30.6.15
The Magic Door
An exhausting, time consuming, rambling fun little project my class put together as part of their Project Cinema....... Inspired by the stunning artwork of Lottie Reiniger in Prince Achmed and just a touch of Zorro.
29.6.15
The old 500 franc in the pocket trick
Our nounou is having a baby. Christine has been with us since before Mbalia was born, but now she's off to have her own little cutie. My new nanny search went right down to the wire. It took me some time to adjust to the idea that I would have to find someone new- which resulted in a bit of procrastination on my part.
About a week or so before Christine was leaving I finally started interviewing. The first applicant wanted too much in transport. In fact, the transportation allowance wasn't all that far from the monthly salary. When I pointed this out and asked if she could propose a solution she remained silent. I took this to mean bargaining was out of the question and continued the search. The second possiblility kept insisting on sleeping over, something I had no desire or physical space for, especially since on many days I finish well before 4:00. I kept imagining a nanny underfoot all evening and long into the night. I felt a moment of terror imagining the small seconds of privacy I currently cling to being ripped from my fingertips. I kept searching.
Then I met Koro. She was the third applicant and the most promising. After meeting at the main road, we'd managed to walk back to the house making small talk and finding common ground. She was willing to negotiate on the transport and I was happily able to accomodate a slightly later start time (thanks to Mohamed being home and able to step in for a few minutes each morning.)
Koro has picked up the tasks around with house with ease and Mbalia transitioned to a new care giver after just a few days. Having her brothers home surely helped with this. I came home one day to find 500 franc on the table. Apparently I;d left it in my pocket and it had come out in the wash. I never leave money in my pocket, mostly because I never have pockets. I do have one jean skirt with pockets, however, and I've noticed my hands tend to gravitate there when I wear it.
I was preoccupied with other details and shrugged the 500 franc off with a quick thanks. A bit later I thought about what returning the 500 franc said about her honesty. And a bit later yet I remembered an email I'd gotten from a friend at a time when she was going through a nanny search. Inviting someone into your home to care for your children and clean up your messes can be a disturbingly intimate affair. There are issues of trust and competence and moral alignment, aside from cultural, educational and linguistic bridges to cross. My friend had been doubting the honesty of her nanny and wondered if she should test it out by putting some small francs in a pocket to be washed.
Suddenly my 500 francs on the table took on new meaning. I groaned at the thought. I imagined nannies everywhere starting new jobs and finding small bills in the wash. The old 500-franc-in-the-pocket-trick initiation test. I hadn't done it on purpose, and I don't even really know if it is a thing, but my mind was busy imagining a clique of nannies huddling in a circle after work, laughing at the unimaginative white women who kept putting loose ch.ange in their pockets hoping to test the fidelity of a new employee.
I really hope she didn't think I'd done it on purpose. I'd hate to be perceived as so cliche. I realized soon enough that even if she did think it was a calculated move, she probably wasn't thinking too much about it. Just another new-to-the-job hurdle to jump in her world.A little bit of eye opening perspective in mine.
About a week or so before Christine was leaving I finally started interviewing. The first applicant wanted too much in transport. In fact, the transportation allowance wasn't all that far from the monthly salary. When I pointed this out and asked if she could propose a solution she remained silent. I took this to mean bargaining was out of the question and continued the search. The second possiblility kept insisting on sleeping over, something I had no desire or physical space for, especially since on many days I finish well before 4:00. I kept imagining a nanny underfoot all evening and long into the night. I felt a moment of terror imagining the small seconds of privacy I currently cling to being ripped from my fingertips. I kept searching.
Then I met Koro. She was the third applicant and the most promising. After meeting at the main road, we'd managed to walk back to the house making small talk and finding common ground. She was willing to negotiate on the transport and I was happily able to accomodate a slightly later start time (thanks to Mohamed being home and able to step in for a few minutes each morning.)
Koro has picked up the tasks around with house with ease and Mbalia transitioned to a new care giver after just a few days. Having her brothers home surely helped with this. I came home one day to find 500 franc on the table. Apparently I;d left it in my pocket and it had come out in the wash. I never leave money in my pocket, mostly because I never have pockets. I do have one jean skirt with pockets, however, and I've noticed my hands tend to gravitate there when I wear it.
I was preoccupied with other details and shrugged the 500 franc off with a quick thanks. A bit later I thought about what returning the 500 franc said about her honesty. And a bit later yet I remembered an email I'd gotten from a friend at a time when she was going through a nanny search. Inviting someone into your home to care for your children and clean up your messes can be a disturbingly intimate affair. There are issues of trust and competence and moral alignment, aside from cultural, educational and linguistic bridges to cross. My friend had been doubting the honesty of her nanny and wondered if she should test it out by putting some small francs in a pocket to be washed.
Suddenly my 500 francs on the table took on new meaning. I groaned at the thought. I imagined nannies everywhere starting new jobs and finding small bills in the wash. The old 500-franc-in-the-pocket-trick initiation test. I hadn't done it on purpose, and I don't even really know if it is a thing, but my mind was busy imagining a clique of nannies huddling in a circle after work, laughing at the unimaginative white women who kept putting loose ch.ange in their pockets hoping to test the fidelity of a new employee.
I really hope she didn't think I'd done it on purpose. I'd hate to be perceived as so cliche. I realized soon enough that even if she did think it was a calculated move, she probably wasn't thinking too much about it. Just another new-to-the-job hurdle to jump in her world.A little bit of eye opening perspective in mine.
Keeping cozy
Ramdan has begun and I've encouraged the boys to join me this year. It feels especially hard at times- my only comfort being a million other people are feeling this way too. After surviving this year with 2 weeks of "sufferance" at the end of every month, it's more than ironic that now we actually have the food- we just can't eat it.
It's left me reflecting evermore on the purpose of Ramadan and the uses of food. I remember this from years past. Fasting has the potential to leave me feeling hungry and tired and grumpy. It's easy to doubt the purpose of it all. There are moments when crabbiness just takes over. We walk around the house scowling and nipping at each other like little dogs. Sleeping is a common distraction- and often a necessary one- as well as a way to escape the stomach pangs. But you're not meant to sleep the days away and feast all night. Flipping day and night is cited as one of the big tips NOT to do. I can see how it might be an easy habit to fall into.
This year I feel much more in the rhythm. It might be the fact that Muslims are so prevelant and present in our neighborhood (and in the city in general. A far cry from Kinshasa where the Muslim population stood out as a clear minority.) I am enjoying getting up early and preparing a complete breakfast for us. Previously, I'd been of the mind that the kids should sleep until they wake naturally, assuming if they're sleeping it's because they need it. Breakfast was usually an on-your-own kind of meal, everyone choosing their favorite and eating in various degrees of togetherness, except for the occasional Sunday. It seems hectic now, my hovering between kitchen and table, eating, making lunches, packing bags. The boys shuffling around, nibbling toast or crunching cereal, trying to find school supplies.
