Cleaning rice

The first time I went to Guinee I found myself in a group of a women, preparing a meal in the outdoor kitchen. We were across the dirt road from the main house, sitting outside a half- built, cement construction. French was still mostly a foreign language and the women's Soussou pure magic.

Someone handed me a woven sieve filled with rice. She picked out a stone and ceremoniously tossed it on the ground. The meaning was clear. They left me alone with my job and busied themselves with the numerous other components of preparing dinner for the troupe.

I sat there, basking in their small talk, suspecting the mundane but reveling in a sense of secrets and knowledge being passed around. I shook the rice back and forth and every so often gave it an experimental toss. I did't see anything that looked out of place.

I had no idea what I was doing, but I did it with all of my being. I smiled and occasionally threw out a grain, committed to cleaning rice. Or at least appearing to.

It's a moment that's been coming back to me recently. That feeling of wanting to be useful, wanting to fit in and belong, of having a pass of sorts based on my outer appearance (men weren't cleaning rice, nor were they expected or invited to) but despite best intentions, I am overcome with feeling slightly lost, unsure of my direction or my purpose. What I know is that with all of my being, I am cleaning rice.

Election music

Contrary to the drama of the US elections, on this side of the pond elections are much more subdued (well, the leading up to anyway. The aftermaths have their own drama.) I did read a comment or two about the excessive length of the American elections, which I might agree with, though I definitely believe there is a 'too short' period as well. (Surely there's a scientific study out there designed to determine the ideal length of a campaign season.)

Here, it seems to begin with the music. I noticed it about a week or so ago. Large trucks with open backs and blaring speakers ride through the streets. Dancers with candidate tee-shirts wave and undulate as they pass by. A political parade minus the politician. The candidate's poster is plastered to the front and back grill and wherever else there is space. It is an effective method for getting attention. I'm not sure what else it gets. Or who picks the music. It doesn't seem to have a message but rather is whatever is hip and hot at the moment.

Then the posters begin to show up. There are small black and whites, reminiscent of a mug shot, others are bold and colorful. Some are pasted onto large plywood triangles set up for just this purpose, a ready made billboard- larger than life and showing smiling, well dressed politicians eager for your vote. There is often a tag line but not much more. I wonder where these people have come from.

I don't watch tv and so maybe there are debates or public service ads designed to reveal a bit more about the candidate than their stylish wardrobe. The newspaper stands appear slightly more congested lately, and so maybe something can be learned from there.

But it feels so sudden and so incomplete. I want to know who you are and what you stand for. I want to know about your hidden talents and whether or not you can dance. What's your history in politics and what property do you hold? What are your business connections and who is your spouse?

Maybe none of that is really important ....maybe the majority of citizens already know...? Election in fast forward is how it feels, so completely opposite of the long, drawn out theater that American elections have become. Surely there's a middle ground?

In the meantime, impromptu parades and the latest in election music will have to do.

The next post...or ...All the little I can do

It's that season. Despite nearly 10 years in Africa, this remains the season where I lose track of time. I guess I am still waiting for the cold of winter to set in. I have to keep reminding myself what time of year it is, and that the new year is approaching. I  always have a sense that I will miss it. Being on vacation from school only adds to my timelessness.

Contract season is also about this time for the international teaching world. It has passed seamlessly for once. I've secured a new post for next year in enough time to return my "intent to return" as a negative, comfortable in the knowledge of a new post for next year. We are going to Mali.

Mali has been on my list since I began teaching in Africa so I am extremely excited to be able to accept. Top it off with the fact that I've already worked with the director and can be assured that our educational philosophies are a good match. It feels like so many positives coming together for a prosperous new adventure.

In the meantime, I still have 6 months or so left to get through here in Abidjan. I begin to wonder what I can do, or should do, to expand my experiences here. I don't have a fuzzy warm feeling of the country though I sense it is more to do with the moments in my life than the country itself- perhaps.

I want to take advantage of the remaining time to see more, do more, understand more, but I also sense that if I couldn't make it happen in 2 years of living here, it's not likely to happen in the next 6 months either.

It's also the season for elections.....in Congo. Although the outgoing president never organized any elections. The people have decided to uphold their constitution and so we wait- tomorrow being the deadline- to see how the citizens take hold. It's sure to be intense and my thoughts remain concentrated there, in a country I have grown to love and support, despite my distance.

#telema The government has called for a cut in all social media and phone connections. I am confounded by the public-ness of this. The letters are posted and the news is out. People are preparing to be cut off from the outside world. Activists have been kidnapped and the military is in the streets. More is coming. As much as I believe Kabila will see that the revolution is not virtual, but real, and the media blackout will not change events- I wonder. What if the providers simply refused? Where is that one strong, convicted mind that will simply continue business as usual?

And how will we get notice of what is happening?  I am having faith there is a plan for this but I have no inside knowledge this time around. I am far from events, a mere witness. So I rest in prayer, in positive energy, in sending strength and courage for the newest of posts- the interim government that must take place when all else falls apart.

And I do not doubt that many will pay, have already paid and are paying now with the supreme sacrifice. And my heart is there too. All the little I can do from where I am.

