The lady of grand bassam

The small batik stall we were headed to was tucked in off the roadway. It was the kind of place you would have to know about from a friend in order to realize it even existed. We walked down a crowded dirt path strewn with the remnants of working artists. It was the kind of dirty that inolved ashes and burnt fire pits and discarded pieces of metal. Buckets filled with blackened water sat on a small crest just above the shoreline of a small lake.

She was standing there, in the midst of it all, on a worn metallic plate. Her skirt slightly open to reveal a long, sensual leg. One of her arms was extended behind and I could imagine a child just there, reaching out to grab her hand. The woman's skin was the color of beauty and the weathered blue-green of her clothing made her appear as if the sea itself were wrapping her up in waves of allure. She was magical, standing there in the blackened aftermath of creativity.

I was not the only one affected by her beauty. My artist friend was also captured. We made circles around her, admiring the beauty from every angle. We wondered what she was doing there, this exquisite sculpture that threatened to spring forth into life. Why had she been placed there, on the ground, in such a random way?

After several inquiries, the artist was finally located. He confirmed, as we'd suspected, that she was drying. He also told us she was already sold. She'd been made as part of an order. He pulled out a companion piece dripping in white and gold. She was admirable but lacked the magic and charm of the woman on the ground.

Her price was astounding. Far out of reach. I lifted her briefly, just to see, and she was solid, as heavy as a baby. It's been awhile since a piece of art has affected me so. After a week or more I am still reminiscing about her, the lady of Grand Bassam.

The artist was happy to share his phone number and invite us back to view the process. We were interested in the molding technique and the application of color. Though I remain intrigued by witnessing, and possibly learning, a new process, I am certain there are some things that can't be explained.

She was vivid, surely living in some other world.

African Retirement

I have a sneaking suspicion I am nearing the end
of writing here. Abidjan has worn me down
in more ways than one. It's not official,
of course,
anything could change, anytime
and maybe I'll be writing other things
but it is fitting
that I found this draft of a post
I'd meant to write months ago
about retirement.

I went to talk to....
Our school hosted
a guy-
A money guy
Investment funds, 401K
That kind of talk
Future talk that makes
my heart beat fast
25 years? Do I still even have
25 years?
Of course I do,
Maybe.
Planning for the future has been
an up and down thing for me
A thing I want to do
But just never have the funds,
the time, the frame of mind
to do.

He talks about my future in
number of years that don't seem possible
unless I put my kids ages to it
For some reason,
Thinking about their future is
a lot
easier
than planning for my own.
The numbers just don't add up
and I guess in many ways
my own life is beginning to feel
like a wash
Not much left to do
but make theirs better

The dollars he wants me to invest
Are more than I even earn
And the numbers we do crunch
Come up dismally low
"That's all?" I say. "Some people
make that much in a year."
After 25 years of saving
I couldn't live on that.
What's my real plan A?

We talk about my kids.
They have a plan for me. Like good African children,
they've already planned to take care of mom.
But when that tax guy talks-
"I don't want my kids to have to
take care of me and worry about dad
because he doesn't have enough money.
I want them off living their own life-"
It sounds bad, my plan A.
Just for a minute.
As I listen longer, I can see
only lonliness in his words.
His kids off in their financial wonderland
and he in his.

Mohamed has had an idea
since he was 5.  He's always talked
about homes for his family.
It started with his grandparents and has now
expanded to include me.
He's ready, prepared, willing
to provide for me,
when I get old,
though I am ready to work forever.
He's got me covered, he says,
full of ideas for things
I don't even want.
It's the African retirement plan-
Invest in your children
100% return. Plus.

It was an interesting talk with that money guy.
I'm sure he left there
shaking his head
At my foolish plan
to invest in family
to place all my bets
on that little boy
who once wished
to be strong enough
to carry me on his back
as he sprinted
through a rain storm.

I listened to that money man's version
of retirement
without
burdening
his children and it just seemed
weird to me.
I've put my life into them.
Every second, every hour,
weeks and months and years.
It is an investment of love and time
and duty.
It should be
returned.

 I thought back to the Quran,
its prohibition of making money
from money.
In that moment, I saw it as
a protection.
Investing in people is the alternative.
Feeling duty for family is
the original plan.
And still my only
plan A. 

grateful

We have naked kids
who live around the corner.
They're not always naked,
 it just happens
that the times we are passing by
coincide
with their morning bath
or evening tub.
It's hard not to
take a moment
to be grateful
for indoor plumbing.

I have seen
the girl on the corner 
in her school uniform these days
I am
grateful  
for that
too.

And the young boy
I used to pass and wish
I could send home for a sandwich
and a mug of hot tea
sweetened with sugar and milk
I see that boy sometimes
wearing a mechanic's
uniform
covered with a mechanic's
grease and dirt
even as I wonder about
school
I am
grateful
he's not alone.
 

Congo kid

I still find myself missing Kinshasa with the deep longing that is generally reserved for people. I will be somewhere, or even passing through a place and something about the energy there will transport me back in my memories. I remember a street corner or a path I walked or a favorite drive. It all comes rushing back, enveloping me in the sights, the sounds, the smells and the rhythms. Suddenly I am overwhelmed with a physical ache and an intense nostalgia for that other space in Africa that feels like home.

The boys don't often talk about it. At most they remember friends from school with fondness, but I don't get a sense they miss the country in the same way I sometimes think I do. (I'm still trying to determine if I really miss it or if it is all part of the settling into a new city phase.)

In the last few months, however, Nabih has shared his thoughts in a way that makes me proud. On more than one occasion his responses to an activity in school have resulted in him presenting a sort of mini-history of Congo to the class. I am impressed when I hear him speak so knowledgeably about the past political scene and the present implications. I am impressed with his ability to make connections and use his past experiences to inform his present learning. Maybe I did something right after all.

This past Friday we went out with a few of his friends to celebrate his birthday. Although our first intention was to go karting, when we arrived they were in the midst of remodeling. We took our cake and our carful of boys and headed over to the bowling alley.

It was a first for Nabih and he had a lot of fun. We had the place to ourselves, which often seems to be the case in terms of African entertainment. There was no customary changing of the shoes (what fun is bowling if you don't have the inconvenience of wearing someone else's ill fitting shoes!!??) and the bumpers were up, but none of that took away the pleasure of hefting a heavy ball down the lane and watching it knock over a bunch of pins with crashing success.

A real bowling alley...complete with chain smoking
Lebanese grandma running the place

When it came time for cake, Nabih insisted his friends sing happy birthday first in Lingala. He taught them the words and then listened with a satisfied smile as 3 eleven year old voices sang slightly off tune. Next came the French version, followed by the English. Not to be outdone, one of his friends insisted on singing the Dutch version. It was all topped off by the completely bizzare, "Attieke, poulet, frite" version which I have never heard. Maybe it was their on the spot tribute to Ivorian food favorites.

Nabih had also insisted at Mbalia's birthday that we sing the Lingala version first and  he is always ready to speak to her in whatever Lingala he knows, sometimes asking for the right way to say something.  Often he reverts to this when he feels like she is not listening to his command in French or English. As if she has some deeper understanding of Lingala that will inspire her to obey his command.

It's quite heartwarming to me and leaves behind a bit of hope that maybe those Kinshasa years weren't as hard on him as he'd led me to believe.
 

An Open Letter

To You,
an open letter because
I cannot contact you, though I know
You have moved. On to better things?
I know you are not where
we were
Were we knew each other
When we talked of deeper things
And watched the moonlight setting on the river
When you
flew
through the air, setting
the world on fire
when you taught me how
to slow down,
to speed up
to feel the rhythm of another
by looking deep into their eyes
anticipating the next move
I did not see it coming
If only
you
were real
I remember
what you promised,
presented
pretended to be.
I remember you and sometimes
I miss you.
Setting the world on fire
and believing in me.
You did.
Believe.
I can't.
Remember how we were.
Once upon a time
By the river
In Congo.

neighborhood watch

After my last post, I got to thinking- do my neighbors have guns? I sort of just assume there aren't as many weapons hanging around, but I guess I can't really know. Just as I was pondering this question I heard a series of pops going off like a drive by.

