She closes
her eyes halfway and nods her head, indicating I should get in the car. Her
face shows firm resolve as though committed to something she’d rather not do
but has recognized is for the greater good. She is a stout and strong woman and
reminds me of a Midwestern farmer’s wife. Something about her manner brings to
mind the phrase “a good Christian woman,” but she is Lebanese or Tunisian and
clearly Muslim.
We first
met the day after the soccer game, the big championship that Cote d’Ivoire
won. I was walking to school, unclear if
it had been cancelled and she was just returning. She beeped her horn to get my
attention and pulled off to the side of the road.
“There’s no
school today. I just came from there,’ she informed me. “I see you often on your way. If I see you
again I will give you a ride. I am not far from here.” And so it was settled.
Whenever she passes me, she honks, pulls over and offers me that head nod that
seems to say, I gave my word and I’m going to honor it to death.
Getting rides seems to be the only thing I am good at here in Abidjan. My neighbors are excellent about offering 'to advance me.' They always comment on how they see me walking around the neighborhood, and they ask about the baby. Apart from people I semi-know (or who semi-know me,) there are plenty of free rides to be had from the taxi drivers. Yeah, free. I can't believe nor understand why this is a thing here. Orange 'express' cabs and yellow 'woro-woro' cabs have equally advanced me a leg of my journey and then refused pay. Its often a moment of joyful surprise in my day.
My Lebanese neighbor (from the newer side of the cartier) has
three cherub faced children with lusciously curly hair. They are unstrapped and
roll around the backseat in that terrifying African way children in cars have.
Loose items just waiting to be ejected. The oldest is usually brushing her hair,
and the other sister alternates between standing up to look out the window and
crawling around the floor for some dropped item. The little boy sits silently on the edge of the seat. They all stare at me with large
brown eyes and smile shyly.
Our
conversation has varied over the three trips she’s offered. I try to make a
little small talk and have learned enough about her to know her husband is with
the World Bank, they came here unexpectedly and she prefers Tunisia. Much of
the ride passes in silence and I figure that is ok too.
This particular
morning we get off to a hiccupping start.
I want to throw the word jalopy in here, but I am not sure why or if it
really applies. Perrhaps it is this part of the definition "...an old-style class of stock car racing in America, often raced on dirt ovals" that most describes my experience. The car itself is not old or out of shape exactly, but the driving...
I feel like I’ve gotten on a ride at the fair. There are jerks
and false starts and unexpected accelerations. She is saying something to me but
a sense of vertigo prevents me from fully comprehending. She speeds up and passes a car as we go around the turn. We approach an intersection, but there is no slowing down. We race through cutting off a taxi who blares its horn and swerves to the right. Amidst the braking and blaring she offers a comment on the situation. “You see how they
drive here?” She shakes her head in dismay and tsk tsks with her teeth. I am feeling a
bit Alice in Wonderland at her perception of things and my breakfast begins to
speak to me from the pit of my stomach. I notice that she does bear a slight resemblance to the Queen of Hearts. I get lost in thoughts of flamingo mallets and rolling hedgehogs.
As we
arrive at the school, there is a line of traffic waiting for pedestrians to
cross. It's not a long line and things are relatively quiet. In general, everyone is heeding the security guards
charged with maintaining order in the early morning flow. I am always impressed by how competent they are at their job. I admire the choreography they execute as cars stop and go, turn and advance and then wait again. Like the gears and cogs of a machine working together to produce an efficient and artful effect. My Queen of Hearts wants no part of this, however.
She pulls into the
opposite lane and jumps the queue completely. The school is on the right hand side and so she needs to cut off whoever is at the front of the line in
order to cross back over. The security guards actually help her to do this,
remove the barrier so she can make the turn and enter the parking lot. No one
blinks an eye. “So that is how it is done,” I think as I release my death grip
from the door handle. Oxygen floods my brain as I realize I hadn’t been
breathing.
She turns
to me and curtly nods her head. Mission accomplished. “Have a good day.” She
smiles slightly and I feel I am dismissed.
I put my feet on solid ground, rather enjoying the dizzying after
effects of my morning commute. I know by the time I reach my classroom I will
have morphed back into the dependable teacher persona that my job requires, but for the moment, I feel otherworldly and life is brimming with possibilities.