The Problem with Giving..or The Echo of Truth

A long time ago, in another place and another time, a friend spoke to me about giving. "They don't even ask," he said. It was a program that was offering food- some kind of breakfast- for people. If you know me, you know I've forgotten the details, the context, the citations. But I remember the big idea. The program was offering bread. And the people, despite being known for eating bread, wanted something healthier. But no one asked and they just assumed bread was the thing- forgetting that people are often faced with hard decisions, decisions made not from choice but from necessity. Given a choice, they didn't want bread.

What I took away from that conversation is that, in the act of giving, to be truly useful, you need to consult the people you are giving to. It sounds like elementary advice. But it is a step often ignored in the vain of....'we know what you need/want.' Or perhaps 'this is what I want you to want.'

Despite my lesson, I find I am facing the truth of the matter once again. In the blah of Abidjan that I am confronted with, and following my nature of wanting to do more than just me, there was the case of Melissa. Remember her? Girl child on her way to education? Because I believe in education. Because I am a teacher. Because everything I read tells me literacy is the path to improving not just one generation, but a future generation.

We've gone through a few tutors for Melissa. The first found us a second who eventually said he couldn't continue. "She doesn't respect me," he said. But I think the real cause was rather, she doesn't have a strong command of the French language. She has no base in reading and too often the questions posed were simply not understood. He took her silence as disrespect, or maybe it was just an excuse to say he couldn't handle the task.

In any case, I sought out a real teacher. Someone who knew what we were up against. Someone who could begin at the beginning. Someone who'd instructed my own child. But Melissa didn't come. She hung out after school playing with friends. I imagine her in the very throes of childhood. Her 12 year old body delighting in the socialization and carefree ways of a much younger child. When she showed up late for the session, for the third time in a row, I asked her what time school ended. She put a finger to her lip and tilted her head.

It was clear she'd either lost track of time in her joy of playing or she'd deliberately passed her study hour with friends. The professor had long since gone home. He'd had requests from other families that wanted his time. Families where kids showed up on time. Took their studies seriously.

"La mama ne pas interesse," he told me as we waited. It's not possible to impress the importance of education on a child whose parent does not reinforce it. I felt a gnawing at my gut. I knew he was right. I can offer, but I cannot force. I can value, but I cannot impose.

In the end, we had no choice but to discontinue. The mom is too focused on having help with household chores. She herself is not literate. She tells me, "If it doesn't 'stick' this year, then she won't continue."

It's not about sticking. I know the girl is sitting through hours of hours of class in a language she barely understands. How can it 'stick?' She's bored, confused and lost in her daydream world. She needs focused study, one on one that addresses her specific needs. I know this. I believe in this.

But mom wants someone to help with the baby, to help with cooking, to help with the  washing. She's looking at today and I am looking at tomorrow.

There is a narrow part of me that doubts my intention. Where is she going anyway? Won't knowing more just make her aware of what she can't have? Isn't ignorance bliss and the reality is education doesn't always lead to a job, especially in Africa. A stubborn part of me resists.

In the end, it doesn't matter what I want or think or value. She is not my child. She will learn what is important from her mother. I am a little crushed. I am wracked with guilt. Isn't there more I could do/should have done?

This evening, her mother approaches me with a request. She says she's bought some land and wants an advance to start construction. I don't know what to say.

I'd been planning to let her go in the new year. I'm tired of the halfway job, the house full of kids, the chaos, the lies and the taking advantage. But in her words I hear the echo of truth. She was raised with a farming mother. Farming is what she knows. If I wanted to help, maybe I should have asked. It seems like the brilliant solution I forgot to consider.

Except she wants the advance for sand and cement and building. I am not sure I believe her. She is skilled in the art of knowing what she knows when it's convenient and not knowing when it serves it her best.

I'm not sure how to go forward, wracked with guilt and indecision. I have needs too. A job is a job. My priorities for my child take precedence. My priorities for myself...right? But I get all confused at certain moments. I wish it was more, I wish it was less. It's all the problem with giving. Finding the balance between what you need and what you can offer.

Nurturing Trees

I spent a week or so researching trees for a school mural project. The idea is each class will be assigned a tree to study. They will create leaves, seeds, flowers and fruit on clay rounds. The rounds will become leaves on a Tree of Life wall mural. I am pretty excited by the project because it will be long lasting and is located in the perfect spot- an enclave covered in shade by a massive flamboyant tree and filled with picnic tables where the first graders eat their snack.

Since my Kinshasa days I have been fascinated by the way humans congregate under and around trees.  It would make a stunning photo essay. The ways people use trees for leisure, as part of business, for protection and cover from the sun. Trees become holders of things, shelves. They become parts of buildings and grow through walls. Trees exhibit a resilience that is simply admirable.

My moringa trees are an excellent example. There are two miracle trees- useful for everything from medicine to cleaning water-growing on my little patch of dirt I call a yard. They grow faster than we can keep up with, every so often stripping them of their leaves, drying them and using them for tea and all kinds of garnishes. I think the nounou was particularly disturbed by the way they shed their leaves all over the driveway. Every so often she would ask if she could cut them. I obliged as long as we collected the leaves for use. I have noticed that one of the stumps has stopped regrowing- highly unusual as they love nothing more than a good trim. I suspect she treated it with something.