Our mornings have become a sharp contrast as we all wake early. The breakfast has already been prepared and we sit together to eat and talk- no multi-tasking. I see the benefits of waking up at the same time every day and having plenty of time to spare before heading off to school. Of course, the boys are on vacation and I know they can nap if they get tired so I don't feel bad at all about waking them. Naps fit in with the rhythm du pays in Ivory Coast. Getting up so early requires an early bed time, which they've always had (and mostly stuck to) since their days are so action packed they are literally exhausted by nightfall anyway.
The in-between times are a little trickier. I end up spending my time analyzing why I want to eat, especially on those long weekend days at home. (Distraction by way of going to school, talking with someone or generally keeping busy goes a long way towards a successful fast.) I want to determine how often I am truly hungry as opposed to using food as a pasttime. I find myself answering that 'I just want to feel good.' I am happy to note that for me, eating has a component of feeling healthy. I don't crave junk (even my once so frequent chocolate bar has gone the way of the dinosaurs lately. We occasionally visit but it's less and less often. I did make my own chocolate bar recently. It was super tasty, and much simpler by way of ingredients which, in my mind equals, healthy.)
Eating to feel good includes eating for comfort. Sometimes, especially on those rainy Abidjan days, I want nothing more than a cup of tea and warm milk, a spicy soup or rice and sauce dish. In a bowl, of course, a cozy, cuddling ceramic bowl that fits exactly in two hands perched atop the knees while huddling under a blanket. I know then I am using the idea of food to pad my emotional memories with warmth and security. Since the tea and the soup are not really options, I search for other ways to keep cozy and relax. Without food. Using the other senses, smell for instance, can create just as powerful and nearly as cozy memories.
Sometimes feeling good means creating community. I am looking to use food as a means for sharing an experience, not just something we can do together (eat cookies and tell jokes) but something we can feel together (hot, melting chocolate chips and full belly rolling laughter.) When this is the case, I usually enlist Nabih to help me prepare something. We peel and slice and chop together. We beat and stir and cream together. And we try to remember not to lick our fingers.
Often, I find that "feeling good" means showing others how much I care. Whether it is a "language of love" or a form of wish fulfillment, cooking for others is most often pleasurable. While I do admit to falling into the cooking-is-a-dreadful-unappreciated-duty-and-I-wish-I-could-order-take-out perspective at times, cooking during Ramadan is kind of like a month of Thanksgiving. We plan our favorite dinners and a simple dessert. The boys take a few nights of cooking to show off their skills and concoct a winning combination. The joy of cooking flows both ways. The eater and the preparer reap rewards.
Another one of the tips to avoid during Ramadan is spending too much on fancy meal favorites, however. I find after a whole day of fasting, any food is going to taste great so keeping it simple is easy. Our menu is not too different from what we normally eat, it's just the planning and anticipation that is different. The best desserts involve a lot of fruit, though we've had cookies on a night or two. I have come to really enjoy the completeness of our meals. Just as I am thinking it would be great to do this all the time, I realize it is better to keep it as our Ramadan tradition. (I don't think it would be sustainable for me, though, at the same time, I am realizing there are people who eat this way every night.) I'm feeling happy to be finally giving my boys some memories and bona-fide traditions of their childhoods.
Another realization all this reflecting has resulted in is that, as a parent, I have often unknowingly assumed my children have acquired the same background knowledge as I. It's not at all logical, but I think as parents we somehow feel our experiences are transmitted by osmosis and our children gain- not necessarily the details and real life knowledge- but the essence of what we know.
I had a rather unusual and lucky childhood in that I was exposed to most of the major religions. My mother sent us to Catholic school, my parents were Methodist, their best friends were Jewish and my step-grandmother was....Evangelical? (I'm not exactly sure, but her brand of religion scared the heck out of me. That makes it Evangelical, right?) I know stories from everywhere. Added to all of that, I then embarked on my own grand search and discovered Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam and a smattering of other, smaller belief sets. I'm happy with what I know and my journey to uncover it all. But I realized my boys don't have any of this knowledge. And it's pretty much my fault. I didn't want their minds closed or filled with absolutes. The result was creating a void.
I still get nervous when I think of sending them off to be educated- or exposed. I've begun trying to share my stories and my knowing, but it's a long tricky road. Sometimes it feels like a long, tricky, lonely road. I want them to make their own journeys (and of course I would be inwardly rooting for them to end up exactly here, where I am....but I know that anything can happen on a journey and anything should happen. That's what makes it a personal journey. It's just hard to have faith sometimes.)
Mohamed has a few friends observing and he's begun going to mosque with them. This is good. The beginning of his road. I like to think once he is connected with a mosque, he will find himself at home anywhere. I remember a drummer friend from long ago. He'd arrived to the US young, new, and overwhelmed. One of the first things he'd done was to find a mosque and trek across town every Friday. It was a way of returning to the security of his home. A way of keeping cozy. Maintaining his identity and connecting with others. It is what religions are meant to do?
In the meantime, I continue my own journey. As we try to keep the fast this Ramadan,I am striving to do more than remember people who are hungry. I want to understand the complex role food plays in our lives. There is far more than just sustenance to be grateful for.
It's left me reflecting evermore on the purpose of Ramadan and the uses of food. I remember this from years past. Fasting has the potential to leave me feeling hungry and tired and grumpy. It's easy to doubt the purpose of it all. There are moments when crabbiness just takes over. We walk around the house scowling and nipping at each other like little dogs. Sleeping is a common distraction- and often a necessary one- as well as a way to escape the stomach pangs. But you're not meant to sleep the days away and feast all night. Flipping day and night is cited as one of the big tips NOT to do. I can see how it might be an easy habit to fall into.
This year I feel much more in the rhythm. It might be the fact that Muslims are so prevelant and present in our neighborhood (and in the city in general. A far cry from Kinshasa where the Muslim population stood out as a clear minority.) I am enjoying getting up early and preparing a complete breakfast for us. Previously, I'd been of the mind that the kids should sleep until they wake naturally, assuming if they're sleeping it's because they need it. Breakfast was usually an on-your-own kind of meal, everyone choosing their favorite and eating in various degrees of togetherness, except for the occasional Sunday. It seems hectic now, my hovering between kitchen and table, eating, making lunches, packing bags. The boys shuffling around, nibbling toast or crunching cereal, trying to find school supplies.
Our mornings have become a sharp contrast as we all wake early. The breakfast has already been prepared and we sit together to eat and talk- no multi-tasking. I see the benefits of waking up at the same time every day and having plenty of time to spare before heading off to school. Of course, the boys are on vacation and I know they can nap if they get tired so I don't feel bad at all about waking them. Naps fit in with the rhythm du pays in Ivory Coast. Getting up so early requires an early bed time, which they've always had (and mostly stuck to) since their days are so action packed they are literally exhausted by nightfall anyway.
