Child's Play

As I came around the corner, 15 goats appeared, charging at me. OK, perhaps it was more like 5. Most of the goats were slowly ambling in my direction as they munched on the grass and garbage lining the path. But just as I'd turned the corner a dark brown goat with mottled, curly hair and curved horns came bleating around the opposite corner at full charge. He was surrrounded by a pack of 3 or 4 younger goats following his lead. His rukus was enough to stir up 2 or 3 of the munching goats who left their nibbles to join the small pack of newly arrived and fleeing goats. They were all charging right at me.

I hadn't left home in the best of moods and it was still fairly early. Lost in my thoughts and the residue of morning haze, I was taken completely by surprise. I felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. I didn't know how to respond. Our nieghborhood is full of chickens, roosters, goats and stray dogs. I've never seen one of these animals pay the least amount of attention to any of the humans bustling around them and so have become complacent and relaxed enough to lay my fear of dogs aside and completely ignore- or amusedly steal peeks at- the animals around me. Maybe it was the horns on the male goat or maybe it was all the noise and motion the small pack created, disturbing the morning calm but I considered whether or not I should be frightened, or if I should run, or at the very least, step off the path and make room for them. I also had some time to wonder what it was that inspired such panic and half expected it to come barreling around the corner in chase, some grisly half-being from the pages of a Stephen King novel.

In the end, my thoughts were too slow to inspire movement, the goats too fast to wait for a reaction. They ran around me or became distracted by some tasty looking road debris and we each continued on our way, calmer, returned to original agendas.

I can't tell who owns the goats and have witnessed all number of children and adults chasing them off, but they are an amusing sight on our dirt streets, along with the roosters I saw peeking out of someone's garbage can, and add to the charm of the neighborhood. I remember being worried about moving to the big city of Abidjan. Looks liike I found a farm instead.

I suppose eventually I should get around to the story of Abidjan {keeping in mind not every country has a Congo like secret locked up in it's past or present.} I see the people crowd around the newspaper boards each morning catching the headlines. The boards are tall wooden rectangles tacked from top to bottom with the day's newspapers. You can't turn the pages, but you can join the crowds to read the front page headlines and get an inkling of what's happening, maybe decide to buy a copy.

I'm not ready to join the political know yet. I am still busy observing my neighborhood, enchanted with all the games children play. There are so many children around with so much energy and laughter. Maybe I just never found myself in the right spot in Kinshasa but it's something I don't remember. Kids skipping down the road, arms pinwheeling along side as if they can go faster and fly higher with sheer determination. Buying ice cream treats from the vendor squaking his bike horn as he pushes his cart of frozen goodies down the road. There are certain times in the afternoon and just before dusk when the streets are filled with summertime fun.

There is no shortage of hopscotch games. The squares are easily drawn in the dirt, even better if it is slightly wet and firmly packed after a rain. The version I see most often is the one that ends with a big circle after the two final squares.I remember this from my youth but I can't remember for what or how the circle is used.  There are plenty of bikes, though most are reserved for grown ups- a true form of transportation. I do see some kids tearing around on two wheelers, including thelittle guy who has a wire seat on the back of his bike and totes his little brother or cousin along with him. He makes it look effortless, but I know he must be strong to fly so fast over the sand.

There are giggling girls walking arm in arm, doing the teenage gossip thing, lingering just a bit longer at strategic corners where certain streets meet. Little kids with containers sit in full concetration filling, dumping, refilling. They are completely absorbed in their task and I can see their play is a serious affair.

My favorite? A group of kids who are often found in the front of what I assume to be their parents' shops. They are usually sitting in a line on the front stoop having some discussion or other. The day I saw them they each had a colorful container in front of them filled with an elaborate mud sculpture. And they were haggling fiercely. I remember playing store, buying up all the canned goods from the kitchen cupboard, but it never occured to me to dispute the price. I happily handed over my imaginary money, whatever amount was requested of me. But these kids? They argue. They discuss true value and worth, quantity and craftsmanship. They haggle with energy and mirth. No wonder I never stand a real chance in an African marketplace. They've been practicing since they were 6. Child's play is never really just play. But then, us educators have known that all along. 

Bursting with emptiness

It seems slightly unfair that we wait for this time of reprise and then find ourselves with long lonely days that are so hard to fill. It feels like more waiting, more limbo. I'm trying to remember all of the things I wanted to do with this abunudance of time. Very few are accesbile. I try to remember the spirit of adventure and determination that motivated the decisions which have brought me here. I've been deserted. I can't think  of a single way to meet someone.

