I leaned down into the window and started the ritual of negotiating for a taxi. After I gave my address, the driver smiled and shook his head. "I know it well." He smiled. "But get in quick because the police are all around and they will ticket me for stopping here to pick up passengers."
I hopped in the cab, knowing it wasn't the greatest idea. Negotiating once in motion is always harder for me. I had taken Mbalia to get her vaccinations (super impressed by the National Institue of Hygiene- fast, efficient, free vaccine program for all children.) It was a bit rainy and there was a lot of weekday bustle- specifically a few large trucks unloading right near the entrance. Traffic was barely moving and it seemed like a good idea to walk down to the corner and flag down a taxi there. Only the corner wasn't really a corner, it was more of a traffic circle intended to keep the cars moving at a brisk pace. I could see how stopping taxis would throw a wrench into the whole concept.
I wanted to continue negotiating right away before either of us got too comfortable. Time of day and traffic patterns can play havoc with the rates and I wasn't up for spending a small fortune. The driver wanted to keep telling me how he had risked a 10,000 fine to stop and pick me up- a clear sign his idea of a just fare would be vastly different than mine. I cut him off on the third round of "oh the police..." and simply named my price.
He turned around in shock. He clucked his tongue, shook his head and put a hand to his chin. "But we're in Treichville," he began. In trying to make the whole thing less painful for us both I added 500 to my offer and thought it would be settled. But no. He clucked and shook and petted his chin. I wasn't sure he could really see the road with all his clamoring. I half heartedly tried to convince him that I knew it was a more than fair price, that I'd made this exact trip several times and that I had come for even less. (Why the trip out is always less than the trip home is something of a mystery to me, but I've found it to be true no matter our destination.)
Finally I asked to him to find a good spot up ahead where he could let me out and then I would just find another taxi, no big deal. I wasn't angry or put out at all but peacefully resolute. I had a budget to follow. Of course, this was completely unacceptable. He remarked the rain, the baby- "Just let you out here? Oh no, not in Abidjan. I will see you to your door. I will." OK, a valiant driver if not exactly honest about the cost of a ride. "If you choose to do something for me then that is good, and if not, well, I will see you home." So there it was. We'd each put our guilt out there for the other to pick up and assume if so desired.
A few minutes later he turned around to ask me what nationality I was and why I spoke French- the ever present conversation opener in the taxi. I shared the minimal about my travels in Africa. When he made a phone call, I tagged him as either Senegalese or Peuhl- sometimes the two accents sound similar. After he mentioned being from Guinea, it was obvious. I asked if he was Peuhl and that opened a whole other conversation. Well, if listening to him go on about his ideas of life and love and finding a foreign woman to marry count as a conversation (And the fact that Guinea would be the most developed country in Africa if they had a good president like Ouattara.) Politics and personal philosophies- two of the most popular cab-ride subjects. He started getting pretty picky about his imaginary future wife- or so I thought- and I decided to chide him a little. I brought up the third most popular subject. Religion.
"Ah but age, appearance and ethnicity have little to do with real beauty," I said. "Besides, you know Mohamed had 15 years between himself and his wife." I was hoping that would slow him down a bit.
It did add some spice. He quizzed me on my knowledge of Islam- much as he had previously quizzed me on my understanding of Sousou. I passed both tests fairly well. And then he went on to talk about the responsibilities of muslims (prayer and zakat and being honest with money) and asked about my husband. Oh the trickiness of my life. And conversations with taxi drivers.
I relented that he was not, in fact, muslim. (I decided to skip focusing on semantics. There's a limit to public knowledge.) Although he believes in a higher power and a divine force, he is not Christian in the sense of going to church and accepting Christ. We get along fine in mingling our religious beliefs (not to mention I have only just re emerged from my struggle in faith.) I didn't explain all of this to the taxi driver. In fact, I said very little but simply sat receiving his blessings, listening to his ideas (I should go to an Imam and let him know I need to convert my husband to Islam and he will tell me exactly what steps to take.)
This solution was presented only after several repeats of the Qu'ranic rule that Muslim women canot marry Christian men. I replied that I thought this was in effect to ensure the children and wife would not be converted to Christianity and thereby safeguard the Islamic beliefs. Since I am in no danger of being coerced out of my religion by a man- and as the main educator of my children- I figured it was a safe bet.
Happily we were nearing my neighborhood and the conversation, while not unpleasant, would face a natural end. I handed him my cash and he shook his head. "Oh, no," he said as he took it. I think he was trying to undo his earlier sentiment that I should add a little extra. "I am very happy and I encourage you and wish you well." We'd come so far from the just-drop-me-off-here-and-I'll-find-another-taxi. It's amazing how a brief conversation can completely change the price of a ride.
30.3.15
29.3.15
Bach en afrique
Hamlet is on tour to reach every country in the world. They hit Cote d'Ivoire on March 19th. I may have missed that show but tonight I made up for it by heading out to see Bach- performed on balafon at the Institute of Arts. Even though the flyer mentioned Bach, somehow it didn't really register. The show included classical, jazz (straight out of New Orleans) and modern. They played the Cote d'Ivoire Natoinal Anthem, Amazing Grace and a ten minute solo piece in a techno- mix style. Basically, it gave me a brand new perspective of the balafon.
Previously I'd only known it as an instrument of traditional music- the sounds of Guinee sweet in my memory. I didn't hear the traditional rhythms, the singing or see the 'wrap'- the strap that lets a balafon player wear his instrument so he can move around. (Here is an example of what I thought I'd see.) The lead musicians also played in a style I hadn't seen before- holding two sticks in each hand, somehow getting all four to tap away the rhythms. There were four women present, one of whom came out to the front to sing a piece I can only describe as opera. She was earnest and sincere, nervous perhaps but definitely capable. (I distinctly got the feel this was a student showcase.)
I had envisioned a completely different kind of concert but was pleased nonetheless. A night of music and artistic talent to soothe all wounds, quiet all worries and even offer a bit of inspiration.
 |
| The balafons on stage pre-concert |
 |
| The students in the back are concentrating on the challenging piece |
I had envisioned a completely different kind of concert but was pleased nonetheless. A night of music and artistic talent to soothe all wounds, quiet all worries and even offer a bit of inspiration.