The in-between times are a little trickier. I end up spending my time analyzing why I want to eat, especially on those long weekend days at home. (Distraction by way of going to school, talking with someone or generally keeping busy goes a long way towards a successful fast.) I want to determine how often I am truly hungry as opposed to using food as a pasttime. I find myself answering that 'I just want to feel good.' I am happy to note that for me, eating has a component of feeling healthy. I don't crave junk (even my once so frequent chocolate bar has gone the way of the dinosaurs lately. We occasionally visit but it's less and less often. I did make my own chocolate bar recently. It was super tasty, and much simpler by way of ingredients which, in my mind equals, healthy.)
Eating to feel good includes eating for comfort. Sometimes, especially on those rainy Abidjan days, I want nothing more than a cup of tea and warm milk, a spicy soup or rice and sauce dish. In a bowl, of course, a cozy, cuddling ceramic bowl that fits exactly in two hands perched atop the knees while huddling under a blanket. I know then I am using the idea of food to pad my emotional memories with warmth and security. Since the tea and the soup are not really options, I search for other ways to keep cozy and relax. Without food. Using the other senses, smell for instance, can create just as powerful and nearly as cozy memories.
Sometimes feeling good means creating community. I am looking to use food as a means for sharing an experience, not just something we can do together (eat cookies and tell jokes) but something we can feel together (hot, melting chocolate chips and full belly rolling laughter.) When this is the case, I usually enlist Nabih to help me prepare something. We peel and slice and chop together. We beat and stir and cream together. And we try to remember not to lick our fingers.
Often, I find that "feeling good" means showing others how much I care. Whether it is a "language of love" or a form of wish fulfillment, cooking for others is most often pleasurable. While I do admit to falling into the cooking-is-a-dreadful-unappreciated-duty-and-I-wish-I-could-order-take-out perspective at times, cooking during Ramadan is kind of like a month of Thanksgiving. We plan our favorite dinners and a simple dessert. The boys take a few nights of cooking to show off their skills and concoct a winning combination. The joy of cooking flows both ways. The eater and the preparer reap rewards.
Another one of the tips to avoid during Ramadan is spending too much on fancy meal favorites, however. I find after a whole day of fasting, any food is going to taste great so keeping it simple is easy. Our menu is not too different from what we normally eat, it's just the planning and anticipation that is different. The best desserts involve a lot of fruit, though we've had cookies on a night or two. I have come to really enjoy the completeness of our meals. Just as I am thinking it would be great to do this all the time, I realize it is better to keep it as our Ramadan tradition. (I don't think it would be sustainable for me, though, at the same time, I am realizing there are people who eat this way every night.) I'm feeling happy to be finally giving my boys some memories and bona-fide traditions of their childhoods.
Another realization all this reflecting has resulted in is that, as a parent, I have often unknowingly assumed my children have acquired the same background knowledge as I. It's not at all logical, but I think as parents we somehow feel our experiences are transmitted by osmosis and our children gain- not necessarily the details and real life knowledge- but the essence of what we know.
I had a rather unusual and lucky childhood in that I was exposed to most of the major religions. My mother sent us to Catholic school, my parents were Methodist, their best friends were Jewish and my step-grandmother was....Evangelical? (I'm not exactly sure, but her brand of religion scared the heck out of me. That makes it Evangelical, right?) I know stories from everywhere. Added to all of that, I then embarked on my own grand search and discovered Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam and a smattering of other, smaller belief sets. I'm happy with what I know and my journey to uncover it all. But I realized my boys don't have any of this knowledge. And it's pretty much my fault. I didn't want their minds closed or filled with absolutes. The result was creating a void.
I still get nervous when I think of sending them off to be educated- or exposed. I've begun trying to share my stories and my knowing, but it's a long tricky road. Sometimes it feels like a long, tricky, lonely road. I want them to make their own journeys (and of course I would be inwardly rooting for them to end up exactly here, where I am....but I know that anything can happen on a journey and anything should happen. That's what makes it a personal journey. It's just hard to have faith sometimes.)
Mohamed has a few friends observing and he's begun going to mosque with them. This is good. The beginning of his road. I like to think once he is connected with a mosque, he will find himself at home anywhere. I remember a drummer friend from long ago. He'd arrived to the US young, new, and overwhelmed. One of the first things he'd done was to find a mosque and trek across town every Friday. It was a way of returning to the security of his home. A way of keeping cozy. Maintaining his identity and connecting with others. It is what religions are meant to do?
In the meantime, I continue my own journey. As we try to keep the fast this Ramadan,I am striving to do more than remember people who are hungry. I want to understand the complex role food plays in our lives. There is far more than just sustenance to be grateful for.
14.6.15
Crossing Lines
For teachers it's that time of year that feels a bit like New Year's Eve. As the school year comes to a close, there is a lot of reflecting on the past year and planning for the new one. Once again, I will be changing jobs and so the forward projection part of my reflection is skewed. I end up thinking about what I would do if I were returning and feeling a little bit of regret that I am not.
Reflections about my past year give me the sense of emerging from some dark tunnel. Its been a long, lonely ride this first year in Abidjan. Working at the French school has left me feeling equal parts a despondent stranger and an engaging explorer. Allie Brosh writes superbly about depression , awkward social situations and depression. She has me, and a million other people, laughing out loud and shamelessly sharing the fact that we feel this way too. If I still had access to mail service, I would buy this book. Much of the past year has been spent in alternate cycles of self hate , self doubt and generally just not feeling good enough.
It's hard to make friends when you're caught up in cycles like these. I have figured out that poverty is a huge trigger for me- feeling less than human and therefore unable to be around other humans. But something happens at the close of things that brings me out of my shell and makes me wonder why it ever felt so bad in the first place.
In my delerium at realizing I actually made it through hell and will probably be ok, I end up functioning like a mostly normal person again and can't even remember the details of my torture. I just know it was bad. And long. And now it appears kind of sunny. I feel like I am emerging from a natural disaster- that only I went though. Which leaves me with a kind of miraculous wow-life-is-grand perspective while those around me are more like gee-where've-you-been-this-whole-time?
In one of our last meetings I had the chance to talk to another colleague, also on a local contract, who apparently went through many of the same emotional ups and downs as I - though I had severley misread that situation from the beginning, thinking she was the wife of a wealthy businessman and had no cares in the world. Turns out her husband has gone back to his country- unemployed-, she is returning to her country and the year was plagued with her kids getting pulled out of school for late payment of fees (despite the fact that she, uhm, works for the school and the late fees were most likely a direct result of late salary payments.)
She got a little teary eyed as she related some of the details of her year in a casual manner and I realized that we could have easily switched places. I should have been getting to know her better all along. We could have suffered together.
But I made little effort to get to know anyone, worked through all my lunches, and retreated deep into my cave of self pity and doubt- although at the time it seemed more like the cave of being strong and getting through it.
As the vacation approaches I am making vows to reach out to some teachers I know who will be around and keep connections with a few interesting colleagues from the French school.
Because next school year, I am crossing back over to the American side of things. It's official, I guess, though it feels anticlimatic. I will be working at the American school teaching math and science. Not my dream job but a job on familiar ground. And, more importantly, it means the boys will be back in a school that resembles them.