Mohamed assured me they were just kids with firecrackers- like I should worry less. I do see an awful lot of machetes around- I even have one myself. But they are mostly used as a gardening tool- yup, I planted some of my flowers in our small dirt patch with a rusty old machete. Oh, the skills I am learning.

Today when I came home Christine greeted me with tales of a snake in our yard. She even snapped a few photos with her phone which she eagerly shared. It was a king snake. Bigger than the spread of both arms. Really. Huge.

She told me a man had been passing by and saw it slither into the yard. He came banging on the door to let her know. A different kind of neighborhood watch. She was freaking out herself, screaming a bit but still courageous enough to wave a broomstick around. The man did more than just alert her, he came in and killed the snake as well. Neighborhood watch plus.

Considering how the crab managed to get inside, I am feeling a bit uneasy. There are just too many gaps between doorways, holes in the walls, and hidden entryways that only the animals seem to know about.

In the meantime, I am grateful for concerned citizens wielding heavy sticks. 

the way they are

My nounou has a nounou. I am not sure if I mentioned this but surely I posted a cutie photo. My nanny/housekeeper left us early last year to have a baby. We had several fill-ins for her maternity leave, but this past October she came back to work for us.

I really wasn't sure how that would work out- and heard several stories in the interim of other families experiencing the same dilemma. Their nannies were not asked back, simply let go. As a woman who suffered the same fate just a year ago, I felt the injustice all too close to home. If she was willing to come back, I guess I was willing to have her.

The small bump- she brought a nanny along with her- to take care of the little guy while she was busy taking care of my growing princess. Christine is the only nanny that Mbalia was sad to see go. She paid us visits throughout her wait for delivery and also just after. Mbalia cried every time she left.  Because she has been with Mbalia since birth, there is a clear attachment.

Christine's nounou is a young girl. At first inquiry, I was told she was about 13. The second inquiry bumped her age up to 'around 15.' Either way, she is too young, newly arrived in the city from the "village." The ever elusive and always present "village," where people go to 'rest and heal,' to visit family and escape from to the city.

She doesn't speak much French and apparently came in search of work. A teenager. She stays with her older sister and now, she works for my nounou.

I struggled with mixed feelings for awhile. How can I have such a young girl here in my house, taking care of children and not going to school? What is my responsibility in this matter and how do I really feel about it?

The scary part is, it might be easy to just accept it - thinking, 'that is what they do.' Abidjan is really knocking the life out of me. But who are 'they' and why is this the only choice available?

Christine herself did not go to school. Her mother was a farmer and so she was rasied to cook and clean and keep things tidy while her mother worked in the fields. Yes, the 'fields' here in M'puto- home of lettuce farmers.

I still wondered what to do about this. After awhile, I wondered why I was even wondering. Of course there is only one solution. When I mentioned it to Christine she told me that she thought the girl was pregnant. My heart sank - literally. I felt it plummeting right out of my chest cavitiy and landing somewhere around my feet. "All the more reason for her to be educated," I said.

The plan is really for both of them to benefit. Christine said there is a night school in the neighborhood and she plans to go. "Yes," I agreed, "it is a great idea. A good intention. But is it possible? I know what it is like to get home from work. There is the baby and cooking and cleaning your own house. It is a good intention, but is it possible? Better to have someone come here during the day. I know you both have time." I am a little playful, but I suspect there is a lot more TV watching going on during the daytimes than actual down and out scrubbing.  

So I have now been on the search for a tutor. Cours domicile is quite popular in Abidjan. Our neighbor children have a teacher come once or twice a week- honestly I am not sure how often he comes- but occasionally I see them sitting under the tree learning their lessons on a large black board propped up on a table.

I am in search of a tutor- but not just anyone, a real teacher who will help this girl, and this lady, to make progress in their language and literacy. What else can I do?

Schoolhouse tree

small but significant

My writing has become of questionable quality- it seems fair to acknowledge. I could chalk it up to the early, intense harmattan which has blown into Abidjan and covered everything with its slow moving haze. But I know it is simply because I have gotten out of the habit. And since arriving in Ivory Coast, I spend too much time alone with my thoughts. Surely good conversations- and more importantly- meaningful experiences- can be found but I haven't spent a lot of effort searching.

I am still ruminating on my last thoughts about happiness- suspecting that using it as a measure of job satisfaction is probably more closely correlated to those who feel they have a higher degree of choice. While my choices appear to be opening up in the near future, I still tend to count myself among the "waiters" as the time is not quite right for a bunch of upheaval or future planning. I am just trying to deal with my present.

I have spent a lot of time reflecting about the process of immigration and when exactly the tables turn from immigrant to resident to citizen. Although the time for processing papers differs by country, I am more intrigued by the internal process. A friend posted this article about assimilation in Belgium and alluded to a conversation she'd had with friends. It is something I've spent a lot of time examining, though without benefit of friendly conversation.

It seems the basic tenets of the article can be true of most any place that has a dominant physical characteristic- something easily identifiable by sight. China is one example. It is hard to imagine a blond haired, blue-eyed somebody claiming they are Chinese and having the general population accept that without further inquiry. The same could be said for countries in Africa. Though I might live here for 20 years, I will never be able to claim to someone that I am African. Even Mbalia, born here and possibly growing up all of her life here, will always be asked about the "other" part of her heritage and identified as non-African because of it.

Presumably the difference is that in European countries- and America- the host country has more benefits to offer that immigrants are not always able to take full advantage of- discrimination based on their "other" status while in African countries, the "other" status could more likely lead to "positive discrimination" (or the ability to secure privileges more easily based on being non- African.)

Last year, the boys attended Ivorian schools and had a chance to experience a bit of a flip side to this. While they were singled out as being "other," I'm not sure there were too many privileges that came with it.    

In either case, or in all cases, I start to wonder if there isn't a basic human tendency in all of this- the idea of using appearance to create a sense of community or tribe. In Ivory Coast, you can still see remnants of this in facial markings that were used to identify tribal affiliations. Upon sight you could be marked as friend or foe based simply on where you- your parents- came from.

Of course, the idea is that as an evolved species, we should be able to put physical markers of human difference aside and concentrate on inner connections. I get a sense of this when I stop converting money, or when I feel a sense of obligation about the customary kiss hello (or when I am about to meet an American and think to myself, this time I need to handshake) or when I "get" the humor of social and political cartoons - and even more so when I find they apply to me- or any of the other small but significant signs that show themselves in daily routine and interaction.

The adopted culture has become first response and when confronted with something from my home country, it occasionally sounds odd to me or slightly familiar but no longer useful. So I must assume that after 7 years, I am on my way to assimilation. The question remains how can I mark that in my appearance so everyone will know (and stop asking me where I am from, you know, originally?)

One solution is simply to wait for a time when appearance is less likely to be so drastically different. This article  supplies some of the science behind the idea, while this one shares a few images. The future certainly does look beautiful- reminding me of a quote from a grandma I used to know, commenting on her mixed hued grandkids. "The golden children....they are the new generation."

I can't follow this logic through to a debate of whether that will ultimately heal racism or intensify it (being all too able to imagine a minority of white skinned, blue eyed, light haired dictators in control of the masses, Orwellian style) but surely it will allow us to confront the other topics that continue to divide- class, wealth, occupation...or any of the other subjects we  concentrate on when we can no longer ask....where are you from?

small signs

Things are shifting- not just in the big world, where it seems obvious (even in my small hometown I ran across an FB post of a scary letter by the sheriff- encouraging citizens to get and carry guns. Everywhere. As in, always carry your gun when you leave your house. ??!!!)

While I am glad not to be in that environment right now, there are always changes underway, no matter where you are. Our neighborhood has gone through some small changes of its own.

Before I ever got a chance to take those inside photos, Diallo is gone. He was the young kid at the corner boutique. We are now on our fourth corner boutique guy. They all leave the same way.

One day there are two of them. They stay together for a few days and then one of them goes. "Off to Adjame," they always say, "to man the shops there."

 I'm not sure how the conversation began but I learned more this time. The new guy tells me that Diallo was transferred because he was too friendly with the customers.