28.3.15
A dollar a day revisited
More than the sun appearing after a torrential rain, sweeter than the cooing of doves after a wind swept night, the relief of the monthly salary surpasses all of this. For a day or two we are intoxicated with our richness. First, we stock our small cupboards with all the provisions they will hold. Then we turn our sights to the one or two items we have been dreaming of all month long- a pair of new cleats to replace the much worn and now full of holes and embarrassment (I tell Mohamed his quickness comes from within and not from the brand of soccer shoe, I tell him first people will remark his technique and later emulate his material style but I know I am speaking to a 12 year old- name brands mean so much at 12. I do remember.) We search for a little baby seat with rollers to keep our princess happy ( and to alleviate the constant villigance we pose when she insists on puling herself up against the wall, the chairs, our legs.) I shut my eyes to the price, don't even calculate conversion to US dollars- something that would surely freeze me immobile with shock at the cost- anything to bring her safety, happiness, and peace of mind for us.
After this spree, we face again our poverty. I remember that the month is long and the salary small. It won't be but a mere week or two before I find myself shopping at the magasin on the corner rather than the grocery store. I will buy in terms of today. I will live for now. What do we want for breakfast? For dinner?
Poverty makes one rethink all else. It is, as is writ, filled with those constant decision making crises which tire one out and leave you useless for more important decision making. We stay close to home, trade off priorities and wager between the three of us who gets to spend what, where and for what purpose.
What is it really like to live on a dollar (or slightly more) a day? I realize my previous post did little to illuminate this. In a passing conversation a friend said to me, "But surely you go shoppping more than once?" And then I knew. She really doesn't know what it's like over here. (I have flashbacks of my favorite Woody and Buzz clip- a bad video but it plays ay 4:13 the quote- which should be so much more prominent and one I think all too often.) "You don't know what it's like over here." Woody is exasperated because no one believes him and no one really understands. Oh yeah. I think this quote a million times a day for a million different reasons. For myself and for others. (More on the others yet to come. Indulging in my self pity for a moment- hehe.)
But here it is for us striving to survive on a dollar - or slightly more or less- a day. Ironically, it involves shopping a lot. You visit the corner boutique at least every day, sometimes multiple times a day. Your thoughts are for the moment- the meal, just now, and never for the future.
Here is a sample of things you can buy for 100 franc (about 25cents in US money.) Individual servings are the saving grace of African marketeering. You can buy phone units in terms of 100- or maybe 500- sugar, oil, rice, all the basics portioned out for individual servings.
Eggs are 100 franc each, a single serving of milk also 100- though available in 50 or 150 packets and you can share if you're trying to sweeten your morning tea. Be wary however, cheaper price does mean lesser quality- more "gras mat. , ie fat or veg oil and less 'real milk' powder. I like the condensed milk for milkier tea- 400 franc a can. The baguette is 150 and we can share the three of us for breakfast. Sugar cubes (I am kind of fascinated by sugar cubes and now know I am a 'two lumps' tea drinker) can be found for 100 francs but you can also get sugar grains ('sucre rouge' which is actually brown or raw for multiples of 100 or 200 or 500.) The rice pictured is actually 550 france and will last two days or so ( we eat 3 cups of rice per meal with a little left over for the next day's lunch depending on how good the sauce is- it's all about the sauce.)
In a pinch I like my rice with a little red palm oil and a dash of maggi cube- shrimp flavor. One day I will capture the oversize Maagi woman billboard who graces the entrance to Abidjan from the aiport. The maagi bullion is such a staple of African life that it has even become an adjective- as witnessed by a friend's account of describing a coworker- 'she's like a maggi cube- into everything, a little bit of this and that, a maagi makes it all better." I don't think it was a complement in this case. But I do love a maagi sometimes.
So that's a breakfast. We cut out all snacks and sometimes even lunch and look to dinner. There is a pasta week, a poato week and a rice week. Although, to be sure, the boys are all about their rice. Africa is about rice (and sometimes foufou, which they have expressed longing for but I haven't yet searched out. It is here. In Macory I am told. A little community of Congolese with the best eggplant and foufou and all the spices they might miss- uhm, as expressed by the ever knowledgable taxi drivers.) Myself, I like attieke which is kind of like couscous but the boys don't like it (yet.)
Living on a dollar a day means thinking only of the present. Sometimes when I compare things in terms of my transport I am dumbfounded. My taxi to work is 100 franc, less than the cost of a soda. The same as a bissap- the preferred local juice. Mohamed likes garba- a fried fish available in 200 franc, 250 or 300 franc protions. A tasty fish eaten with the hands, comes with a nice sampling of spicy peppers and attieke for 50 franc more.
There is little room for vegetables or fruit in our dollar a day regime. Sometimes I spring for bananas- which can run as much as 100 franc for just one- or, on those days just after payday I buy a sackful of apples for 1500 france. Carrots are a godsend, available in the sack for 550 -850 franc. The little girl eats a lot of those.
In the end, my whole concept of money has changed. Sometimes I am so wearied by trying to determine the best use and bargain deals that I buy n'importe quoi and other times I am full of calculations about how to get the best deal and stretch our money the furthest.
I have long since stopped making conversions. To calculate things in US dollars would render me useless- frozen with shock at the cost of life here. As it is, I wonder how my nounou- who makes a fraction of what I do- still manages to have money at the end of the month when I have long run out. To be certain, she never eats things like cheese, which is a real weakness of ours- and maybe milk also.
Despite being 6 months pregnant, sometimes when I ask her if she has eaten she will tell me, "Yes, I had bread this morning." I make her bring home some of our moringa leaves and prommise she will drink some tea, but I know it's not enough. In short, living on a dollar a day means you just don't have enough. Ever.
After this spree, we face again our poverty. I remember that the month is long and the salary small. It won't be but a mere week or two before I find myself shopping at the magasin on the corner rather than the grocery store. I will buy in terms of today. I will live for now. What do we want for breakfast? For dinner?
Poverty makes one rethink all else. It is, as is writ, filled with those constant decision making crises which tire one out and leave you useless for more important decision making. We stay close to home, trade off priorities and wager between the three of us who gets to spend what, where and for what purpose.
What is it really like to live on a dollar (or slightly more) a day? I realize my previous post did little to illuminate this. In a passing conversation a friend said to me, "But surely you go shoppping more than once?" And then I knew. She really doesn't know what it's like over here. (I have flashbacks of my favorite Woody and Buzz clip- a bad video but it plays ay 4:13 the quote- which should be so much more prominent and one I think all too often.) "You don't know what it's like over here." Woody is exasperated because no one believes him and no one really understands. Oh yeah. I think this quote a million times a day for a million different reasons. For myself and for others. (More on the others yet to come. Indulging in my self pity for a moment- hehe.)
