Lessons from the arts

I'm currently on nanny number 4, job number 3+ and salsa class number 2. I guess the theme in Abidjan is never give up. After several disappointing classes in salsa and my solo traditional classes, I put the search on for something satisfying.

There appear to be a variety of choices around the city and picking another one to try felt kind of like a random stab in the dark. I ended up at CNRTO (Centre National des Recherche sur Tradition Orale) which is a gem of a building in Cocody.

The name alone holds promise and despite my inital (unsuccessful) efforts to find out more details about the purpose of the center, a quick online search turned up this quote buried in a report from the ONU:

Cet institut dispose d’une documentation (transcription et traduction des enregistrements) sur les contes, les proverbes, la musique traditionnelle, le langage tambouriné, la parole des masques. On y trouve également des documents audiovisuels, des photos, des diaporamas, des films documentaires, des bandes magnétiques enregistrées et mises en fiches.

The 2 story building has a majestic entrance, grand columns and round staircases. The studio is upstairs and the walls are lined with doorways which open to allow the cool breezes to flow through. It's like dancing on a rooftop. A small balcony surrounds the meeting area and a veranda leads off to the front, creating another small space where dancers can meet, try out steps or just observe the class. 

There were about 20 people in attendance, and, remarkably, enough guys to create 10 equal couples. We changed partners often which gave me the experience of dancing with someone other than my love (something I really haven't done much of in the world of salsa.) 

The class was no beginner class and I was happily surprised to see I kept up with the constant addition of steps. I believe in dancing with as many different teachers as possible in order to maximize one's experience. However, my past experience with salsa has been limited to one teacher and so I've often wondered if I could really dance. Turns out I can. Well enough, anyway. To be certain, I am no professional but apparently my base is solid. 

Everything dance reminds me of Christian and because of that I found the class lacking that magnetic energy and draw he seems to effortlessly exude. In reality, the class was great. The last 10 minutes or so were given over to dancing 'comme tu veux' and this gave me a chance to do some freestyle- well, as the woman it gave me a chance to see if I could follow the lead. I do have a tendancy to lean towards control and in salsa, it just doesn't happen that way. I am forever working up to dancing impromptu and this class seems like it will give me a chance to get comfortable enough to go out for a dance evening. (Oh my childhood issues that get in the way of fun. Do we ever get over them?)

I am always amazed at the power of physical memory and sure enough, a few of the leads had me anticipating a movement that wasn't forthcoming. I've got most of Christian's routines down but in salsa dance, you follow the male (have I mentioned that? It's definitely something I am working on)  and so in a few cases my follow through was not quite what it was meant to be. In one horrifying moment, I found myself taking the lead and kind of forcing the hand of my partner, which we laughed about and I apologized profusely for. It's all in good fun, however and he wasn't as mortified as I. 

There are always good lessons to be learned in the world of art. My dance and music classes continue to provide metaphors for skills I could benefit from in my day to day. Trusting others to take the lead at times is one of them. On a contrary note, I have been taking drum classes- the doundoun- which serves as the base in African dance and drum. I have been in the middle of more than one class wondering how it is I came to this particular instrument. Really I've been infatuated with drumming since I was ten, that part is no surprise.The surprise is that in playing this instrument, one must maintain a steady, dependable tempo for the duration of the song. I am usually good for the first few minutes but inevitably when the djembe gets going I am distracted and falter. Another metaphor for life.

How often do the rhythms and dreams and actions of others distract me from my own path? I have been thinking lately that life in Abidjan is ok, it's good enough. It could be enjoyable in that calm and steadying way of family life and weekend barbecues. But I have never been really good at calm and steadying. I know passion and upheaval, change and turbulence. Longing and unfulfilled desire. Maybe it's time to change the story. Words from a beloved, and newly reunited, relative coming back to impact my current situation.

Although extenuating circumstances have taken the choice out of my decision to stay in Abidjan, I am thrilled to be in a place that honors the arts. Just when I am thinking it might be the French influence, I remember Nabih's history book and its outline of government in the village. One diagram showed the griot as having a prominent place just below the chief. To see the keeper of stories and histories and tradition given such an important position is comforting. Arts are healing. They are neccessary to the vibrancy and continued health of a people. 

It seems Abidjan has more than one lesson to offer and I, ever the willing student, am ready to learn.

A little bit of Paradisia

We've been in Abidjan for just over a year and I continue to reflect on reasons why we moved here. While still not convinced it was the right move, I have accepted it as the decision I made. I am certain if I had stayed on Kinshasa I would be wondering why I didn't just have the courage to pick up and start again. Such is the way of decisions- always looking greener on the other side, even if it is the side you've already been to.

