Moving to Africa cancelled out any chance of waking to a quiet wintry morning and the unexpected but oh-so-welcome school closing. It actually took a year or so of adjustment before I stopped missing those days. An intermittent variable reward (definitely going to happen but just not sure when) develops the strongest relationship, whether in love, child-rearing, or teachers and snow days. There is something satisfying about being given a chance to cozy down with the world, momentarily freeze time and enjoy the morning in your pajamas with a cup of tea. It's Sunday on a Monday....or Tuesday or whatever day the snow chance happens. It's like free time, an unexpected windfall of an entire day previously spoken for suddenly found with no responsibilities, commitments or expectations attached. It's lovely.
Moving to a tropical climate pretty much insured the end of those early mornings, eyes closed, ears open to the radio, hoping to hear that one magical name among the litany of schools being called out. Winters were definitely a major reason for leaving New York and so I don't regret a thing. Turns out Africa has her own set of 'snow days.'
Yes, in addition to soccer championships, election strife, and deadly disease outbreak, it seems mutiny is heading to the top of the list. Schools are closed so far this week in response to gunshots, road blockage and uncertainty. Those soldiers who never got paid during the first round of strikes have reached the end of their patience and their deadline.
This week has me waiting to get paid, stock the fridge and clear up some bills. It's not a good time for a revolution. I have kept my distance from Ivory Coast and that includes the complicated matter of her last (last) election and all the shady dealings involved. Or maybe I am feeling inundated with the same cycle of violence and manipulation that is playing out all over the world, again and again.
Because I am still in my recovery phase (calling this week physical therapy and trying to get back to my regular exercise routine,) I didn't get the small thrill of an unexpected day off. However, most teachers and students, along with some of their families are enjoying a random 2 day bonus time- staying home and staying safe- and wondering what's to come.
(I feel a need to point out that many people are NOT enjoying this time- they are losing out on work and want nothing more than to be back to their normal routine. There have been shootings and at least 1 death. I completely respect this and am not trying to minimize the situation in the country. But when there's a mutiny for the 2nd time in 5 months, and you're counting the days until you can get to that dreamy Mali retreat- which is surely waiting with it's own share of political and terrorist problems- a little perspective might be all there is. Break out the snow mittens, time to make an igloo.)
15.5.17
4.5.17
Parts
Tedd Arnold has a funny book about a boy who's afraid of losing his body parts. He followed it up with More Parts , an equally amusing book that deals with expressions involving loss of body parts. The little boy imagines the worst until his parents explain at the end that all these idioms can't be taken literally.
The humor, of course, lies in the premise that losing our body parts is something that really happens and it can be scary- if we don't understand the natural processes of our bodies. While the West likes to attribute the "foolishness" of body part harvesting to Africa, and Abidjan itself has had its hard times, there is no lack of conspiracy theories in the US about about the victimization of the black community or even planned parenthood's role. The fact is, worldwide organ trafficking is a lucrative business.
And the majority of us never even give it a thought. Although Medicare says they cover part of the costs, (notice that medications for after treatment are covered for a limited time, even though the American Society for Transplants reports that medicine will be required for life) there are endless stories of fundraisers for families trying to receive care (and what's up with organ registry list fees?!) and even an organization dedicated to the cause for children.
All of these images went rolling around my anesthesia-hazed mind on Saturday afternoon as an orderly wheeled me out of recovery in search of a room. "Her parts are there," he said to his partner, motioning to a small covered container. It was closed securely, labeled with my name and personal information and held a good sized piece of tissue that had, only hours before, been tucked safely inside my body.
I'm sure no one was hatching plans to steal my vial in the middle of the night and whisk it off to the highest bidder....no bidders for this particular harvest...but nevertheless, I was disturbed to have an inner piece of me exposed to the outer public. Obviously it had been sitting on the shelf just above me while I'd slept the afternoon away in the post-op area.
If this were Kinshasa, honestly, the story would be more about hospital conditions or medical interactions. But here in Abidjan, true to form, the only complaint I can offer is in insurance procedures- or maybe it is doctor procedures, it's really hard to tell.