Nabih has had it the hardest, being more sensitive than his brother. He was able to tell me that he hates being different (something I have realized since his little babyhood.) He doesn't like too much attention, whether good or bad, and being the only bi-racial kid in his class is draining. Luckily, I realize that once ensconced in the international school he will be one of a billion bi-racial kids and no one will look twice at him. The French school would have offered the same degree of comfort but was simply not a possibility on the dismal salary scale.
I am not convinced much will happen to improve things in that regard- local contracts require local taxes and there go any of the benefits of working internationally. I am making about the same as when I first started teaching 13 years ago. Before I let that launch me into another round of poverty depression, I am busy determining which habits I've picked up in my new spot that I might want to keep and which I will be happy to kick out.
One of the main regrets I have about returning to the American system is the amount of expected working hours. I had hoped to use my near half days to explore other career options and delve more deeply into things I love. This first year had me scrambling for cash and so I picked up a bunch of tutoring jobs, but I'd hoped to be able to extend my theater, art and dance into something more lucrative. I'd talked myself into patience thinking it might take a year or two for me to really develop direction.
But I have been watching those American teachers going in on holidays, weekends, and even after many of their colleagues have departed. Yesterday I passed a car full of teachers heading in to school on Saturday- the day after the last day of school. It used to be me.
This year in the French system has developed my appreciation for a different rhythm of life. Saying goodbye means I'll also be saying goodbye to 2 weeks off after every 7 weeks on (oh, those precious two weeks!) Goodbye to long lunches and goodbye to walking out the door precisely on the hour because that is what is outlined in the contract. I'm trying to tell myself this doesn't mean the end of my aspirations, but just a rescheduling of them.
In the American system, you can walk out the door on the hour, but it's often met with suspicions of a job not done (or not done well.) Which seems completely unfair, especially if you can complete your job in the time given. And I am determined to make that happen. I am determined not be overrun by guilt or by the "I-can-do-that" syndrome which often has me volunteering for all those extra projects.
One of the aspects I want to keep from the French system is their very organized reliance on data and reports. It helps immensely with identifying learners in need of support and documenting strategies implemented to help them. In reality, it is not so different from what the Americans want to do but it seems American curriculums and assessments are constantly under evaluation and in progress. Being revamped. Because the French curriculum is set by the government, there is very little teacher time invested in this aspect of education. While I may enjoy it, I have never believed that all teachers should, or want, to be writing curriculum. The French method leaves more time for teachers to determine how to meet students needs, develop daily lessons and select just the right support materials.
Of course, the consistent vacation periods have been hugely therapeutic. I have enjoyed my freedom immensely and valued my time at home with my kids. That is one of the goals I accomplished. Work less. Play more. Or at least strike a balance between the two. It's not going to be easy to give that up. We've all learned a lot about the value of family time- some of those lessons harder come by than others.
To be fair, we've learned a lot about the value of education as well. It is not just me with my teacher's perspective that has developed qualities of preference- the boys have made some decisions also. It will be a welcome relief to be back on familiar ground, at least in one area of our lives. They've begun planning first day of school wardrobes and making plans for activities they want to join. I secretly suspect they wouldn't mind forgoing their 'summer' vacation altogether and starting school tomorrow.
I'm not quite that eager to give up my (now heavily shortened) vacation but I am happy to be crossing back over.
Reflections about my past year give me the sense of emerging from some dark tunnel. Its been a long, lonely ride this first year in Abidjan. Working at the French school has left me feeling equal parts a despondent stranger and an engaging explorer. Allie Brosh writes superbly about depression , awkward social situations and depression. She has me, and a million other people, laughing out loud and shamelessly sharing the fact that we feel this way too. If I still had access to mail service, I would buy this book. Much of the past year has been spent in alternate cycles of self hate , self doubt and generally just not feeling good enough.
It's hard to make friends when you're caught up in cycles like these. I have figured out that poverty is a huge trigger for me- feeling less than human and therefore unable to be around other humans. But something happens at the close of things that brings me out of my shell and makes me wonder why it ever felt so bad in the first place.
In my delerium at realizing I actually made it through hell and will probably be ok, I end up functioning like a mostly normal person again and can't even remember the details of my torture. I just know it was bad. And long. And now it appears kind of sunny. I feel like I am emerging from a natural disaster- that only I went though. Which leaves me with a kind of miraculous wow-life-is-grand perspective while those around me are more like gee-where've-you-been-this-whole-time?
In one of our last meetings I had the chance to talk to another colleague, also on a local contract, who apparently went through many of the same emotional ups and downs as I - though I had severley misread that situation from the beginning, thinking she was the wife of a wealthy businessman and had no cares in the world. Turns out her husband has gone back to his country- unemployed-, she is returning to her country and the year was plagued with her kids getting pulled out of school for late payment of fees (despite the fact that she, uhm, works for the school and the late fees were most likely a direct result of late salary payments.)
She got a little teary eyed as she related some of the details of her year in a casual manner and I realized that we could have easily switched places. I should have been getting to know her better all along. We could have suffered together.
But I made little effort to get to know anyone, worked through all my lunches, and retreated deep into my cave of self pity and doubt- although at the time it seemed more like the cave of being strong and getting through it.
As the vacation approaches I am making vows to reach out to some teachers I know who will be around and keep connections with a few interesting colleagues from the French school.
Because next school year, I am crossing back over to the American side of things. It's official, I guess, though it feels anticlimatic. I will be working at the American school teaching math and science. Not my dream job but a job on familiar ground. And, more importantly, it means the boys will be back in a school that resembles them.
Nabih has had it the hardest, being more sensitive than his brother. He was able to tell me that he hates being different (something I have realized since his little babyhood.) He doesn't like too much attention, whether good or bad, and being the only bi-racial kid in his class is draining. Luckily, I realize that once ensconced in the international school he will be one of a billion bi-racial kids and no one will look twice at him. The French school would have offered the same degree of comfort but was simply not a possibility on the dismal salary scale.
I am not convinced much will happen to improve things in that regard- local contracts require local taxes and there go any of the benefits of working internationally. I am making about the same as when I first started teaching 13 years ago. Before I let that launch me into another round of poverty depression, I am busy determining which habits I've picked up in my new spot that I might want to keep and which I will be happy to kick out.
One of the main regrets I have about returning to the American system is the amount of expected working hours. I had hoped to use my near half days to explore other career options and delve more deeply into things I love. This first year had me scrambling for cash and so I picked up a bunch of tutoring jobs, but I'd hoped to be able to extend my theater, art and dance into something more lucrative. I'd talked myself into patience thinking it might take a year or two for me to really develop direction.
But I have been watching those American teachers going in on holidays, weekends, and even after many of their colleagues have departed. Yesterday I passed a car full of teachers heading in to school on Saturday- the day after the last day of school. It used to be me.