I am the only white person in my neighborhood and it shouldn't make a difference, but, of course, it does. (I am sure I wouldn't know how to make friends with a bunch of European or American neighbors either, but they would. They might reach out to me.) Mohamed pointed out this situation, albeit indirectly, as we were walking home one evening. "I hate it when they call me 'white boy.' Like in Kinshasa when  everyone called me mondele. Aren't I metisse?" It doesn't happen often here but occasionally the little ones can be heard saying, "Regard le blanc," which sounds especially odd in their French. Being white seems so much more exotic when it's in a non-European language.

It's the first time Mohamed  has come out with a decision. I've been waiting to see how he will 'identify.' American, yes. There's always a deep pride in being American, though in the last months it's been peppered with questions. The boys are forgetting real memories and trying to determine how much of their images are assimilated by others' ideas of  America- or media representations- and how much is due to real experience. Mohamed has dreams of becoming the first great American soccer player. He thinks he can change the way the country views the sport if they have one of their own to root for. It's likely America will claim him when he's famous, even if he has grown up in Africa. She is forgiving like that. But if the boys are metisse, than it leaves me as being the only real Caucasian around. Does it matter? It seems to suggest a bunch of things which may or may not be true. Very few are taking steps to find out.

There is one bright spot in my day. Our next door neighbor has a cutie little girl who is often busy doing chores around her yard or running errands.Whenever our paths cross or gazes meet, even  from a distance, she is quick to greet me. She pauses whatever she is doing and looks at me directly with a firm but hopeful stare. "Bonour Tantine." Her voice is strong and quiet. I can't help but smile and return her greeting or offer a wave. It's nice to be seen.

We're not the only foreigners however. Abidjan is sprinkled with West African transplants. There's even a young guy we pass just down the road - a fan of Mohamed's- who has taken to greeting me with a deeply accented 'good morning.' Apparently, incredibly, he doesn't speak much French. But Mohamed said he couldn't really understand his version of English that well and guessed he might be Jamaican. There is such a variety of African pidgin English he could be from anywhere really. I haven't heard him say more than 'Morning,' which seems to come at any time of day and so can't hazard a guess.

But it's a thread.That's what we search for as strangers in a new place. Some common thread that can connect us to another and form the beginning of a web of belonging. Ties that bind.  I think often that I am not the only one alone, without family. Death is rampant all over the continent and plenty are left without complete families. But the African system of greeting ' brother,' 'sister,' 'auntie,' or 'uncle' seems to take care of that, obliging connections where Americans might not see any.

It's a tangled web, I notice, often filled with under layers of suspicion and doubt. But on the surface, even the most orphaned African can find him or herself surrounded by a shield of brothers and cousins and aging aunties. It's something I can't do- or at least will take much longer. Erasing the boundaries and the lines of my history to feel surrounded by people who know me. It's a forever case of not fitting in anywhere. There's no past to retreat to and no clear forward to step into.

Here in this newness, I pass houses overflowing with people. I walk down small streets filled with busyness. I catch snatches of conversation, see endless games of soccer between children and adults alike. I see groups of women with children, young girls running errands and people passing their time in daily routines. I return to my house and feel it bursting with emptiness.

Insurance, Assurance, Never Sure

I ve been having contractions for awhile now- months really, but its only the ones in the last few weeks that have got me thinking. They re still the Braxton-Hicks variety but as I reach the 36 week mark I am all too aware that could change at any time.

My first thoughts- worries- have always been about the need to take a cab to the hospital. What if it is the middle of the night? What if its pouring buckets of Abidjan rain? Will there even be a taxi?

My next worries were about the 10 minute walk it takes to get to the main road. In labor? Really? A friend put this into perspective by pointing out that walking is part of labor- it will be good for me. Since this is baby no.5 however, I m just worried she s going to pop out in a matter of minutes right there on the dirt road in the middle of the rain with no taxi in sight. It would make for an interesting birth story.

Then we found out the little princess is in seige- sitting down- in the wrong position. Though I keep imagining her able to kick off the side and flip around like an astronaut in space, both the doctor and the sonogram technician have pretty much ruled that out. There just isn t much room in there.