"But it's good to be friendly, no? It helps to build the business." I wonder about the strategy at work here.

"He gave too much credit," he explains. I remember seeing the owner in the shop one day, maybe checking out the books? That day, as on several others, Diallo gave me some extra. Often I would buy something for 100 franc and he would offer 1 more than expected. It was kind of random and I couldn't quite figure out why or when. I chalked it up to me not quite understanding the prices or maybe his own mood swings through generosity and good days vs bad days. I imagined the confines of the store-box would feel quite limiting and play havoc with one's emotional state.

But that day, I sensed something else at play. Right there under the boss' nose he is giving out freebies. It seemed more like a rebellion. A way of taking control in a powerless situation. I saw him once more, walking down the neighborhood street. He looked odd without his store around him, smaller and yet, more determined.

Now he is off to the crowded streets of Adjame, or whatever store he is next calling his home. And we are left with the new guy, who burns a slightly unpleasant incense, but appears to have cleaned up the shop to create a bit more room for himself.

Other things are changing too. Small signs that suggest maybe I am blending in more with the neighborhood than I thought. Or the country.

I bought a bag at the school concert, having been in need for awhile. The zipper on my last bag had broken and I'd been using it open for the last month or so. I had my eye on a stylish new design hanging outside a shop in Palmeraie- one of those window shopping excursions that I'd always promised to go back and buy but never did. Happily, the owner had a booth at the craft section of the show and I was able to make good on my private vows to purchase one.

I passed a few colleagues who remarked on the bag and so began a conversation about bags and prices and pockets and the real need for a bag anyway. (I had a real need, they viewed it as an accessory they did not really need.) But the most interesting part was as soon as I told them the price, in francs, they both looked at each other and said the amount in dollars. Something I hadn't even considered, couldn't consider.

I never deal in dollars anymore. And I'd long ago mentioned, if I ever want to buy something, converting money in my head is the surest way to kill the deal. I was happy with my price (until they converted it to dollars, which I pretended not to hear.) There is no "stock up" trip coming or vacation to a cheaper place and so I have committed to Abidjan prices. There's no sense waxing nostalgic for prices from the past.

The second hint of an inner shift came by way of a question. One of those questions I have been wondering about over the years. My principal asked me...."Are you happy?" I had mentioned on my intent to return letter that I wouldn't mind being considered for some other positions- the art position I  had originally applied for, a middle or high school position (that I also applied for.) He was expressing his surprise and stating that he didn't really know if I was happy.

The question surprised me but not as much as my internal response. It felt odd to be asked this question. My kids go to school, they have friends, we eat everyday. What's this happiness business? I have a job that I need. Happiness is not related. Or rather, happiness is not dependent on my job.

I didn't say this. I enjoy teaching and I can do it well. But it is not the source of my happiness (or unhappiness.) I am reminded of the dishwasher turned day cook that I posed this very question to some 20 years ago. He must have felt this very same puzzling way at being asked such a question.

I have a job, of course I am happy. But I have so much more and so of course, I am happy. It doesn't really seem to be the right word that I use to measure my satisfaction ( or dissatisfaction) with life lately. Small signs of age- or maturity- or just merging with my adopted culture. Most likely a mixture of each.

Visitor from the lagoon

Our bedtime ritual has changed a bit in the last year. Since Mbalia has come to join us, it often works in reverse. She and I go in to lay down and Nabih- ever the searcher of that one last goodnight kiss- comes in puckering and procrastinating bedtime. And so it ends up that I am usually the one asking him to tuck us in. The mosquito net, that is. We sleep soundly inside the net which keeps out (most) mosquitoes and any other creepy crawlies that might be about.

Sleeping inside the net has lent a princess-like appeal to my otherwise dreary bedroom. It's also provided a sense of calm and safety (there are a lot of potential creepy crawlies in this humid, close-to-the-lagoon house.)

One morning I wandered sleepily into the laundry room to grab a towel and find something to wear. A usual morning ritual. When I turned on the light I noticed a round large critter supported on thin legs. My just awakened mind could not make sense of what I was seeing. I wasted several minutes trying to morph the ideas of spider (waaay too big to be a spider- I hoped. It couldn't be a spider my mind insisted as, at the same time, it couldn't register anything else. It had to be a spider...could it really be a spider?) and alien (it had to be an alien, right? Hard, round shell. Robot-like spindly legs.)

"Oh my, oh my oooooh my," was all I could say as other options flitted briefly through my thoughts.  Nightmares were fresh in my memory. I backed away to grab my phone and hopefully snap a photo.

Of course, the whole time I was muttering oh mys and this eventually scared him away. He went click clacking off into a corner and secured himself underneath the car seat sitting there. The clatter of his legs? hooves? made me think 'crab' but he wasn't red, or flat or speaking with a Jamaican accent.

Mohamed insisted I didn't see what I saw and we spent a bit of time wondering how to get him out of there. When Christine showed up, we told her about it and she promised to search high and low. "It might be a crab," she said. "I'll get him out of there." She waved a stick around to show she meant business. Mohamed gave me his trademark smile and winked.

"She's a real African woman," he said. "She's not afraid of anything. She can kill a rat." He was referring to our previous mouse problem which Christine tackled with gusto- planting mouse catchers and removing the critters without remorse.

When we came back home, however, she had nothing to report. Despite a thorough cleaning, she hadn't turned up the click-clacking offender. Perhaps he'd gotten out on his own? I couldn't really imagine how he had even gotten in in the first place. He was large, larger than my fist. And the shell was hard- not conducive to squeezing beneath cracks. After reflecting all day, it seemed likely what I'd seen was a crab, even though my google search didn't turn up any crabs walking in full blown puffer fish mode. Based on my quick sketch, everyone seemed to think crab (after ruling out jelly fish) especially given how close we live to the lagoon. But it only seems close in people terms, if you have long legs to traverse the distance. It seems more like another country when thinking in crab terms.

When it rains, the streets do become littered with small ponds and lakes. In a few heavy downpours, the water has flooded our small road entirely and even covered most of our front yard. Maybe it was possible he puddle hopped all the way? I still couldn't figure out why. What do crabs eat anyway? The more I thought about it and talked it over with Nabih, the more I realized I don't actually know very much about crabs.

Just after dinner, I grabbed a small bag and intended to run over to the corner boutique. As I made my way for the door, I stopped and breathed in deeply. There he was. Proof! This time, he wasn't "up" in his round mode, but laying flat and distinctly more crab-like just in front of the screen door, like a puppy waiting to go out for his evening walk.

I wondered how he had gotten there without any of us noticing. There was nothing small or indiscreet about him. How did he skitter along the baseboards (of our very pale yellow and still quite empty house) without being seen- or heard on our tile floor?

I went to get my phone (again- this time trying to be more quiet- though now the boys were running around up in arms.) They let me take some grainy shots in our flimsy evening light and eventually we opened the door for our guest who scuttled out into the yard taking cover by the palm tree.

I've been prepared for lots of "visitors"- cockroaches bigger than fingers, mice, rats as big as cats, termites, spiders and lizards (the large blue and orange ones, the medium greenish-gray ones and the tiny almost see through ones.) In other countries, I've encountered bats (inside,) raccoons (outside) and even bears. My path has crossed snakes, turtles, goats and dogs. I guess now I can add hard-shelled, click-clacking, alien-cousin-resembling crabs to the list.  Hopefully he won't be able to make it past my mosquito net.

grainy lochness monster-type photo of my alien-crab-
 he really does exist, though- the boys saw him too!

our flooded walkway- although the morning of
the crab sighting all was dry

Expressing condolences

"Where are you from?" a colleague at work asked me as we crossed paths in the teacher's lounge.

It's a loaded question for us international types. "You mean.....originally?" I ask with hesitation coloring every word. I hate to be boxed in by my Americaness.

"I'm from the U.S., from New York." I am careful to put the U.S. first, having previously been called out after once replying simply, New York. Everyone knows NY, right? I've forgotten the exact remark, but it had something to do with us Americans putting state before country or assuming everyone has heard of our city, state, hometown. As if we are so important we don't even need a country. (I didn't mean it that way, but New York is kind of up there with Paris, London and Rome. Does it really need a preface?)

