Rounding the Corners

There are two significant corners in my life, though it is only just now that I have come to appreciate the second (actually the first if we are talking proximity.)

The farthest away, but most noticeable, involves food. (Hence the most noticeable. It is taking me longer to notice the subtle, I admit. Over aged or over stressed, not sure which.) I have noticed this corner since we moved in. It sports a healthy outgrowth of rocky rubble. All the other roads and corners in our neighborhood are dirt packed except this one. When I come to the corner each morning on my way to work I step gingerly from rock to rock  and imagine myself crossing a raging river filled with crocodiles. I suppose the rubble pile is left over from some construction or demolition job long past. The house just in front of it is in some state of repair- or disrepair- and has a wonderful set of outside steps leading to nowhere. They appear stone worn and ancient and I imagine, if I make it across the river alive, I will rise to safety by following their path to the nonexistent rooftop.

When I come home, I find this same corner but in reverse. The change in perspective brings a whole new story. Or maybe it is the smell of plantains. Just a few steps away a woman has set up her umbrella, her chair and her outside frying vat. She has plantains bubbling away and a plateful drying on some cardboard next her. It is a sweet smell and I always wonder how many days of this I need to accumulate before the memory of that smell and arriving home are deeply associated and strongly implanted.

The second, first corner is the one right by my house. I love this corner because of the encounters it creates. The sheer volume of people walking down my road is slightly perplexing because my road doesn't actually appear to go anywhere. Despite this, I run into- sometimes quite literally- a variety of people, all at different stages within their day. In the early morning there are men in suits talking on phones, women in patterned dresses off to sell their baked goods and young kids with freshly baked baguettes for breakfast. In the afternoon there are gossiping teenage girls, young guys with earphones singing out their favorite tunes and rascally children calling out and chasing after each other. In the evening the adults are back, sharing news of their day or speculating on the latest actions of their bosses or neighbors or husbands. The children arrive home for the last time from school and the road becomes alive with soccer skirmishes and screams. The telephone cabine/one-stop-odds-n-ends shop begins to fill with happy hour patrons. The air sings with loud discussions and laughter. It's a lot for a street that appears to go nowhere. A small corner with big spirit.

The other end of my road- houses in one stage or another of
construction. The amount of foot traffic suggests the
 'road to nowhere' is a deceiving description

Earlier in the day I'd crossed paths with a young guy who came dancing around the corner. He was skipping and bouncing and feeling the joy of life. His energy made me smile. I might have caught him by surprise because he paused - only for a second, the same second I was wondering if he mistook my laugh for mockery rather than admiration- before continuing in stride and uttering a deep, "Hello, my sistah." Which of course made me immediately think of Ousmane (my echoic memory in effect, no doubt.) Which led me to just enjoy being called sistah for a minute. Which immediately led to memory retrieval of an article I'd read about the effects of calling everyone by family names. I can't find that exact article but I did find this one. Both seem to lament the practice of turning every stranger into someone familiar, every casual acquaintance into an obligation and every potential date into an incestuous affair. I spent mere seconds contemplating this before I returned to simpler thoughts.

This is how I have been spending my weekend. Contemplating people I run into while rounding the corners and trying to keep my thoughts simple and sweet. It takes a lot of energy which is exactly the point. Yesterday afternoon I rounded the corner, again caught up in the cavalcade of my own personal thoughts, engaged in a sort of mental boxing.

Two small boys were peering through the cutouts in a wooden gate near one of the lettuce gardens. I smiled at them and was deciding whether or not to pose a friendly question in passing when one of them turned my way. He tore himself from his peeking and ran at me with gusto, grabbing my legs in a bear hug. I think I know this guy. He's done this before; not often enough to be expected, just random enough to always be completely surprising.

The second little guy attempted to follow suit but I could tell he was just as perplexed about the actions of his friend as I. "You mean I'm supposed to hug her?" he seemed to be asking. "And this is fun?" He moved in slow motion and his leg hug was limp. I patted his back and sent him off to follow his friend. The boys went skipping down the road, their interests caught by other things. When I came back from the store I found them slapping the tail end of a black jeep as though they expected it to respond somehow.

This wooden gate with interesting cutouts appeared just after
Cote d'Ivoire won the CAN. Patriotic car flags lined the top of it for days.

But it's only in these last weeks that I've come to realize the gift this is. Children like me. It's always been just a thing, a given. I like kids and they like me. Just like I have blue eyes and blond hair. Qualities I can't change and don't think about very often. But just lately, as I am searching and questioning and doubting, I hear a little voice piping up. Not often enough but present nonetheless. And it's telling me that receiving the love and trust of children is a gift and I better start being grateful for it. Start paying attention to it and treating it as the valuable thing that it is. Message received. I am working on the acceptance part. Sometimes the things we envision for ourselves seem bigger and more glamorous than the things we actually have. But for one mysterious minute, rounding that corner, I was as enchanting and lovely as movie star. What could be richer than that?