The clinic itself is bright and shiny in all the right places. There are procedures and precautions at every turn. I think it is a familiar experience to the etranger and inspires confidence. I don't have much experience with hospitals or illness, so I don't know if all the tests they made me take were routine or over-excessive Ivorian regulation. Likewise the extended no work recovery period allowed by law. I am not sure how much is medically necessary, but the fact that the law allows for it- requires it even- is welcome for someone like me, who would probably otherwise just return to work the next day and push on through. Honestly, a break is welcome. Needed even.
Things had been going so well, in fact, that the sight of my tissue in a jar beside me was all the more alarming. "What am I supposed to do with that?" I asked the doctor. "And is it going to be ok...just...out in the open?"
The doctor has not won any bedside manner accolades from me in our brief time together. He raised his hands and shrugged. He told me he had to take it out before he could request that it be analyzed (Really? What else would one do with extracted tissue?) and suggested it would be fine until Tuesday (Monday was a holiday.) I tried to do a bit of a google search, but even the grand master of information had no helpful results to offer on "tissue storage after biopsy." All I could find was that the specimen should be stored in 10% formaldehyde solution. No one else seemed to have the experience of being sent home with their insides in a jar. I am not sure if I will have any belief in the results.
Seeking out the insurance ok paved the way for a new adventure- me wandering the business district of Plateau, 72 hours post surgery, feeling like I might fall over at any minute. I was battling my desire to walk as little as possible and conserve taxi money. Generally, those are not compatible ideas. To top it all off, I'd mistaken the name of the reference hotel. I headed towards the lagune area and the Novotel, thinking it was the Ivotel. This involved a 20 minute walk across town, when in actuality, the taxi had originally dropped me off surprisingly close to my destination.
After determining my error, I hailed an orange cab and had it bring me back to where I'd began. So much for going the economical route.There I found the insurance bureau and made my way up the elevator, through the doors and down a hallway into the small office of a woman addressed as "doctor." I was surprised to find a doctor working there. But then relieved. But then realized it didn't matter much because this person was not my doctor and so had no knowledge of any of the tests, results, or processes leading up to this moment.
It took her about 30 seconds to read, sign and stamp my paper. "That's it?" I couldn't help but ask. I was incredulous. Once again I repeated my protest that this whole procedure was simply not logical. The law affords me more than 2 weeks for recovery but the insurance company has me out and walking around less than 3 days after the surgery to obtain permissions- that could have easily been included in the initial inquiry.
She just looked at me and cocked her head. "You are tired. Don't you have anyone to help you?" It reminded me of the absurd question by the intake nurse when she motioned me through the surgery block doors. She'd looked at my bag and asked if I hadn't brought my parents with me. My parents? I am the parent.
It is one of those things I find infuriating about Abidjan (and surely other African cities are at fault too. Kinshasa had her share of ridiculous forms.) It is the space for parent names. I suppose if you are from a whole family that functions, maybe this is no big deal. You fill in your mother, your father, their birth dates and move on.
For me it is an emotional undertaking. The father line always leaves me conflicted. Since I have found out my biological father is most likely dead, I think it is easiest to simply write 'deceased' there. But the angry adolescent in me surges up every time. My mother? Why do I have to write her name here? She hasn't taken care of me since I was 10. What could she possibly have to do with any of this? I wonder what true orphans do.
In Africa, the assumption is that everyone has an auntie or uncle or cousin or some stand-in family that will fill the role. As an etranger, and an extremely private person, there are not many to ask to fill this role. I am my parent. They will laugh at me here, not quite believing I am serious. It doesn't help that the whole experience has me feeling exposed and vulnerable, which leads to an abrupt rudeness that I can't quite stifle. Add in the "I don't do hospitals or medicines or doctors" and I was basically a wreck. Luckily, I was too tired to offer much resistance. Or even any word at all. I took my paper with it's red signature and made my way over to the lab to drop off my parts.
The humor, of course, lies in the premise that losing our body parts is something that really happens and it can be scary- if we don't understand the natural processes of our bodies. While the West likes to attribute the "foolishness" of body part harvesting to Africa, and Abidjan itself has had its hard times, there is no lack of conspiracy theories in the US about about the victimization of the black community or even planned parenthood's role. The fact is, worldwide organ trafficking is a lucrative business.