"I'm looking for the French. I want to express my condolences," my colleague goes on to say. I am momentarily stunned, but lately I've been seeing- and seizing- moments to talk about Congo with clarity and enthusiasm.

"Weelll.... I did just come from Kinshasa, in the DRC and they are suffering..." I begin to break the silence, telling him I am happy to accept his condolences on their behalf but we need to do more. He's a little unimpressed with my spiel. I sense he just wants to talk about Paris. "I understand," I tell him. "It's because we think certain places are safe. And when the safe places become victims, we feel all the more vulnerable."

"Yes." He smiles as though we have finally understood each other. "They're the guardians. And when the guardians get attacked it's not good."

The guardians? I can see we haven't understood each other at all. But I am trying. I know how hard it is to sustain a grief or outrage. If I came to you one day and said my brother died, you would respond heartfully. Maybe even so the next day, if I came to you again and said I'd lost another brother. Day 3 and 4, yet more brothers and sisters dying might leave you with an overwhelming sense of sympathy at my tragic state of affairs.

After 1 week however, you will begin avoiding me because you just don't know how to respond anymore. It's unimaginable what is happening to me- that so many in just one family would die like this, all close together.  As week 2 continues you will put me neatly into the category of "other" and "alien" or "odd." You will have no choice but to move on to other things that are easier to think about. Things that require less emotional output and fewer feelings of helplessness.

But the tragedy continues. Our brothers and sisters continue dying everyday, and not just in Congo, but around the globe. How do we cope?

Bowing to Kings

A mere 5 or so days after getting my computer back- all fixed and fresh with a crisp new screen- I broke it again. Yup, I broke it this time. I could get into the why's and how's and but it wasn't fair's, except that will only lead me down the road of discouragement and despair.

The positive thing about not having a computer at home is that I don't work all evening, every evening. It's not possible. When I go home at night to be with my family, the work stays in school- where it rightfully should.

Of course, it occasionally makes it hard to keep up with deadlines and I don't really enjoy spending every Sunday in my classroom- complete with cute little bunny in tow. It certainly makes writing for pleasure ever harder to get to, but...yeah, I was trying not to go down the road of despair.

The only things that offer true release from the world of work (aside from my little sunshine's laughter) is the world of dance. And drum. Music has a way of pushing all other things aside and claiming complete control.

I remember dancing in Congo- forever remember the zombie analogy- and see how far I have come. I actually miss Congolese dance, for one. The style and rhythms have helped me grow as a dancer in general.

My early teacher- a source of frustration for me at the time- has exploded into an amazing video choreographer and is working with a fabulous team in Belgium. I applaud her talent, her reaching for her dream and her success. Jolie is the shining star in many a video!

I am actually surprised at times by how much I miss Congo- and it's rhythms- especially since I recall the first year or so when my mind was colored by all things Guinean. It was hard to appreciate Kinshasa when my heart was aching for Conakry. But I am growing now and have found that loving dance and art and culture is a bit like being a parent. There is always room for the new and the old and the yet undiscovered.

These last few weeks, however, the drummers have been treating us with rhythms that remind me of my birth into the world of traditional dance. Oddly, I end up feeling a little nostalgic about African dance in New York. Moving across the floor as my body replays those steps from another time- it is like a warm and welcoming friend come to visit. When the teacher points me out to her group of young recruits and says, "She- she gets it. The only one." I know it is not fair. I want to tell her that the moves are good friends of mine. We go way back. I learned them long before coming to this class, this country, this time and space. But I remain silent, keeping our relationship hidden, secret and therefore all the more sacred.

At the same time, I have come to know some of the Ivorian dances pretty well. We are not lost in the jungle, bent-kneed and straight-backed zombies. Now- now we are peasants and villagers. We sow. We harvest. We cook and serve. We entice and praise. We dance with all the ordinariness of daily life and turn it into beauty. Most of the movements are low with a forward bend. Our backs pulse and arms circle out and around and in again. The movements are fluid and smooth, a perfect accompaniment to the drums. But we are never low enough.

"Get down,'  our teacher will say. "You are bowing to kings."  I've been keeping this piece of humility in mind as my reality spins out its tale. Yes, I am bowing to kings here in Abidjan.  There are so many ways to interpret this- and currently my state of affairs fits them all.

the boutique

"The boutique" is just another name for the corner store. And there really is one on every corner. In West Africa, these boutiques have a distinctive look. I keep wanting to take a picture but haven't figured out how to do that without changing our relationship. The picture I want is deep and inside. I want to sit and question, those American questions that can never be fully answered, because they are never completely understood. (part of me felt these things have already been uncovered- photographed, interviewed, explained- but a google search is turning up nothing. Might have to revisit the photograph series after all...)

It brings me back to one of my first experiences of this kind of all consuming work- El Salvadorains at a restaurant. The story I'd heard was one of our dishwashers had walked his way across the countr(ies) to somehow land in upstate NY. He found a place, as many did, washing dishes, bussing tables, doing anything that would bring in money. Eventually he was promoted to prep cook and cold cook until he was one day running the day time kitchen. Somewhere in between all of that I asked him if he enjoyed his job.Was it the life he'd envisioned for himself? Was it his dream? I wanted to know. Was he happy?

Even as I asked, I realized the futility of my question. I'd heard they all shared a room in a hollowed out, vacant restaurant- 10 of them sharing space by candlelight just to crash for the night before returning to their 14 hour shifts. Americans search for personal happiness, but immigrants search for happiness thorugh service to their families. Yes, he said. He was happy. He had a job that allowed him to send money home. Mission accomplished.

But then, as now and every moment in between, I wonder about my ability to be satisified through my occupation. Is it enough? I ask. What's the purpose? I don't want my life to be consumed with working.
Whenever I am feeling particularly overtaxed in this regard, I have only to look to my neighborhood boutique.

West African boutiques are always framed with bars. These are not stores you enter but stores you stand outside. You look in through the bars and ask for items you want to purchase. The storekeeper will pull them down and offer them to you through one section of bars that is larger than all the rest. A "window" for larger purchases. The actual door is often locked and the keeper is inside, surrounded by piles of goods and stocks of merchandise wanting to be sold.

Though the size varies, there is always that sense of a cage. Sometimes the vendor will sit outside in a chair, ever ready to jump up and assist a consumer. Sometimes there are two and they will trade conversation and keep good company.

But if I focus in on just this one store, the one closest to me, I sesne an ever more lonely tale. There used to be two- but one was sent out to man another shop and so now there is one. He seems rather young to me and so confined. I see him sometimes praying outside in the early morning, or leaving his space on Fridays to go to the mosque. On these days he seems even smaller, younger, more vulnerable without the shape of his boutique to surround him.

Mostly I see him inside, sitting on a straightback wooden chair surrounded by high piles of boxes and endless crates of soda. There is barely room for him inside, especially when a shipment has just come in. He has a cookstove and a small television. Nothing about the set-up looks cozy or comforting. There is no couch, no walls with paintings or photographs. He has no kitchen or dining room or living room. He has just the boutique.

I've asked random questions, trying to get a more complete picture. At times the door is closed, leaving only the window open. He tells me at night, if he is at the window, kids will come and steal things out of the open doorway if he doesn't lock it. The same neighborhood kids who buy from him all day turn against him under cover of darkness. There isn't anger in his response, just acceptance. He has adapted.

I ask him what time he closes and he tells me 11:00. It seems so late, especially since I know his doors open at 6:00 or 6:30. So when do you sleep? I ask. 11:30 he responds in complete seriousness. I sense a rigid routine in there and all my regrets about working too much fly out the window. 6-11.00- no breaks, except on Fridays.

He is chained to this place. One night, one night out of the 365+ days I have lived here- I saw a girl in there. She was sitting in a hard backed chair next to his, nestled in amongst the cartons of Awa and the gallon of oil that is expressed into individual bags to be sold for quantities starting at 100franc. She was there and they were watching tv together. I don't know what their relationship was and I can't even begin to guess. I've never seen her again- or anyone else.

