teaching them.  They are such cool people.  Also, this week I got to read a chapter from Winnie the Pooh to the first graders!  My friend Kayleigh is their teacher, and she was talking about finding readers to come and read stories to her kids, and since that is something I love to do, I simply invited myself over.  It was lovely.  I read the chapter in which Pooh goes Visiting and gets into a Tight Place, and the little first graders' eyes got big as saucers when they realized that poor Bear was stuck in Rabbit's door (there was some giggling, too).  I shall have to see if I can come over and read to them again.

Well, I have now written you a small book and drunk half of my Nalgene bottle, which means yet another visit to the WC.  Here's hoping it's not as traumatic as past visits have been.
I love you all very much.