Around the same time, I took a few of the chopped branches and stuck them in the earth, trying to create a little fence around my plants (the children are constantly playing and stepping there and I was trying to keep people out of the area.) In response, the trees have bloomed and now I have four moringa trees. It was that easy. That unplanned. The trees decided to grow despite me (or my nounou.)

In more recent days, the prospect of a new president has me more concerned than ever about the environment. Like most Americans I am reading everything I can, trying to educate and activate. The potential problems are overwhelming. This article, before Trump was even elected, merits a link mostly because of what it doesn't talk about. Perhaps history shows that humans have a tendency towards self-implosion, only to come out better for it on the other side (supposing you are not among the million or so sacrificed in the purge) but history doesn't really show us how the environment will fare.

It may well be that we've done enough damage to alter the earth irrevocably. And if we haven't already, four years with Trump's team will surely set us firmly on that path. Of course, the earth will continue to spin, it's just a question of in what state.

All of this uncertainty brings me back to the trees. Each tree I researched resurrected memories of a relationship. The avocado tree with her branches full of fruit, bending low to offer me her gifts and raising back up again at the end of the cycle, patiently growing again.  The star fruit tree at the end of our driveway, offering up its bittersweet fruit for eating, lending her shape to colors for stamped birthday card designs. There were the mango trees, whom I made a portrait series of in all their stages of beauty from birth to decay. And the glorious mountain apple tree who showered me in neon pink carpets as she shed her flowers to bloom forth soft, pale apples. Banana trees and bamboo trees providing sturdy leaves for making art and strong stems for creations of all kinds.

I want to get back to nurturing trees the way they nurtured me. We could all do with nurturing some trees. We are so far from nature we've forgotten our dependence. It's what the water protectors are all about. It's what we all need to be about.

Feeling American

Although I've been working on a tree reflection, a necessary pause for the elections seems acceptable. It's been at least 5 years since I have been in the US. With each passing year I feel further and farther removed. It is more than the passage of time. It is more than internal growth and change. It is more than I am able to explain here. It's enough to say America and I are like unknown cousins at this point.

Which is why I was surprised at my reaction to the news. The News. I wasn't surprised by the news itself, having suspected somewhere in the back corners of my mind that America would unleash this evil on herself. We've come too far from needing to fight for or protect anything. Americans have been taking the easy life for granted for a long time and forgotten what it's like to go without.

So I wasn't surprised at the official word, but I was surprised at my reaction. I thought I wouldn't have any strong response either way. Maybe a small smile and a raised eyebrow with the begrudging thought "Well, she did it," should Hillary have won. Or a shake of my head and a "Those Americans, they've done it now," in the case of an unspeakable win. But neither of those scenarios played out.

Devastation washed over me like a wave. A great tsunami tidal wave. I was reminded of my French colleagues after the Charlie Hebdo shootings. They were visibly saddend. When offering a routine Bonjour, ca va? they answered by shaking their downcast heads and saying how discouraged they were. There was a school wide notice from the administration and a strong sense of national pride and mourning. I was a little in awe of the intensity.

But today, I found it was on my mind. And when colleagues offered a casual how are you? I couldn't refrain from saying "Dare you ask? It's a travesty..." I admit to feeling American, but even more, I feel human. And I am sorrowful for us. I want schools closed for a day of mourning and flags hung at half-mast.  

It seems now we will have a chance to find out if all the checks and balances in place to preserve democracy and power heavy rule actually work. Mr. Michael writes about reassuring children about the future by bringing up those democratic processes designed to prevent total control or out-of-control acts. I'm not so sure.  

I was reminded of the literature circle I am leading with a tutoring group. We are reading Red Scarf Girl about the Chinese Cultural Revolution. In order to bring about that drastic policy change, Chairman Mao played to the peasants, the young, the barely formed and the uneducated. He set about reversing  historic cultural values and turning social conditions on their head. The have-nots and know-nots were suddenly prized while the educated and successful were persecuted. It sounds eerily and terrifyingly similar to what is happening in the US.

While I don't believe the guy was initially gunning for the head role, nor do I believe he took himself seriously (I actually think each outlandish move was a calculated cry for someone to "please undo this mess I've gotten myself into") now that he is there....now that he has thrown the biggest toddler tantrum possible and gotten his dessert without eating dinner, he is only going to continue experimenting with the limits of power. A kid in a candy shop. 

There is a chance the next 2 years won't throw the country - and the world- into turmoil. It's completely possible. But there's every chance it could go the other way too. And more important than all of that is the very fact that intolerance, hatred and egoism remain entrenched in the fabric of American communities.

It's a blow for humankind. That's what my devastation was about. Any small hope I'd harbored (and at this point it was pretty small and deeply buried) has been finally extinguished. Humans cannot turn the bright corner, save the planet, stop war, love themselves or each other. We cannot organize collectively to  make decisions in the our best interest. And I am not the only one wondering if the antichrist has arrived. 

Or maybe this is the doom before the bringer of peace arrives? Maybe that last little flicker of hope isn't completely extinguished after all.

Forest Art

A chance walk through the botanical gardens turned up some mysterious artwork- functional or merely aesthetically pleasing, I can't be sure. But this kind of mystery slightly less disturbing than all of that surrounding the Banco....I think.