I have heard the small snippets of conversation that pass between him and neighborhood buyers- from flirtations with girls to indiginant drunken young men who insist their importance as consumers far outweighs his as supplier ("if it weren't for us, you wouldn't be here..." one young someone began...and went on and repeated until it was obvious he just wanted to purchase on credit.)

I approach the bars from outside and can't help but imagine what it is like from within. Every day, every hour and every minute tied to this existence. It is not his store, which makes it all the more difficult to comprehend. The lonliness, the routine, the unchanging drudgery of it all.

I wonder if he dreams of a wife, a family, a life apart from this. I wonder about friends and parents and his connection to the owner.  Did they know each other? Are they related and is it a family obligation that keeps him here? This is when I begin to understand the reason for taking things day by day. For not planning too far ahead, not dreaming or envisioning- what is beyond these cartons?

But surely he must? Somewhere there is a faith that this will one day give way to something greater. A knowledge that the routines of today can be changed in an instant, giving way to the dreams of tomorrow. I haven't yet found a way to inquire-  my weird American questions revealing a truth best left uncovered. 

The miracle of night

Mostly, Africa is home. And I do mean that in the broad sense of the continent. While the country may change, my ears and eyes bring in information through an African context. I am not hearing the same anymore. When I talk to my colleagues, I am often filtering though layers - and sometimes tuning out altogether- because the basis from which I try to relate has shifted completely. Often I simply do not arrive. We are no longer the same, those ex-patriots and I. Somewhere along the way I moved across boundaries and became less of an ex-pat and more of an immigrant. (The buzz around those terms is an ongoing debate and I"m not sure what I agree with or where I fall, but you can read about it here, here and here.)

It's something I have reflected on since moving to Africa- and possibly having to face the choice of fleeing in the name of conflict (there was this post in 2009.) In my current set-up, there's no question. We are here. Fleeing is not an option and there is no agency who can or will help us.

But I am good with that. We don't want to flee (or so I like to think. At least one of us Soumahs would probably jump at the chance to get out of here and I am trying to come to terms with that so if the opportunity presents itself, I will be lovingly supportive and not tearfully distraught.) 

Every so often though, in the name of this blog and unknown future written representations- I try to see again through my outsider eyes. I try to get back that magic that Africa held when she was slightly unknown but ever enchanting. The past few weeks, as I have rounded the corner of my small dirt street and made my way home in the dark evening night, I am greeted with a sight that is surely "other," though for us it now just is.

You can almost tell time by it and more than once the boys have questioned why I don't join in- which brings a small smile to my face.

The house across the street (street feels like a big word for the small dirt path that separates us) is home to babies. I've been half-heartedly trying to count them- or at least be aware of how many there actually are- but when one of my observations noted another pregnant women I decided to just give up. There are a lot. 3 or 4. I heard the newborn baby cries and I see the mamas outside with month old cuties wrapped in their white blankets. I have not been able to determine what the house is- one thing I've learned about outside appearance- they give no clue as to inside inhabitants. I can't tell if the doorway leads to one apartment or many- if it is one family related or merely neighbors. What I know is there are babies, and they go to bed around 7.

I know this because if you round the corner between 7 and 8 you will see the women outside. They have the babies strapped to their backs and they are pacing, or rocking or just gazing at the moon. It is time for the babies to sleep so they take them outside and give them fresh air and quiet night filled only with far-away neighborhood sounds. I know enough now to suppose the women are not necessarily the moms, though perhaps they could be.

And I view this ritual from the future persepective. What memories will the babies hold of the cool night wind blowing in off the lagoon- soothing, refreshing, lulling them to sleep alongside the distant drums and steady rhythms of a hip-hop beat, calling children and barking dogs, men laughing and an occasional horn honking.

It's cozy and comforting. I understand why the boys want me to take Mbalia out to walk through the night sounds as she transitions into the world of dreaming with nature and man in it's most harmonious time.
I don't do it. It is one of those bridges I can't be expected to cross. We've begin developing our own nighttime routine- sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't.

But I do enjoy the sight- the babies out for their evening stroll while their mamas talk on the phone or text someone or simply gaze out at the universe, contemplating the miracle of night.

Year of the Teacher

School years tend to take on themes. At this point it feels as though I have lived through the Year Of--- in just about every topic. There was the Year Kids Kept Climbing Out the Window (and coming back in through the door, oddly enough. Not a real escape but rather an alternate expression of indecision.) That same year I thought for a moment an especially energetic young guy might actually win the scuffle with the panic button people. It was my first official teaching post and I realized in one brief, breathless moment I might need a panic button for my panic button. Or I could just win the kids over. It was the same year I taught poetry by Tupac and introduced students to authors who looked and sounded like them - curriculum design inspired by student need. We put court in session- a reader's theater that was all too real for most of them- and held passionate debates about Walter Dean Myer's Monster We read Maya Aneglou and Toni Morrison and  broke the taboo against all their private angst. Cutting was a thing then, too, so we turned to Patricia McCormack and followed her character Callie through her own cutting experience.  It turned out to be the Year of Opening My Eyes to the Power of Literature.

Other years followed.The Year of the Garden, The Year My Prinicpal Got Divorced (it was only afterward I found out that all the hell I'd been living through that year had an underlying cause...) There was my first year in Africa when I had the Class Who Loved to Read and Write as Much as Me- it was like we were made for each other. There really couldn't have been a better welcome to world of international teaching.  Of course, a few years later there came the Year of the Class Who Made Me Want to Run for the Hills shortly followed by the Year When My Colleague Actually Did Make Me Flee.

For awhile, I thought this year might turn out to be the Year of the Parents. By mid-October I'd already had several intense parent meetings and a heated exchange with a mother bear. Luckily, I have my own mother bear and it kicked in to protect a student who was the real focus of her anger. 

After some reflection, I don't think this year is going to be about parents however. It seems to be shaping up to be about me. And I don't mean I am taking over. This is one thing I have been noticing more and more and finding weirder and weirder--- the tendancy for teachers to use their classroom position to go on and on about themselves. To share stories of their lives that moves well beyond instructional purpose and hugs the border of narcissistic domain. I'm not doing that.

But I do feel free this year. The amount of singing and dancing going on in my science and math classes is probably a shade beyond normal. It might be something to do with age, or place, or maybe it is just this particular class that inspires something in me. But whenever I feel a dance or a song coming on I just go with it. I usually don't go too far with it- just a sample before I turn it over to them and say make this into something. Get back to me and we'll make a video.

They've already taken the X-Y Coordinate dance and choreographed a number to go along with Nae-nae (a little too catchy for me and it ends up in my head for days! "Now watch me X..x...x  Watch me Y. And watch me X...x...x...you get it....) Our 15 minute daily calendar warm up has turned into a full theater production complete with costumes, props and an Emcee host. It's wild. But it has them begging to do calendar, which is really just a review of skills like finding factors, solving equations, reviewing multiplication and decoding prime factorization.

So I'm going with it. We're doing everything and anything that seems exciting, worthwhile, silly, spontaneous, and interesting. Because the math needs spicing up and the science is just engaging enough to hold all of our attention, and---why not? I am finally comfortable in my skin and if the waning and waxing of the moon makes me imagine a modern dance move or a karate kid "wax on-wax off"- then why not share it- and the accent to go with?

I do recognize a bit of this is coming from a place that is searching for more. I am underwhelmed with the ordinariness of Abidjan and looking for something inspiring. I miss my kids at Stand Proud and I miss my nightly English classes with La Jeunesse. I miss doing something like making art with a real artist and dancing in a truope of young divas (even if I wondered what the heck I was doing there the whole time.) I miss pulling up to a carrefour and having a quick exchange with a pack of street kids. I miss seeing their faces and checking in on them and having them know me. I miss feeling connected.

So I've become a bit reckless and I dance in class occasionally, and sing in my off tune voice once in awhile and pull out all my theater tricks to enhance our school day hours together. We've recently smashed a cell phone or two in our search to uncover the workings inside. I've found an opening in the curriculum that allows me to take them down the path of Congo's minerals and the resulting conflict and devastation to a people. I feel passionate again for a moment. The Year of the Teacher. I'm going with it.

