News reports are full of the recent attack(s). Ankara and Grand Bassam were hit on the same day, though the resulting news stories read quite differently. As seems too often to be the case with Africa, special attention is paid to the foreign victims of the tragedy. Everytime I read about the "French nationals" my mind rebels with images of the local children flipping into the waves and gorgeous young couples holding hands and laughing as they walk the beach.
Grand Bassam, described as a playground of the expatriates, has always struck me more as the "sleepy oceanside town" with a funky artistic underbeat. It reminds me a lot of places I once considered home. I like it because it exudes an air of reality and humbleness. It is not where the uber rich usually spend their time (they gravitate more to Assine and San Pedro I think, where the undercurrents are said to be calmer and surfing is popular.)
When we head out to Grand Bassam, we often stop by to say hello to a missionary family who has a sweet little house just across from the beach. While they do have a wall surrounding their home, there is no barbed wire. No sense of danger or unease. It is a beautiful town striving to keep afloat.
The family has a few friends in the neighborhood and we always make time to see them, too. Most often we gather at the beach sometime just after lunch and play in the waves, shovel piles of sand into buckets and listen to the music coming from any one of the little restaurant-bar huts lining the ocean edge. There are often crowds of local kids practicing their acrobatics or playing a game of soccer. There are couples walking and young guys on horseback trying to get you to snap a photo- or, for the more adventurous-hop on the saddle and ride off into the breeze.
It has a family feel. A solid, small town local flair. Definitely not the kind of place one would think as a target for a terrorist group looking to make a statement. It seems more like terrorists targeting their own fellow Africans. Or like they weren't really targeting anyone at all but everyone in general.
This account, especially vivid and heartwrenching, brings it all together. In the midst of the terror, there is no separation of local or expatriate. Everyone was hiding. Some managed to escape with their lives, others did not. Reuters at least mentions 'Foreign citizens from Burkina Faso, Cameroon, France, Germany and Mali were among the victims' seeming to put them all on the same level. The Washington Post tries to get it right, but what's with including statistics on Americans included in other attacks as if they hold some sort of prestige? BBC is the worst, simply stating "four of the dead were Westerners" as if that is all that really counts. While they go on to mention that nationalities of victims hadn't been released, the pictures clearly show this event affected the local population.
It's anyone's guess where they will strike next. Speculation is on about Senegal and apparently in Guinea they have made some arrests. The only thing that seems certain is they will strike again, it will be unexpected (in the way that no one can really prepare or prevent) and it will affect us all, as humans.
Discouraging. Distressing. Too close to home. For all of us, not just the rich or the Western.
14.3.16
13.3.16
the new generation
My facebook feed remains filled with remnants of a life past- allowing me to keep up with all of the comings and goings of those I knew in a different place when we were all slightly different people from the ones we are today. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's bittersweet.
One refrain I notice is the leaving. Much as I miss Kinshasa- my mythical relationship between human and city- I realize that most of the real life people connections are no longer there. (Which doesn't really stop me from missing the city, but it does make me wonder if a visit would fill me with satisfaction or confusion.)
I am super happy for my artist friends who have gone on to find success in places like Belgium, Russia, and Morocco. Some have moved on permanently, established relationships, had children, while others are just on tour and eventually returning to Kin. Many have made videos, formed successful working partnerships, established classes or have shown their work in exhibitions. It's beautiful to be able to witness their achievements, even if Congo seems to shine a little less brightly in their absence.
It's the one point that has me reflecting all the more. The idea that leaving is a measure of accomplishment. Or the only road to success. To be fair, there are plenty of artists who stay. Plenty who are successful despite remaining at home. But of those, I can't be sure how many would run given the chance. Too many, I think.
Few artists have made it their goal to stay in their country, to enculturate the process of making art and passing it on to a new generation. Too few opportunities for publicizing one's art and becoming known on a global scale prevent this. Too few opportunities for simply supporting yourself, and maybe your family, from your art prevent this.