Field Day reflections

I can't stop making comparisons between my new school and my old. I suppose it is normal; kids do it for years after they've left a school. Talking about "my old school" from when they were 3. I wonder if my colleagues do this, however.  Or if they find apt moments to bring up past experiences more smoothly than I.

It might be that my new post is so drastically different than my old. To be honest, teachers in the American schools overseas (or at least those "at my old school") are constantly referring to "the French system," and not usually waxing on about its merits.

I've been let behind the scenes this year and thus am discovering the reality behind the rumors. I'm not enchanted with everything and often enough I feel like a lone American in a socialist state. I still haven't determined if that's a good thing or not. But some solutions just seem absurdly easy.

Handwriting, for example, is one of those debates that seems endlessly fascinating to American teachers. I remember reading an article in The International Educator about it- one of those two column deals where one side writes pro and another con. The Washington Post is not the only one to notice instruction is fading fast from public schools. While I have always valued handwriting, I've also been one to feel the crunch for learning time. (I can't imagine how my 4th grade Catholic school education had time for religion class and handwriting. Not to mention all those 1/2 day Fridays...)

In the French system, keeping handwriting is not even a question. Which has made me realize perhaps us American teachers have been taking the wrong approach. Perhaps we should be examining the benefits of learning to print. Kids in the French system simply learn to write by writing in cursive. End of debate. So simple, so perfect.

Another endless debate I was caught up in for several years involved gym classes- and field days. Those torturous all-day outside sporting event days filled with pressure and tears and too much sun. Teachers spent a lot of time taking out the competition and finding ways for everyone to win. They spent time figuring out ways to entertain the kids and make sure everyone was involved all the time. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Exhausting but definitely less tears, more happy memories.

Field day at my new school took the form of a "Cross." A marathon that all students ran and had the chance of raising money for. The secondary school held their own cross the same day and all the proceeds will be donated to local schools in one form or another (libraries, school furniture, etc.)

Our school encompasses kids from 3 years to 11 or 12. Every child ran the marathon (not at once, of course. It was, in true French fashion, wonderfully organized and artfully orchestrated in that laid back way that results in less stress all around.) Water and oranges slices were given to the runners after they finished. Each grade hung around to cheer on the younger grades. There was music playing and plenty of that peripheral adult supervision but no planned entertainment or organized activities.

There were winners. The top six runners from each grade level- 3 boys and 3 girls- received traditional medals of gold, silver and bronze in an awards ceremony held about an hour after the last race.

Those were the official winners. The entire audience clapped and cheered for them. Phones and cameras snapped photo after photo. But everyone ran the marathon. Everyone finished. And for some kids, that was the big accomplishment. It was something they could feel proud about. As well as knowing that they were part of something bigger than themselves. The cross was billed as a "cross in solidarity" and by combining the efforts of the school from grades pre-k to terminal everyone had a chance to contribute.

The most amazing thing- no tears. I didn't see a single child upset about not coming in first or second. I didn't see hurt feelings or failures. Out of 800 kids, it possible I may have missed something.
But my job included marking the runners' tags after each lap. What I saw was determination, perseverance, relief and even surprise on their faces. Kids pushed themselves to do their personal best. They encouraged their peers; some of the oldest kids ran alongside the younger kids, holding their hands and cheering them on.

Beautiful. Simple. Effective. Field day French style. A+

Job Market

I have been in the job market for the last.....year or more it seems. A recent complication with my passport has made my prospects suddenly oh so slim. I remain stuck on that wikihow about poverty (which should seriously be re titled "How to get some extra cash") <and no, I'm not seriously looking for advice on wikihow but someone else might be> because what I know is that you can't actually work your own way out of poverty. One person can only hold so many jobs and quite often, working more leads to paying more in transportation, child care, and other hidden costs. Smart people find ways to get their money to work for them- investments of some kind that can continue gaining while you're off earning in some other way. It's been on my mind a lot and I'm hoping a solution will come to me soon.

In the meantime, I continue to hold onto the idea that a change of field is what I really need. I came across yet another BBC article pointing out something I have been teaching for years in Congo. My first thought was- Hey! They're using my maps- but then I realized it was probably the other way around. I may have first picked up those maps from some news source such as the BBC, but then I put them together in just that strategic way that would allow my students to do some critical thinking and draw conclusions about the current state of affairs- just as the BBC article seems to be doing.

It's exciting to see my ideas validated and reported on BBC- even if I am the only one who knows I had these ideas long before they were published on such a prominent site. Writing can happen anywhere- maybe I should turn my prospects toward my favorite news station????

"Coiffeur Artistique"

I promise to get that Ivorian school/curriculum/experience post published soon! But a recent notice from school cannot go unblogged. It was a short letter informing us of the upcoming vacation scheduled from Feb. 13-Mar 02. And, upon return, it requested increased diligence in adherence to the school uniform. Those deviating from the rules would be denied entrance to the school. Notably, examples were given of:

"sleeveless shirts, shorts, jeans, and 'artistic haircuts...'"