I ve been thinking a c-section takes care of some of my other worries. They re usually planned, right? And don t necessarily happen in the middle of the night. Except now I have to pay for it. Despite extending my "global" health insurance, the clinic here refuses to work with them. Pay first, get reimbursed later. Luckily, African medical costs mean I actually can pay for a c-section out of pocket.

Banking practices make it a little more of a challenge however. Once my last school paycheck is deposited in my American bank account, I ll need to make numerous trips to the ATM- once per day over the course of several days- trying to amass the amount I need. Its a result of negotiating my own banks cash withdrawal limits and the ATM s ability to spit out enough bills.

Now I am hoping to gather all that cash before any real contractions start, assuming I ll need to pay up front before they admit me. In Kinshasa, they are known to keep new mothers prisoners-in effect- patients of the hospital long after necessary in order to recupe payment. I m not really sure what the policy is here but I have been told the price is all inclusive-medicines, food, doctor, 3 days rest and care. Its a bargain at 800,000FCFA.

I m planning to tour the maternity section next week and be prepared with my list of questions for the doctor. While my insurance company hasnt provided the ease and comfort they promised, its hardly their fault. Once I have my little cushion of cash I should feel slightly more assured.

the color of taxis...continued

Most of our moving money has been spent on essentials - stove, refrigerator, mattresses, security and advance on the rent. We are still busy trying to complete details about water and electricity payments.  While the utility companies operate with an orderliness and aim to serve that all of Kinshasa should be envious of, it does require a bit of back and forth.

The orange taxis, more expensive and often in slightly better condition, are the easiest mode of travel. They bring you directly to your destination. I ve been developing a verbal map of Abidjan as we decipher how to get from place to place. Some of the larger roads have names, which I ve taken to writing in a small notebook. Otherwise, we are bound by landmarks and references. It all lies in choosing- or knowing- the right references. Occasionally, we re left to do things the old fashioned way- we simply have to ask along the roadside. My notebook has proven invaluable for repeat trips, and if we see an interesting store or market along the way, I usually note that down as well.

Abidjan is spread out into what feels like a million small towns. We live in M Pouto which I ve begun to envision as one of the last little country and dirt road communities. It lies between the lagoon and the more prestigious Riviera sections- II and III. Abidjan is booming with construction of McMansions and McVillas, Riviera III is no exception. A few back road shortcuts to our house have revealed blocks and blocks of these kinds of neighborhoods going up, giving the whole place a South Florida feel- clean, neat and beautiful in a stencilized and highly repetitive way.

This area is also home to the yellow taxi, the cheap local travel known as worro-worro- I have no idea how to spell it and can barely even pronounce it correctly. I also can t really figure out how to get anywhere in these taxis. When I go out alone, I choose to walk about 15 min down to the main carrefoure marking the entrance to MPouto. There I can grab a worro-worro going straight up the hill and get off anywhere along the road for 100-200FCFA. A ride like this can get me to the American school, a really yummy bakery and ice cream shop, a very cozy book and stationary store or a home decorating shop, along with a number of other small groceries and fruit markets.  I found a short cut over to the big supermarket I try to avoid due to its deceptively high prices, though a trip there is a necessity at times. I was feeling pretty frugal and accomplished the day I got there for a mere 100FCFA. Of course, the ride back with all my bags directly to my door requires orange service to the tune of 1500-2000FCFA, but its still nice to know where corners can be cut.

Each area has their own color worro-worro. Koumassi is home of the green taxi. Its also become, in my mind, the Home Depot section of Abidjan. We first went there to find the Congo-Brazza consular- an affair that took 2 days of internet searching and 1 full day of fruitless roaming by taxi to find. I ve since noted it in my notebook Consular, Congo-Brazza, Terminus 11 Koumassi.  While we were getting a passport photo, we got a good tip on ceiling fans and that went in the book as well. Ceiling fans, Market Jakonai, Grand Carrefoure Koumassi. It goes like that. We pass bikes, a paint store, some tiles I hope to browse and buy one day for the front walk project. It all goes into the notebook- landmarks, references, street names when available and the quartier.