It's one great way to get Congo on the map- stardom out in the global market-....even if it comes with a little bit of sadness at the empty spaces left behind. More than half the population is under the age of 24, suggesting there are plenty of energetic youth to step up and fill the gaps. I suppose that is what a return visit would show me. Surprises of the new generation.
12.3.16
Pression
My aunt has accused me on more than one occasion of being brave. Something about moving to Africa and living and working here. I might have felt brave (or rather scared out of my mind) the first few months, maybe even the first year. But after 8 years? It's just become a place I live. I guess, in the absence of fear, it is hard to see bravery.
Even though I live in a huge city, I am lucky enough to be able to maintain that small town feel. As humans, we tend to develop routines and create small pathways of daily use. I definitely do this. My world in Abidjan is limited and so develops a cozy, familiar sense that makes it seem safe, for the most part.
Moving around here has an infinitely safer feel to me than getting around Kinshasa, though I adapted there. I can recall many more moments of needing to be hyper aware and even fleeting sensations of fear. Here? Not so much.
Well, at least it hadn't been that way. While I am always aware of my surroundings, it has been possible to relax. This past month, however, developers (?) tore down the collection of kiosks and little market stalls that filled the corner known as 9kilo (neuf kilo.) People were left without homes, shops or any way to care for their families. Everything. Just gone. The view of that area is shocking and discouraging- it's become a waste field of rubble and broken dreams. Not to worry, though, the trucks have moved in and are shoveling it all out- to make room for some over-priced collection of apartments or stores no doubt. I think about photographing it but (aside from my continuous problem securing a "real" camera) I don't think a photo can really express the tragedy. It is reminiscent of the roadside on the way to Bassam, miles and miles of ruins. Or the way Kinshasa police often moved in and destroyed businesses and storefronts. Piles of smoldering wood and broken concrete mixed in with bent umbrella frames and torn plastic.
Some people will argue that those cement block shops and wooden tabled vegetable stands are ugly, an eye-sore. They clog up traffic and create unsafe places where people loiter. I don't know if any of it is true. Those small cement buildings are beautiful in the way they represent the creativity, the entrepreneurial spirit, the desire and drive and motivation to face each day with energy. Those wooden vegetable stands with their black plastic umbrellas are beautiful in the way they represent the strength of women to persevere through a hot day, earning money to care for their children. There is beauty in the way those umbrellas shelter generations of mothers, aunts and daughters as they talk and laugh together, do each other's hair, and prepare food for the community passing by. There is beauty in their interactions and personal connections. It is the beauty of human will.
Whatever replaces it will be sterile and square and painted in a dull and lifeless color. I will never be able to see it as pretty or prefect. I think I will probably always see the shadows of evil lurking on the edges, remembering everyone whose lives were disrupted and discarded without a second glance.
It's left many people desperate, this development. Last week, when the evening nanny didn't show up I wondered what had happened. She travels a bit to arrive and so there is always the possibility of gbakka accidents or other problems. I couldn't reach her for the entire weekend, which only added to my concern. When she finally arrived on Monday evening, she told me her story.
She'd taken a local local taxi to 9kilo. There were two men in the backseat, one on each side of her. The driver took a round about way, a little bit longer, a little bit darker, a little bit more secluded. The two men robbed her of her phone and all her cash. They slit open her purse and took whatever was inside.
I'd read stories about this in the newspaper. The cases I'd read happened in a different part of the city but described a similar event. You get in a taxi that isn't really a taxi but a group of people working together to rob you. It's this last part that is most unsettling to me. A man working on his own just has to deal with his own guilt (or lack of.) He can deny and be secretive, yet possibly harbor a better person inside. When you work as part of a team to deceive, steal and potentially harm another person, it seems to add an entire level. There is no denial, no secrecy but an out and open admission of who you are. When other people look at you, they will only see a crook and bandit. The fact that someone commits their crime with others means they are accepting of this part of themselves, maybe even proud of it.