It made me smile since Mohamed himself was the recent recipient of a trimmed Afro (his apparent preferred style) due to direct comments from his math teacher. In the end, both Mohamed and I were happy with his new style. But still, I remain in mixed emotions about the requirement to get rid of those "coiffeur artistique..."

The boys and their 'fros- still kind of small. After another 2 in.
we managed to get a decent cut with a new beloved barber.

Hotter than it seems

I ran across this BBC article a few days ago, which seems to suggest my blog is hotter than it seems. I've been writing about Kinshasa funerals for ages. I missed an opportunity to share an actual video on location- Christian has a few clips of a funeral he attended in Kinshasa and somehow I didn't get a copy before he left.

I did get to view them, however and the thing that caught my eye was one of those infamous tissue sellers. The video clips, taken by various people I assume (mostly his son I am guessing), as Christian himself can be seen in a small group of men, shows a typical Kin funeral just as things get going (meaning it is still daylight. Mourners keep vigil all night long.) Music is playing and people are arriving. Women are wailing. Somewhere in the middle a young boy selling tissues approaches one of the bereaved. It is easy to spot family members as they wear clothing cut from the same cloth. She just exits the tent where the coffin is kept and is overcome with tears and grief.

It is a moment in black comedy when the boy approaches her. Clearly an entrepreneur at heart he spots an opportunity and seizes it. Of course, she is in no position to buy, but from a purely business standpoint his thinking is good. He appears to be about 12 and already understands the economic potential of a situation. Before long someone is sure to be in need of his services.

Oh Kin, I could never have anticipated missing you so.  It took me years to understand the function of the tissue sellers. As I sweat through the Abidjan heat I could almost miss them- sauf que, they are mostly young boys and I am trying to believe the lack of young sellers means they are in school, getting an education, where they should be. Happy to buy my tissues in the grocery store in this case but still missing Kinshasa fiercely.

Family Life

My theater group has finally taken off  and so twice a week I find myself with one of those leisurely French lunches while I wait for the students to return to school. Today I had the chance to run into one of my English teacher colleagues, a gentle woman from India and she passed some time with my binome and me.

Our conversation focused on school things with a sprinkle of personal stuff thrown in. It was an unusual chance to hear a bit about her life. I knew that she had come to Abidjan just two years ago shortly after getting married. She gave us the details of her wedding with a shy but oh-so-happy grin.

Her parents arranged the marriage. It was something she wanted. I could hear the trust and love in her voice as she said this. It was easy to imagine a world where parents know best and make the big decisions for their children to create a life assured of happiness and success. She agreed that hers wasn't the usual route in these modern times, but she preferred the traditional.

Her parents met the family of the prospective groom and found them to be full of all the qualities they look for in a good family. The decision to go ahead was made in 15 days. (What a delightful grin and lighthearted laugh she gave even as she was shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders. "I know, I know," she said. "But for me, that's the way it was.")

Her and her husband first saw each other in person on their wedding day. They'd talked a bit on the phone beforehand but hadn't actually met. He was living in Abidjan and she in India.

"Did your parents make a good choice?" we ask. "Were you pleased?"

"Oh, it was a good choice. I'll show you." She produces a beautiful photo of her wedding - picture perfect.

"Oui, he is handsome," my binome begins, "but is he good inside?"

Again the laugh. "Yes, yes. He is very kind. We are very good together. It is about to be 2 years."

We tell her again how lucky she is, that things worked out so well for her. We're still marveling at the fact that she chose this method of marriage and conversation begins to drift towards the disintegration of marriage in Europe and the US.

Arranged marriage is one of those topics, full of pros and cons and possibilities for gross error, misguided intentions and dire consequences. But in the moments of talking with her, it was pleasant to ignore all the unhappy endings out there and share in her pure joy of family life.

Dismissed

"Good evening ma fille." There is an old woman on my block who has taken to calling me daughter. She greets me as I pass her house each day and always asks about the baby. Tonight, as with many afternoons, those ever ready tears are pushed that much closer to the surface with her words.

I want to roll up in the promise of home and surround myself with the image of comfort that they bring. But I haven't either awaiting me and so I walk on, trying to drown my thoughts with the sound of music pumping into my ears. It's only been the last few weeks that I could even listen to music without being transported back to the streets of Kin. Finally able to indulge, I now use it to quiet the steady rhythm of my mind during my morning and afternoon commutes. It's mostly successful. Dancing in the streets is the strongest urge I am fighting now and I figure if I give in to that I will just be considered cheerfully weird instead of woefully despondent.

It's hard to show up at my school each day and witness the lives of the privileged. My worn out shoes and tired clothes make me feel somehow less. I wonder what separates us and how we drew our lots in life. The situations in my life are circular, making me feel more and more convinced that there are past lives and in mine I must have caused a lot of suffering to many people. It's hard to be reasonable about this.