A bundle of fronds, neatly packaged

Mystery dwellings

Interesting natural design

Forest spirits

Last weekend we were able to take a small trip to the Banco Forêt, a forest preserve located in the heart of Abidjan. The entrance we used was located just off a busy, 4 lane highway. Our driver, long time resident and fellow teacher, informed us several times that this particular stretch of highway was home to frequent traffic accidents often attributed to the mysterious spirits of the forest.


After meeting our guide, we rode about 3 km down to a central parking area. Here we viewed the first forestry school in West Africa, once the prime center of the area capable of attracting forest guards from all of the neighboring countries. Now, it seemed quiet and deserted.
Our entire afternoon was filled with lush greens and wild earth. It was soul filling. I reminisced about all the places in Congo we'd been able to visit in their savage originality. Abidjan is just overflowing with cement and I haven't concentrated my energy into escaping it.


During our visit, the guide emphasized how well the forest was secured and patrolled. The official word is that things are much improved from "the crisis." (a recurrent and oft-used phrases to describe the war years.) To prove the point, he tells us that the military conducts trainings here and this is supposed to discourage the undesirables. It doesn't stop the stories.


From political concentration camps to this 10 year old account of thieves and spirits to the more recent accounts of smokehouses and human heads, the mystery of the forest cannot be put to sleep. In 2009, the search for Guy-André Kieffer, a French-Canadian journalist, expanded to include Banco- though without results. The forest continues to have such a reputation that in April of 2016,  artist Affou Keita is said to have been "surprised" in Banco- suggesting perhaps she was there to do more than just film her latest music video but, in actuality, to take part in ceremonial rituals to avenge those against her. In May of 2016, the discovery of a body with multiple piercings and no identifying information continues to add to the mystery of the site. 


While we enjoyed our trip in group, and I joked frequently about returning with a bicycle, the persistent myths have wedged themselves into my psyche. A walk in the botanical gardens, without security, will be much more refreshing. 

The highway and city view from the "forest door"

Really enjoyed the shape of the new buildings- yet to be opened

The ceilings were a cozy weave of fronds

It didn't take Mbalia long to find a buddy

Forestry school

A rag tag gang of forest explorers

A  dreamy little forest house

Heavy rains = brown river

Forest silhouette

We had a forest guide and security

These fountains were dotted throughout

Our guide was very thorough

Straight out of a Wes Craven

500 year old tree..dying

Mbalia gets a photography lesson

Our motley crew

This building, air conditioned in the
middle of the forest, housed skulls
and skeleton parts

Giant leaves

The tree of intrigue

In front of the 500 year old tree- eco-tourists I guess.

The Year of Work

Dear Reader,

Are you still there? It may seem I have abandonded you, but take heart, I have not. Each school year presents a theme and this year appears to be the year of work. I fear, at times, these Abidjan years may pass in this hunkering down state of seriousness, which is not at all fun, but I am holding out hope.

I have begun to realize a new relationship with Africa. Our long affair has morphed into a common law marriage. And while I cannot imagine being without her, I do find myself searching for the magic that caused me to fall in love in the first place. It is there, hidden amidst what has become our everyday intimacy.

A few months ago, when I realized how routine we'd gotten- Africa and I- I decided perhaps I should try to take one appealing photo everyday. You can see how that has worked out. I have fallen far short of one everyday, but I did manage to capture a few. Despite this year of work, I am still grateful for many things and occasionally the mundane becomes magical.

 

Sometimes - or really often times- my neighborhood takes on postcard quality.  I am surrounded by the beauty of groups of women in colorful cloth going about their daily chores of life. There is a sense of support and closeness among them that is the inspiration for all those 'carrying water on their heads' postcards and paintings. It's not the water or the feat but the relationship that inspires. (Although I have found myself practicing the head carry more and more, it's just plain convenient- when it's not spine crushing and neck breaking, of course.)

 I find my perspective as audience member for traditional dance shows does not usually match the joy and impression of other viewers. I am a bit more critical and see a lot more "behind the scenes" details that could be improved. I am trying to view this as a result of experience and therefore not a bad thing, but sometimes it would be nice to just be swept away in awe. Guinee....Congo...I am counting on you guys to still hold this power over me...

I pass this sign frequently and usually feel this is exactly what I need. Abidjan has me a little lost at times and it would be so relieving to just call the right number and get a little 'soul adjustment.'

I almost hopped out of the taxi to get a better shot of this key dangling mysteriously from a billboard. I watched for another week or more from my taxi window on the way home each day. Eventually a heavy rain storm washed it away. I still can't help but wonder about the story of it's placement- where did it come from, who placed it there and why? Did they see it as a work of art in just the way I did?

I took this photo one morning because the afternoon before I'd seen a group of boys playing here. They stripped off their shirts and appeared ready to dive in. Really, they just splashed around laughing and having fun like any kids might when faced with what is essentially a giant puddle. I realized there were two eyes to see this with- boys playing in an oversized puddle or poor African kids swimming around in dirty water.  My African eyes almost snapped a picture of sweet joy after a strong rain, but then my Western eyes woke up and asked....how will people really look at that picture? So here is the puddle, sans enfants. Bring your own joy.