But here it is for us striving to survive on a dollar - or slightly more or less- a day. Ironically, it involves shopping a lot. You visit the corner boutique at least every day, sometimes multiple times a day. Your thoughts are for the moment- the meal, just now, and never for the future.
Here is a sample of things you can buy for 100 franc (about 25cents in US money.) Individual servings are the saving grace of African marketeering. You can buy phone units in terms of 100- or maybe 500- sugar, oil, rice, all the basics portioned out for individual servings.
In a pinch I like my rice with a little red palm oil and a dash of maggi cube- shrimp flavor. One day I will capture the oversize Maagi woman billboard who graces the entrance to Abidjan from the aiport. The maagi bullion is such a staple of African life that it has even become an adjective- as witnessed by a friend's account of describing a coworker- 'she's like a maggi cube- into everything, a little bit of this and that, a maagi makes it all better." I don't think it was a complement in this case. But I do love a maagi sometimes.
So that's a breakfast. We cut out all snacks and sometimes even lunch and look to dinner. There is a pasta week, a poato week and a rice week. Although, to be sure, the boys are all about their rice. Africa is about rice (and sometimes foufou, which they have expressed longing for but I haven't yet searched out. It is here. In Macory I am told. A little community of Congolese with the best eggplant and foufou and all the spices they might miss- uhm, as expressed by the ever knowledgable taxi drivers.) Myself, I like attieke which is kind of like couscous but the boys don't like it (yet.)
Living on a dollar a day means thinking only of the present. Sometimes when I compare things in terms of my transport I am dumbfounded. My taxi to work is 100 franc, less than the cost of a soda. The same as a bissap- the preferred local juice. Mohamed likes garba- a fried fish available in 200 franc, 250 or 300 franc protions. A tasty fish eaten with the hands, comes with a nice sampling of spicy peppers and attieke for 50 franc more.
There is little room for vegetables or fruit in our dollar a day regime. Sometimes I spring for bananas- which can run as much as 100 franc for just one- or, on those days just after payday I buy a sackful of apples for 1500 france. Carrots are a godsend, available in the sack for 550 -850 franc. The little girl eats a lot of those.
In the end, my whole concept of money has changed. Sometimes I am so wearied by trying to determine the best use and bargain deals that I buy n'importe quoi and other times I am full of calculations about how to get the best deal and stretch our money the furthest.
I have long since stopped making conversions. To calculate things in US dollars would render me useless- frozen with shock at the cost of life here. As it is, I wonder how my nounou- who makes a fraction of what I do- still manages to have money at the end of the month when I have long run out. To be certain, she never eats things like cheese, which is a real weakness of ours- and maybe milk also.
Despite being 6 months pregnant, sometimes when I ask her if she has eaten she will tell me, "Yes, I had bread this morning." I make her bring home some of our moringa leaves and prommise she will drink some tea, but I know it's not enough. In short, living on a dollar a day means you just don't have enough. Ever.
Mr Lady, Teacher-Teacher and other forms of politess
One of the most remarkable differences from my displacement has been the increased formality of speech. It takes a little bit of getting used to, all this politeness. I end up feeling like a vulgar American more and more.
The most common greeting when coming upon a group of people- whether as the new passenger in a crowded taxi or the new customer in a full waiting room- is 'Bonjour Messieurs et Madames' only to my ears it comes out in a clipped Bonjour Messieur Dames, roughly equivalent to saying Good morning Mr. Lady. Covers all the bases and allows me some humor to interpret it this way.
This format all extends to our faculty meetings at school. We are all addressed as Mr or Ms Somebody- the very informal first name is never used. It's taken me twice as long to figure out everyone's name this way and there are still plenty of people I do not know. But I admit there is something welcoming and distinguishing in being addressed so formally. Something professional. Which helps to orient me to time and place. Akin the effect of uniforms on student behavior, using the polite form of address helps to keep boundaries established. It's not a bad thing.
A further stretch for me, however, is the teacher-teacher I get from my students. I find it impersonal and oh so annoying. I have worked hard to try and change this habit of theirs for my own sanity. Some of them are capable now of greeting me each morning with a friendly Good morning Ms. Soumah, which feels just right. I do realize it is a long habit for them and have worked a bit on myself- trying to find a way to make the teacher-teacher more acceptable to my ears. I began searching for other professions in which we use the generic title as a form of respect. Doctor immediately came to mind. Even a friend agreed that making the correlation was a stretch but sometimes it works. Teaching is a science and while not necessarily saving physical lives, surely the minds of generations have been saved and served by good teaching.
Besides the flowery nuances of the language (which I am tempted to say I'll never master, but I might yet) there is The Kiss. I have never felt more American, more distinctly different than in the face of that traditional greeting. (Although this article, which seems to fly in the face of all the others, says Americans love to kiss.) My co teacher as taken to reserving this for only when we've returned from the two week vacation. "Since it's been so long," he will say. The others don't even attempt it and I am grateful. I remember managing well enough in Kinshasa, though the Belgians are not the French and seem slightly more forgiving. There, in Kin, the kiss wasn't really a question. We all laughingly suffered through the ritual greeting trying to determine if it would be two or three, which would invariably leave one participant going in for the third while the other had already moved away. One funny someone would preface the greeting with a number- helpful and humorous. "Two? OK two." Cheek to cheek and cheek to cheek and then, "Hello, so nice to see you."
My memories may be not quite accurate as there was one artist friend of mine who remarked to me one day that it had taken him awhile to realize I was friendly and nice I just don't kiss. (insert a wry grin as my response.) I do realize my inexperience in this area led me to misinterpreting some of the talk about kissing, and signing of text messages with bisou- which is just a nice way of saying goodbye and not anything more. (But really, as a fresh off the plane formerly uncultured American, how could I know that?? Especially when this particular goodbye kisser had charm and intriguing looks to go with.) I should have read the rules before ever getting caught up in the whole business. It did lead to uncharacteristic boldness on my part (having thought he had actually initiated interest with all his talk of bisous.)
In the end, the world is always more interesting when we are bold - it's good to remember. For the most part though, I have taken an observer's role through much of these last 9 months. There are a few worlds colliding, though it feels like a like less than the kaleidoscope of Kinshasa. I'm certain to have it all worked out in no time.
