I took this opportunity to visit the big Orca Deco in Marcory. This department store is four full stories of everything you think you need and plenty of stuff you don't, including an entire wing of fabric bolts that sent my imagination on fire.
Trying to navigate this store in the pre-Christmas rush was rough- I just kept my head down and my sights focused. I had only a few things in mind and refused to even head over to the toy section. They do offer an after Christmas discount though, and that's when things really got bad.
On my second visit, I took more time to explore the store- still not making it past the first floor. I browsed housewares and craftwares, Christmas-wares and toys. I had that Dorothy-out-of-Kansas feeling and wondered if I was even still in Africa. Whatever I needed, surely it was here and possibly even at a price I could afford.
My senses were thrown completely out of balance as I walked by colored light displays and snowmen and santas smiling serenely, wishing me a peaceful season. I was completely overwhelmed by the stocked shelves, the merchandise exploding out of unpacked boxes cramming the aisles, and row after row of choice. Too much choice. I felt an odd urge to take photos- a tourist in the land of holiday wonder.
I went back a few days later, drawn like a gawker to a roadside accident. This time I brought Nabih and I did snap a few photos, though somehow resisted (and now regret) a few that I didn't take. Nabih was looking to spend a bit of his birthday cash and he managed to find something in the happy medium between the Chinese knockoffs and the over-priced imports. Fantastic. One step closer to understanding the Abidjan-is-Paris phenomenon (but wait, I thought Bandal was Paris? Not sure why I keep winding up in places that claim to be Paris but, having never really explored Paris, I can't hope to understand the comparison. Not really. My guess, in the case of Bandal, that it is more about the ambiance and in the case of Abidjan, more about the offerings. The two places themselves- Bandal and Abidjan, or even Kinshasa and Abidjan for that matter, couldn't be more different.)
Some highlights from around the city- complete with that ubiquitous reference to Paris.
But of course, Abidjan is not Paris. There are some major differences, important differences as I came to find out just a few days after Christmas. I had stopped by the bank- yeah, on New Year's Eve, not the best of choices. After sizing up the situation inside- at least a 2 hour wait- I decided to just hit the ATM outside, even if it meant less cash on hand and an inconvenient return trip in the next few days.
I was waiting in line (a much more desireable line of 2, of which I was first) when I heard that all too familiar but always sickening crunch and tearing of metal. I covered my head and turned away- I have long ago learned how haunted I am by tragedy and did my best not to engrain any images. All I saw before turning was an orange taxi speeding away.
Of course, I eventually turned my attention back to the crash. My line wasn't moving and the whole street had become involved by now. A motorcycle was down. The driver had gotten up and was holding his head in his hands as he paced back and forth. My first thought was a grateful prayer until I realized he wasn't just bemoaning a headache or the loss of his bike. Someone else was there, on the ground, and he hadn't gotten up. I peeked just around the corner of a car parked in front of the bank, mercifully blocking my view. Sleep was going to be hard enough to come by this night. I saw an arm, confirmed a friend on the ground and returned to my hampered perspective.
Cars continued to move slowly forward, around - and what I can only imagine was perilously close- to the injured passenger. I wanted someone to go over and stop traffic- turn it back, make it wait, anything but drive by the tragedy. The security guard next to me was calling the local emergency number. No one was answering. So much for Abidjan being Paris. Not where it counts anyway, not for the important things.
People were commentating- a woman in the ATM line was so graphic I had to tune her out. I assumed it was her way of dealing with shock, but she was including too much detail in her account of the man hitting the concrete. Others were murmuring not to move him- good advice although in the end useless. There was no emergency team coming, no paramedics, no stretcher, no police, nothing. No one.
Ironically, there was a clinic just two doors down from the bank. Surely there could be a faster response? I turned to the security guard. "So what are we going to do then?" I'd hoped to spur some action.
"I am calling, but no one is answering. They are going to take him." He gestured to the street. I turned around to see what appeared to be one of the gbakas, though I didn't really see any seats inside. I couldn't tell if it was just someone who had stopped to volunteer (I strongly suspect) or maybe a vehicle from the nearby clinic.
"They will take him to the hospital?" I repeated, needing confirmation. We watched as a group of men picked up the injured motorcycle passenger and placed him in the back of the vehicle. No backboard brace, no stretcher, no IV, no on-scene treatment.
It is what infuriates me most about African road accidents. Injury is often compounded by the wait times for intervention and unavailability of emergency treatment. Not to mention the taxi driver, who just continued on his way after plowing through congested traffic and mowing down a motorcycle. I wondered if he had passengers and how they'd responded. How would I respond if I had been in the taxi?
But mostly my thoughts remained with the injured man. My mind kept repeating sorry- not the American sorry used for apology related to guilt for wrongdoing, but the African sorry full of empathy and sympathy that says I am human too and us humans need to be there for each other. I'm sorry that this happened, on this day, unexpectedly and completely avoidable.
I kept thinking how this morning he was just a regular guy, full of plans and positivity. Maybe he had a family, a wife and children somewhere that would soon be learning of this tragedy. I thought about how their evening wouldn't be shaping up as earlier envisioned. It is this suddenness of it all that affects me most. I am keenly aware of how everything can be taken away in just one moment.
I spent New Year's Eve sending prayers for this man and his loved ones, assuring myself it was possible to survive- the driver, after all, had gotten up without a scratch on him. Thoughts back to Kazadi and his accident also kept me in positive spirits. It is possible to persevere. I imagined trying to find him, just to be sure he had made it, and then realized perhaps it wasn't the most rational- or possible- thing to do. Sending my prayers would have to be enough.
My thoughts were split between families, a friend having shared with me an equally tragic story about Christmas day, an 8 year old girl and a completely normal afternoon that somehow turned fatal. And of course, there's always Jean-Marie. This Christmas a la Cote, I spent my time alternately feeling blessed in my present moment and praying for families of strangers that need more than I can give, completely unconvinced that Abidjan- or Bandal- are even remotely close to Paris. There needs to be a lot more than impressive light displays and music to move to around the clock to equal the true advantages of living abroad.