This year in the French system has developed my appreciation for a different rhythm of life. Saying goodbye means I'll also be saying goodbye to 2 weeks off after every 7 weeks on (oh, those precious two weeks!) Goodbye to long lunches and goodbye to walking out the door precisely on the hour because that is what is outlined in the contract. I'm trying to tell myself this doesn't mean the end of my aspirations, but just a rescheduling of them.
In the American system, you can walk out the door on the hour, but it's often met with suspicions of a job not done (or not done well.) Which seems completely unfair, especially if you can complete your job in the time given. And I am determined to make that happen. I am determined not be overrun by guilt or by the "I-can-do-that" syndrome which often has me volunteering for all those extra projects.
One of the aspects I want to keep from the French system is their very organized reliance on data and reports. It helps immensely with identifying learners in need of support and documenting strategies implemented to help them. In reality, it is not so different from what the Americans want to do but it seems American curriculums and assessments are constantly under evaluation and in progress. Being revamped. Because the French curriculum is set by the government, there is very little teacher time invested in this aspect of education. While I may enjoy it, I have never believed that all teachers should, or want, to be writing curriculum. The French method leaves more time for teachers to determine how to meet students needs, develop daily lessons and select just the right support materials.
Of course, the consistent vacation periods have been hugely therapeutic. I have enjoyed my freedom immensely and valued my time at home with my kids. That is one of the goals I accomplished. Work less. Play more. Or at least strike a balance between the two. It's not going to be easy to give that up. We've all learned a lot about the value of family time- some of those lessons harder come by than others.
To be fair, we've learned a lot about the value of education as well. It is not just me with my teacher's perspective that has developed qualities of preference- the boys have made some decisions also. It will be a welcome relief to be back on familiar ground, at least in one area of our lives. They've begun planning first day of school wardrobes and making plans for activities they want to join. I secretly suspect they wouldn't mind forgoing their 'summer' vacation altogether and starting school tomorrow.
I'm not quite that eager to give up my (now heavily shortened) vacation but I am happy to be crossing back over.
13.6.15
How Loud can You Kiss
While the kissy noise may not actually be the loudest sound in Africa, it is certainly the most effective. Being able to pucker up and suck in air at just the right pitch and for just the right duration can be the key to unlocking a myriad of services.
I remember being enchanted by all the 'secret codes' that seemed to be shared through sound and movement on my first trip to Africa. I was in the airport, leaving, when I'd dropped my passport. That kissy sound alerted me to my fallen papers and I luckily was able to retrieve them. I felt some inane sense of joy at, not only having been alerted by the noise, but recognising and responding. I felt initiated.
Some 15 years later I find myself ready for the next step. It's all fine and well to know the code- see it pass, understand it's significance, even be alerted by it every now and then- but the boys and I? We aspire to employ it. We've been practicing our kissy noises as we walk down the street. (Take a minute to really imagine that. We are three tall-ish people, one white female usually carrying an extra- adorable little baby and two golden hued mixed males- handsome, if I might add, walking down the dirt streets of our neighborhood kissing air. We're all over the age of 7, except the extra adorable little baby who is the only one not puckered up like a grandma trying to get a goodbye smooch.)
It reminds me of learning to whistle (though I was able to accomplish that in the privacy of our family car.) The kissy noise, however, seems a lot more useful. Especially for hailing taxis, which is our main motivation for practising it. There is one grocery store we go to where taxis are not allowed in the parking area unless they are dropping off- or have been summoned. The main road is across the large lot and down a small hill. Cars driving by might not notice me if I were waving my hands and yelling. Or even if I were waving my hands, yelling and jumping in the air.
The security guards usually hail a taxi for shoppers who come out of the mini-mall/grocery store. They put one hand up and make that kissy noise- voila. A passing taxi hears it, turns his head, notices the hand waving, rounds the turn in the road and drives up the hill to meet us. Needless to say, we're always impressed.
As I mentioned earlier, the same noise is used to get someone's attention- street vendors for instance. If you are passing in a car and want to purchase something from someone who has already gone by just stick your head out and kiss. Or, if someone happens to be on the opposite side of a 4 lane highway, just stick your head out, kiss and they will risk life and limb as they cross the street Frogger style to get you that thing you wanted to buy. Cold drink, single serving bag of water, set of dish towels, newspaper. The kissy noise is universal and therefore all vendors will respond to the same sound. Of course, the downside is you might attract more than 1 vendor, resulting in extra pressure to buy.
The upside is that if the intended does not happen to respond, or your kissy noise is on low that particular day, you will have attracted the attention of several other people on the street who will happily jump in and make their own, stronger kissy noise in order to attract the attention of the person you were trying to lure into your world. And we're not even in Paris. Actually, I've never been to Paris but random people puckering up on the street fits in with all those Parisian cliches about love in the air.
I've been trying to observe closely the shape of the mouth of successful puckerers. The boys and I are missing volume. We pucker without force. Observing closley hasn't revealed any secrets. I wonder if it's one of those lifelong things. Do we have to have been puckering since infancy in order to achieve full effect? Or can we learn to pucker?
For now, our competitions about who can hail a taxi the fastest and from farthest away are limited to hand motions, which, while nowhere near as complex as Kinshasa taxi codes, do involve some finesse. We also award extra points for the subtle or secret taxi hail (successfully getting a taxi using only your pinky finger for example.) But the race is on to become the loudest kisser.
I'm closing on that note because I know you have been holding in your urge to try it out. So go ahead, hop into the bathroom, pucker up to the mirror and find out how loud of a kisser you can be.
DISCLAIMER: I amnot exactly sure that the kissy noise translates the same on all continents so use in public at your own risk. You might find yourself attracting more than a taxi.
I remember being enchanted by all the 'secret codes' that seemed to be shared through sound and movement on my first trip to Africa. I was in the airport, leaving, when I'd dropped my passport. That kissy sound alerted me to my fallen papers and I luckily was able to retrieve them. I felt some inane sense of joy at, not only having been alerted by the noise, but recognising and responding. I felt initiated.
Some 15 years later I find myself ready for the next step. It's all fine and well to know the code- see it pass, understand it's significance, even be alerted by it every now and then- but the boys and I? We aspire to employ it. We've been practicing our kissy noises as we walk down the street. (Take a minute to really imagine that. We are three tall-ish people, one white female usually carrying an extra- adorable little baby and two golden hued mixed males- handsome, if I might add, walking down the dirt streets of our neighborhood kissing air. We're all over the age of 7, except the extra adorable little baby who is the only one not puckered up like a grandma trying to get a goodbye smooch.)
It reminds me of learning to whistle (though I was able to accomplish that in the privacy of our family car.) The kissy noise, however, seems a lot more useful. Especially for hailing taxis, which is our main motivation for practising it. There is one grocery store we go to where taxis are not allowed in the parking area unless they are dropping off- or have been summoned. The main road is across the large lot and down a small hill. Cars driving by might not notice me if I were waving my hands and yelling. Or even if I were waving my hands, yelling and jumping in the air.