My most recent, but ever ongoing, frustration has to do with my job. Or more specifically, my salary, which always  runs out by the middle of the month. If someone has gotten sick that month, or some other event  occurs, it could be even sooner than the middle of the month. Like maybe the 12th. We've taken to calling the last two weeks of the month "weeks of suffrance." Once we've made it past the first week, the boys smile and say "we survived," and then buckle down to get though the next week.

My moments of elation and extreme relief at getting paid are fading faster and faster. It is frustrating, discouraging and at times, infuriating that I am not being paid what I am worth. I have to remember to say it that way lest I begin to believe there is something wrong with me personally. In the French system, apparently it is perfectly acceptable to discriminate against others based on their country of origin. It is not quite akin to the idea that women make less than men, but the result is the same. I am getting paid less directly due to conditions I cannot control. I am American.

It is another of those circular logic puzzles I have so frequently found myself enmeshed in since arriving in Abidjan. Because my degree is not from a French authority, it is not really counted. However, I have been hired to teach in the bilingual program- one which requires an English speaker, preferably a native English speaker. The bilingual classes cost more than the classique. They fill up quickly and, presumably, are a big draw for parents in choosing schools.

And yet, I am not paid enough to live on. It is a topic no one likes to discuss. You might not even like to be reading about it. I don't even want to be writing about it, but it continues to be a thorn in my side. The principal has tried to offer some help in the matter, (the French system being wonderfully autocratic- the administrators seem to have tied hands when it comes to making individual decisions. No French diploma=no living wage. End.) Trying to be creative, he has suggested looking for loopholes in years of experience (colleagues have told me this only counts if they are years of service in other French schools) and finally by achieving an increase in the discount for tuition fees. (Not the same as cash, most definitely.)

I was discussing the new 60% reduction in tuition for local hires with some other teachers. I (foolishly, in a moment of complete abandon) shared that even with the new discount, one trimester of tuition at our school equaled what I was paying for an entire year at L'Ardoise, the Ivorian school my boys are attending.

"Mais, L'Ardoise ne pas bonne," the coordinator of our program said and with that she dismissed my whole case. I no longer existed for her. She went on to complain about how much she had to pay for tuition for her two girls and how it threatened her ability to plan her summer at EuroDisney, the way she had promised.  I may just be feeling sour grapes, but in reality, I am not looking to finance a DisneyWorld vacation. I just want to eat 3 meals a day, every day of the month.  Being able to send my kids to a 'good' school would be a bonus but for now I am content that they are in school.

According to this article French teachers are prone to strikes. Any time us English speaking teachers get together, I wish I could propose one. Most of them have husbands with salaries, however, and view their jobs as a sort of recreation or supplemental income, I guess. And there is the large part of all of us that is just happy to have a job. Even if we can't actually live off them.

But no one really likes to talk about actual poverty. It's easier to pretend it doesn't exist. Or, if it does, it is somehow the fault of the person experiencing it. While searching for remarks from two of the greatest champions against  poverty, I came across this ridiculous wiki-how that shows an obvious ignorance of real poverty. Lottery tickets and financial advisers don't even figure into the realm of real world poverty. Parents are busy making decisions about whether their children should go to school or have food to eat. An impossible choice at the end of the day.

At the end of my day? I'm still puzzling over my colleague's quick judgement. I have been working on a post about the curriculum in the Ivorian schools -a fascinating and surprising discovery that leads to a much more complex evaluation than merely 'pas bonne.'  Hopefully it will soon be published, with photos. Meanwhile, I'm off to eat my gruel (just kidding, we still have the ever present rice with some sort of sauce.)

Spaghetti Shack

The spaghetti shack is Abidjan's version of the diner. I actually had no idea spaghetti was such a popular food item. These little eateries are usually blue (so I've discerned from on of my infamous, informal and highly unscientific surveys) but can also be green or orange, or any color I suppose. They host a bar area complete with stools or benches where patrons sit, watch TV or listen to music and eat a bowl of spaghetti. They seem to be great gathering spots for conversation and interactions with strangers. Many also seem to have the air of a pub- Cheers style- bringing together the same round of regular customers who chat about the news and enjoy each other's company over a plate of pasta.

Our neighborhood just got its own spaghetti shack a few months ago and it's already become well established as a place to be. I was amazed at how quick and seemingly simply it went up. The owner had electric lines dug in and there is a small tv for the all important matches. Mohamed has watched several soccer games from there and has become enamored with the fare.

Even closer to our house is another small business that has popped up in the last week or so. I think it is a rice shack, though we're not quite certain. I thought it might be a chicken shack but they don't have one of those large grills for preparing the bird. The women who are a mere 10 steps away sell rice with sauce grain and I don't think they are in competition. I'm not really sure.

But I did watch the newest shack go up with a sense of awe and inspiration. It's a 'new' building but looks as if it could have been there for years. Or since yesterday. Buildings in Africa seem to have that way about them. You can never really tell if they are going up or coming down.