The problem with a good idea

The same old things have kept me away for awhile and in true form I have been collecting post ideas. I'm starting with what's close to mind and will revisit a few thoughts from the past- though recurring and therefore surely relevant.

A future post is certain to outline The Year Of.....and it is shaping up to be a year of many things...one of which is finding out I don't really love all the things as dearly as I thought I did. Or rather, all good ideas potentially have a dark side.

Many international schools have turned their Halloween parade into a storybook character parade. Our school is no exception. From a distance, this sounds like such a fabulous idea. Use a holiday laden with candy getting, stranger door knocking and dead spirit revelling and turn it into something wholesome- encourage and endorse a love of reading while still allowing for the all important costume designing.

My class voted on a goal of achieving "Best Costumes Ever" and so, in an attempt to support this lofty objective, I decided I should dress up too. I have never been much of a costume wearer. In the US my go-to  Halloween digs included a sweatsuit and a pair of headphones. Jogger. Subtle, already in my closet and different from my daily wear. I used to have red jogging pants and matching zip up jacket (I can't imagine why I ever had such a thing, but I did) and I wore it with gusto.

My current approach was similar. I did a google search for characters who had things I already own. "Character with glasses" and "characters in a blue dress" were two of my first searches. The choices came down to Waldo and Madeline. I briefly conisdered Red Riding Hood since I have a smashing red sequined thing that I thought might be fun to wear.

Blue dress, yellow hat- I can do that

I tried to give some suggestions to my 5th graders. I tried to tell them that striving for Best Costumes Ever might mean we had to search beyond all the Wimpy Kid and Dork Diaries characters- who are really just kids like us- and try for something a little more.... creative.

But the books kids are reading in 5th grade aren't filled with the most colorful characters- not in appearance anyway. At a certain point, a character becomes loveable or memorable because of their actions and words and inner thoughts and less because of their appearance.

One kid really seemed to capture the essence of it all by coming in with a cartoon mask cut-out- a nice spin on the stick figure drawing essence of those books. Another managed to create his own homemade ninja costume eerily resembling a lego ninja character gracing the cover of his book.

My Vote for Best Costume Ever

But the more the kids searched and planned for their choices- my chocolate brown and coffee colored students- the more I saw there weren't enough characters that really resembled them. And I wanted to opt out. I suddenly found myself not wanting to support this idea- this idea rooted in literacy and cozy bedtime tales and reading and imagining characters from books- not movies. It became an idea I wanted to veto.

It's not news that there aren't enough diverse characters in children's literature. I'm not surprised just merely saddened again. I thought of all the time I used to spend searching for books to fill my classroom library and to make required reading as part of the curriculum. Hours and weeks and months and a lifetime really, always keeping eyes open for just the right tales, with a range of characters experiencing an array of life stories. Children from countries around the world, from all levels of economical backgrounds and family lifestyles, with skin colors that are pale and red and brown and beige and tan and dark. With eyes that are straight and slanted and green and blue and brown and black and seeing and nonseeing.  With legs that work and those that don't.

It's one thing to search for that and acquire that and strive to put that in my classroom (my long lost and beloved classroom.) But in the libraries? In the popular culture of kid speak and kid read? They aren't going to be doing all that searching. They are taking what's readily available, mass produced, deemed a success and pushed to be popular. They are choosing from what's easy to find and it doesn't necessarily resemble them.

So my excitement for the Storybook Character Parade dwindled quickly. By the time I was talking to a colleague- who responded wryly that she would be- of course, what else- "Aya from Yopougon" I was completely disspirited.  (google image search Aya and then google image search black storybook characters, or African storybook characters)

Aya- so much more than a book- in Cote d'Ivoire

It's easy enough for the little ones to still become princesses and battlefield warriors. There are plenty of cats and rabbits and turtles in childhood books. The more imaginitve might opt to become trucks or cars or even talking, walking vegetables. Truthfully, no one is ever too old for a picture book. But the kids get it. They get the idea of taking a favorite character and making it come to life. They want to do it.

It's just that the options are sorely limited.

A subtle Madeline, already
cooking up ideas about how to
open minds next year

Election Season

Some places have hurricane season, others have tornado season. Here in Africa we have election season. It's not all that different. Disaster preparedness. I've been trying to stock up on essentials like food and water. A propane shortage in the neighborhood reminded me I should get an extra tank of that as well. A rare power outage last night reminded me I need candles. And lighters.

Nabih and I spent our time in the dark, hot night making a list of other things we might have forgotten to add to our list. Mohamed was at a birthday party and when I called to check in he asked to sleep over. He ended the conversation by assuring me if there were any "election problems" I should call him immediately and he would come over to save us. Sweet man-boy that he is. I accepted his offer but let him know I was pretty certain we would be fine.

In general, I think this time the elections will go well. The president is still eligible for another term and it is likely he will win. Posters and billboards of running candidates have begun to pop up all over town but it feels forced- as though they are there just to prove there is actually more than one possibility for a win- even if no one believes it.

Guinea is suffering her own election woes now and Burkina Faso hasn't really solved her problems which began a year ago. No matter which country, the story seems to read the same. Will the elections be free and fair?  Has the opposition party united enough to present a real challenge to the incumbent and will the people accept the results? The questions are always the same. The answers appear dismally similar as well. The articles read like a madcap MadLibs- change the country names and photo captions and potential candidates to those from the country of your choice. The rest of the facts remain. African presidents don't want to leave, African people live in economic distress and aren't sure who to trust and the elections are met with suspicion, false hope and ultimately, anger and frustration.

The small words on the street offer conflicting accounts, as far as I can gather. It is in keeping with all things Ivorian. The country seems so equally divided on all matters that there appears to be no real majority. Of course, I am an outsider with very little insight. Half the taxi drivers and phone credit men believe Ouattara is doing a great job and is the only one who can continue his work. The streets are a mess of construction and destruction in case there is any doubt he is doing his job. (Cinq chantiers anyone?)

On the other hand, there are plenty of university students and taxi drivers (it always comes down to the taxi drivers, doesn't it? The heart of any good economy, the ones with their finger on the pulse of the country...) who think the president has had his turn and enough is enough. They are not awed by the propoganda and they don't like certain restrictions being laid out- they want a free chance and a fair chance for change.

At times the expectations seem too high to possibly be met. There is too much need in general and it is unlikely any candidate can promise real improvement. In the meantime, the country waits in anticipation. Foreigners make plans for vacations or other conveniently timed trips that will take them out of the country for those weeks. Locals stock up on provisions and try to prepare for the inevitable.

In a conversation this morning, we were talking about a family that was leaving. "For the war?" someone said, an inadvertant slip of the tongue. She meant to say elections. Somehow these two ideas have become synonymous, despite the signs appearing to promote a different reality. Elections are not violent, they read. And We work toegther in our diifferences to unite as a country.

The question no longer seems to be if something will happen but for how long. There are sure to be unsatisified citizens. By now, the entire world has come to equate burning tires and rock throwing with protest. Not in just in Africa but everywhere. Anywhere. Baltimore, for example.

With these images in mind, I've taken to wondering about my neighbors as I make any of several trips through the neighborhood out to the big road. My neighbors see me every day. I am a stranger among them, some friendlier than others but in the end a stranger. And I wonder how much it would take for them to turn against each other. To turn against me.

It's all unpredictable and could just as easily pass without complication. I don't spend too much time dwelling on possibilities. You can't live peacefully in Africa if you do. So, I am taking this extended weekend to stock up and prepare for a few days stuck in my house. Or a week, or a month. And after that....well, hopefully election season will drift out on the ocean currents and we'll be left to navigate the next season. (It's not apple season, which I was waxing nostalgic about in the grocery store this morning. I guess the next season would be holiday season- or the dry season- or, a bit further out on the horizon but coming nonetheless, harmattan season.....) There's always a season to look forward to.

One bright spot

The new road has one benefit (for me- theoretically it has many benefits for the city, though I am yet to be wholly convinced.) As part of our daily commute we now make our way past the new round point, complete with center fountain (still under construction. It was actually spouting water one day- opening day maybe- but has yet to stun us with its full beauty. I think colored lights are even part of the complete show.)