There is plenty to be grateful for (consistent electricty and running water top among them) and added entertainment was one of reasons we counted for taking the plunge. Abidjan seemed to offer a bit more in the way of spending leisure family time and so on Sunday  we took advantage and headed out to Paradisia in M'badon, which is sort of just up the road from us (a country road.)

The name alone suggests there will be a lot to live up to, but it is helpful to remember in Africa all that's needed for a good time is a party dress and some loud music. We weren't disappointed in that respect. Mbalia got her dance on to latest hip hop tunes sounding from the speakers. (There's always a little question about the appropriateness of the music, in this case, blaring f-bombs rang out in stark contrast to the innocent looking happy birthday balloons in pastel colors.)

A spacious pavillion for all your party needs

We arrived early by Abidjan standards and the place was pretty empty. We decided to start off with the sandwich and drink that came with our ticket price. Not very exciting.

When you're ten, you try to be as
 cool as your big brother

When you're 13, you're too cool
 for photos

Mom gets one anyway

Mbalia is the only one who can
 really throw her head back and
 laugh. She always has a good time

Dancing in the sand

A nice view of the lagoon from palm shaded tables

Crackers while we wait for the food. 

The boys' take on the sandwiches.... next time try the hamburger. It could have been the early hour but my fries took so long we thought they forgot about them and so we headed off to explore the rides. (Our waitress found me later watching the boys on the teacups and let me know my food was ready.)

I love that the price seemed to equal the entertainment and nothing was too much.The rides weren't too high or too crazy. There weren't too many fried food or cotton candy stands and there weren't too many games just trying to suck the small change from your pockets. A very toned down amusement park experience. Exactly what I can handle.

Although I initially thought the boys might find it less than their speed, a ferris wheel and bumper cars hold the power to elicit a smile from anyone. And we all agreed the experience might be enhanced by the magic of a sunset. Walking around the small park, it was hard not to have memories of my own carnival experiences. Contrasting the two left me feeling grateful that this was the experience I could offer my children.

Nabih is a little nervous....

...although the ride doesn't seem too high

Dizzying fast tilting action gave Mohamed a headache

You can't help but smile watching these kids bump around.
 I wanted to take a picture of the stern look on the face of the
 guy running the ride. I can't imagine how he stops from grinning
all day. Maybe you get numb to it after the first 700 hours.

The only car left, a hot pink roadster for my guy

A rare side of  Nabih -smiling

Cute little building with kiddy rides

Our taxi had to pause for this cow crossing on the way home

Dear Reader

I've wondered long and hard about the protocol of contacting you directly, dear reader, to say I know who you are. Though it's not exactly true. I know where you are....and I know when you follow, but I don't know who you are. And what a shame, exactly, because there's been another death. Some of you are here every  day, sometimes twice a day, and some of you are just passing through. But shouldn't we know each other? In these brief times when life is precious and a mere connection is so much more than a mere connection?

These last few months there seems to be a lot of death around- not from my inner circle, but it doesn't take a close death to make one appreciate the power of mortality. I adhere to all the advice, letting those you care about know that you care and not taking the small moments for granted. But those I know don't seem to get it in quite the same way I do.

The babies in Kinshasa keep dying. He tells me as I am chopping onions and he is frying beef. "Didn't I tell you?" he asks with innocence and indifference. I knew about the first baby, the little girl I held on my lap and made googly eyes at, but I didn't know about the boy. It seems to make no difference to him or to the parents, who have that on again off again relationship. She's pregnant again and I just can't imagine the grief and the joy and the heartache.

The most recent death isn't a baby. It's an artist. A dance master who I had the great honor to know, to take class with, to be mesmerized by. An African dance master. And the problem with Africa is that life expectancy is lower and no amount of time outside Africa can erase the years growing up, when maybe nutrition was scarce and medicine hard to come by. Those years make an impact not easily undone.

I realize it all too often. The age at which people you know could suddenly drop off, in the middle of a dance class or a rehearsal, as has been the case in at least two dancers I knew, one of whom I loved.  She was a star and she passed in the way stars do- full of life and brillancy and unexpected. In the moment of her glory. Doing what she was born to do.

It worries me because my heart is wrapped up in another star, who maybe doesn't take such great care of himself and who is reaching the age statistics say is the tops for a male in Africa. I want every moment to be the most important moment- for him, for us, but he is busy chasing dreams and selling his soul for a chance at success. In my mind, he is already successful, but in the African mind, born of poverty and too little too long, no amount of success will ever be enough. He will always be reaching for stars and diamonds and far away worlds.