A view of the city from the third floor of a school gym where I used to work out on Saturday mronings. This window also overlooks the school pool and entranceway. I used to be so captivated by the luxuriousness of this place. And the reminder that Abidjan is vast. This view also made me a little homesick for Kinshasa, remembering the scene as you drive out of the city towards Bas Congo...vast, a little hazy and promising potential in the suggestion of wild greens ahead.

This photo is from a walk down a busy main road. I had some random time between tutoring jobs and was trying to walk slowly. I stopped here to clean out some phone messages and realized that, although these things are as common as squirrels in NY, they're not squirrrels, and I am not in NY.

My baby girl is growing up thoroughly African. She has a few bad habits, like sucking her teeth and looking at you out of the corner of her eye or throwing her wrappers on the ground- even if she is inside, she will walk to the door and throw it outside in the yard. I am really trying to turn this habit around. But she also has beautiful habits like carrying things on her head, helping wash whatever needs washing (and plenty of things that don't- she just loves water,) wearing babies on her back, laughing long and loud and giving that reassuring smile at just the right moment. She speaks words in at least three languages (four if we include the one none of the rest of us can't quite figure out- her own private language) and my favorite- she loves wrapping fabric around her in the exact perfect way you wrap a pagne, complete with knee bend and waist wiggle.

This one is just for fun. We still go to school together, usually on Sundays. She does something artistic like make a painting or string some beads and I try to catch up on random schoolwork. Or sometimes we just go down the slide. It may not be the beautiful jungles of TASOK, but we still manage to carve out a few moments of fun in this year of work.

more random updates

There are a few random updates, endings to stories once began and long ago noticed. There is a certain clarity and satisfaction that comes from random updates, from being able to look upon someone's experience as a series of events, each piece providing a bigger piece to the puzzle and illuminating a sense of logic and purpose to what, at the time, may feel random and disjointed.

The trick, of course, is maintaining patience and perseverance when regarding our own lives. It's so much easier to see a plan as someone else's life unfolds. So here is what I have witnessed:

Remember this guy, who travelled all the way to our quaint little CIAD in search of true love only to be shunned by his desired and taken in by some random family in the neighborhood? It wasn't too long ago that I caught a glimpse of him, straight from a Grimm's fairy tale of friendly ogres and gentle giants. It was a silhouette I saw of him walking down the dirt road, hoisting a propane tank (those cursed propane tanks!) over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes walking alongside a woman who barely reached his shoulders. There was a sense of chivalry to the image. A gentleness and sweet exchange hovered in the air above them. Apparently he'd persevered and found someone who appreciated his spirit. I guess he has settled in with her and the two make a delightful pair. I still don't know what he "does," as in what permits him to fly off in search of a new life and make his home in a quiet little village just north of Abidjan center, but he has found a bit of paradise for the moment it seems.

There is the story of the towel people and somewhere along the way we've become acquainted. This is in the broadest sense of the word. I don't know his name or anything about him, nor he of me. But we've become accustomed to greeting each other with a neighbourly good morning- or good evening- and a sincere wish for a 'bonne journey.' I can't be sure how it happened, a meeting of the eyes I suppose, as most human contact can be reduced to this.  What is the underlying connection that causes it to expand? At times, even if he is sitting at the hair salon just out of sight, he will call out to me and wish me a good evening, or a welcome home. I wonder often at what causes two humans to progress through the stages of noticing each other, to making a connection and then to committing- even if it is as simple as saying hello. On other mornings, I wonder even more. Now that school is back in session and I am leaving hom earlier, I see him outside sweeping- honestly a bit of a rarity among African men. The morning sweeping routine is often reserved for women unless it is in front of a shop or cabine- and I am overcome for a moment wanting to find out the details. Yes, I want an interview. I imagine all the questions I would pose, an amateur anthropologist studying the human quirks in my neighborhood. Does he live alone (I know he does not as I have occasionally witnessed the towel woman) and is he an early riser? Obviously, but what is it that propels him outside to in the wee hours to perfom this chore?  These questions are still a mystery even as we have taken a step or two across the bridge of complete strangerhood.

There is another neighborhood acquaintance whose mystery has been unravelled. I still see him occasionally, a Frenchman who lives in the neighborhood. We most often cross paths as I am returning home and he as well, though from within the cartier. I remember wondering where he could be going- or coming from- deep within the neighborhood. A recent visit from a friend seems to have unveilled the mystery. Just a short walk away is the ferry to Marcory. I had thought this ferry was only available from M'Pouto by the Sol Beni side of the lagoon. Turns out there is a hidden little port right here in our neighborhood. I have yet to take this voyage but my friend, and friends of hers, took it several times.  I imagine this is where the Frenchman is off to every morning and where he returns from in the evening. He must work somewhere in Marcory or Zone 4 and travels back forth avoiding high traffic by way of the lagoon. It seems like an enchanting commute.

The stories of my African neighborhood....not so different from yours, hey?





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the search continues

My search for dance continues, the Company Mouyae having turned out to be more of a foster family than an adoptive family. I am not sure what happened there, though it definitely seems to be a theme in Abidjan. Just as something gets started, begins to feel like it might be a real possibility, it fades away, often inexplicably.