The most common greeting when coming upon a group of people- whether as the new passenger in a crowded taxi or the new customer in a full waiting room- is 'Bonjour Messieurs et Madames' only to my ears it comes out in a clipped Bonjour Messieur Dames, roughly equivalent to saying Good morning Mr. Lady. Covers all the bases and allows me some humor to interpret it this way.
This format all extends to our faculty meetings at school. We are all addressed as Mr or Ms Somebody- the very informal first name is never used. It's taken me twice as long to figure out everyone's name this way and there are still plenty of people I do not know. But I admit there is something welcoming and distinguishing in being addressed so formally. Something professional. Which helps to orient me to time and place. Akin the effect of uniforms on student behavior, using the polite form of address helps to keep boundaries established. It's not a bad thing.
A further stretch for me, however, is the teacher-teacher I get from my students. I find it impersonal and oh so annoying. I have worked hard to try and change this habit of theirs for my own sanity. Some of them are capable now of greeting me each morning with a friendly Good morning Ms. Soumah, which feels just right. I do realize it is a long habit for them and have worked a bit on myself- trying to find a way to make the teacher-teacher more acceptable to my ears. I began searching for other professions in which we use the generic title as a form of respect. Doctor immediately came to mind. Even a friend agreed that making the correlation was a stretch but sometimes it works. Teaching is a science and while not necessarily saving physical lives, surely the minds of generations have been saved and served by good teaching.
Besides the flowery nuances of the language (which I am tempted to say I'll never master, but I might yet) there is The Kiss. I have never felt more American, more distinctly different than in the face of that traditional greeting. (Although this article, which seems to fly in the face of all the others, says Americans love to kiss.) My co teacher as taken to reserving this for only when we've returned from the two week vacation. "Since it's been so long," he will say. The others don't even attempt it and I am grateful. I remember managing well enough in Kinshasa, though the Belgians are not the French and seem slightly more forgiving. There, in Kin, the kiss wasn't really a question. We all laughingly suffered through the ritual greeting trying to determine if it would be two or three, which would invariably leave one participant going in for the third while the other had already moved away. One funny someone would preface the greeting with a number- helpful and humorous. "Two? OK two." Cheek to cheek and cheek to cheek and then, "Hello, so nice to see you."
My memories may be not quite accurate as there was one artist friend of mine who remarked to me one day that it had taken him awhile to realize I was friendly and nice I just don't kiss. (insert a wry grin as my response.) I do realize my inexperience in this area led me to misinterpreting some of the talk about kissing, and signing of text messages with bisou- which is just a nice way of saying goodbye and not anything more. (But really, as a fresh off the plane formerly uncultured American, how could I know that?? Especially when this particular goodbye kisser had charm and intriguing looks to go with.) I should have read the rules before ever getting caught up in the whole business. It did lead to uncharacteristic boldness on my part (having thought he had actually initiated interest with all his talk of bisous.)
In the end, the world is always more interesting when we are bold - it's good to remember. For the most part though, I have taken an observer's role through much of these last 9 months. There are a few worlds colliding, though it feels like a like less than the kaleidoscope of Kinshasa. I'm certain to have it all worked out in no time.
12.3.15
The Cabin
It wasn't the death of Tom that did me in. The author did a decent job of foreshadowing that event and it would have been more surprising if it didn't happen. It had to happen. It was envisioning Chloe, standing by the table, anticipating his return, thinking about all he had missed in the children's growth and how hard she had worked to secure his freedom. The futility of her hope is what finally moved me to tears.
It was 3 o'clock in the morning and I had just finished reading Uncle Tom's Cabin. (Apparently appropriate March reading.) I've been trying to catch up on the so called classics- and this one definitely fits the bill, a statement I now feel qualified to make. Previously I had only 'heard' about it and even then the details never clearly surfaced. (And as with so many of the messages received in my youth, I have done little to examine them closely and to properly question them.) All I knew of the novel was the expression "Uncle Tom," meaning someone who accepts an oppressive system without fighting back. A sell-out.
Having now finished the story I can't really figure out how that meaning ever came to be attributed to Tom. He is the furthest example of a sell out that I can imagine. What I can grasp an inkling of is the image of his weakness. Not weakness as I define it but as others might.
The book is heavy on Christianity but even as a Muslim reader I did not find it a deterrent. For the most part, the beliefs emphasized fit with everything a believer in God can support. No real conflicts there. Obviously this is a debate past its time, and yet, timeless. I don't agree with the definitions given of what a 'Tom' is, or is not, especially Sharpton's definition:An Uncle Tom is one that in a deliberate way, seeks personal favor or acceptance at the expense of his race and at the expense of what he or she knows to be right.
I didn't see Tom accepting personal favors or doing anything at the expense of his race. In fact, in his steady way, he spread belief and hope and changed some hardened hearts. He seemed to benefit very little personally from his chosen path. In fact, he stuck to his personal morals to such a degree that he was murdered for them. Of course, I'm probably missing something. I suppose it has to do with which lens the reader is using and a host of other background schema that the individual reader brings.
Perhaps surprisingly, as a white woman, I am not completely removed the ability to empathize with Tom's situation. It is more about power and control and the frustration that comes from having it lorded over you. It's living everyday with the frustration of not being able to change one's circumstances and being regarded as not valid- invalid- in the face of the law. It's facing illogical reason and having no recourse. Every day. Until you are nearly driven mad with the thought of how your life is not really your own, and the simplistic ease that someone else can come along and wipe out everything- more importantly, everyone- you held dear.
I know something about all of those things. The headlines of the current days show that plenty of people out there do. Even this white male living in Indonesia. Which is not to detract from the (still) very real issue of race in America but just to point out the underlying global relevance of deeper themes. Hence, the classic label.
While reading, I kept in mind the year of publication which made the whole experience even more astounding. The stuff with which wars are made, I suppose. Wars can change laws but they don't necessarily reach in and change ideals, as evidenced by the number of recent incidents.
This has been a book that's stayed with me - one that, despite my initial reluctance to read, has found me wanting to return and continue the story, long after I've finished turning the pages. Tom's individual story may be over but the collective realities continue to live on. My journey back in time has only brought me forward to the main idea found in this video- one a friend sent to me which sends a message that seems to keep popping up for me lately. I'm not crazy about many of the elements of the clip, the original text is here and other versions abound- but I can get behind the big idea. All this pain and suffering we keep inflicting on each other isn't going to stop until we learn that whatever we do unto others we are actually doing unto ourselves. Simple and yet so hard to achieve.