He's not the only one I worry about leaving too soon. It's a possibility for any one of us. Tomorrow is a gift, not a promise. I'm trying to make the most of this day, this moment, but some of you just won't cooperate. It's not my moment alone. It's our moment, together. Isn't it?

A word is a word is another word

Ousmane and I spent many a Kinshasa night laughing over words. We had a similar lexicon and it was something of a relief to me to hear he was often as perplexed as I about the way certain words were used. One of my most vivid memories involves l'histoires- a word we knew to mean stories or history. In Kinshasa, this word is also used to describe someone's things. A collection of belongings. As in, I forgot my things at your house or, the real life example, My brother went through all of my l'histoires and stole my identity card.

When I stop to think about it, I see a bit of poetry. (Life always turns poetic after reflecting long enough.) Because don't our belongings, our choice of clothes and books and random assortment of material things, don't these items tell a story about who we are? I am tickled by imagining leaving my 'stories' at your house and running back to get them, scooping up my favorite purple and white striped sweater and my worn out dance pagne and wondering what secrets they'd revealed about me as a person.

Moving to Abidjan has come with a similar need to relearn words for things I thought I already knew. Despite my frustration, I can see how this is building my vocabulary. I now know that when we stand in line waiting for the worro-worros it is called a rang. I'd initially heard this word as rond and I spent days conjuring up all the metaphors I could think of that might explain why we were callling a line a circle. Before useless thoughts of the circuitous routes of taximen and images of commuters as mice in hamster balls dutifully running the circular routines of life got the best of me, I decided there was a more direct logic in play. A little research revealed rang, a word meaning rank or standing, position. A fine and simple explanation for trying to secure the fastest route home. (I really appreciate the organized lines that obliterate the need for pushing and shoving and actually allow the possibility of small talk or sharing an umbrella with a fellow commuter. People don't jump the queue and if you're daydreaming, they'll even offer a friendly reminder that it is your turn as they point you in the right direction.)

So, vocabulary is up, friendliness is up and organization is a plus. What's the problem, right? Well, all this relearning takes time. And involves lots of confusion while it's getting sorted out. And just a hint of frustration. Or maybe more than a hint. Because while I know we are both talking about the store on the corner, I say Orca Deco and the taxi man wants to bring me to Oh'Kah De'Kah. It's like living in Boston.

The major difference being if I need something in Boston there is probably a brick and mortor to supply it. A real live store with a name and an address. While there are plenty of real live stores in Abidjan, addresses end up being a bit less certain. They involve vague references to landmarks or businesses that you may or may not have heard of. Sometimes the directions include an honest admission of brutual truth. "It's complicated to get there. I just have to show you."

I've been looking for gesso, known in Kinsahsa as veneer blanc, and some paints- acrylic preferably, gouache possibly or in reality-anything except oil. I might even consider oil if I could find cleaning material as well. I know it is all here. I know it is not shelved in the brightly lit hardware stores people keep directing me to. These stores are big and beautiful and are the dream link to the missing Home Depot ache I have been nurturing for the past 8 years. But they are not my hometown art store stocked with Reeves, Daler-Rowney or Liquitex. They have everything I need to turn my off-yellow living room walls into a cozy forest green or maybe a deep burgandy, but they do not have what I need to toughen up a piece of fabric and spill my soul in an explosion of color.

The one and only solution is to find a painter and get him or her to reveal their secrets of supply. I do actually know one painter, but I have spent months building up boundaries and setting limits to stave off his more than friendly interest. Asking him to take me to his favorite paint store will surely undo all my efforts at rebuffing him and is likely to send a confusing message.

I am frustrated that simple things need to be uncovered, that my American accent prevents me from adequately expressing myself and that my unique needs (only unique if you're not a painter) require words that keep changing. I want a bucket of gesso, some canvas and a palette of acrylics to choose from. Pictures could help but in my mind I see neat little tubes of paint, and I suspect in reality I will end up in some small, crowded magasin with barely enough room to stand inside and browse through dirty tin cans full of remixed liquids, hints of color overflowing down the sides.

In the meantime, I spend stolen moments in my back alley staring at a large concrete wall trying not to be seduced by the call of spray paint cans sitting patiently on those brightly lit and easy to get to shelves I now know are just a short taxi ride away.

Collective Monsters

I’ve been seeing monsters everywhere and it’s not just because I’ve recently finished reading The Girl In Between by Leakan Zea Kemp. That story was wonderfully odd and slightly unsettling in a way so many of the books I’ve been reading lately haven’t been.  