The formerly empty lots and green spaces are now destined to be 'parks' with stone benches already in place. People can be seen sitting there even as early as 7 am. The ground around them is still dirt, though it is easy to imagine the grass that will be planted.

On my way to dance the other night, I took a closer notice of the scenery. These round points are found all over Abidjan and the one in Palmeraie has a similar fountain in the middle. It has much more green space around the fountain section however, and the park is contained within. I noticed the overgrown grass and the pathways crowded with untrimmed foliage of bushes that surely created a beatiful landscape in its original design. It looks like a magical place, despite the dry fountain and weeds. I wonder if this is the fate of the round point in Riviera III.

But for the moment, the paint is still fresh and the construction continues. The one bright spot? They've painted the walls along either side with a colorful motif and splashed African silhouettes on top. It makes me happy to pass this mural everyday.

The triangle design with different hues is a motif
found all around Abidjan.

I haven't really captured the space well. This area adjoins
 the new road. I didn't have the heart to snap a shot
 of the dirt park- formerly the horses playground.
They can now be seen grazing on small patches
of grass outside the large neighborhood homes.

The second part aka Leg 2 (and probably 3)

 When I descend from the taxi, the air is electric. It is that time of evening when everything is beginning to come alive. I merge into the streaming pedestrians and we all cross the big road together. It is two lanes each direction with a concrete divisor. It stretches so far in each direction that people can often be found crossing in the middle and carefully hopping the wall. Even old ladies and women in fancy African attire. First one leg, take a moment to stradle and shift the weight, then the other leg. A hop down and huddle against the wall as the traffic screams past. I hate to watch it. Little kids gear up like they are about to take off on a marathon, looking first one way then the other before madly dashing out and over.

I cross at the light, which is marginally safer. Just on the other side is a stop for the bakkas. The callers are always trying to persuade me- and all the other passersby- to join them. "Transfer Liberte?" they ask while trying to usher me inside. I wonder where this Liberte is and vow to find out one day. A gas station is right off the corner and it is always a little hazardous trying to get across its exit and entranceway. If traffic is particularly bad, the bakkas come flying through here in their attempt to find a shortcut. I have occasionally had to jump to the side or stop mid stride in an effort to avoid getting creamed.

Once past the station, I am mostly on safe ground. There is a walkway off the roadside and if that isn't enough room, there is also a dirt path even further from the roadway. There are a few large stores here, but the real excitement is in the street vendors. There is a hat man with all manner of headgear from baseball caps to wide brimmed floppy sunhats. This evening, he is trying one on for a customer, which makes me smile. The hats have always seemed to hold a lot of dust and be just a bit too worn to truly look attractive but this man, wearing one of the floppy brimmed blue hats, makes it look just fancy enough to buy. He is holding a small mirror in his hand and I think it is an unusual technique- him trying the hat on- just odd enough to work. I am walking fast though, and so I don't see how the story ends.

My eyes have moved on to the umbrella men. One of them is busy sewing the plastic tarp that covers the metal spindles of his umbrella. Other large umbrellas are tightly wound and leaning against the wooden fence. These are not the small carrying umbrella but the large kind used for sellers. A glance across the street reveals a mass of them covering the fruit and vegetable stands that run the opposite length of the road.

Just after comes the ballerina-flat vendor. His shoes are laid out neatly on a large white cloth in row after colorful row of ballerina flats. This is the beginning of shoe alley. From here to the taxi station I pass shoe sellers, all with their own particular style of displaying their footwear. Most pair them up and set one at an angle, mimicking department store displays. Some just throw out a big pile and customers can be seen rifling through searching for a match. I always keep an eye on the shoes and the shirts and other odd items for sale, window shopping as I walk.

As I near the corner, things get busy again. There are women frying plantain chips and another bakka stop which always makes for a crazy interlude. People hopping in and out, the loud bang on the back metal door signaling the driver to speed off or to stop and let people out.

There is a small road to cross with a triangular island of shoe sellers. It appears to be nothing more than a dirt path but taxis can come speeding in or out unexpectedly. I've learned to pause and look carefully before stepping out and making my way over to the 'gare.'

The taxi station here is bustling, as all taxi assembly points are. Amidst the jewlery and food and phone credit stands are commuters and long lines of taxis waiting to be filled (on a good day. Some days the taxi lines are empty and it is just us pedestrians waiting for a taxi to come along so we can jump in.) This is the collection point and so not everyone is taking the same route. I must make my way over to someone who usually asks my destination. When I tell them, they call out "Appelle Guiraud" and whoever is going in that direction will beckon me over. Here taxis don't leave until they are full and, while this doesn't usually take too long, there is always the possibility of a wait.

Once we are cleared, we make our way into the bumpy streets of Palmeraie. Leg 3. Back on wheels, I am relegated once again to staring out as the sights pass me by. I do more window shopping, keeping my eyes on favorite clothes to see if they've sold and imagining coming back one day just to shop. I never do.

I read the same store names and think the same thoughts about them on my trip. My favorite- Top Shop Babi, which I can always hear in a Kinsahsa friend's voice. The theme of this store is Peace, Love and Fashion and her voice reads me the sign every time I pass. There is the great tree with moss and vines hanging down under which sit more fruit sellers. The tree is all that is left of the jungle that once covered this area and it is beautiful and lonely, out of place and wonderfully grounded all at the same time.

Sometimes the drivers take a side road, which is dust covered gravel and has tires placed carefully in sculpturesque positions in the middle and off to the sides. I think it is meant to bar the road from traffic as it is being worked on but nothing deters a taxi driver. They speed down the road, their tires kicking up rocks and dust and they veer sharply to the left or right avoiding the artwork. It is a mini Indy 25 that they all seem to enjoy. Back on the main road, they resume a normal pace and merge with traffic.

It isn't long before my corner approaches and I get out. EDEC takes up the entire block. The entrance I use is about halfway down and there is a beautiful broad leaved tree just outside. I really love the shade and comfort this tree provides as it stands overhanging the green metal door that leads into the school. There is some work going on in the yard, creating an outdoor performance stage, and I hope it will never reach this tree.

My entire journey takes about 30 minutes but it is enough to make me feel as if I have crossed into another world. By the time I arrive, I am ready to be enveloped by the music of the drum.

Photos of the grounds inside the gate- early in the school's life
It doesn't look quite so neat and orderly these days

I'm pretty sure these are living areas- they are so fascinating
but I haven't seen the inside of one yet.It's hard to imagine
 just on the other side is a bustling street corner jammed with traffic

A mother's grief

I woke up this morning with a mother's grief
Thinking of my/her sleeping children and realizing
It's still empty
The bed where once my/her daughter slept


Visions of the empty bed made our hearts race
And I snuggled closer in my blankets,
Wrapping my baby girl ever closer
She who was lying next to me because
Last night I shared this mother's grief
And knew if she had one more moment
She would never let her daughter sleep alone

I woke up this morning with a mother's grief
Thinking of the moments I/she could have gone back
to change it.
That moment of irrevocable decision
The before moment we see so often in the movies
And too rarely in real life.

 I've spent this morning
Thinking of my/her daughter's depression
And I want to tell her it is a feeling I know
She did not cause it, or ignore it and could not
have fixed it.

Her journey to peace and healing
will be long, and hard, and solitary.
I hope she will carry sorrow and love
I hope she will carry sweet memories
But never guilt.
I want to tell her to leave the guilt behind.

And I want to tell her we are all there with her
Mothers in this walk of grief.
I/she/we are not alone.

3 Legs-- The story of a weekly journey

Like all worthwhile journeys, the voyage to EDEC (ecole de danse et de l'exchange cultural)  can be dividied into several distinct parts. I have al. ways travelled this way, mentally dividing the legs of my journey into separate stages, each one qualifying as a bona fide journey of its own.