It was a simple construction and now some entrepreneurs are trying their hand at business. It serves to remind me that all I really need to succeed is a strong desire and not necessarily a lot of money (though I often get stuck in my mind by the barrier of poverty preventing me form doing what I imagine.) I've developed a new response to all those defeatist kinds of thoughts. I simply tell myself, "I'm not going to listen to that idea" and then try to remember the building of the shacks. If they can do it, surely I can too.

I sent Nabih out to snap some photos.

The newest of the eateries- we're still not exactly sure what they sell

An artistic interpretation of the food stand

Our friendly neighborhood phone credit cabine entrepenur
He sells a bit of everything and gives away
good spirit and glad tidings for free

The spaghetti shack- at an angle only Nabih can appreciate

Ivon hanging at the tables next to his phone cabine
People gather here to share lunch in the day
 and in the night it is a quite hopping spot 

No collection of shacks and food would be complete without our version of the veggie shack:

The kids built this which was sort of fun to make

and tastier to eat

Even if it was supposed to look more like this.

Cheap Tricks

I spent the month of January immersed in mystery novels from the 1800's- escaping my woes or preparing for the debut of my own novel, depending on which lens you prefer to view things. I have mentioned already that I did try to read with a 'writer's eye' in order to add some viable worth to all those hours I spent tucked away with my kindle.

In the end, I felt as though all I  picked up was some out-of-date slang and an insatiable urge to go to a diner. Around this time, a Facebook friend, one of those fabled we-were-friends-in-high-school-let's-be-friends-again-now-that-we're-grown started posting about how much she missed the diners in NY. Diners we had grown up around and passed all of our childhood milestones in. Celebrating football wins, sharing gossip, cutting school, enjoying a midnight snack and devouring a 3 am breakfast.

Diners were for getting warm on winter nights and nursing a cup of $1.00 coffee for hours while pondering the big ideas about life. They were places to meet people and avoid people. I could be just as likely to be found sitting alone in a booth with a sketch pad as surrounded by a group of friends. A fine place to be anonymous, catch snippets of other peoples' conversations and imagine what life would be like if.....

Coincidentally, I recently ran across this article in the BBC about American diners. It's not the first time they have written about diners and American life. Apparently the subject is popular enough to warrant a second run. While searching for that first article I came across this one from 2011. The two are quite similar but I remembered the line about a diner being a great place to bring two characters together- mentioned in the 2015 article and not in the 2011.

Turns out my nostalgia for not only the food but the mood of a US diner stems from a storyteller's cheap trick. It's not just the American in me but the writer in me. I can wrap this up by saying, finally, I might have proof that those hours were not wasted. Words for a smaller book have been flowing through my mind and this soccer holiday (yes, jours fériés, for winning the cup) might be the perfect chance to put them to type.

Kinshasa-esque

Its been a long time since I had a good traffic story. The roads just don't run that way here in Abidjan, and maybe I spend a bit less time in a car as well. The roads are so well organized here that I have even caught myself telling a taxi driver to be more cautious (or whatever he interprets from my impassioned- "S'il vous plait!")

Today however I have a bona fide traffic story to share. We were on our way to see Mohamed, who has been in the hospital with a nasty case of malaria that won't seem to go away. The clinic is downtown and costs a billion dollars to get to. The commute, which might be short in my own car, feels long in a cab.

Our driver was swiftly speeding there when a cop on a motorcycle turned his bike to place it in front of us, thereby blocking our path. He got off the bike, came to the window, grabbed  the drivers license and then sped off. The taxi followed suit and pulled over where indicated. The driver got out of the vehicle and went to meet the officer.  (On our way home a different taxi driver was listening to a series on the radio that was presenting satire on this very arrangement. I hadn't ever really considered the difference between here and Europe or the US, where the police approach the vehicle. Here, you  must approach the cop. mal garée ou quoi.)

Some exchange took place and before long we were speeding off again. But then, events took a  different turn. The same cop passed us and the driver sped up honking his horn as he passed the police officer. A few seconds later, he pulled off the side of the road and turned to go back to where the officer had stopped.

I should mention, at this point, that we were on a four lane thruway - the type with a concrete divider down the middle, very American, very unable to make a U-turn and be on the right side of the road. When I say he turned around, I mean he turned around into oncoming traffic and sped towards the police officer on the wrong side of the road- with 3 lanes of traffic coming at us. Just like Kinshasa except not really because Kinshasa doesn't even have 4 lane highways (that small stretch on the way to the airport perhaps.) The most you could see coming at you directly is one car in the wrong lane,with maybe a line behind it, but not usually. Usually it's one or two rogue drivers.

In this case, we were the rogue driver and there was a whole battalion of cars coming our way. The story doesn't end there, naturally. We pulled up alongside the cop and the driver got out. He paid 2000franc, received a receipt with official looking stamp and his permit.

I asked him what the infraction was and he said the police officer informed him he should have turned with the light, back at the intersection, and not whatever shortcut he apparently took.

"But it's ok you  drove the wrong way down the road just now? He didn't say anything about that?"