The monsters have been around long before I began that journey. It has to do with the construction going on everywhere. The corner of horses has been razed. Just another casualty of progress. But I have found a tragic poetry in the removal of their grazing grounds, now filled with machines, overturned dirt and cement. It’s a huge road project that is turning over all the back country lanes and transforming them into highways. It will be pretty when it is finished, in that sterile, carefully planned and organized way. They will plant trees and flowering bushes in the round-abouts and along the road edges. There will be enough green to please the eye and dull the senses, making one forget to even wonder what it looked like before, wild and untamed. Beautiful and natural.

Getting around the traffic backups as a result of the construction means taking even longer short cuts, through Akuedo- a name I love to say. Akuedo is a village by Abidjan terms and the streets there are small, barely wide enough for two cars to pass. There are no high walls hiding the houses. They have doors that open directly onto the sidewalks. The windows are covered with wooden shutters giving the place a quaint European feel.  I enjoy the disorienting aura of this small town all the while knowing it is just lying in wait, a vulnerable victim of progress that is encroaching. In a year, or maybe less, the monsters of steel and concrete will have arrived to tear down houses, enlarge roadways and build row after row of apartment buildings lacking character and history.

I am in the middle of this change and it is painful to watch. During the rains I ponder the effect of all that cement working as a barrier between earth and sky, disrupting the natural relation of water falling down and being soaked back up again. I imagine the water as a living thing (and isn’t it really?) surprised as it hits the once soft and supple terrain, shocked by hardness and forced to scatter, searching for a place of comfort, soft soil to welcome it home again.

I see these monsters cloaked in a shadowy haze, like something from a Stephen King novel and I wonder what will happen when there is no more soil left for the rain to soak into. What will happen when every inch has been broken and defeated and the world is covered in concrete? Maybe it sounds dramatic or extreme but I fear most often that no one is taking it seriously enough.

 The construction/destruction debate is not the only evidence of energy being devoured. Once the metaphor is in my mind I begin to see signs of it everywhere. I search for solace in the world of dance and when it fails me, I blame it on the monsters. I've been seeking not just to replicate what I knew in lives past but to make it better. When my day to day fails or even when I want to celebrate, I turn to dance. Making art is generally something I do alone, a private exploration of my inner emotions and reactions to the world around me- but dancing? It's something I turn to for that sense of sharing and belonging. Its a creation made in multiple and seems to be most pleasing when there is a team of people sharing energy together. And that's what the draw is- that sharing of energy in community.

The past few weeks, however, I have been the only person in my dance classes. They've morphed into private lessons. While this seems like an amazing opportunity I have come to dread the moments I am there. They are stale and stagnant, slow moving and boring. My dance classes have suddenly become incapable of sending me off into that other realm of freedom and liberty of thought and simply just being. I remain rooted in agony. It's because of the monsters. I've come to steal energy and it's not there. My dance teachers are tired and unmotivated. They know I will never dance like them and so they offer up watered down movements while they focus on easing their pains from the rehearsals and performances of the previous weeks.

I am tortured by this change because if I don't have dance to turn to then I have nothing and there must always be something. I know I am the monster that's come, not to share energy but to gnaw and gnash and gobble up all I can before making a hasty retreat back to my lair, where I will dine greedily on my treasure until it begins to wane. Only then will I venture out in search of more. The problem is the source appears to be drying up and I need to find a new well, a new village to plunder of its energy children.

Of course, in some stories, the dragon is remorseful- he doesn't want to be trapped forever stealing children and gorging until his belly is full, sleeping away weeks in a coma of digestion, rising only to be forced to steal and pillage again. He wants to be a happy dragon, living in peace with the villagers and using his fire breathing capabilities to light their cook stoves and share stone soup.

With this new metaphor in mind (not all monsters are bad) I set off for my dance class determined to reach deep inside and find some energy to share. It's been mostly successful. I am forcing myself to dance with enthusiasm and exuberance I don't really feel. I push through the awkward moments of feeling silly and frustrated by steps I cannot master. I demand repeats of what I do not know and add my own flourishes to steps I love. I try not to care that the drummers are sending out tsunami waves of energy with their rhythms and I know I can never repay them. Guilt has no place here. I dance to the best of my ability and hope they will accept it.

In the end I suppose it could be a matter of pretending until it's real, fake it until you make it. Though no amount of pretending or faking is going to save the green spaces. Maybe art is the first step to making that change, though at times it seems too small and insignificant a step. A beautiful quote from this school suggests otherwise.  