And the majority of us never even give it a thought. Although Medicare says they cover part of the costs, (notice that medications for after treatment are covered for a limited time, even though the American Society for Transplants reports that medicine will be required for life) there are endless stories of fundraisers for families trying to receive care (and what's up with organ registry list fees?!) and even an organization dedicated to the cause for children.
All of these images went rolling around my anesthesia-hazed mind on Saturday afternoon as an orderly wheeled me out of recovery in search of a room. "Her parts are there," he said to his partner, motioning to a small covered container. It was closed securely, labeled with my name and personal information and held a good sized piece of tissue that had, only hours before, been tucked safely inside my body.
I'm sure no one was hatching plans to steal my vial in the middle of the night and whisk it off to the highest bidder....no bidders for this particular harvest...but nevertheless, I was disturbed to have an inner piece of me exposed to the outer public. Obviously it had been sitting on the shelf just above me while I'd slept the afternoon away in the post-op area.
If this were Kinshasa, honestly, the story would be more about hospital conditions or medical interactions. But here in Abidjan, true to form, the only complaint I can offer is in insurance procedures- or maybe it is doctor procedures, it's really hard to tell.
The clinic itself is bright and shiny in all the right places. There are procedures and precautions at every turn. I think it is a familiar experience to the etranger and inspires confidence. I don't have much experience with hospitals or illness, so I don't know if all the tests they made me take were routine or over-excessive Ivorian regulation. Likewise the extended no work recovery period allowed by law. I am not sure how much is medically necessary, but the fact that the law allows for it- requires it even- is welcome for someone like me, who would probably otherwise just return to work the next day and push on through. Honestly, a break is welcome. Needed even.
Things had been going so well, in fact, that the sight of my tissue in a jar beside me was all the more alarming. "What am I supposed to do with that?" I asked the doctor. "And is it going to be ok...just...out in the open?"
The doctor has not won any bedside manner accolades from me in our brief time together. He raised his hands and shrugged. He told me he had to take it out before he could request that it be analyzed (Really? What else would one do with extracted tissue?) and suggested it would be fine until Tuesday (Monday was a holiday.) I tried to do a bit of a google search, but even the grand master of information had no helpful results to offer on "tissue storage after biopsy." All I could find was that the specimen should be stored in 10% formaldehyde solution. No one else seemed to have the experience of being sent home with their insides in a jar. I am not sure if I will have any belief in the results.
Seeking out the insurance ok paved the way for a new adventure- me wandering the business district of Plateau, 72 hours post surgery, feeling like I might fall over at any minute. I was battling my desire to walk as little as possible and conserve taxi money. Generally, those are not compatible ideas. To top it all off, I'd mistaken the name of the reference hotel. I headed towards the lagune area and the Novotel, thinking it was the Ivotel. This involved a 20 minute walk across town, when in actuality, the taxi had originally dropped me off surprisingly close to my destination.
After determining my error, I hailed an orange cab and had it bring me back to where I'd began. So much for going the economical route.There I found the insurance bureau and made my way up the elevator, through the doors and down a hallway into the small office of a woman addressed as "doctor." I was surprised to find a doctor working there. But then relieved. But then realized it didn't matter much because this person was not my doctor and so had no knowledge of any of the tests, results, or processes leading up to this moment.
It took her about 30 seconds to read, sign and stamp my paper. "That's it?" I couldn't help but ask. I was incredulous. Once again I repeated my protest that this whole procedure was simply not logical. The law affords me more than 2 weeks for recovery but the insurance company has me out and walking around less than 3 days after the surgery to obtain permissions- that could have easily been included in the initial inquiry.
She just looked at me and cocked her head. "You are tired. Don't you have anyone to help you?" It reminded me of the absurd question by the intake nurse when she motioned me through the surgery block doors. She'd looked at my bag and asked if I hadn't brought my parents with me. My parents? I am the parent.
It is one of those things I find infuriating about Abidjan (and surely other African cities are at fault too. Kinshasa had her share of ridiculous forms.) It is the space for parent names. I suppose if you are from a whole family that functions, maybe this is no big deal. You fill in your mother, your father, their birth dates and move on.