What are the qualifications of a good journey? While this is a topic that could easily derail my entire post- I've narrowed it down to two for the moment.
Closeness. Usually this is obtained by walking but slow moving traffic or a bicycle could also do the trick. I am a lifelong believer in the idea that you never really get to know a place unless you have walked it, however.
Attention to detail. This usually means being alone, only because once we become part of a traveling pair, we generally tend to focus on the other and not the surroundings. I mean this in the event of taking a routine path (it's a lot easier to be part of a pair and awed by the Great Wall of China on your first visit than it is to be part of a pair and notice something new on a walk to the store you have made a million times. You tend to get more lost in the conversation with your partner than the street sights that have become a lifeless wallpaper.)

I enjoy the journey to my dance and drum classes almost as much as the classes themselves. In fact, as I have been considering searching for a new school or changing classes, a part of my mind that resists brings up the trip. "But then you won't get to go this way anymore...." it says with a kind of finality that closes the question for now.

Leg 1

The first leg stretches from my house to the 'big road' where I will take my first taxi to 9 kilo, where I will leave Riviera III in the direction of Palermaie. I travel this part of the trip several times a day, every day, as it is the only way to get somewhere from my house. There are small variations that could be made- a few forks in the road where one can decide if they want to 'go low or go high,' but in general it is routine. I say hello to the same people, occasionally run into a neighbor I haven't seen for awhile but mostly pass the same houses and wonder about the same strangers.

One of my favorite places to ponder about is the home of the towel people. The towel people are early risers. We see them often on the way to school in the morning- 6:30 am! They are outside their gates, just across the dirt path. It looks like they are planning a garden of some sort as they have been working the earth here. Digging, weeding, turning over. And they do this work in their towels. Never together. It started with glimpses of the man. He looks quite sexy in his towel- it is long and reaches his ankles. There is something alluring about a man in a skirt- the right kind of African skirt. (I hear women around the world laughing at me in disagreement and men just shaking their head in impossibility, but it is true. You must come to see it- dancers in Congo with their torn fabric skirts sewn back together in tatters that allow for freedom and movement, swirling color and every so often a glimpse of bare leg. And now, my neighbor, outside in the dawn raking his soon to be garden in a long, dark green, terry cloth towel. )

It is not just the man in his towel- hence the name towel people. It happened one afternoon that a woman came out in her towel. She had been sweeping and was throwing the pail of dirt and dust away. That was the day they earned their name. A whole house full of people who could be seen at any hour wearing their towels to perform household and garden chores. Fascinating.

On this day, as I make my way out to the big road, the recyclers are passing through. They usually make the rounds early in the morning and once in the evening. "Gâté, gâté, gâââtéé," they sing. It is the word that means spoiled or broken. They are here to collect broken electronics. After the refrain, they sing out different kinds of electronics they will accept. Anything really. Telephones, T.V.s, one guy even called out for refrigerators which brought a smile to my face. Typically, it is a single man walking down a dirt road with a sack hung over his shoulder, santa style. I conjured up images of him arriving at my house and throwing our oddly functioning refrigerator in his bag and hoisting it over his shoulder, carrying on with his calling and collecting. 

Once I get to the street, I begin walking toward the main crossroads. I haven't had to actually walk to the end in months. Yellow taxis make their way up to the small bridge where they can turn left and head out to 9Kilo or Deux Plateux with ease. There are two car washes on this corner, and what looks like the makings of another. Car washes are definitely a thing in Abidjan and they deserve their own post- one with pictures, which is currently my challenge. The camera phone does nothing justice and Abidjan car washes can be akin to nightclubs in their bright lights, big style and waiting lines. I've even begun amassing a list of hotspots to cover if I find myself back in gear again. I imagine a bewildered taxi driver who will chauffeur me around to all the random places I've selected and shake his head and tsk tsk as I click away. Crazy Americans, he will say and this time he will be talking about me (but only after he has discerened that I am not German (super high on the guess list these last few weeks...??!!?) or French or from any of the other countries everyone supposes before I tell them the truth.)

Once inside the taxi, my journey changes perspective. I am now eyes looking out at scenery rather than becoming part of it. As a pedestrian, I am the background, but in my new mode of transport I whizz by my favorite new park filled with basketball players, kids on swings and soccer teams. I look longingly at garden trees and flowers for sale, imagining those I hope to purchase newly nestled in my small front patches of yard, welcoming me home every night. I whizz by my bank- which I love to hate, and the pizza place recently closed which always makes me wonder about the sweet and patient South American man who made ice cream by hand. We pass the bread store, and I check to see if the woman I buy avocadoes from is sitting in her usual spot out front. There is the photo guy who never has ink to print his pictures, the little haircut dive with the young hipster inside who is the only one the boys trust with their precious tendrils, and the other photo place where we get the endless photo identite from. I watch all of these places pass outside the window, each one spouting forth another memory, a momentary sensation of having shared time together and therefore having lived.

Upon reaching 9 kilo- the big, big road at the end of Riviera III where all the stores and the fruit and vegetable market lie, where the yellow taxi station is and the bakkas come to discharge passengers, where worlds collide and passengers embark and disembark each on different legs of their own personal journeys, I exit the taxi and so commence leg 2. 

Making up baby

Stealing a moment to share a photo of this little cutie. His mom does his 'make-up' every day- some eye kohl and drawn on eyebrows. Imagine adding that to the morning routine! Most days I consider a little  eye color to be optional. Surely it is a sign of love, but she also says it has medicinal purposes. She will do this until he is about 5 months old. (I guess the eybrows will continue until he grows in his own to satisfaction. She did admit that part was purely cosmetic......)

A sense of urgency

It sounded kind of good at first....creating a sense of urgency about learning. It was back to school night and the opening presentation had a line about getting kids motivated and excited about what they are learning.
Which I do agree with, of course. Anyone who has tried to hold the attention of a 10 year old can sympathise. A long, boring lesson for students is even worse from the teacher perspective. Everything is more fun when there is excitement and energy and passion.

But the more I thought about the use of this word- urgency- the less I really liked it. I don't want my child to be planning which book he will read next before he has even finished the book he is into now. I don't want him thinking about next, and more, and after that. I want him to savor and cherish and fall in love with the words. I want him to feel bittersweet that the end of the book is coming and even read slower in an attempt to draw out the ending.  I hope he will swirl sentences around in his mind and let them breathe there for awhile as he absorbs their meaning. I want him firmly rooted in the here and now of being 10.

I think what our students, our children, need is less of a sense of urgency- less of a need to be constantly on the road to acheiving one milestone or another- and more a sense of presence. A focus on the now.

I see the effects of the idea of urgency in my classroom. Children ask me a question and have moved on to the next idea in their minds before fully processing my answer. They are back in 5 minutes with the same question. I repeat announcements 3 or 4 times and yet, children are still ready to say, "I didn't know." It is the constant sense of motion that prevents them from tuning in to the now. From hearing and seeing and focusing on their reality.

There are all kinds of small exercises to help with this, and we will do many of them this year. Metacognitive activities intended to guide the student into examining his or her thoughts- right now- and slowly creating habits that will lead to change. Mindfulness.

This evening, as the speaker was elaborating on what he meant by "urgency of learning" I was lost in thoughts about my own recent, constant, unfortunately familiar, feeling that I just want to call a time out for a minute so I can catch up on everything. I want the world to stop so I can set all the pieces in order again.

It's a horrible feeling of rushing through every task just to get to the next task- including meals and rest periods and what used to be thoughtful commutes. I would never wish this on anyone, and definitely not the students I teach. I don't want them to be urgent; I'd rather see them composed.

I want them to take time to observe and reflect, to think deeply and use their whole bodies to engage the world around them.

I want them to take time remember their past lessons and connect to new ideas. I want them to create bridges from school to home, from their social lives to their academic lives.

I want them to breathe. I want them to run and jump and scream with delight. When it's time for classroom learning, I want them absolutely bursting with excitement and anticipation....but not with urgency. With confidence and patience and resolve. With determination and perseverance and disciplince But never frantic, never rushed, and never urgent.

It's not a catch phrase that resonates with me. Especially not in these last few weeks when the pace of life feels so wrong and unnatural.

Luckily, this is the canteen-the outdoor cafeteria space being repaired. It's finished now and looks like an entirely peaceful place to enjoy a meal. In fact, it looks perfectly impossible to feel urgent here.