There are many practical and physical things that need to be done - but the problem is mobilizing people's will and purpose. Essentially, what needs to change is our perception of the world and our relationship with nature. A feeling of connection to the natural cycles and interdependence of the world will assist individuals to see the cycles and balances in their own life, and from there potentially move to a community and worldview. 

In essence, defeating the monsters within, our collective monsters.

The Girl in the Tower

Private tutoring jobs have been the butter on our bread this year. Without them, our weeks of suffrance would have continued long into the school year. Most of my students have flown off to Europe for their summer vacations, however,  leaving me a little stranded for the summer months. It was a lucky (or blessed) break that at just the last minute I was recommended to help a student in CE1 (the equivalent of 2nd grade) with her reading for the month of July. Her mom didn't appear to do any reflective calculating about my hourly fee and simply asked for the 'maximum of hours.'

So I have been spending my vacation learning the routes of the bakkas and the worro worros in order to get across town for the cheapest fare possible. Once I arrive deep in the middle of downtown, I walk along the narrow streets lined with small stores and tall buildings and reminisce about Manhattan.

The little girl lives on the 7th floor of a building so fancy it reminds me of a hotel. On the outside at least. Once inside, I make my way to the elevators and find the walls an ugly yellow and the elevator dim. In true Manhattan style, it doesn't seem to fit with what I imagine to be exhorborant rent fees.

The apartment hosts white walls and and a full view of the lagoon. It is majestic and I imagine watching a storm come in over the water. There is no real style in the apartment, but it is full of things. Every inch of the table is covered with dolls and accessories, small houses, brightly printed boxes, ribbons, horses. The running machine is home to more toys of imagination, horses, and a beautiful carriage fit for a snow queen.

She is an only child and when I ask her  what she will do in the afternoon she spills stories of fantasy and pretend. We write books about her neighborhood and I learn that she has two friends who live in buildings close by. They picnic at the park across the street, enjoying the swings and slide together. But mostly, she is alone - waiting to take a trip to her home in Miami where she has a pony.

We've been making "Monster Words"- a fun activity reinforcing short vowel sounds and incorporating a bit of color and changeable monster body parts. She likes this activity the most. Sometimes I ask her to draw a picture of the words that are new to her. The most interesting was a pan. I asked her what she would cook in that pan and she added a picture of eggs and bread and at the last minute she threw in some calamari. Just a typical breakfast, when she's not having her favorite pancakes.

One morning after I arrived, she told me she'd been working on something for the monsters. She brought over a long piece of cardboard filled with line after line of squiggly waves. I immediately thought of my friend on the corner, cradling her notebook, thoughtfully filling it with similar squiggles.

I had initially imagined this to be a piece about their differences, these two girls who spend so much of their time quietly alone in pretend play. I thought I would notice one with elaborate toys, fancy ribbons and boxes of crayons and markers. I imagined a contrast to the other with her chipped plastic bowls filled with mud mixtures and wooden stirring spoon.

I thought I would write more about the girl in the tower sitting on her white couch with views of the bridge stretching across the lagoon behind her while her nanny hovers close by as she finishes her breakfast. The girl who draws pictures of herself with no hands because she doesn't seem to need them much.

Then I would describe the girl on the corner whose dresses hang off her skinny frame as she eats bread for breakfast perched on the cement step outside the salon. The dirt street stretches in front of her and sometimes she is aware of the passersby and other times she is so engrossed in her play she scarcely notices. There are days when she happily has a few babies on her lap or she is clutching the hand of a smiling friend. Most often she is alone. In the evenings, she sits on a wooden bench between her mom and the man who owns the store next door. Loud music from the boutique lends a festive ambiance.

I thought I would write more about those things, but when I looked at that cardboard, filled with careful scribbles, so neat and intent and obviously taking a good chunk of her time to make, all I could see was the sameness. Two girls surrounded by adults who love them, lost in the world of childhood. Two girls with the same wistful smile as they move their toys through an imaginary scene. Two girls who lovingly care for their playthings. The girl in the tower and the girl on the corner- two girls who take their pretending seriously.

The Girl on the Corner

When I was in high school I opted for Spanish. I tried to carefully weigh my decision based on a lot of important factors such as where I wanted to travel and what would be most useful in life after high school. In reality, I ended up choosing Spanish because I didn't want to say 'eau' and all those other euh words that French is full of. I didn't feel I could take it seriously and was just a tad embarrassed trying to moan out those sounds.