I don't know if it is my age, my sensitivity, or my limited social involvement, but thinking of those three men planning and menacing a single woman is very disturbing to me. It made me pause the next few times I hailed a taxi. It even made me reject a few, taxis filled with men, taxis with only 1 spot open that was not close to a door, taxis that just didn't "feel" right.
Before I rejected too many taxis, however, I recognized my sense of fear. I realized that it would never work if I gave in to it. (I have to get around somehow, right? Unfortunately, most taxis are full of men, though I have often thought of creating a women only taxi service.) However, there was nothing left to do but take in a deep breath of bravery and common sense and hail a taxi. Just. get. in.
Maybe my aunt is right. Conquering whatever fear we face in the daily routines of our own lives requires bravery. Hailing a taxi, smiling at an angry boss, facing a brand new day without a loved one, saying goodbye to our children as they embark on adventures of their own. It all requires bravery.
Even though I live in a huge city, I am lucky enough to be able to maintain that small town feel. As humans, we tend to develop routines and create small pathways of daily use. I definitely do this. My world in Abidjan is limited and so develops a cozy, familiar sense that makes it seem safe, for the most part.
Moving around here has an infinitely safer feel to me than getting around Kinshasa, though I adapted there. I can recall many more moments of needing to be hyper aware and even fleeting sensations of fear. Here? Not so much.
Well, at least it hadn't been that way. While I am always aware of my surroundings, it has been possible to relax. This past month, however, developers (?) tore down the collection of kiosks and little market stalls that filled the corner known as 9kilo (neuf kilo.) People were left without homes, shops or any way to care for their families. Everything. Just gone. The view of that area is shocking and discouraging- it's become a waste field of rubble and broken dreams. Not to worry, though, the trucks have moved in and are shoveling it all out- to make room for some over-priced collection of apartments or stores no doubt. I think about photographing it but (aside from my continuous problem securing a "real" camera) I don't think a photo can really express the tragedy. It is reminiscent of the roadside on the way to Bassam, miles and miles of ruins. Or the way Kinshasa police often moved in and destroyed businesses and storefronts. Piles of smoldering wood and broken concrete mixed in with bent umbrella frames and torn plastic.
Some people will argue that those cement block shops and wooden tabled vegetable stands are ugly, an eye-sore. They clog up traffic and create unsafe places where people loiter. I don't know if any of it is true. Those small cement buildings are beautiful in the way they represent the creativity, the entrepreneurial spirit, the desire and drive and motivation to face each day with energy. Those wooden vegetable stands with their black plastic umbrellas are beautiful in the way they represent the strength of women to persevere through a hot day, earning money to care for their children. There is beauty in the way those umbrellas shelter generations of mothers, aunts and daughters as they talk and laugh together, do each other's hair, and prepare food for the community passing by. There is beauty in their interactions and personal connections. It is the beauty of human will.
Whatever replaces it will be sterile and square and painted in a dull and lifeless color. I will never be able to see it as pretty or prefect. I think I will probably always see the shadows of evil lurking on the edges, remembering everyone whose lives were disrupted and discarded without a second glance.
It's left many people desperate, this development. Last week, when the evening nanny didn't show up I wondered what had happened. She travels a bit to arrive and so there is always the possibility of gbakka accidents or other problems. I couldn't reach her for the entire weekend, which only added to my concern. When she finally arrived on Monday evening, she told me her story.
She'd taken a local local taxi to 9kilo. There were two men in the backseat, one on each side of her. The driver took a round about way, a little bit longer, a little bit darker, a little bit more secluded. The two men robbed her of her phone and all her cash. They slit open her purse and took whatever was inside.