"Oh, no," he laughed. "That's nothing, but he,  he is a voleur. He wanted 2000 for my permit . Voleur." And he shook his head while I marveled at the logic of it all.

Garbage Grove

I've traded in my morning walk through the jungle for a jaunt down noisy city streets. There are people everywhere making their morning commute- walking, biking, riding in cars. There are roosters crowing and cows lowing. Motorcycles whizz by and taxis honk intermittenly.

It's not the serene quietness of the botanical garden I used to live in, but it can emit its own pleasure at times. There are a few spots where my nose is assaulted by horrific odors from the sewage and my vision is besieged by piles of garbage along the roadside, just as there are a few spots where the palm tress sway with grace and the skyline hosts a red rose sun. If I turn my gaze to the left at just the right moment I can see the sandy beach leading up to the water of the lagoon. From my distance it is as beckoning as the ocean.

Trees have always held a special allure for me and I spend quite a bit of time examining the palms and their fruits. I keep track (loosely) of the banana bunches and wonder who will ultimately pick them and whether they will be for sale or if someone will have the immediate pleasure of snacking on the sweet fruit.

It was with shock then, and sadness, that as I passed one day I noticed the trees had all been chopped down. The bananas hadn't merely been harvested, the small groove had been dessicated. The palm leaves appeared to have been chewed up and spit out. The trunks hacked into and left bare and exposed to the sun.

I took it as a metaphor for how my new year has been progressing. I am my own worst enemy here in Abidjan, and I am a formidable foe. I have battled my thoughts, been stunned by my emotional reactions and become paralyzed in my physical expression. No part of the normal me escaped the supervillan me unscathed. Not this January. It was a heck of a month. So it seemed fitting, just perfect, exactly like my world to walk by one day and see one small bright spot in my morning destroyed.

Except a few days ago I was walking by, lost in my thoughts when I looked up suddenly to a surprising sight. The banana stumps had all sprouted beautiful, bright green shoots. I stopped in my tracks and just watched them, unfurling with new life in the hazy morning light. I was breathless. I wondered how and when the new shoots had blossemed and gotten so tall. Maybe it happened over the weekend? But really, where was I and how could I miss something so grand?

Among my better qualities is a strong sense of justice. If I had been willing to accept the ruined banana grove as a metaphor for my life, then I was obliged, by default, to accept the baby shoots springing forth out of the garbage as a sign of something too. And it is February. Things are definitely looking better this month. I'm not going to go too much farther ahead than that.

One lovely, banana leaf unfurling

Banana grove surrounded by garbage and
 remnants of the trees that used to be

Full Credit

The student sat down next to my desk; a cheerful girl still struggling at times with English. I asked her if she was ready for the comprehension questions part of the evaluation. She'd had some time to review the book and said she was ready. I asked the first question twice because she wasn't quite clear and I knew the answer could be found directly in the book. I'd wanted to make sure she understood what was being asked. When I got to the second question, she answered that one wrong as well. The third question,"What do plants need to survive?" she answered, "Water, sun and.....love?"

It hadn't mentioned those words exactly in the book but, could I really mark her wrong? It was almost an answer plus! The teacher part of me that is rooting for the students' success often grapples with questions like these. It didn't say it directly, but it is true...so, can't that count for something? Unfortunately, as a textbased question, it really can't. I turned to her, still feeling the delight of her response but exasperated at her lack of correct answers. "Are you sure you read the book carefully? All of it?" I asked.

"Yes, I read my book, Living Together." Ha! I'd been asking the questions for the wrong book. She never pointed this out, just did her best to come up with the right answers. And she really did. Full credit- water, sun and love. That's all I need to survive too.

Moringa

Despite my tremendous impression with the organization of most public sector services in Abidjan, banking fails to make the grade. It is a serious exercise in patience, perseverance and human will power. Withdrawing cash can take anywhere from one to two hours. I try to be prepared for the wait but my mind deceives me every time, planting a hopeful seed that this time, it won't be so long. My only surprise is that its even longer than it was last time. 

The bank officially closes at 2:30 but it was nearly 3:30 before I left there, as one of the last customers. I won't even mention what time I arrived. School gets out at 1:00 however, so there's a fine clue. There are only 12 seats in the small reception room and they get shuffled around as people rotate from standing to sitting trying to escape the boredom and the overly chilly air conditioning, an obvious necessity to keep tempers from rising.

I spend my time trying to figure out exactly what takes so long. Upon entering the bank you must fill out your deposit or withdrawal slip and submit your ID. After that you look for a cozy place and catch up on any text messages or try to beat your high score on whatever games you have installed on your phone. Or just gaze around at the other people who come in. Or watch the security guard respond to the endless buzzing of the double door theft prevention system. Up to 20 people can be waiting and no one is moving. There's no line, there's no noise and there's no way to gauge how much closer you are to being served.  It's maddening. Every so often a deep sigh from a fellow waiter lets me know I am not alone in my frustration. Eventually the clerk comes back and starts calling names, asking for the triple signatures needed and dispersing money. By the time I walk back out into the heat and sunshine of the day, I feel as if I have jumped time. I am no longer sure which day it actually is or what errands I had intended to do afterward. I'm slightly dizzy and spend a few minutes reminding myself what my name is and what's my function in life. 