For me it is an emotional undertaking. The father line always leaves me conflicted. Since I have found out my biological father is most likely dead, I think it is easiest to simply write 'deceased' there. But the angry adolescent in me surges up every time. My mother? Why do I have to write her name here? She hasn't taken care of me since I was 10. What could she possibly have to do with any of this? I wonder what true orphans do.
In Africa, the assumption is that everyone has an auntie or uncle or cousin or some stand-in family that will fill the role. As an etranger, and an extremely private person, there are not many to ask to fill this role. I am my parent. They will laugh at me here, not quite believing I am serious. It doesn't help that the whole experience has me feeling exposed and vulnerable, which leads to an abrupt rudeness that I can't quite stifle. Add in the "I don't do hospitals or medicines or doctors" and I was basically a wreck. Luckily, I was too tired to offer much resistance. Or even any word at all. I took my paper with it's red signature and made my way over to the lab to drop off my parts.
1.5.17
Mbibi and Bini
We had a chance to do a little more forest bathing, which actually had me wondering if maybe what I am missing in life is more nature and less people. I felt certain I could spend a few weeks or more out there among the trees without the slightest bit of the loneliness that seems to haunt me in Abidjan.
Domain Bini is 62 hectares of wooded area just outside Yopougon. Mr. Bini told me he'd inherited the land from his older brother, who'd inherited it from their father. It is surrounded by plantations and the Banco forest. Mr. Bini spent some time considering how to use the land and has been slowly developing his ideas. Or rather, ideas he thought would take a few years have already been achieved and now he is striving to keep up with the new pace of things.
His intentions are to keep everything natural. Chairs, cups, and bowls are all made from natural elements. Our lunch was served on a tree plank table top covered with large palm leaves. Rather than plates, we were served finger food on banana leaves. "No silverware or plates here. Everything is natural and you have to eat with your hands," Mr. Bini announced as he called his guests in.
We had a chance to walk through the forest- which felt much more welcoming and at ease than the banco trip- although our group was definitely outnumbered in the adult to child ration which made for a more chaotic walk- or maybe it was just me and Mbibi. She's reached that magical age of intensity. Everything that happens sends her into gales of giggles or horrifying screams of terror and defiance. Our jungle walk coincided with nap time and she confused herself between wanting to walk or be carried on my back. In the end she threw such a major fit she ended up peeing all over me, herself and the extra pagne I'd brought to wrap her with. I striped her down, wiped her dry and changed her clothes before handing her off to one of our guides, who graciously offered to carry her. (and with whom she was on perfect behavior, having been thoroughly exhausted by her fit and surprised by wetting herself.) Oh, my girl.
Her favorite place was the hammock crawl at 'base camp' and once we returned she rebounded with energy and wit. She loved playing with the other kids but also had a great time by herself, pretending to go to the boutique (one of her favorite destinations these days) and buy stuff from Diallo (her favorite boutique guy.)
After a brief reprieve, we took the kids down to the clay baths. I asked Mr. Bini how many years we could expect to shave off our age, but he laughed and suggested perhaps only a week. The clay baths were full service (well, none of the adults in our group went for the full experience and so maybe they were so hands on because of the kids.) They "soaped" them up and sent them off to dry in the sun (plenty of opportunity for zombie pics during the dry time.) The two women also assisted in the washing off process. Mbalia washed first and then we were off to explore so I am not exactly sure what happened next. I turned around to see all of the kids huddling on the edge of the pond and one of the women beating at something with a long stick. Snake? Water critter? There's always a little bit of excitement in the jungle.
I enjoyed talking with Mr. Bini about ideas for the future- many of which he's already considering (definitely helpful to offer some sort of transportation- sadly I cannot revisit because of this factor. Offering retreats for team building, more canopies for sleeping) and a few that he hadn't (partnering with scouts organizations to offer retreats, other retreats in arts and health, creating another "base camp" in a different area of the land to allow for groups to come but still maintain a sense of seclusion.) It is fun to think of possibilities with other people's opportunities.
He was kind enough to say he appreciated the ideas, and he does appreciate getting feedback from visitors. Not only does it reinforce that fact that his ideas are on the right track, it also helps to keep him inspired and motivated. He told me he doesn't get a chance to sleep well and even when he would like to spend a night drinking or relaxing, he cannot. The ideas are just swimming around and around.