What I really want to do in Koumassi is just get out and walk around. Christian likes order and swiftness. He prefers to shop in closed stores and boutiques rather than outdoor markets. We ended up getting ceiling fans at the GM appliance store and never actually made it to what I imagine is the hectic and bustling Market Jakonai. But me? I like outdoor. I like bustling and hectic. I want to browse through the buckets of bolts and washers.I want to buy random pipes and bits of iron bars. I am pulled to these things by a desire to reassemble them into sculptures and collages. I want to buy the pristine and perfectly square tiles and smash them into pieces so I can make mosaics in cement. I am a perpetual do-it-your-selfer and I have written often of my longing for that junk drawer. Our house has no drawers- not a single one, not even in the kitchen- and so I am eager to create my own assemblage of bits and pieces of inspiration that could fill an empty paint bucket and hang out, maybe in the ugliest part of the house hallway, waiting to be transformed into something beautiful.

Taxis...the orange; the yellow; the green and the blue

Taxis don't like to come all the way down to our house. There is a point where the road, already dirt, turns into a footpath. "But that's sand," one of the drivers complained. "All the other taxis go down," I coaxed him, not really seeing the difference as we had turned off the main paved road about 10 minutes ago. Christian actually had to push one of the drivers out one day and so now I understand.

We live straight and then off to the left just before the yellow house at the end

The orange taxis are like express....they go any where around the city for a price. It's all in the negotiation. Mohamed has been getting a little better at this and he and Nabih can often take a taxi just down the road to their soccer camp (sweet independence!) We invested in blue bikes so the boys can have their own taxi service and save on money- a brilliant plan except Nabih's bike chain keeps falling off, along with other random parts. It's a constant work in progress.

Five weeks in and that's bascially how I feel about the entire going local adventure. A work in progress. Some days I am certain I am going out of my mind. It's awfully isolating to move to a brand new country where you don't know a soul. I spend a lot of time alone with my thoughts which is not usually a good thing.

We are also spending time learning how to live as a blended family, another of those blog nitches I could, but don't, belong to. Mixed families are a challenge. Add in the cultural factor and you get challenge times two. Add in moving to a new country, saying goodbye to old friends, expecting a new sibling and you get downright crazy- on a good day.

So, what do we do when there's nothing to do? Go fishing. The boys have been spending tons of time fishing- with clams. Mohamed has become the pro at opening clams, skewering them to his hook and reeling in fish. I think the drizzly, rainy  weather helps.

The lagoon behind our house is really a blessing. It provides a cool breeze and takes the stress out of whatever anxiety might be popping up for the day. Because moving without the cushy comfort of a contract has meant some changes.

We still don't have any furniture but we do own a lot of appliances. I am the proud owner of a hot water heater, though we haven't yet hooked it up. Time and patience for everything. You never really get used to a cold shower I believe, but it has a unique way of making you feel energized and ready for the day. We do have a plumber, and an electrician and a host of other handy men who complete tasks for us around the house. It is stunning to me how easy it is to put a hole in cement. It's done wonders for my thought process. Anything is possible is my new mantra. Surely it is when no one seems to think much of just popping a few holes in the concrete and inserting shelves or a cable wire or whatever else is needed. It leaves one feeling incredibly hopeful, creative and alive with possibilities.

Which is another way I fill my time. Planning all the changes I can make. There are walls surrounding our house and I have filled them up with designs in my mind. I have created gardens and door decorations, replanted our sole palm tree and installed a fountain in my mind. I've even made a few sketches so everyone in the house can be part of the plans.

These last few weeks haven't been easy but I am grateful we have a super cozy place that lets us spend a ton of time outdoors and that most of the obstacles we need to conquer are personal ones- ones that require patience and confidence- things I am not always full of but at least can continue to strive for.

I guess I'll have to get around to the yellow and green taxis next post. My computer charger has failed me and cyber time is rare.....for now, a few photos of our new abode.

Nabih at the entrance, sole palm tree to be replanted

Garden coming to replace the sand. Front porch is lovely on a rainy night

behind the yellow trucks is the entrance to the lagoon

plans for doorway decoration already in the works

Where we give dance classes by the lagoon

the ugliest part of the house- a weird "hallway" around the back

but I even came up with a plan to make it beautiful and so feel inspired again- thinking of Aicha helps me to see paintings on the walls and orange colored rocks in place of the sand. Painters are coming to give fresh coat to the sooty looking outside wall 

long "hallway" wall shared with the neighbors, leads to the front again

Things I haven't seen

While I have been busy taking in my new surroundings, I am aware there are things I haven't seen- 3 weeks and here's a run down of the differences:

• I have seen 3 accidents- or the results of accidents, but I haven't seen any crazy, twisty traffic jams. Haven't seen anyone driving on the wrong side of the road or the sidewalk.  I can tell I will need to get a new brand of favorite story. (Maybe it will come in the form of taxi drivers. The variety and responses are infinitesimal.) 
• Tissues- I haven't seen anyone selling packets of tissues-  an odd thing to mention, I know, unless you've been to kinshasa.  Tissue packets are big there, and, while it seems just as hot and humid here, no tissue hawkers abound. 
• Military- I have seen a few but not the plethora found in kin. I don't see a million salutes a day- and when someone was talking to me about the "tension" and uncertainty she felt in the air here, I realized it all depends on what we're comparing to. 
• Arms- in addition to the missing military, I haven't seen the number and collection of guns. Security guards don't have automatic weapons slung over their shoulders, police aren't swinging their guns absentmindedly as they talk  and even the few military I saw made an impression because of their crisp uniforms and commanding stances- not their weapons. 
• Money- No one has asked me for money. There aren't swarms of street kids waiting at every traffic light or on every street corner. The beggars I have seen appear to be from a different cut of cloth. They are usually sitting on the streetside, a pagne or wrap of some kind laid out and, if there are children, they are sitting quietly, sleeping or playing alongside. The most common number of children seems to be 2 and they are usually well dressed- Muslim, or so it appears.  There is a bowl placed close by for collecting change. Its a much quieter affair and something about it doesn't resonate with me. I am trying to determine why my soul isn't shaken. I continue to think of the kinshasa street kids - especially when it rains, even though I am aware it's not raining there. I know they are still hungry, still cold, still sleeping on some hard patch of ground outside somewhere alone. 
• Sunglasses- another oddity perhaps, and of course, with everything I write I realize my frame of reference doesn't extend very far, but in kinshasa, everyone wants to be a star and sunglasses abound. There always seems to be one of those sunglass sellers walking by or set up on the corner. When the sun does come out, in brief patches between the constant rain, it hurts my eyes as if it were glinting off a snow white landscape. Nothing is especially white here so not sure what's happening there, but I feel conspicuous when I don my shades for comfort. 
• French- this falls more into the category of things we haven't heard- a lot of French we can understand. The Ivorian French is so fast and mumbled I end up asking people to repeat themselves multiple times. I really want to ask them to open their mouths and enunciate their words, but there's no polite way to do that. I suspect in months we'll all be able to better understand the fast talking rhythms around us. 

Hoping next post will include photos. We are so far off the grid, we no longer qualify for municipal garbage pick up- it means there are some beautiful morning views. Other things I hope to capture include the number of clothing boutiques on the way to our house- along with the full sized mannequins out front. Seems we've left the world of fruits and vegetables for the garment district. 

Staircases to Nowhere, the Laundromat and the Lagoon

Another collection of rambling stories about our neighborhood

The end of the second week has left us with better prospects.  Mohamed brought home the trophy from his soccer championships, apparently the privilege of the team captain.  Both Nabih and Mohamed were assigned as captains, making it a little hard to root for a particular team.  But they are enjoying soccer and the activities that follow and that’s the main point. Mohamed has become independent enough to make trips to the cyber café and pick up snacks at the little store just down the road. It makes me happy to see him venturing out into the world in a way that life in Kinshasa never really allowed for.  Nabih? Forever the homebody, content with his electronic games, which leave me a bit mystified as a parent. Am I supposed to express amazement over his accomplishments on a virtual dirt bike? Or flying a plane with just a tap and swipe of his fingers? I’m still pondering how to respond to his electronic achievements and hoping for more reality to intrude on his life, realizing I may need to step in and make it happen somehow.

I have picked up a bit of sinus congestion, which I am convinced is due to the air in the apartment. Luckily we have found a new place and will be moving within days. Although our new spot is not far, I am going to miss the neighborhood. There is the little girl across the street who cries every night just before sleeping (and any other time she doesn’t get her way. I can recognize her demanding scream now- I get the sense she is a feisty one.) Her tired baby sleeping tantrums usually begin around 8:30 or quarter to 9.

Its been entertaining to watch the gaggle of kids streaming from that house, the two little girls looking so close in age, though the older of the two handles the nightly tantrums well. From my distance I can see only her body language but I imagine a perplexed eye-rolling expression on her face as she tries to placate her sister’s demands. One night when it rained especially hard, several kids- this time two boys- came outside to ‘swim’ on the cement stoop in front of their house- elevated around the edges just enough to keep the water in, not quite enough for real swimming unless you’re 4.  They slid along their bellies and flapped their arms joyously splashing in the water.