The electric company, on the other hand, has quite an efficient and entertaining system of managing it's lines. It starts with the entrance. The front of the building is orange. Bright, neon, day-glow orange. There is a black poster highlighting the name and service of the company but all I can see when I glance at is the cinema. It appears more like I am about to go to the movies and I am slightly surprised not to find a snack counter offering salty popcorn and cold drinks when I enter. 

The first waiting is room is huge and rectangular. There are a billion chairs in there (kind of like a movie theater only not as cushy.) The people are seated in organized rows in order of appearance. As small groups are admitted to the second waiting room, everyone gets up and moves to the now empty seats in front of them. In a very orderly fashion. Mob control at its finest. An oversize a/c at the front of the room blasts us with arctic air.

And what do we do while we are waiting? Stare around mindlessly? Play games on our phones? Surely not! The fine folks at CIE provide some educational entertainment- a live infomercial, in fact. The man who is keeping all of us so organized in our chairs and making sure we move up in just the right order is also providing a basic service. On my most recent visit he was selling moringa products. Moringa is all the rage - as well it should be. I first came across this amazing tree in Congo when I was told about its ability to clean water and provide much needed nutrients for the malnourished. At the time I wondered why everyone didn't know about this natural cure all. 

Apparently in Ivory Coast, the word is out. Moringa products are everywhere. Powders, lotions, soaps and oils. And the guy at CIE was ready to tell us about all of them. Not only did  he provide background information on all of the benefits ( everything from making your hair grow, cleaning your skin, adding vitamins to your diet and quick healing in times of sickness,) he also had the goods for sale. Right there in the waiting room. He started off with soap for 500 franc and moved on to a small bottle of oil for 1000. He cleverly worked into his spiel a bit about moringa giving you patience and helping you feel refreshed, both of which we, as a trapped audience, were sorely in need of. He whipped out small candies for 100 franc and that's when people started rummaging through their pockets in search of loose change. Brilliant.

It didn't end there however. He also had other remedies for sale, medicines to fight tapeworm- which he introduced by giving us the scientific process of how the tapeworm lives, replicates and successfully poisons our systems. He tossed out symptoms- which we were all starting to feel right about then, naturally-   and magically produced a few bottles from his black bag. 

By that time I had nearly advanced to the front of the room, mere steps away from the second waiting room. There are no chairs in stage 2. One is greeted again with Ivory Coast orange- bright, brilliant and covering every square inch of visible space (ok, so maybe the floor is not orange but the walls are so overwhelming you can hardly be bothered to notice what color the floor is.) I grabbed onto a green iron handrail for support. Its like being at the fun house.

Lines in the second waiting room move rapidly. Everyone is cheerful and polite. By the time I step out into the heat and the sunshine I feel invigorated and ready to tackle whatever errands are left in my program. What's that? All I have to do is go home? Its fairly disappointing to realize this as I am ready to go dancing. There are always a small group of vendors in the parking lot outside, selling everything from socks to belts to maps. I am giddy enough to look too long and become tempted to buy something. We always need socks at my house.

In the end, I grab a taxi and head home, wondering if they hadn't added a little moringa powder to the a/c unit blowing out cold air in that first waiting room. I vow to start eating the leaves from the two  trees in my little yard and ponder the business opportunities as my orange taxi makes its way down busy city streets.

Telema!

While I am busy collecting notes on my neighbors and words of wisdom from my growing boys, their is one voice that's missing. My favorite poet. Since Congo has lost all ability to send and receive texts messages, my conversations with Christian have waned. Feeling so far apart and unconnected, coupled with my other woes, has sent me spiraling into despair on more than one occasion.

As a result, I have thought more frequently of those who  live in a constant state of isolation (North Koreans) and of those whose contact with the greater world is intermittent (villagers, third world dwellers, poverty stricken humans.) Even here in the capital, phone service can be reduced at times to nothing more than a frustrating (albeit somewhat sexy) French voice letting you know your call just can't go through right now. I have spent a sick day or two feeling trapped in my home, unable to call a friend for help- only getting through after hours of repeated dialing and sending the boys out to the phone cabin where reception is possibly .5% better.

But I wasn't dying (or, at least, I didn't die) and for folks in Kinshasa the situation is surely more serious. Aside from the fact that there isn't a local emergency number to begin with, communication with friends and family is severely limited. And receiving news from outside the country? Hard, hard and harder.

Its not just about finding out what is going on out there in the wide world, or letting those you love know you're ok (or not ok, as the case may be,) but it is more about making sure the world is aware of what's going on inside. Witnesses. There is nothing comparable to the feeling that no one can see you and no one cares. Or even KNOWS what your reality is.