By college I was far enough along to take a Spanish literature class, which was really a class about literature, in Spanish. It's one of those experiences that I can't quite believe was actually me when I think back on it. We read novels in Spanish, wrote essays and term papers in Spanish and watched telenovelas for our conversation group after class. (Mohamed is hilariously addicted to telenovelas- which results in heated discussions over who gets to pick the TV channel that sound like this: Oh it's time. I need to watch Corps du Desire - Body of Desire- and then Nabih, poor Nabih who just wants to catch up on the latest episode of his favorite manga cartoon responds emphatically, But you can watch Corps du Desire anytime, all night, at midnight even. We always have to watch Corps du Desire.There is a lot of serious pleading and crazy deal making before Nabih concedes. I know I digress but my 13 year old is hopelessly addicted to Spanish soap operas translated in French and I can't miss an opportunity to sneak that into the conversation- any conversation from now until he's at least 35.)

I've been thinking about my past success with Spanish in the face of my current failures in French. The manger at the dance studio was having trouble understanding me- because of your accent, he said. And I know I pronounce all my un's more like the Spanish uno without the o rather than the uhn it's supposed to be. I am trying to correct this. I've been running into these problems for the past year and I know it is time to stop writing about it and take action.

There is a little girl on the corner who is motivating me, though she might not know it. I pass her several times a day and she was the subject of one of my early posts about Abidjan. She wears her hair in the short, close cut style that is popular here. Her tall, thin body is often curled up over top a pretend cookstove or a series of mixing bowls. She is always engaged in serious play. Pretending to bake, to sell, to take care of babies. Most often, I see her pretending to write. She has a little notebook and she hunkers over it moving her blue pen as if she is writing the secrets of the universe. I can see it is important work.

I have often wondered if she goes to school- it seems impossible with all of the random hours I see her perched outside her mother's hair salon. I've never seen her in a school uniform. There is always the possibility she has a tutor come to the house, a popular alternative or addition to school studies. But on the few occasions I have glanced over her shoulder to sneak a peek at her diary, I see it is filled with wavy scribbles. They are in neat rows filling line after line on the page. But it is clear she cannot write.

I have run into a few other cases of women in my neighborhood who cannot read or write. It doesn't stop them from doing business or making calculations. In one instance, I even received a text from one of them- leading me to believe, erroneously, that she was literate. It was only after she signed her name in front of me on a receipt- Clbaly- coulibaly, all the major consonant sounds, minus most of the vowels- that I realized the truth. Her writing was slow, careful and awkward. I'm certain she can't write much more than her name.

I think about this often- mostly when I am making lists. I make endless lists, chalking my faulty memory up to pregnancy brain (after 5 kids it's never really gotten back to 'normal'- of course, normal was back in the 19's- to use Mohamed's favorite term for anything occuring pre-2000- so I can't really claim it as mine anymore.) It could also be due to my teacher mind constantly multi-tasking or my day dreaming mind constantly whisking me away to islands filled with cool breezes and danceable rhythms. Or maybe it is just that I am that person- the one who makes list for the mere satisfaction of crossing things off, and feeling accomplished.

But I seriously need my lists. Sometimes just writing something down will help commit it to memory- I've always been that kind of learner. Often, however, when I consult my list, I find a surprise item there that I would have completely forgotten, again, if I hadn't written it down. I like lists for planning and budgeting and dreaming. When I contemplate trying to organize, prioritize and accomplish all the small details of my life without a piece of paper (or the memo app on my ancient un-smart phone) I get a little lightheaded.

And so I have been sympathizing with the women and the girls in my neighborhood who can't read or write fluently (or even at all.) --I sympathize with women all over the globe who are illiterate but that is a bit overwhelming for me. Taking things in small portions I start to consider what I can do to be part of the solution at least for those in my small corner of the world.

I am a teacher. This is a problem I can do something about, I think to myself, imagining community night classes. But then I remember that I can barely read French myself and am certainly not qualified to teach it. The women might derive some pleasure from learning English, but what they really need to be connected to the news and events in their country is French.

I am a little dejected. Until I remember a conversation with an Ivoiran teacher of English at my school. I'd asked him how he came to be an English teacher and he shared his story. Actually, he told me it had always been his dream, not just to speak English but to teach it. He spent 7 years in university getting his teaching degree. I mentioned my little problem with him and confided that I wasn't sure how I could be of help in the way that I wanted to. Ever in the search to feel useful.

He had previously spoken to me about a place in Youpougon where he works, teaching English to adults. They were looking for a native speaker and he wondered if I might be interested. He mentioned that this place could also help me with my French.