I found out the guy around the corner repairs shoes and I have enjoyed watching him arrive and set up faithfully every morning. Sometimes when the rain is particularly heavy, he hops up on his table and sits under the wooden overhang, waiting it out. It makes a sad and lonely picture that I haven’t yet been able to capture. Somewhat pensive, though I am sure he is napping there while waiting for the skies to clear.

I am pretty positive we can walk to our new place if we follow the trails of dirt roads over to the small market and past the local soccer pitch. Somewhere behind all that lies more dirt roads and smaller soccer pitches until finally a little clearing of ground will lead to our house.

Another one of the photos I haven’t yet been able to take is of the stair maker just before the soccer field. It is a sight to come down the dirt path and see a set of shiny spiral stairs leading up to nowhere. They are surrounded by other staircases-straight ones, unfinished leaning ones, more spiral ones. As I was dreaming of the palatial apartment we had seen, I vowed to get one of those spiral staircases to set in the corner and line with plants. I love the sense they give of rising off to somewhere without a real destination determined.

Across the street from the staircase maker lies yet another oddity- a perfectly manicured patch of lawn- a park, I suppose. But it is there in the middle of two lanes, with neat shrubs and plants and cut grass.  It looks like a pleasant place for sitting, though the oddity is found in its emptiness. As if there were signs all around saying Keep off the Grass. I can’t be sure of its purpose or how it came to be, but it exists. A small oasis of order and cleanliness just before the busy chaos of the market stalls with their hanging wares and cluttered countertops.

The market is also home to cages and cages of live chickens, which you can buy and they’ll clean and pluck for you. We found this out one night when Christian was looking for someplace close by that sold chicken- already dead and refrigerated is what we were thinking.  But really, what’s fresher than newly killed and cleaned?

In the opposite direction of all that, on our way to the soccer camp, is the Laundromat.  I discovered this one day during the first week when I was feeling put out by my washing abilities. It all comes down to the wringing. Good wringing is essential if you ever want the clothes to dry. (I have since found out, with the washing machine, soccer clothes come out nearly dry already. I have a newfound love and respect for soccer clothes. I heavily endorse them for all events and outing opportunities.)  I had been passing by one morning when I noticed two men vigorously scrubbing a blanket.  I immediately felt better, figuring if it took two of them to do it, I shouldn’t feel so bad about my difficulty the day before when it was just me and my blanket (one that had gotten wet in one of the small floods and took forever to wring out..) I spent a lot of the first week feeing overwhelmed by the chores of daily living, realizing that many women in Africa have only time for that- and it’s a problem. I had been appreciating the ease and freedom of having the washing machine working and touting to Christian the free time and the multiple uses of it that having a Laundromat could bring to women. Not the dry cleaners, which seem pretty prevalent around African cities, but regular old Laundromats- go in, wash, dry, fold, leave. And that’s when I noticed the sign tacked to one of the posts “Nos Tarifs”- Our fees. There already was a laundromat in the neighborhood, as I should have guessed by the mounds of clothes waiting to be cleaned and the neatly hung shirts on a rack outside.  Perfect. For a single guy maybe. Probably still not accessible to a family. I think there is a very real place for a self -serve style laundromat. I imagine no dryers but a covered area that has those lines which hang in a square around a central pole or drying.

Another issue that got to me a lot during our first week here was constantly being accompanied by someone, namely Christian. I didn’t go anywhere alone and it began to feel oppressive. I thought of women in Afghanistan and Pakistan who are prohibited from going out without a male escort and I wondered if it was just my American sensibilities of independence and privacy that had me yearning to be free- and alone. While cultural norms color much of what we come to see and expect as normal, I do believe women in those countries feel a sense of injustice and inconvenience in needing to be constantly surveyed and accompanied. Oh to be a woman. It’s something that confronts me everyday here, in so many seemingly small ways.  It’s another post, churning on the burner-  one I can get to thinking about once I have absorbed all of the nuances of our new situation.

Something else on the burner, more literally speaking- our borrowed propane bottle was recalled and so we had to go in search of a new one. Christian installed this one and called me in to see it. “Look,” he said a bit perplexed as it quietly lit, “it doesn’t go whoosh.” I had to laugh a bit and reassure him. “It’s not supposed to go whoosh,” I said, happy to be back in the land of lighting stoves that I knew. I have such a hard time determining if I am over reacting that I usually end up under reacting.  I guess I should be grateful we didn’t blow ourselves up last week.