As I do my own walking and wondering and trying to survive, I'm led to think of other stereotypes that maybe don't deserve to be or that have somehow gotten the wrong rap but following that line of thinking is likely to bring me too far from where I've begun. So I'll close this one out just by saying I'm still thinking of Tom- not the sell out Tom, not the martyr Tom but the patient, strong, firm believing Tom who always knew he was never alone and never forgotten.
It was 3 o'clock in the morning and I had just finished reading Uncle Tom's Cabin. (Apparently appropriate March reading.) I've been trying to catch up on the so called classics- and this one definitely fits the bill, a statement I now feel qualified to make. Previously I had only 'heard' about it and even then the details never clearly surfaced. (And as with so many of the messages received in my youth, I have done little to examine them closely and to properly question them.) All I knew of the novel was the expression "Uncle Tom," meaning someone who accepts an oppressive system without fighting back. A sell-out.
Having now finished the story I can't really figure out how that meaning ever came to be attributed to Tom. He is the furthest example of a sell out that I can imagine. What I can grasp an inkling of is the image of his weakness. Not weakness as I define it but as others might.
The book is heavy on Christianity but even as a Muslim reader I did not find it a deterrent. For the most part, the beliefs emphasized fit with everything a believer in God can support. No real conflicts there. Obviously this is a debate past its time, and yet, timeless. I don't agree with the definitions given of what a 'Tom' is, or is not, especially Sharpton's definition:An Uncle Tom is one that in a deliberate way, seeks personal favor or acceptance at the expense of his race and at the expense of what he or she knows to be right.
I didn't see Tom accepting personal favors or doing anything at the expense of his race. In fact, in his steady way, he spread belief and hope and changed some hardened hearts. He seemed to benefit very little personally from his chosen path. In fact, he stuck to his personal morals to such a degree that he was murdered for them. Of course, I'm probably missing something. I suppose it has to do with which lens the reader is using and a host of other background schema that the individual reader brings.
Perhaps surprisingly, as a white woman, I am not completely removed the ability to empathize with Tom's situation. It is more about power and control and the frustration that comes from having it lorded over you. It's living everyday with the frustration of not being able to change one's circumstances and being regarded as not valid- invalid- in the face of the law. It's facing illogical reason and having no recourse. Every day. Until you are nearly driven mad with the thought of how your life is not really your own, and the simplistic ease that someone else can come along and wipe out everything- more importantly, everyone- you held dear.
I know something about all of those things. The headlines of the current days show that plenty of people out there do. Even this white male living in Indonesia. Which is not to detract from the (still) very real issue of race in America but just to point out the underlying global relevance of deeper themes. Hence, the classic label.
While reading, I kept in mind the year of publication which made the whole experience even more astounding. The stuff with which wars are made, I suppose. Wars can change laws but they don't necessarily reach in and change ideals, as evidenced by the number of recent incidents.
This has been a book that's stayed with me - one that, despite my initial reluctance to read, has found me wanting to return and continue the story, long after I've finished turning the pages. Tom's individual story may be over but the collective realities continue to live on. My journey back in time has only brought me forward to the main idea found in this video- one a friend sent to me which sends a message that seems to keep popping up for me lately. I'm not crazy about many of the elements of the clip, the original text is here and other versions abound- but I can get behind the big idea. All this pain and suffering we keep inflicting on each other isn't going to stop until we learn that whatever we do unto others we are actually doing unto ourselves. Simple and yet so hard to achieve.
As I do my own walking and wondering and trying to survive, I'm led to think of other stereotypes that maybe don't deserve to be or that have somehow gotten the wrong rap but following that line of thinking is likely to bring me too far from where I've begun. So I'll close this one out just by saying I'm still thinking of Tom- not the sell out Tom, not the martyr Tom but the patient, strong, firm believing Tom who always knew he was never alone and never forgotten.
3.3.15
that curriculum post
I've been trying to figure out why the post about curriculum is taking so long, feels so hard and has become my number 1 procrastination item. Like all things that are hard to write about, I think the problem lies in getting bogged down by emotion. I've been taking lessons from a friend in neutrality- and that's the best way to approach these heavy, emotion laden topics. So here are my observations about the Ivorian curriculum, from my somewhat sheltered perspective. (Another of those small, informal, highly unscientific reportings.)
Most of what I know comes from the textbooks. Both the Ivorian and French systems are heavy on texts. I've definitely had teaching moments where I just wished for a text. Something solid to follow that would alleviate some of my planning and guesswork. A path.
What I have been most impressed with in the texts are the examples given for each of the topics. At times it has even resulted in an "aha" moment. So this is how it's done. We spent a lot of time at TASOK trying to devise 'real world' problems and 'authentic evaluations.' So much talk about making learning relevant. This school in Columbia seems to have found the sweet spot between presenting relative information and achieving a more active learning environment.
But looking at content only for a moment, there is a lot to be commended in the texts- written by Ivorians for Ivorian students. (The math text was actually a joint project between several African countries with the goal of creating a continental math program for Africans. Genius, really.)
The texts each offer a clear layout of presenting information, summarizing the main points and providing an "I go further" section for students wanting to explore more in depth. The words themselves are written in pro-student language, stating what students are able to do in "I" terms. The objectives are clear and engaging. And the cross curricular connections? Astounding in their simplicity.
The math book is full of problems requiring students to calculate taxes, equal distribution of agricultural plantations, and, my favorite, Nande who found some information about the state of children in the world. She and her friends set about calculating the number of reported births, child labor situations, and slavery (children captured as soldiers, sold into prostitution or other slavery situations.) Nande and her friends are shocked by what they discover and set about determining the number of exploited children, non exploited children and other percentages. Yeah. It's a fourth grade book.
Here some samples from the French text which end up doubling as citizenship education.
I'm a little wowed by depth of topics and the wealth of information presented in such a straight forward manner. I thought the curriculum I developed encompassing human rights and the plight of children worldwide was revolutionary. Truthfully, I was a bit dumbfounded to find it all laid out so clearly, complete with colorful pictures, first and secondary sources and real world examples. What else can I say?
Most of what I know comes from the textbooks. Both the Ivorian and French systems are heavy on texts. I've definitely had teaching moments where I just wished for a text. Something solid to follow that would alleviate some of my planning and guesswork. A path.