The security guards usually hail a taxi for shoppers who come out of the mini-mall/grocery store. They put one hand up and make that kissy noise- voila. A passing taxi hears it, turns his head, notices the hand waving, rounds the turn in the road and drives up the hill to meet us. Needless to say, we're always impressed.
As I mentioned earlier, the same noise is used to get someone's attention- street vendors for instance. If you are passing in a car and want to purchase something from someone who has already gone by just stick your head out and kiss. Or, if someone happens to be on the opposite side of a 4 lane highway, just stick your head out, kiss and they will risk life and limb as they cross the street Frogger style to get you that thing you wanted to buy. Cold drink, single serving bag of water, set of dish towels, newspaper. The kissy noise is universal and therefore all vendors will respond to the same sound. Of course, the downside is you might attract more than 1 vendor, resulting in extra pressure to buy.
The upside is that if the intended does not happen to respond, or your kissy noise is on low that particular day, you will have attracted the attention of several other people on the street who will happily jump in and make their own, stronger kissy noise in order to attract the attention of the person you were trying to lure into your world. And we're not even in Paris. Actually, I've never been to Paris but random people puckering up on the street fits in with all those Parisian cliches about love in the air.
I've been trying to observe closely the shape of the mouth of successful puckerers. The boys and I are missing volume. We pucker without force. Observing closley hasn't revealed any secrets. I wonder if it's one of those lifelong things. Do we have to have been puckering since infancy in order to achieve full effect? Or can we learn to pucker?
For now, our competitions about who can hail a taxi the fastest and from farthest away are limited to hand motions, which, while nowhere near as complex as Kinshasa taxi codes, do involve some finesse. We also award extra points for the subtle or secret taxi hail (successfully getting a taxi using only your pinky finger for example.) But the race is on to become the loudest kisser.
I'm closing on that note because I know you have been holding in your urge to try it out. So go ahead, hop into the bathroom, pucker up to the mirror and find out how loud of a kisser you can be.
DISCLAIMER: I amnot exactly sure that the kissy noise translates the same on all continents so use in public at your own risk. You might find yourself attracting more than a taxi.
7.6.15
What to do when you're the insult in the room
The mirror needs a good washing. This is usually one of my first thoughts upon entering the dance studio. I sit in my usual spot just near the door on the left and begin stretching. I am normally a mirror avoider- a behavior I am working at changing in an attempt to increase my presence- but the studio is dark and small light filtering in through the windows highlights the smudges covering the mirror. I fight an urge to rub it clean with my pagne.
I am always the first person there, followed by the musicians. Finally, the teacher and other students wander in and eventually we begin the class. There is a new group of dancers and drummers who have arrived from somewhere outside the capital. I still haven't gotten the basics on from where or how people get added to the school but the process seems to be in full effect.
I'd had an informal Q&A session with one of the managers about the children. There are a billion children roaming around the grounds. Some of them are the children of the grown dancers/drummers but others have been presented by their families or other person to live and study at the school. Long ago "the state" used to provide funding for the cultural edification of Ivorians but that has since dried up, another result of the conflicts. They are not taking new recruits, prefering to get this generation steadily on its way first.
But the older people, they offer an exchange. They work in the school's dance company and perform frequently around the city. They give the classes and generally bring up the youth in a world of music, dance and art. I fall in love every time I think of it. Their day is scheduled with classes twice in the morning and twice after the midday meal. Saturdays are also filled with rehearsals. I'm not sure how many choose to spend their time off, but there are painters and costume designers and probably lots of resting to be done.
When you walk into the school, there is a large parking area covered in grass and pebbles. To the right, construction has begun on an outdoor ampitheater, though how long ago it began and if it will ever be finished is anyone's guess. I have yet to see any work actually taking place. To the left and across a small field are a series of round huts with conical thatched roofs that reach into the sky. There is a long cement building with a porch over there as well and I guess it serves as dormitory housing for the younger students. Clothes constantly hang on bushes and lines in attempt to dry them (surely impossible in this rainy season when, even though the skies may be dry, the air is so heavy with mist that the flowers hold huge drops of dew who refuse to evaporate.)
The school itself greets you head on and is a large building with high ceilings and long hallways. There are a number of studios inside and secret doors I've never been past. The huge doors are always open and the hallways form a cross, allowing for a soothing breeze to be constantly passing through. It has certainly seen better days and I can only imagine the responsibility of caring for such a large building. I spend the first ten minutes of my arrival waiting in the hallway, sitting in a plastic chair being overwhelemed by the vastness of the place.
Various people can be found, watching a small tv set in an alcove, playing a game of dam on a checkerboard placed atop their knees, streetstyle or just walking through on their way to someplace else. The front porch area is littered with flip flops in all sizes and a random school bag or sweater can be found laying against the wall here and there. I enjoy the cozy comfort despite the reaching ceilings and dim hallways.
On this Saturday I am the only paying adult. There are three young girls who've come from outside and then the smattering of students who live at the school. We are doing a new rhythm (for me) though, as usual, I feel a sense of deja vu with the dance steps. Sometimes I will get the hang of one particularly well as I've performed it, or something similar, before. It's like meeting an old friend when that happens and I especially enjoy the ability to lose myself in greeting the movement. There is nothing quite like the euphoria of dance step and drum beat synchronising. It is similar to the satisfaction of one color juxtaposed pleasingly against its compliment or the sensuous curve of a line made in perfection. It's the hook that brings you back time and again- searching, hoping, craving that moment when creativity and skill collide in a frenzy of energy and emotion.
Several of the movements have brought me to this place today. Others have left me crinkling up my nose (that must be where Mbalia gets her cute smile from....though on me I am sure it is less enchanting) wondering why I can't get my feet to move in time to the music. After a few turns across the floor, the instructor calls us to spread out so we can perfect the steps in front of the mirror. I'm not the only one struggling, though the steps I need to work on are in direct contrast to the ones perplexing the Ivorian students.
We go through the dance several times before she admonishes one of the younger dancers. "Even the white has gotten it better than you and you are not ashamed," she says. She's using me as the insult and, contrary to the title of this post, I'm not sure what to do or how to take it. I want to let her know it is quite possible I have been dancing longer than he has been walking (the boy might be 15, then again he might be 20. Age is so impossible for me to discern among dancers.) I don't think that will help soften the blow to him or me and so I say nothing. There is nothing to say. We're the victim of skin color and cliches. White people can't dance and Africans can.
I mention my horror to Mohamed later on as we were in the taxi on the way to our cinema evening out. He recalls similar experiences from school. "Sometimes, if I get an answer right and one of the other students in class get it wrong, the teacher will try to shame him by saying 'Even the white boy can do this. But you? You can't?'"
We shared reactions of puzzlement about how best to handle this and why it even had to come up. Neither of us reached a conclusion, but at least we could laugh at ourselves. Perhaps that's the answer to the title. When you're the insult in the room, there is nothing to do but grin and bear it. And keep dancing.