I'd read stories about this in the newspaper. The cases I'd read happened in a different part of the city but described a similar event. You get in a taxi that isn't really a taxi but a group of people working together to rob you. It's this last part that is most unsettling to me. A man working on his own just has to deal with his own guilt (or lack of.) He can deny and be secretive, yet possibly harbor a better person inside. When you work as part of a team to deceive, steal and potentially harm another person, it seems to add an entire level. There is no denial, no secrecy but an out and open admission of who you are. When other people look at you, they will only see a crook and bandit. The fact that someone commits their crime with others means they are accepting of this part of themselves, maybe even proud of it.
I don't know if it is my age, my sensitivity, or my limited social involvement, but thinking of those three men planning and menacing a single woman is very disturbing to me. It made me pause the next few times I hailed a taxi. It even made me reject a few, taxis filled with men, taxis with only 1 spot open that was not close to a door, taxis that just didn't "feel" right.
Before I rejected too many taxis, however, I recognized my sense of fear. I realized that it would never work if I gave in to it. (I have to get around somehow, right? Unfortunately, most taxis are full of men, though I have often thought of creating a women only taxi service.) However, there was nothing left to do but take in a deep breath of bravery and common sense and hail a taxi. Just. get. in.
Maybe my aunt is right. Conquering whatever fear we face in the daily routines of our own lives requires bravery. Hailing a taxi, smiling at an angry boss, facing a brand new day without a loved one, saying goodbye to our children as they embark on adventures of their own. It all requires bravery.
1.3.16
Mystic
Three generations of dancers are standing before me, though I don't think they're necessarily related. They are the mask dancers - specially qualified and specifically initiated in the secret rituals associated with the full body costumes.
The choreographer for Mouaye, Lass, told me the story of how these dancers spent time in the village learning the art. "They are mystic." He is almost whispering. His reverence is understandable. Mask dancing requires incredible muscle control and strength.
I can't find a video of the one who seems to slide along the ground, defying all rules of natural human movement, but I have seen his performance a few times here in Abidjan. He is covered in raffia and moves like a hoverboard. It is enough to send the children scattering in peals of fear induced laughter.
They will be joining us at MASA- or rather, I will be joining them. I am incredibly honored (and more than a touch nervous) about the opportunity to be a part of such a big event. My teachers are amazing- in just one month I feel I have made so much more progress than all the months I spent dancing in Palmeraie. (Not to mention in just one month, they are confident enough in me to put me on stage with them.)
I usually spend at least one day a week concentrating on drum. I can see progress in this area as well. I am much better at practising at home- to be fair- but I've also gotten intriguing advice.
"If you really want the music to stick, you know what you do?" One of my drum teachers, also a Lass, is talking. They are always asking me to take recordings and make videos of my lessons. I am about to find out why. "In the night, in the middle of the night, like 1 or 2 o'clock when everything is quiet, you play the music. You let the sound fill up your sleeping. It will really permeate then. The drums are spiritual, mystic. They come out at night." He assures me this is a sure fire method for ingesting the rhythms. I am inclinded to believe him. With MASA less than a week away, I am open to everything.
The choreographer for Mouaye, Lass, told me the story of how these dancers spent time in the village learning the art. "They are mystic." He is almost whispering. His reverence is understandable. Mask dancing requires incredible muscle control and strength.
I can't find a video of the one who seems to slide along the ground, defying all rules of natural human movement, but I have seen his performance a few times here in Abidjan. He is covered in raffia and moves like a hoverboard. It is enough to send the children scattering in peals of fear induced laughter.
They will be joining us at MASA- or rather, I will be joining them. I am incredibly honored (and more than a touch nervous) about the opportunity to be a part of such a big event. My teachers are amazing- in just one month I feel I have made so much more progress than all the months I spent dancing in Palmeraie. (Not to mention in just one month, they are confident enough in me to put me on stage with them.)
I usually spend at least one day a week concentrating on drum. I can see progress in this area as well. I am much better at practising at home- to be fair- but I've also gotten intriguing advice.