I finally went to the Village Kiyi, a place that's been on my periphery for the last year or so, but I'd never made it there. I was in search of an artist I'd seen a few times but never gotten direct contact info from. This whole dance thing is like a full time job. A serious hunt. The Village is a bona-fide school of dance dripping with culture. The walls are covered with paintings both on canvas and geometric mural designs directly on the walls.

There are several stage areas including an outdoor amphitheater and a more traditional indoor space. The stage is black wood, the walls are covered with large canvas paintings of city scenes and there is a refreshing cross breeze through the open doorways. I am enveloped in a serious spirit of creativity and history.

The emcee comes on (to keep me entertained during my wait, I've been whisked into the culminating performance of the kids summer program) and gives an impressive introduction to the recital we are about to witness. One of the students will begin by introducing the show in English. She is to be followed by another student with the French version. The emcee suggests even more languages in coming years. "Pourqoui pas Arabic or Chinese?" he asks, stating at the Village, they have their ' head in the future and their feet in their culture.' A synthesis of the spirit of Abidjan, where all cultures and languages seem to collide, combine and morph into something new entirely.

Unfortunately, as with most places I am learning, there are a million opportunities for children but few for adults. I leave my number and receive assurances of a phone call to come once they get their adult classes started. I've been down this road so many times I'm not anticipating anything.  The search continues.

Beautiful archway. The space behind
the  stairs appears unfinished, half
lived in and completely alluring

No such thing as a 5 alarm fire

The sky was on fire. As we got closer to the main road we could see a billowing cloud of black smoke. The roadway was crowded with onlookers and many of them began to turn and run in our  direction. A whole neighborhood was burning. Propane tanks were exploding. There was one lone firetruck and it didn't appear to be the kind holding water.

Basically everyone was just waiting for the fire to burn itself out. The neighborhood was one of wooden shacks, built close together and highly flammable. The story? Someone put their dinner on and then ran out to the market, forgetting all about it. The result? Beyond homelessness, most people lost everything they had. The lesson? There's more to development than new roads and tall buildings. Basic community services are a necessity for true progress.

There's no such thing as a 5 alarm fire. The big trucks weren't rolling out. There wasn't an ambulance on scene. There were no police and no social service agencies to help residents pick up the pieces of their now shattered lives. My house burned (partially) down and all of these services were there, waiting for me when I rounded the corner and was surprised by the event. One house. This was an entire neighborhood.

Some people had gone off to work early in the morning and came home to discover the news in the nighttime, long after the lone firetruck had packed up and gone away. They found only their neighbors sorting through rubble, hoping to salvage any bits and pieces that remained.

The way of art

Happily beginning this year as the lower school art teacher. Full time. Dream come true. You can read all about it here. It means a new year, a new position and the never ending game of curriculum development.

I do love this part of teaching. Designing a path to guide students along, developing investigative questions, bookmarking resources, and imagining experiences is a huge part of what makes my work satisying. There is nothing easy or short about curriculum writing. It is bread made from scratch, fresh pasta rolling through the machine, pastels carefully flattened, lovingly stuffed and tenderly fried. Creating curriculum is a homemade Thanksgiving meal all the way to picking fresh cranberries from the backyard.

I have all the ingredients spread out on my desktop. Tabs are open to grade level documents, science and social studies year long overviews, national art standards, AREO art standards, my own visual art curriculum (a place for storing images and links to resources) and, finally, the Pre-K-5 yearlong art curriculum overview.

I switch back and forth between documents along with web resources such as art blogs, pintrest, educational journals and google images. I bookmark relevant artists, living and dead, local and international, well known and obscure. I'm looking to make art come alive by exposing students to ALL the possibilities in art. We're not all Rembrants and vanGoghs.

So what role does art have for us? This is just one of many questions that my students will spend the year exploring. What is the role of art in society? What is the responsibility of governments in safeguarding art and making it accesible to all? What role does art play in documenting and resolving conflict? How can art record history and uncover complexities in international and national relations? How does art contribute to unity and reconciliation?

More importantly, at this age, how does art play a role in my personal life? These are big questions and we only have 40 min. once a week to figure it all out. In addition, or concurrently, there is the teaching of technique- yes, art is a skill like reading or writing or mathematics and it can be learned and improved. It needs to be practised.

There is also exposure to historic works of art, artists and movements. On my physical desktop, I have lists of movements, illustrative works, and the must-haves in the art world. There are painters, sculptures, and illustrators. There is art history and contemporary art.

Aside from the planning of units and lessons, there is the learning of names. 214 + or -. When I might have had 2 Aishas, there are now 4. There are at least 7 Mariame, Mariama or Mariannes. And a whole host of names I can't even pronounce. I make phonetic notations but some 50 kids later, I've forgotten what my shorthand means. When the child (or the whole class) corrects me, I look at my notes and nod my head. Yup, that's exactly how I've written it and it still didn't make sense. I spend my class periods calling everyone by their name everytime I talk to them and sometimes I just walk around randomly telling them who they are.  Because nothing is worse than seeing them on the playground shouting out, "Hi Ms. Soumah!" and I can't say their name back.

I spend my lunch  duty walking around talking to kids about their meals, their names and any other random conversation starters in an attempt to remember. I know it will come, and it is by far easier to remember in the confines of the art room- it's just generalizing to the wider school context that presents a challenge.