What I have been most impressed with in the texts are the examples given for each of the topics. At times it has even resulted in an "aha" moment. So this is how it's done. We spent a lot of time at TASOK trying to devise 'real world' problems and 'authentic evaluations.' So much talk about making learning relevant. This school in Columbia seems to have found the sweet spot between presenting relative information and achieving a more active learning environment.
But looking at content only for a moment, there is a lot to be commended in the texts- written by Ivorians for Ivorian students. (The math text was actually a joint project between several African countries with the goal of creating a continental math program for Africans. Genius, really.)
The texts each offer a clear layout of presenting information, summarizing the main points and providing an "I go further" section for students wanting to explore more in depth. The words themselves are written in pro-student language, stating what students are able to do in "I" terms. The objectives are clear and engaging. And the cross curricular connections? Astounding in their simplicity.
The math book is full of problems requiring students to calculate taxes, equal distribution of agricultural plantations, and, my favorite, Nande who found some information about the state of children in the world. She and her friends set about calculating the number of reported births, child labor situations, and slavery (children captured as soldiers, sold into prostitution or other slavery situations.) Nande and her friends are shocked by what they discover and set about determining the number of exploited children, non exploited children and other percentages. Yeah. It's a fourth grade book.
Here some samples from the French text which end up doubling as citizenship education.
 |
| A little history and detail about the elections process |
 |
| Essay about tribalism and traditional rites |
 |
| The importance of peace after war |
 |
| Solving problems through justice (and elder wisdom) |
 |
| The rights of the child |
 |
| How to make a happy child...more on basic rights and needs |
 |
| Counsel about how to raise and protect a child |
 |
| A bit about polygamy and the importance of education for girls |
 |
| Importance of education for girls- because you can't stress that enough |
History in the Making
Its a rare opportunity to recognize history in the making- from a present perspective and not the oft-cited hindsight. From the beginning, talking with Ben was always a time of reflection and shared wisdom, though I admit to feeling as though the wisdom was flowing more heavily in one direction than the other. Ben has a thoughtful, humble nature. He listens, considers, and assimilates information before arriving at conclusions. When he speaks he explains, he educates and he encourages the youth to make decisions that will lead to involvement in the direction of their lives, their future, their country. Talking with him is always eye opening, perspective jarring, and mind expanding.
Ben is currently on tour in the US, representing Congolese youth groups and speaking at colleges, universities and community spaces about, not just the recent events of January, but the political situation in general. I have been seeing his face and hearing his name more and more on social media. He is publishing videos, photos and articles.
Hearing him speak and watching his evolution brings a sense of real change coming. I know that this has all been part of a long term plan. He has spent years laying the groundwork, making connections, developing networks and planning for these moments. Years of patience, quiet contemplation, and behind the scenes work. It is a pleasure to see it coming to the forefront.
I do admit to being a little worried about his personal safety- his frank discussions seem in such stark contrast to earlier discretion. It's not the words that have changed so much but his willingness to have his name and face so public. But he's been groomed for this moment- for these moments- and it is fitting and right that he joins his compatriots who have been speaking out, though from further, safer distances.
Honored to know this guy, excited to see positive change unfolding and marveling at the solid foundation behind it all. It's good. Just plain goodness and strength here.
5/5 Media has a host of videos related to Congo, politics, religion and other RDC concerns.
Ben is currently on tour in the US, representing Congolese youth groups and speaking at colleges, universities and community spaces about, not just the recent events of January, but the political situation in general. I have been seeing his face and hearing his name more and more on social media. He is publishing videos, photos and articles.
Hearing him speak and watching his evolution brings a sense of real change coming. I know that this has all been part of a long term plan. He has spent years laying the groundwork, making connections, developing networks and planning for these moments. Years of patience, quiet contemplation, and behind the scenes work. It is a pleasure to see it coming to the forefront.
I do admit to being a little worried about his personal safety- his frank discussions seem in such stark contrast to earlier discretion. It's not the words that have changed so much but his willingness to have his name and face so public. But he's been groomed for this moment- for these moments- and it is fitting and right that he joins his compatriots who have been speaking out, though from further, safer distances.
Honored to know this guy, excited to see positive change unfolding and marveling at the solid foundation behind it all. It's good. Just plain goodness and strength here.
5/5 Media has a host of videos related to Congo, politics, religion and other RDC concerns.
1.3.15
Abidjan Light
Despite my best efforts, I can't help but suspect I am experiencing the fluffed up version of Abidjan. I try to remember I have only been here for about 8 months, and a fairly sheltered 8 months at that. I haven't gotten too far beyond my boundaries of daily life which makes me certain there is another Abidjan waiting to be discovered.
Ever in search of dance, I found myself at the national school of arts hoping to connect with a teacher. It was truly an electric place, that school of arts. The sound of djembe music overflowed from a classroom window and engulfed the campus. I could imagine a room full of drummers practicing, playing, learning. I wanted a glimpse of that room. I wanted 15 minutes in there to fill up my soul before continuing on with the ordinariness of my day.
I settled for the registrar's office instead. I was trying to explain myself in rational terms and ignore the reality of how it looked. One 40-ish dread headed white woman with a baby in a wrap looking for dance classes. Desperately. One of the women at the desk recognized me (which actually seems to happen to me a lot despite living in a city where I hardly know anyone.) Turns out she is the mom of one of Mohamed's good friends. We've never met but Mohamed and I look sufficiently enough alike that she took a guess.
In addition to hearing that the boys look like twins (which I can understand) Mohamed and I hear a lot that he is my exact copy (which neither of us really get) but there's the proof. This woman was able to recognize me just because she knows my son. Fun. But I still hadn't secured a dance class.
I was handed off to a random guy who took me across campus, up some stairs and into another office. The office of dance and theater it appeared. I talked briefly with a woman, who took my name and number and promised to call. Apparently they are in the process of setting up a class. Only a few interested students so far.
What I assume is that these are other ex-pat women living in Abidjan. I kind of want to know how to get into the school. I want to study in a high energy class full of Ivorians. I want to learn how they learn. The real deal.
The woman also mentioned an on going salsa class if I want, but there are only 2 people enrolled at the moment. It might be worth checking out. My current class is depressingly unsatisfying. One female instructor who dances the role of the male while the four or five of us just kind of hang out waiting for our turn. I do a lot of solo dancing in there, which would be ok but everyone else is just standing limply while they wait. One week there was a couple in attendance and by default the guy took turns swinging us each around the floor but he was pretty novice himself and the whole thing just felt.....lame. Abidjan light.