Telema is a website launched in response to the recent events in the country. It is a continuation of the efforts to educate the masses, educate the youth, mobilize the people. While  "the Congolese issue is an African issue" and ultimately a world issue, the real power to change things starts and stops with the Congolese themselves.

Its  hard to be so far away and still feel like I am lending my full support. But there it is, using my art to spread the word. One small thing I can do right now- hoping to find more small things leading to an avalanche in the future. Its all coming, slowly, slowly. |Sure would be a lot easier if I had the words of my poet to sustain me.

Snippets

All advice for aspiring writers includes carrying a notebook around to record bits and pieces of conversations and random observations of daily life. Supposedly these things will come in handy for character development and make for richer scene settings.

Since my kids were just learning to talk I have maintained a penchant for recording their cutisms.  I wrote down a conversation between Mohamed and a tea bag and another discussion he had with his macaroni and cheese and veggie dog about where they were allowed, exactly, to sit on his plate. I recorded all the fun non words that we understood as substitutions for real words and a ton of Sussu words he preferred over the English for at least the first three years of life. It makes for some of our favorite reading.

Happily, the boys continue to delight me with snippets of their conversations. I'll include a few of those here before I share a longer conversation between two random callers at my gate. Ivorian snippets, I guess we could call them. But first, the boys:

Advice about the baby is hugely popular in my house right now. I often feel as if she has several fathers looking out for her well being and the boys aren't shy at all about sharing their opinions on baby care best practices. My favorite is overhearing their conversations between each other, one of them inevitably speaking as an "expert" to the other. To be fair, the advice is often pretty decent. Mbalia is a pretty good sleeper and usually sleeps through our morning routine. Occasionally she wakes up before we leave though, giving us a chance to sneak in some baby kisses before school. One morning we heard baby sounds coming from the bedroom and Nabih went off to investigate. "Make her laugh before you pick her up." Mohamed called this piece of sweet advice out to Nabih and it seems like such good logic. Shouldn't we all enjoy a little laugh before rising to meet our day?

Taxi rides home from our weekly visit to a friend are another great place to pick up snippets. One Sunday evening, Mohamed was telling us about a girl in his class. "Yeah, she's like my older sister. This girl in 4eme who is always buying me snacks." At which point Nabih interrupts and asks the ultimate test question. "Do you let her touch your hair?" Apparently their hair is all the rage at school and both boys and girls alike suffer the urge to ruffle their curls. It drives both of them mad. Mohamed has already given his younger brother the good advice to "never let them know how much it bothers you," even as he was boasting that his close friends will jump on anyone who comes too close with that certain gleam in their eye. "Don't touch his hair man. Seriously."  

Our house is pretty quiet. We have few visitors and even fewer unexpected visitors. Occasionally, however, there comes a knock at our door and a chance for some impromptu conversation. On this particular evening it was the garbage collector looking for the monthly payment. There was a little confusion about the bill from last month and so I started asking some questions. At this moment, the landlord happened to be passing by and inserted himself into the discussion. I know he had the best intentions, but what followed was a circular conversation that began with the monthly price (currently 2000 franc, which, according to him, should be a mere 1000 franc) and then moved on to his opinion of the NGO's, who give the material (such as the motos and tractors for picking up the garbage) which resulted in the youth- who were the intended recipients of such "gifts" meant to create jobs for them- actually getting pushed out of the business by others who sold the materials. And that's theft, he concluded.

He then steered the conversation into a debate about who was at fault for the state of the country - the Ivoriennes themselves and not the Europeans, according to his calculations. And me? I am listening from my doorway, trying to insert all the proper "ehs," agreeable head nods and little laughs trying to figure out how this conversation will (ever) end. The young garbage collector however, he knows exactly what to say. After initially trying a logical response to the questions of the monthly fees and agreeing partially about what is good for the country he lapsed into interactive listening, much as I had. During a brief lull he responded, "Merci Papa, vous avez raison," essentially deferring to the logic of the elder.

By this time, the conversation had expanded to include the practice of allowing huge trucks to pass through during the day and laws that (should? already do but aren't enforced?) require road work to be done at night so as to avoid long traffic backups in the middle of the day. This clearly connects to the tax on cigarettes and alcohol, vices not necessary to life and therefore the government has decreed the taxes from those behaviors should go to pay for other needed social service, like garbage pick up. And voila, raison pour laquelle the price should be 1000 franc and not 2000.

A few more Merci Papas and the landlord was on his way, although not before informing us all that he only stopped by because he knows I am here alone without family. What he actually said was, "if she calls, I come running to help her because she has no parents to call on and you never know when my children might be 'over there'- < referring to Europe or the US>- and in need of some neighborly help." A fine idea.

He went on his way and I continued trying to understand my receipts up to the current. After answering my questions mostly to my satisfaction I couldn't resist trying for that discount that started it all. "How about that 1000 franc, eh?" This time the conversation was easy enough to end with a laugh from both of us.