While I'd rather be learning Lingala or even Wolof, which seems pretty useful here in Abidjan, I guess it is time to do something concrete- that could be helpful to others. (A recent small accident with Nabih has proven to me, once again, that I am not really a blood and bandage kind of person so nursing or any kind of first aid, things that seem to be truly helpful, are probably out for me in terms of second careers or volunteer spots.)

It seems time to close these endless posts about French and just resolve the matter already. In the meantime, I will continue to pass the girl on the corner, scribbling meaningful thoughts into her notebook and try to remember there is more than one way to be useful.

Interlude

Since I am officially on vacation I will probably have a lot of time to write. I've been thinking about all the things worth mentioning and a few that are not. I've been determining how to express clarity and purpose and most of all interest.

I am hyper aware that, having been in Abidjan for a year now, most of my posts have been all about me, me and more me. I am not sure if I have captured the spirit of life in Ivory Coast. I am pretty sure I haven't yet discovered the spirit in order to accurately share it with you, but surely I could have done a better job at points.

The thing is, writing is hard. I agonize over posts and struggle with capturing my exact sentiments about a situation or an observation. It can be a painful process- all the more so as it ends up like a Thanksgiving meal- hours and hours to create and mere seconds to devour. Kind of like that film I shared from my class.

We spent months creating the story line, plot interests and resolution. Even more time went into designing the background and adding characters. The final pieces, thinking about how movement would occur and making characters to fit, nearly derailed us. Only one or two scenes actually acheived this. I struggled to remain firm in my conviction that it should be 100% student work and ideas as I watched the weeks pass without much progress happening. In the end, I am the one who chose and added the sound effects. We'd run out of time. Just before the final presentation to students, one boy raised his hand to ask how many hours our film was. Hours? I laughed and reminded him of the warning  I'd given them all in the beginning. We would put in months of work and most likely end up with a film under 5 minutes. In the end our production was less than 2 minutes.

That is how writing a blog post can feel. Agonizing, full of lost direction, changes and stalled creativity. Hours of searching for the right links, the perfect photos (or even mediocre photos,) an interesting beginning and a full closure. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it's a miss. But it always takes less time to read and appears deceptively more simple than it really is. The results not guaranteed to be satisfying.

With 'summer' on my horizon however, it's certain that one of my goals is to write daily. Hopefully that means a more diverse view of what life is like here- and maybe some of those words will hit close to home, proving that life is life across the globe and as humans we share the essentials. (Unless my point is actually that life is life across the globe and humans are beautifully different. You see how hard this is?)

I tend to read a lot in my spare time as well and lately this means a lot of bad crime stories. I've been evaluating these books on writing and content (and thoroughness of diner scenes- American novels tend to include a lot of coffee drinking. Which always makes me thirsty for a cup, or 7.) In the end, I am realizing, whatever the writing quality, what I have just read represents someone's time and effort and perseverance. It's not easy to commit a couple thousand words to print in a coherent manner. I imagine that to be the base. Fluidity and beauty of language are the struggling points that come after, extending the process for years.  Years? Agggh.

While I miss reading beautiful written novels that grapple with the human condition, one thing I have gained from these stories is completeness. They've done it. They've written a book from beginning to end. And it's out there for others to read- strangers like myself. I am starting to be convinced if they can do it- I can too. Another summer goal. Get those somewhat hazy and slightly too obscure ideas for my novels firmly committed to paper. My own NaNoWriMo. (I guess in my case it would be InNoWriMo- Independent novel writing month, in July as opposed to November. Anyone want to join in...? Options for changing the acronym are endless.....PaNoWriMo for paired novel writing month....TeNoWriMo for team novel writing month....you get the idea.)

"Good enough to discuss" is one tip I learned when preparing for teaching team meetings. Never go in cold but go in with a draft of something that teams could discuss, edit, and perfect. I imagine writing a book is similar in that you must first get those ideas down on paper- in a form that is at least good enough to revisit. So, while I will be struggling with how to get the flavor of life in one small African town accurately expressed here for your reading pleasure, I hope to also be undertaking another kind of struggle- getting my inside words outside. (Yes, I've been rereading myself - so interesting to see how far I have travelled, or have not travelled as the case may sometimes be.)

This post about our first arrival in Congo elicited some bittersweet laughter. I distincly remember our collective terror and uncertainty at finding ourselves suddenly immersed in the midnight of a new country, a new continent, a new culture. When I shared the moment with Mohamed (- you patted Nabih's back and told him it was ok, we would go back to America in the morning.-) we shared a chuckle, and the realization that there isn't really any other place we'd rather be.