"If you really want the music to stick, you know what you do?" One of my drum teachers, also a Lass, is talking. They are always asking me to take recordings and make videos of my lessons. I am about to find out why. "In the night, in the middle of the night, like 1 or 2 o'clock when everything is quiet, you play the music. You let the sound fill up your sleeping. It will really permeate then. The drums are spiritual, mystic. They come out at night." He assures me this is a sure fire method for ingesting the rhythms. I am inclinded to believe him. With MASA less than a week away, I am open to everything.
Pizza and poetry
The way my life has been writing poetry lately, it is hot and soggy and full of burnt toast. The past few days have read like one of those chain poems endlessly adding a line only to negate the previous idea. Everything that could have fallen or broken or been misinterpreted has.
And there I was in the middle of it all making a pizza. Two pizzas to be exact. The boys have it in their heads that they'd like to go to school in the US for a year (or more?) and it has me scrambling to cut all the corners we can. As handy as it is, the school cantine is out. One pizza for dinner, one for lunch. Despite the sweat pouring off of me, it's going well- the double pizza crust creating. In no time I've got the pans prepped and ready for the oven. I have some eggs boiling for a quick snack or early breakfast and yogurt freshly made. I am feeling accomplished. Then the gas goes out.
Everytime it happens I think there should be some sort of warning so I'm not caught out like that, in the middle of baking. The pizzas look great on my table, but it's 8 o'clock and there's nothing to do but trek out for a refill. The poetry of my life.
This is a two person job and luckily Nabih is still awake. We lost Mohamed to an early bedtime. He plays hard and usually falls asleep exhausted somehere in the 8 o'clock hour. Which meant it was me, Nabih and the girl with an empty propane tank.
Carrying the tank is more efficient with a cloth wrapped around the handle. We each grabbed one and headed out, Mbalia snuggled in her carry on pocket. Between random thoughts about how I wished it would be this light and easy on the way back, I thought about the memories Nabih would have of this time- and the character I hoped it would build. I also wondered how I would ever manage this job alone.
As expected the way back was much heavier. Just after rounding the corner, we ran into one of Mohamed's friends. In true African style, he offered to carry the tank for me. I was happy to accept. An unexpected bit of a different kind of poetry. In return, I suggeted he stop by the next day and collect his pizza reward.
And there I was in the middle of it all making a pizza. Two pizzas to be exact. The boys have it in their heads that they'd like to go to school in the US for a year (or more?) and it has me scrambling to cut all the corners we can. As handy as it is, the school cantine is out. One pizza for dinner, one for lunch. Despite the sweat pouring off of me, it's going well- the double pizza crust creating. In no time I've got the pans prepped and ready for the oven. I have some eggs boiling for a quick snack or early breakfast and yogurt freshly made. I am feeling accomplished. Then the gas goes out.
Everytime it happens I think there should be some sort of warning so I'm not caught out like that, in the middle of baking. The pizzas look great on my table, but it's 8 o'clock and there's nothing to do but trek out for a refill. The poetry of my life.
This is a two person job and luckily Nabih is still awake. We lost Mohamed to an early bedtime. He plays hard and usually falls asleep exhausted somehere in the 8 o'clock hour. Which meant it was me, Nabih and the girl with an empty propane tank.
Carrying the tank is more efficient with a cloth wrapped around the handle. We each grabbed one and headed out, Mbalia snuggled in her carry on pocket. Between random thoughts about how I wished it would be this light and easy on the way back, I thought about the memories Nabih would have of this time- and the character I hoped it would build. I also wondered how I would ever manage this job alone.
As expected the way back was much heavier. Just after rounding the corner, we ran into one of Mohamed's friends. In true African style, he offered to carry the tank for me. I was happy to accept. An unexpected bit of a different kind of poetry. In return, I suggeted he stop by the next day and collect his pizza reward.
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