I know from perusing art teacher blogs that many have it worse. They write of no sinks, no classrooms (I did do a stint of art on a cart way back when...)They have 1,000+ students (?!!) and 3 schools to shuffle between. The most incomprehensible-- 20 min. classes.

I don't even consider making art, personally, if I only have 20 minutes (maybe something to consider if I had a table and a studio space to just pop in and out of.) But art, and learning, is about getting into that zone- "the flow"- where time is lost and it's just you and the medium.

I wish I had time to help my students experience this at every art class. Time to look at art thoughtfully and learn the words to respond to elements that are striking and the time to discover what they like and don't like. We can't do it at every class, but I am realizing it is something I can build in consistently.

It is a journey. When we discussed "what is art?" during our first class session, I was delighted to see many kids were already reading the room. "Well, it says art is not a thing,"  they pointed to the quote on the wall. "Art is a way."

Flippery

In preparation for the start of yet another school year, I went in search of new duds. Though I'd spent more time in Adjame than the beach this past vacation,  I hadn't really found the market I was searching for. I'd spent a day wading through Forum, the "mall" of Adjame. Forum is mall-like in that there are several floors, it's inside, and there is a central hallway/walkway type of area (or truck drive through area, as the case was on the particular day I was there.) Yes, there was a truck driving through the central market area, home to fruit and vegetable sellers. In that way, Forum is kind of like a department store too. You can get food, clothes, and shoes all in one place.

It's unlike a mall in ways I can't really name. The stores are smaller, dressing rooms are hidden closet-ways behind curtains (oh, but the level of fancy! One store owner slid the curtain open to reveal a ceiling fan, light and  mirror all tucked in to a 2m x 1m space!) The selection was less interesting than the dressing space, however, and the prices belonged to Macy's.

What I really wanted was the second hand store. The place where all the cotton, American hand-me- downs come in, get sewn up and sold again. Apparently this is called the "flippery." I tried to get a little history on the origin of the word, but no luck really. My American mind was left to associate it with "flipping"- buying something and then reselling it. Maybe that is the origin. No one I asked seemed to know what language the word came from or it's exact meaning, but they did steer me in the right direction.

A few clothing closets lined a wall in the back of this area. There were a lot of table top and even ground sellers. A lot of piles too. Flippery prices are perfect- 250-1000 FCFA (one vendor was calling out the incredible bargain of 2 for 500!- essentially 2 for $1.00) But it's only a bargain if you can find something you like. Shopping here requires sifting through a pile of clothes in search of  something in your size, style and color. Every so often, the shopkeeper (who just might be standing on the tabletop shouting out deals to draw in other customers) reaches down and grabs the whole pile and overturns it. You need to hold tight to anything you may have been saving on the side or anything you are currently trying to view as the clothes are retracted with the force of the ocean and then come crashing back down in a wave of color and fabric. Sometimes a shopkeeper will toss things your way if he (predominately I noticed the shopkeepers of these kind of places as men) notices you selecting a certain palette or style. Occasionally it's helpful.

Throughout this entire space there sit the sewers. In the shops lucky enough to have actual wall space, the sewers sit in a back room. For the vendors selling from the ground, the sewers sit amidst the piles of clothes. Creativity abounds here as people have found ways to display their best items on makeshift wire walls and other fabrications. The sewers are busy repairing seams, tears and hems undone. Their work is sometimes apparent in uneven zigzags or unexpected folds. Ousmane admonished their work as hasty or less than skillful. I figured they were doing the best with what they had.

The best part of this area was cotton. Soft cotton shirts in simple styles for all ages. The worst part, especially for a non-shopper like me, was the necessary investment of time to sort and find. It's also hard to know what will fit. Some women were trying clothes on right there in the crowds. One woman even had the help of the vendor to shimmy into a pair of jeans. It was awfully reminiscent of my shoe shopping experience and I wondered if the seller planned on accompanying the woman home to provide such perfect assistance whenever she wanted to wear those jeans. I am a firm believer in the idea if I can't put it on myself, then it doesn't belong in my closet. Unfortunately the tailors here seem to assume everyone has a houseful of ready helpers when it comes to zipping, tucking and stuffing yourself into your clothing.

I have found one tailor who seems to understand my needs. I went in search of fabric for her to turn into a new wardrobe to spice up this next school year as the elementary art teacher. The fabric I was searching for could not be found in my usual haunts. I remembered vaguely browsing through a street lined with this kind of fabric when I visited Abidjan a few years ago. The search to find this exact spot again was, in the end, fruitless, but did lead me up and down interesting secret market pathways.

I ran across beautiful tied dyed batiks still drying in the sun. Walking further revealed all the steps of batik making from the huge vats of dyes to the pounding and rubbing on of wax. It was a fascinating tour and I hope to go back to ask questions and take photos. On the day I was there, the journey had already been long and wasn't yet finished.

These back streets were calmer, less crowded and had a small town, community air. Kids were playing here and there on the street, older children were doing chores and women were walking in small groups chatting, selling, or running errands. It was a good feeling. Until the motorcycles came.