I am super grateful for our life in Africa and all the holes it's filled. I guess it is time to take some of this journey and make some kind of beautiful mess of it on paper. 

Parting advice

It is July 3rd and I am still in school. This last week has felt like some bizarre twist of Groundhog's Day. Rather than reliving the same day over and over, it has felt like the last few weeks of school are  just going to continue, on and on until we skip right over summer.

All around us other schools have long since closed, other families have jetted off to visit their European homes and other children have settled into lazy vacation routines. Not us. We've been braving the rain and flooded streets. We've been getting up early and trudging in with smiles on. We're all a little bit dazed and delerious, like survivors of a nuclear fall out. We look at each other with gazes that seem to ask, You mean we are still here? What are we doing here? How will we carry on without the others?

The day has finally arrived, however. The last day. After this day we will join our comrades who snuggle in warm blankets in the morning, cozy back into couch seats in the afternoon and stay up too late at night all in the name of vacation.

I have been listening to the parting advice, similar to the advice given before those beloved 2 week vacations well placed through out the year. My co teacher tells the students to take time off. To spend at least 10 days without revising, calculating, or studying. Ten days without working. "If you want your brain to rest, you really must take at least 10 days," he says. I wonder if his numbers are scientific, or 'scientific' like mine. The students begin talking about how long their trips will be and where they are going. He tells some of them they should pack some materials- "21 days is too long. You can take some books," he tells a boy who is heading off for a few weeks in New York.

The message strikes me as so different in tone from the "Read, read, read!" messages of American schools. I agree with both, if that's even possible. I agree that kids should take some time off, but in my mind I am thinking it should be the same way we encourage adults to take time off- and it includes electronics. Power down the devices and enjoy life. (Which is not to say there isn't a place for some reading for pleasure.)

 My director has been going out of his way to get me to stay. I appreciate his attempts to improve my contract here and was actually feeling elated yesterday when I thought there was a real possibility of staying. My exuberance so surpassed the dull excitement I felt after signing on at the American school that I had to wonder what it was all about. The pursuit of dreams.

Given equal contract terms, remaining at the French school would allow me to pursue some of my passions without taking away from family time. The hours and expectations allow for there to be more to life than just working and I have really come to value that time. Teaching could be more of a safety net while I try to launch myself in a new direction. And I have kind of come to embrace the differences.

But that was yesterday. Today I am sensing that our future path lies at the American school and I will welcome that sense of returning home and being ensconced in all things familiar. But I am holding on to the parting advice. To take life seriously. To make friends faster and eat lunch slower. To power down the devices and rest my brain. To enjoy vacation.

The battle

Ridiculous things are happening all around me and I don't even have a camera to capture them. I did manage to use my phone to snap these photos of road repair. It's been raining in Abidjan- days and nights filled with a steady stream falling from the sky. Roads become flooded, rivers wash away dirt creating small lakes and jagged trenches wide enough to hold a fat cow.

Walking to school turns us into frogs hopping from one rock colored lily pad to the next. Sometimes nature takes over, leaving us no option except to plunge our feet daringly into the cold, murky water. The effects of such concentrated and prolonged rain are roads that have been reshaped into wavy bands, bottoming out taxis and making even pedestrians seasick.

The solution: piles of rubble filled with cinder block, old tiles, broken chunks of cement and a horde of other unrecognizable material. A small group of men pass the night sorting and dispersing the pile, trying to make it passable for cars. It seems an impossible task but after a few days, some parts have been trod over with enough weight and frequency to even it all back to dirt again. There remain plenty of areas where the rubble refuses to break. Rough corners of cement blocks rise from the roadway, daring tires to pass over, their height taunting the underbellies of the mechanical beasts.

There is a battle going on, between road and man and machine and weather. It's not certain which, if any, alliances have been made or who will come out victorious. The art is clearly in the struggle each puts forth to overcome the other.

The first of a collection of odd rubble piles I passed on my way
out of the neighborhood one morning

Each pile covers a deep, rolling wave in the earth

I wonder where it comes from, who arranged
for it  to be dropped off, and did they
 actually pay for this?

I think the blocks appear too huge to actually help.
 But I am wrong. A group of men sort and spread these
 piles until you can actually drive over them. Mostly.

 Though foolish man appears to be losing here- using the repeated weight of his 2 ton machines, he just might be able to crush these cement blocks back into the dust from which they were made. A clever shop owner also managed to eke out a thin mosaic walkway with discarded tile pieces. Maybe man is winning after all.....at least until the next wave of water washes it all away.