Finally a few words on our new place. It’s much larger, 3 bedrooms, a good-sized living room and a kitchen that 2 or 3 people could potentially fit in at once (African kitchens are notoriously small I noticed. I’m guessing it is related to the preference or the habit of outdoor cooking spaces.) There are two doors leading out of the kitchen- one to a little alcove that I envision as an outdoor eating area (my version of tea on the back porch in Kinshasa.)  There are screens (no flies!) on all the windows and doors (notice the all the ‘S’es- lots of air flow in this house! So much to be grateful for.)

The main bathroom breaks from the drench-the-whole-room style and actually separates the toilet from the shower and sink into two different rooms. Heaven. There is another bathroom off one of the bedrooms (Abidjan seems eternally obsessed with 2 or more bathrooms, sometimes one for every  bedroom, even if they are absurdly small. I wonder why one large and comfortable bathroom doesn’t make more sense than several closet sized wash rooms you can barely spread your arms out in. luckily, we are in neither of those situations any more. Yay!)

There is a little veranda in front big enough for some chairs (and plants!) two patches of grass (of which I hope to claim one for flowers) and a driveway. Wow! Christian is claiming the driveway for dance rehearsals and I am sure he will have some competition with the boys for soccer practice.  However, there is a small soccer field in the lot next to our house.

And the main selling point? While I’m worried the place is too isolated, just beyond the little patch of empty playing space, through a gate and down a country lane lined with patches of cultivated vegetable plots lies the lagoon.

It’s the second story I have heard of a white man getting shot during the political upheaval over the presidency. The first was on our trip to Bassam. The luxurious hotel, restaurant and beachfront we went to in order to access the ocean was also said to have belonged to a Frenchman, killed in the war. His wife had recently sold the place to someone and it was under some transition.

The same with this picturesque waterfront. Waling down the dirt lane, one is greeted first with patches of and rented out to locals who farm it for vegetables to sell or feed their family. Following this is (pause for a guess here) a soccer field (you see why I believe Mohamed will make it big in soccer here? It’s hard to go very far without stumbling across a pitch. I even saw- a rather joyous sight- 3 little girls, not more than 3 or 4, playing a pretty serious game of foot, something I haven’t seen before- the ever present gender divide absent in that one sweet moment.) After the soccer field, the land opens up a bit with space for gatherings and what appears to be a small administrative building. There is a pier leading out to the lagoon and several boats for renting. None of it appeared operational at the moment. The story is the owner, the infamous white foreigner killed during the skirmishes, is no longer present, thereby leaving the land to his close buddy (to be honest I thought I heard the story go that the close buddy had been the one to kill the white foreigner but….maybe I was just letting my imagination get away from me….) In any case, the land is now “transferred” to the buddy and lying in wait for the perfect transformation.

Enter Christian. He immediately proposes classes by the ‘beach’ and Salsa BBQ’s.  Memberships that include fitness classes and trips on the lagoon. The ideas only grow from there. The ‘buddy’ seems amiable enough and open to all of the proposals.  They have a meeting on Friday to work out details.

And so our Dance Camp Ivory Coast on the beach is formed. I’m still worried about being a little isolated, but I figure the boys can get some bikes and find their way around the neighborhood and back to the soccer camp. I can look forward to painting in plein air in our ‘cozy’ front yard (yard is really too big a word for the patches of grass we have between the house and the walled gate. I’m not sure if it is a matter of changing my vocabulary or changing my word-picture associations. I hesitate even to call it a house, for some reason, as that doesn’t conjure images of what I normally think of when I say house, but there’s no other word. And, like many African abodes, what it lacks in appearance on the outside, it makes up for inside. We’ll feel perfectly comfortable, downright luxurious inside- especially if it doesn’t leak when it rains!)

In the meantime, we’ve had a few more floods in our little apartment- the Abidjan rains proving too hearty for a mere caulk gun solution. Our first few thunderstorms were magnificent, though lacking in some quality that Congo storms have. Closeness, is the best I can describe it. Congo thunderstorms make you feel as if you are inside them.  I had a bit of nostalgia for my front porch last night as the lightning and thunder cracked the sky.  But I am looking forward to the next stage of our adventure in a new house with outside space for drawing and writing and daydreaming the summer days away.