The revving of engines served as a warning, though barely. The first time it happened I watched women and children scramble to get out of the roadway. The bikes spun around corners and tore through the calm streets like something from a Mad Max film.  Some of the boys had splotches of mud covering their faces and torsos like war paint. They were loud and fast and terrifying. They made one or two more appearances during our market trip. As we roamed, they were roaming too.

The last time it happened was completely unexpected. The revving came too late and was much too close to be a real warning. Ousmane and I were walking in the middle of a nearly empty street. We'd just come from viewing the rows of batik makers and were heading back towards the grand mosque of Adjame- the center around which all market life is built.

The first rider came skidding around the corner. He had his foot on the ground and was surely burning through his plastic sandals. Ousmane froze on the spot and I behind him, tugging at his shirt, thinking maybe we should get out of the street. There really wasn't time to go anywhere because milliseconds later another bike came crashing around the corner.  He wobbled a bit upon seeing us and his friend. He went first one way, then another, making Ousmane's decision to remain put a sound one. All my senses were crying out to flee (no fight to be had in man against moto) but it was easy to see how disastrous that could turn out- me trying to avoid the bike, the bike trying to avoid me and neither of us sure which way the other was going.

This second guy zig-zagged his way past us and then we did move. We crossed the road and went down a slight hill into the maze of pathways leading around the mosque. My heart was beating wildly and my stomach was churning. By this time, the rest of the gang had shown up and gathered around the first biker- the one who had come skidding around the corner with his foot on the ground. I thought maybe he'd burned his leg on the exhaust pipe. It wasn't clear what, but something had clearly happened. There exclamations and a small crowd of onlookers began to form. We didn't stay to find out what the injuries were. Feeling more than blessed that I was able to walk away from the experience on two good feet, we headed back into the crazy crowded streets of the busy market. Too busy for boys on motorcycles. Just perfect for flippery.

funeral dance

It's complete. I've attended each of the cycle of life events in Abidjan. A funeral, or more precisely a wake, the most recent event to complete the cycle. Where once I had my eyes on comparing Congo with America, I now compare African countries or cultures with each other. There is often a lot of similarities- enough to suggest all those confused "Africa is a country" people should maybe get a little slack.

This wake took place outside in a community space, probably a lot of soccer going on there during the day. The set up was familiar- 4 tents creating an open square in the middle. The music- from machines to singers to musicians- carefully situated under one, the family and memorials in another, guests cozied up in hoodies and wrapped in pagnes under the rest. There are plastic chairs, plenty of plastic chairs. Many of the guests will stay all night and the neat rows of chairs will eventually transform into a zigzagged mess as people create sleeping areas.

There was a choir singing in the early evening hours and it gave way to the typical overly loud music. Most of what I saw was very similar, right down to the vendor who walked through at one point offering tissues for sale. The differences were in language (French dominates Abidjan) and musical selection (coupe decale.)

Sometime after midnight, the Nescafe carts showed up, on order or by business design I'm not sure. Most likely there was a bit of arrangement involved. One of the cousins walked around with a tray offering small cups of coffee to attendees. That same cousin made the rounds minutes later to collect the empty cups.

Coffee carts ready for your 2 am needs

One major difference from my previous experiences was the presence of artists. Not just attending but playing and performing. The entire event began to resemble wedding sized entertainment with the customary walking-dance circle in the middle. I've participated in a few of these, my first in a village in Guinee. On that occasion it was celebratory, but structure seems the same regardless of the underlying emotion. The circle is slow, the dancing subdued, occasionally a leader emerges to throw out a sample step which everyone repeats for awhile. But in general, people just move in a circle swaying to the beat, sometimes erupting in a cry of joy or anguish, sometimes leaving the circle to find a quiet moment alone, other times leaning on and supporting each other as they make their way around.

After that dispersed, the artists presented their full tributes. Dancing, fire eating, acrobatics, hip-hop break style, and songs written or created in the moment for the moment. Once I got over noticing the wedding similarities, I started wondering about the tributes.  Particularly among the hip hop crew, who were a bit younger, a bit more pumped.  At a certain point, their competition and joy over winning began to strike me as more ego satisfaction than tribute to the deceased. Perhaps there is always that fine line with artists.

Fire dancing by the son and

first time I have seen a woman fire dancing

Equally confusing for my American mind, the pandering for money. It is routine to send a hat around (a persistent someone with a hat to be more precise.) It is also customary to dance in front of the principle family members, who are required to throw some money to show appreciation. It just all seems out of place in a time of sorrow. Having to worry about money and ritual and obligation.

Of course, I am a funeral avoider. I don't have a lot of US funeral experience. Actually, I have only been to 2 funerals and both were filled with awkward tension, silent grief and an unbearable need to escape. Here in Africa, funerals appear to be more cathartic, community events. Grief is loud and visible. It washes over mourners like a wave, ebbing and flowing in its strength. Wailing women cling to their sisters and mothers one minute, only to be seen making their way around the dance circle the next. It is a long night but the presence of family, friends, and even random walkers-by lends a timeless air to the event.

I was a little in awe of how quickly 3 am arrived. I had been slightly worried about our ability to find a taxi home, which didn't turn out to be much of a problem. As we left, I thought about those who would stay in vigil all night. I understood again that sense of the night time being sacred, when we are closest to the spirit world. It's the perfect time for a funeral dance.