I am always the first person there, followed by the musicians. Finally, the teacher and other students wander in and eventually we begin the class. There is a new group of dancers and drummers who have arrived from somewhere outside the capital. I still haven't gotten the basics on from where or how people get added to the school but the process seems to be in full effect.
I'd had an informal Q&A session with one of the managers about the children. There are a billion children roaming around the grounds. Some of them are the children of the grown dancers/drummers but others have been presented by their families or other person to live and study at the school. Long ago "the state" used to provide funding for the cultural edification of Ivorians but that has since dried up, another result of the conflicts. They are not taking new recruits, prefering to get this generation steadily on its way first.
But the older people, they offer an exchange. They work in the school's dance company and perform frequently around the city. They give the classes and generally bring up the youth in a world of music, dance and art. I fall in love every time I think of it. Their day is scheduled with classes twice in the morning and twice after the midday meal. Saturdays are also filled with rehearsals. I'm not sure how many choose to spend their time off, but there are painters and costume designers and probably lots of resting to be done.
When you walk into the school, there is a large parking area covered in grass and pebbles. To the right, construction has begun on an outdoor ampitheater, though how long ago it began and if it will ever be finished is anyone's guess. I have yet to see any work actually taking place. To the left and across a small field are a series of round huts with conical thatched roofs that reach into the sky. There is a long cement building with a porch over there as well and I guess it serves as dormitory housing for the younger students. Clothes constantly hang on bushes and lines in attempt to dry them (surely impossible in this rainy season when, even though the skies may be dry, the air is so heavy with mist that the flowers hold huge drops of dew who refuse to evaporate.)
The school itself greets you head on and is a large building with high ceilings and long hallways. There are a number of studios inside and secret doors I've never been past. The huge doors are always open and the hallways form a cross, allowing for a soothing breeze to be constantly passing through. It has certainly seen better days and I can only imagine the responsibility of caring for such a large building. I spend the first ten minutes of my arrival waiting in the hallway, sitting in a plastic chair being overwhelemed by the vastness of the place.
Various people can be found, watching a small tv set in an alcove, playing a game of dam on a checkerboard placed atop their knees, streetstyle or just walking through on their way to someplace else. The front porch area is littered with flip flops in all sizes and a random school bag or sweater can be found laying against the wall here and there. I enjoy the cozy comfort despite the reaching ceilings and dim hallways.
On this Saturday I am the only paying adult. There are three young girls who've come from outside and then the smattering of students who live at the school. We are doing a new rhythm (for me) though, as usual, I feel a sense of deja vu with the dance steps. Sometimes I will get the hang of one particularly well as I've performed it, or something similar, before. It's like meeting an old friend when that happens and I especially enjoy the ability to lose myself in greeting the movement. There is nothing quite like the euphoria of dance step and drum beat synchronising. It is similar to the satisfaction of one color juxtaposed pleasingly against its compliment or the sensuous curve of a line made in perfection. It's the hook that brings you back time and again- searching, hoping, craving that moment when creativity and skill collide in a frenzy of energy and emotion.
Several of the movements have brought me to this place today. Others have left me crinkling up my nose (that must be where Mbalia gets her cute smile from....though on me I am sure it is less enchanting) wondering why I can't get my feet to move in time to the music. After a few turns across the floor, the instructor calls us to spread out so we can perfect the steps in front of the mirror. I'm not the only one struggling, though the steps I need to work on are in direct contrast to the ones perplexing the Ivorian students.
We go through the dance several times before she admonishes one of the younger dancers. "Even the white has gotten it better than you and you are not ashamed," she says. She's using me as the insult and, contrary to the title of this post, I'm not sure what to do or how to take it. I want to let her know it is quite possible I have been dancing longer than he has been walking (the boy might be 15, then again he might be 20. Age is so impossible for me to discern among dancers.) I don't think that will help soften the blow to him or me and so I say nothing. There is nothing to say. We're the victim of skin color and cliches. White people can't dance and Africans can.
I mention my horror to Mohamed later on as we were in the taxi on the way to our cinema evening out. He recalls similar experiences from school. "Sometimes, if I get an answer right and one of the other students in class get it wrong, the teacher will try to shame him by saying 'Even the white boy can do this. But you? You can't?'"
We shared reactions of puzzlement about how best to handle this and why it even had to come up. Neither of us reached a conclusion, but at least we could laugh at ourselves. Perhaps that's the answer to the title. When you're the insult in the room, there is nothing to do but grin and bear it. And keep dancing.
6.6.15
Abidjan cinema
Under construction. That pretty much sums up our trip to Primavera mall/cinema to take in a Saturday night flick. I was truly wishing for a camera to snap a surreal shot of the scene. Wires hung from the ceiling, wooden boards served as random crossings from one flaked floor covering to the next and storefronts were alternately boarded up or lit up as work ensued. The stores that were still open hosted employees in various states of boredom- resting their head on ther hands, engaging in small talk with a coworker or just plain sleeping.
Entrances to the mall were surrounded by layers of steel risers and plywood borders. I felt a need to look up and make sure nothing was dropping as we skirted the sidewalks amidst hammers and clangs and various noises of men working. I was reminded of an age old comment that one of my coworkers had upon entering my car from back in my waitressing days. Actually, she was the floor manager with a China doll persona, appearing in equal degrees perfectly made up and potentially about to fall to pieces. My car- one passed along to me for free- had the feel of a tin toy. The dashboard was spilling wires and the radio was connected through circuitous routes. The door panels were open revealing iron levers and connecting arms- a behind the scenes view on the mechanics of a car that would excite any 10 year old. On this rare occasion, my manager was in need of a ride home and I'd offered her one before considering the clash of my nuts and bolts car with her delicate linen wrap. She gingerly opened the door clearly concerned that it might fall off in her hands and poked her head in with a small smile. "It looks like the inside of a radio in here."
That was my exact thought as I gazed out across the destruction, I mean construction. Iron bars were visible in the ceiling. Wires hung down as well as large pieces of....ceiling support matter? I felt an urge to ask the boys if they had their helmets on. Because we were definitely entrenched in a Work Zone.
Such a thing would never exist in the US, I feel certain. A mall under this amount of construction would surely be closed. I think. I feel far enough removed from the US that I am not actually sure anymore. We did find a small cafe to have dinner in. It was initially empty, which gave me pause about the quality of food we could expect, but during the course of our meal place began to fill up. I attributed it to our presence and figured they should give us a discount for attracting such a prominent dinner crowd.
The boys enjoyed their hamburger, both taking off the fried egg to eat on the side. Mbalia and I shared a fancy fruit cup. An errant taxi outside provided brief entertainment by knocking over an orange iron signpost announcing the worksite. From inside the cafe, we watched people in the mall picking up their dry cleaning (pressing is a super huge industry in Africa I noticed. Lots of dry cleaning going on.) Small families passed with their purchases and even the occasional group of wandering teenagers typical to any mall experience.