Domain Bini is 62 hectares of wooded area just outside Yopougon. Mr. Bini told me he'd inherited the land from his older brother, who'd inherited it from their father. It is surrounded by plantations and the Banco forest. Mr. Bini spent some time considering how to use the land and has been slowly developing his ideas. Or rather, ideas he thought would take a few years have already been achieved and now he is striving to keep up with the new pace of things.
His intentions are to keep everything natural. Chairs, cups, and bowls are all made from natural elements. Our lunch was served on a tree plank table top covered with large palm leaves. Rather than plates, we were served finger food on banana leaves. "No silverware or plates here. Everything is natural and you have to eat with your hands," Mr. Bini announced as he called his guests in.
We had a chance to walk through the forest- which felt much more welcoming and at ease than the banco trip- although our group was definitely outnumbered in the adult to child ration which made for a more chaotic walk- or maybe it was just me and Mbibi. She's reached that magical age of intensity. Everything that happens sends her into gales of giggles or horrifying screams of terror and defiance. Our jungle walk coincided with nap time and she confused herself between wanting to walk or be carried on my back. In the end she threw such a major fit she ended up peeing all over me, herself and the extra pagne I'd brought to wrap her with. I striped her down, wiped her dry and changed her clothes before handing her off to one of our guides, who graciously offered to carry her. (and with whom she was on perfect behavior, having been thoroughly exhausted by her fit and surprised by wetting herself.) Oh, my girl.
Her favorite place was the hammock crawl at 'base camp' and once we returned she rebounded with energy and wit. She loved playing with the other kids but also had a great time by herself, pretending to go to the boutique (one of her favorite destinations these days) and buy stuff from Diallo (her favorite boutique guy.)
After a brief reprieve, we took the kids down to the clay baths. I asked Mr. Bini how many years we could expect to shave off our age, but he laughed and suggested perhaps only a week. The clay baths were full service (well, none of the adults in our group went for the full experience and so maybe they were so hands on because of the kids.) They "soaped" them up and sent them off to dry in the sun (plenty of opportunity for zombie pics during the dry time.) The two women also assisted in the washing off process. Mbalia washed first and then we were off to explore so I am not exactly sure what happened next. I turned around to see all of the kids huddling on the edge of the pond and one of the women beating at something with a long stick. Snake? Water critter? There's always a little bit of excitement in the jungle.
I enjoyed talking with Mr. Bini about ideas for the future- many of which he's already considering (definitely helpful to offer some sort of transportation- sadly I cannot revisit because of this factor. Offering retreats for team building, more canopies for sleeping) and a few that he hadn't (partnering with scouts organizations to offer retreats, other retreats in arts and health, creating another "base camp" in a different area of the land to allow for groups to come but still maintain a sense of seclusion.) It is fun to think of possibilities with other people's opportunities.
He was kind enough to say he appreciated the ideas, and he does appreciate getting feedback from visitors. Not only does it reinforce that fact that his ideas are on the right track, it also helps to keep him inspired and motivated. He told me he doesn't get a chance to sleep well and even when he would like to spend a night drinking or relaxing, he cannot. The ideas are just swimming around and around.
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| Super cozy tire swing |
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| Burlap door to the bathroom |
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| eco-friendly |
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| Path into the jungle |
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| Banana leaf covered table(cloth) |
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| Climbing hammocks |
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| Mini zip line |
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| Hand washing buckets |
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| Welcome area waiting with fresh coconut |
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| "Cups"- drinking ladles for fresh coconut water |
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| The dining and gathering area |
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| Looks like a cozy night spot, complete with fire pit |
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| Clay bath |
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| Mbibi went with the do-it-yourself option |
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| Zombies drying in the sun |
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| Full service rinse |
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| A beautiful tree...and a chair |
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| A second clay bath in the making |
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| Wild child....in her favorite state |
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| Cacao seeds drying |
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| Another large group coming in....coconut welcome |
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| Claim your mountain, no matter how high it is |
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| The real zip line....complete with bee infestation- we didn't try it |
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