It was the same story with my capoeira class. Lacking in intensity and focus. The only sweating I'd done there was due to the heat and not to real physical exertion. I'm trying to go back, just to keep up the practice but it doesn't call me.
I keep thinking how different Africa is without the benefit of a family of artists. Despite feeling lost and lonely, I know it is here. I just have to keep searching. There are secrets to be uncovered.
The arts aren't the only place holding out on me however. Nabih and I went on (yet another) school uniform search. We end up going far and wide paying almost as much in taxi fares as we do for the uniforms themselves. Too much.
I'd gone across town to one of the few stores I know selling uniforms. "Jacques Prevert?" the woman asked, naming a prominent French school in the area. I told her no three times but she kept insisting we were looking for uniforms for that exclusive school. They didn't have any, or didn't have any in Nabih's size and she called their other store (located back on the other side of town, closer to our house, of course.) She let them know I would be coming. "You have a 14 for Jaques Prevert? OK, she's coming. One white woman."
I kind of fumed about my descriptor. I could be so many more things. A woman with 2 kids, woman with an adorable baby, short woman, tall woman, woman in green, woman with large head wrap, but no. I was reduced to the basics. White woman. I wondered if I would be the only white woman in the store. Really? Abidjan is full of etrangers.
Arriving at the mall provided some clarity. It was tucked behind a row of store fronts and completely unrecognizable as a mall from outside. I'd ridden past it a million times and never dreamed there were two stories of boutiques hidden within. Apparently I wasn't alone because several of the stores had 'for sale' signs in the windows.
The mall was nearly deserted and so I figured I would, in fact, be the only white woman to enter Les Cherubins that day. I'd probably be the only person to enter it that week, in fact. The two saleswomen were overjoyed to see us and set about finding several varieties and shades of khaki colored uniforms for Nabih to try on. But what I really wanted to know.....where does everyone else at his school buy their uniforms? Surely they weren't all trekking out to Les Cherubins and paying a whopping 17,000 francs. I know there is fabric to be had and tailors to be sewing but where?where?where? The women didn't answer. They just smiled and shook their heads saying this is where all the students got their uniforms. They then went on to name a bunch of the French schools in the area. None of which I can actually afford. I probably overstepped the line when I said, "But that is for the people with money.I know the people in my neighborhood are not buying their uniforms here." What I really needed to do was ask the people in my neighborhood. The women in the store remained unconvinced that I would be in need of a local solution (to be fair, it was also their job to sell me the clothes.)
What I do know: Adjame is the market where one can find fabric and lower priced goods of any nature. But it's bigger than a market- it's more like a market city. I know I have to go there and wander around one day to find the school fabric and canvas fabric and all the other small things we need but I am overwhelmed at the vastness of the place. I could easily get lost in the maze of streets and vendors and, well, more streets. Just the idea of Adjame is exhausting.
If I ever want to get past Abidjan light and move into Abidjan real than I guess I need to brave it. After all, where is my sense of adventure? Just get dropped off in some random part of the city and start to make sense of it, right? What's so hard about that?
But I am still trying to read Abidjan. It doesn't have the overt sense of class and privilege separation that is prevalent in Kinshasa, but it's here (it's everywhere isn't it?) Just when I am getting comfortable and feeling good in my skin, something subtle happens to wake me up again.
One great example occurred at the marie, the offices for legal papers and documents. I was waiting for them to reopen after lunch and had checked in with a woman to make sure I was in the right place for the papers I needed. She said I was, told me I would need to wait about 15 minutes or so and started off to some office in the back. I made my way out to sit on the sidewalk with the other people.
A few minutes later she was calling me to come down and meet her. I followed her in what is becoming my natural state of confusion. I never know exactly what is going on but hope slowly, eventually things will become clear. She ushered me inside a large air conditioned room and suggested I could wait in here. Aaah. I thanked her and said I preferred to wait outside, no problem.
I pondered this subtle communication of privilege, in exchange for white skin I presume, and wondered what that said about her? I also realized that for a moment I had thought she'd found a clerk returned early and was going to get my paper stamped right away. Though I had rejected the offer to wait in the air conditioned room, I would have easily accepted a stamp on my paper by-passing the line and expediting my wait. So what did that say about me?
In the end all I really know is I am still trying to delve through the layers and figure this city out. And myself. Abidjan is akin to NYC in more than just lay out. The city is alive with people from countries across Africa and Europe. There are plenty of multicultural couples and families, plenty of musicians and artists. I don't know any of them. In my desperation I almost ran after one of those small taxi buses because there was someone in there holding a djembe and beating out a rhythm. It reminded me of the seductive call of the Kinshasa taxi singers, luring me into a random journey based on the beauty of the song.
I didn't run after the taxi, and I haven't yet wandered deep into my cartier at 11 pm when I hear the drums calling. But if I don't find a teacher soon.....I just might. In the meantime, I'll continue looking for the wormhole leading from Abidjan light into Abidjan real.
Ever in search of dance, I found myself at the national school of arts hoping to connect with a teacher. It was truly an electric place, that school of arts. The sound of djembe music overflowed from a classroom window and engulfed the campus. I could imagine a room full of drummers practicing, playing, learning. I wanted a glimpse of that room. I wanted 15 minutes in there to fill up my soul before continuing on with the ordinariness of my day.
I settled for the registrar's office instead. I was trying to explain myself in rational terms and ignore the reality of how it looked. One 40-ish dread headed white woman with a baby in a wrap looking for dance classes. Desperately. One of the women at the desk recognized me (which actually seems to happen to me a lot despite living in a city where I hardly know anyone.) Turns out she is the mom of one of Mohamed's good friends. We've never met but Mohamed and I look sufficiently enough alike that she took a guess.
In addition to hearing that the boys look like twins (which I can understand) Mohamed and I hear a lot that he is my exact copy (which neither of us really get) but there's the proof. This woman was able to recognize me just because she knows my son. Fun. But I still hadn't secured a dance class.
I was handed off to a random guy who took me across campus, up some stairs and into another office. The office of dance and theater it appeared. I talked briefly with a woman, who took my name and number and promised to call. Apparently they are in the process of setting up a class. Only a few interested students so far.