And the film? Some action movie with no more merit than being entertaining (a small commentary on the overuse of electronic devices and the tendancy for mankind to serve more as a virus eating away at planet earth betwixt the gore
and violence.)
The cinema was fairly empty, save for a group of teenage boys- maybe 5 or so- in the audience. They were kind of loud during the low moments- especially hard for me, trying to concentrate on the dialogue, which I could barely hear over their foibles. At one moment we were disturbed by one young guy looking for his shoe (surely his friends had thrown it though he managed a polite, pardonne moi, je cherche mon chausseur as if it were the most common thing in the world, to have misplaced his shoe in an empty theater.) Gone were the ushers on patrol that I remember from my youth, scouring the aisles with penlights just hoping to catch a foot, or even a knee, hoisted casually and comfortably on a chairback.
Once the action got underway, the boys were all in tune. They responded with claps and cheers to the final scenes with an enthusiasm that would have made the directors glow with pride.
Mbalia was free to gurgle and coo and make her laughing sounds (though I havent't any idea what she was laughing at, the mysterious joy of life I suppose. A couple of times I could tell she was responding to the catcalls of our fellow viewers- laughing in just the way they laughed.) She was shielded from the movie by ample leg room, which is where she hung out, not bothered at all by the dark. Her brothers spread out and found seats that pleased them where they could put their feet up or spread out across two or three chairs in an attempt to make themselves at home.
In all, it was a satisfying evening, though I wonder how the cinemas stay open. 7 paying customers on a Saturday night. There are 3 cinemas in Abidjan (that I know of, one- a 3-D cinema newly opened) and at this rate it appears impossible to make a profit.
As we left, all was deserted (though I could practically use that same sentence to describe our arrival.) We made our way towards the exit that we thought would lead to the quickest taxi find only to discover fire extinguishers dotting the corridor. A glance ahead confirmed a small crowd holding scarves and hands to faces and a billow of smoke. The burning smell- that of wires or electric- that I thought I had noticed earlier had erupted into a small fire. I heard people saying, "It's getting hot" and the boys heard someone remarking how he'd plugged something in only to have it erupt.
I thought the movie had ended with perfect timing and tried not to consider what a greater fire would have resulted in. Surely someone would have come to alert us. Right?
We took an alternate exit out and walked around the mall on the outside. Rain was just beginning to fall and we found a taxi fast enough. Disaster averted, between the rain and the near fire, we had a good family night in an empty theater with a mediocre film playing at high volume and only the occasional interruption. Can't ask for more than that.
Entrances to the mall were surrounded by layers of steel risers and plywood borders. I felt a need to look up and make sure nothing was dropping as we skirted the sidewalks amidst hammers and clangs and various noises of men working. I was reminded of an age old comment that one of my coworkers had upon entering my car from back in my waitressing days. Actually, she was the floor manager with a China doll persona, appearing in equal degrees perfectly made up and potentially about to fall to pieces. My car- one passed along to me for free- had the feel of a tin toy. The dashboard was spilling wires and the radio was connected through circuitous routes. The door panels were open revealing iron levers and connecting arms- a behind the scenes view on the mechanics of a car that would excite any 10 year old. On this rare occasion, my manager was in need of a ride home and I'd offered her one before considering the clash of my nuts and bolts car with her delicate linen wrap. She gingerly opened the door clearly concerned that it might fall off in her hands and poked her head in with a small smile. "It looks like the inside of a radio in here."
That was my exact thought as I gazed out across the destruction, I mean construction. Iron bars were visible in the ceiling. Wires hung down as well as large pieces of....ceiling support matter? I felt an urge to ask the boys if they had their helmets on. Because we were definitely entrenched in a Work Zone.
Such a thing would never exist in the US, I feel certain. A mall under this amount of construction would surely be closed. I think. I feel far enough removed from the US that I am not actually sure anymore. We did find a small cafe to have dinner in. It was initially empty, which gave me pause about the quality of food we could expect, but during the course of our meal place began to fill up. I attributed it to our presence and figured they should give us a discount for attracting such a prominent dinner crowd.
The boys enjoyed their hamburger, both taking off the fried egg to eat on the side. Mbalia and I shared a fancy fruit cup. An errant taxi outside provided brief entertainment by knocking over an orange iron signpost announcing the worksite. From inside the cafe, we watched people in the mall picking up their dry cleaning (pressing is a super huge industry in Africa I noticed. Lots of dry cleaning going on.) Small families passed with their purchases and even the occasional group of wandering teenagers typical to any mall experience.
And the film? Some action movie with no more merit than being entertaining (a small commentary on the overuse of electronic devices and the tendancy for mankind to serve more as a virus eating away at planet earth betwixt the gore
and violence.)The cinema was fairly empty, save for a group of teenage boys- maybe 5 or so- in the audience. They were kind of loud during the low moments- especially hard for me, trying to concentrate on the dialogue, which I could barely hear over their foibles. At one moment we were disturbed by one young guy looking for his shoe (surely his friends had thrown it though he managed a polite, pardonne moi, je cherche mon chausseur as if it were the most common thing in the world, to have misplaced his shoe in an empty theater.) Gone were the ushers on patrol that I remember from my youth, scouring the aisles with penlights just hoping to catch a foot, or even a knee, hoisted casually and comfortably on a chairback.
Once the action got underway, the boys were all in tune. They responded with claps and cheers to the final scenes with an enthusiasm that would have made the directors glow with pride.
Mbalia was free to gurgle and coo and make her laughing sounds (though I havent't any idea what she was laughing at, the mysterious joy of life I suppose. A couple of times I could tell she was responding to the catcalls of our fellow viewers- laughing in just the way they laughed.) She was shielded from the movie by ample leg room, which is where she hung out, not bothered at all by the dark. Her brothers spread out and found seats that pleased them where they could put their feet up or spread out across two or three chairs in an attempt to make themselves at home.
In all, it was a satisfying evening, though I wonder how the cinemas stay open. 7 paying customers on a Saturday night. There are 3 cinemas in Abidjan (that I know of, one- a 3-D cinema newly opened) and at this rate it appears impossible to make a profit.
As we left, all was deserted (though I could practically use that same sentence to describe our arrival.) We made our way towards the exit that we thought would lead to the quickest taxi find only to discover fire extinguishers dotting the corridor. A glance ahead confirmed a small crowd holding scarves and hands to faces and a billow of smoke. The burning smell- that of wires or electric- that I thought I had noticed earlier had erupted into a small fire. I heard people saying, "It's getting hot" and the boys heard someone remarking how he'd plugged something in only to have it erupt.
I thought the movie had ended with perfect timing and tried not to consider what a greater fire would have resulted in. Surely someone would have come to alert us. Right?
We took an alternate exit out and walked around the mall on the outside. Rain was just beginning to fall and we found a taxi fast enough. Disaster averted, between the rain and the near fire, we had a good family night in an empty theater with a mediocre film playing at high volume and only the occasional interruption. Can't ask for more than that.
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