What I assume is that these are other ex-pat women living in Abidjan. I kind of want to know how to get into the school. I want to study in a high energy class full of Ivorians. I want to learn how they learn. The real deal.
The woman also mentioned an on going salsa class if I want, but there are only 2 people enrolled at the moment. It might be worth checking out. My current class is depressingly unsatisfying. One female instructor who dances the role of the male while the four or five of us just kind of hang out waiting for our turn. I do a lot of solo dancing in there, which would be ok but everyone else is just standing limply while they wait. One week there was a couple in attendance and by default the guy took turns swinging us each around the floor but he was pretty novice himself and the whole thing just felt.....lame. Abidjan light.
It was the same story with my capoeira class. Lacking in intensity and focus. The only sweating I'd done there was due to the heat and not to real physical exertion. I'm trying to go back, just to keep up the practice but it doesn't call me.
I keep thinking how different Africa is without the benefit of a family of artists. Despite feeling lost and lonely, I know it is here. I just have to keep searching. There are secrets to be uncovered.
The arts aren't the only place holding out on me however. Nabih and I went on (yet another) school uniform search. We end up going far and wide paying almost as much in taxi fares as we do for the uniforms themselves. Too much.
I'd gone across town to one of the few stores I know selling uniforms. "Jacques Prevert?" the woman asked, naming a prominent French school in the area. I told her no three times but she kept insisting we were looking for uniforms for that exclusive school. They didn't have any, or didn't have any in Nabih's size and she called their other store (located back on the other side of town, closer to our house, of course.) She let them know I would be coming. "You have a 14 for Jaques Prevert? OK, she's coming. One white woman."
I kind of fumed about my descriptor. I could be so many more things. A woman with 2 kids, woman with an adorable baby, short woman, tall woman, woman in green, woman with large head wrap, but no. I was reduced to the basics. White woman. I wondered if I would be the only white woman in the store. Really? Abidjan is full of etrangers.
Arriving at the mall provided some clarity. It was tucked behind a row of store fronts and completely unrecognizable as a mall from outside. I'd ridden past it a million times and never dreamed there were two stories of boutiques hidden within. Apparently I wasn't alone because several of the stores had 'for sale' signs in the windows.
The mall was nearly deserted and so I figured I would, in fact, be the only white woman to enter Les Cherubins that day. I'd probably be the only person to enter it that week, in fact. The two saleswomen were overjoyed to see us and set about finding several varieties and shades of khaki colored uniforms for Nabih to try on. But what I really wanted to know.....where does everyone else at his school buy their uniforms? Surely they weren't all trekking out to Les Cherubins and paying a whopping 17,000 francs. I know there is fabric to be had and tailors to be sewing but where?where?where? The women didn't answer. They just smiled and shook their heads saying this is where all the students got their uniforms. They then went on to name a bunch of the French schools in the area. None of which I can actually afford. I probably overstepped the line when I said, "But that is for the people with money.I know the people in my neighborhood are not buying their uniforms here." What I really needed to do was ask the people in my neighborhood. The women in the store remained unconvinced that I would be in need of a local solution (to be fair, it was also their job to sell me the clothes.)
What I do know: Adjame is the market where one can find fabric and lower priced goods of any nature. But it's bigger than a market- it's more like a market city. I know I have to go there and wander around one day to find the school fabric and canvas fabric and all the other small things we need but I am overwhelmed at the vastness of the place. I could easily get lost in the maze of streets and vendors and, well, more streets. Just the idea of Adjame is exhausting.
If I ever want to get past Abidjan light and move into Abidjan real than I guess I need to brave it. After all, where is my sense of adventure? Just get dropped off in some random part of the city and start to make sense of it, right? What's so hard about that?
But I am still trying to read Abidjan. It doesn't have the overt sense of class and privilege separation that is prevalent in Kinshasa, but it's here (it's everywhere isn't it?) Just when I am getting comfortable and feeling good in my skin, something subtle happens to wake me up again.
One great example occurred at the marie, the offices for legal papers and documents. I was waiting for them to reopen after lunch and had checked in with a woman to make sure I was in the right place for the papers I needed. She said I was, told me I would need to wait about 15 minutes or so and started off to some office in the back. I made my way out to sit on the sidewalk with the other people.
A few minutes later she was calling me to come down and meet her. I followed her in what is becoming my natural state of confusion. I never know exactly what is going on but hope slowly, eventually things will become clear. She ushered me inside a large air conditioned room and suggested I could wait in here. Aaah. I thanked her and said I preferred to wait outside, no problem.
I pondered this subtle communication of privilege, in exchange for white skin I presume, and wondered what that said about her? I also realized that for a moment I had thought she'd found a clerk returned early and was going to get my paper stamped right away. Though I had rejected the offer to wait in the air conditioned room, I would have easily accepted a stamp on my paper by-passing the line and expediting my wait. So what did that say about me?
In the end all I really know is I am still trying to delve through the layers and figure this city out. And myself. Abidjan is akin to NYC in more than just lay out. The city is alive with people from countries across Africa and Europe. There are plenty of multicultural couples and families, plenty of musicians and artists. I don't know any of them. In my desperation I almost ran after one of those small taxi buses because there was someone in there holding a djembe and beating out a rhythm. It reminded me of the seductive call of the Kinshasa taxi singers, luring me into a random journey based on the beauty of the song.
I didn't run after the taxi, and I haven't yet wandered deep into my cartier at 11 pm when I hear the drums calling. But if I don't find a teacher soon.....I just might. In the meantime, I'll continue looking for the wormhole leading from Abidjan light into Abidjan real.
A Duck of a Different Color
Just for fun while I work on those other posts....
I'd actually been 'wanting' some ducks for Mbalia's bath, and chewing, and so I can sing the rubber ducky song...
I found these at a random store and put them in the cart without even checking the price. Just because they were a cute family of ducks all in different colors (and I couldn't say no to those cute green bills.)
I love the way the baby ducks nestle on the back of the mommy/daddy duck. Obviously a multicultural family, just like us.
I'd actually been 'wanting' some ducks for Mbalia's bath, and chewing, and so I can sing the rubber ducky song...
I found these at a random store and put them in the cart without even checking the price. Just because they were a cute family of ducks all in different colors (and I couldn't say no to those cute green bills.)
I love the way the baby ducks nestle on the back of the mommy/daddy duck. Obviously a multicultural family, just like us.
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