Shards of green glass littered the roadway, sparkling in the sunlight like emeralds. Overturned orange crates lay scattered throughout the ruins, a few still protecting 1 or 2 intact bottles. The motorcart itself seemed to be unscathed. It was parked just off to the side, around the corner. The driver stood in the middle of the mess, hands on hips, assessing the personal cost of his miscalculation. A well dressed man in crisp African clothes gestured to a policeman as the two made their way across the intersection. Perhaps he was the other driver. It wasn't clear which vehicle was his.
I've passed several accidents in the last few weeks. They seem to come in waves like that. Twice my passing coincided with the arrival of the police. I've long been curious about the after incident process but have never actually seen it. In the first case, a policeman was drawing with chalk around the vehicles, large squares outlining their placement. Presumably, the cars could then be moved.
The tendency to leave cars- and even victims, as I saw one hit bicycle rider today- in the exact spot of the accident leads to such traffic congestion and delay. Not to mention it often seems dangerous to those involved as they often stand discussing the problem right there too. No cones, no one redirecting traffic, not even any palm fronds in the road (although someone had placed a cement brick next to the biker guy's bag of rice that had apparently flew from his basket. And to be fair, if it goes on long enough, eventually an on-looker will jump in and start trying to sort out the tangled traffic. Usually. )
We passed the bottle accident a second time on our way home, about 20 minutes later. He was in the middle of the street with a broom sweeping up the mess. I couldn't help but feel for him. No matter whose fault the accident, his life was taking a hard toll that day. Surely he'd be held responsible for the crates of beer that had been destroyed. Any insurance process would take far too long to be of any help to anyone.
Even as I was empathizing with him, there was something about his act of cleaning that struck a chord with me. African sensibility I could get behind, if, in fact, the accident was the result of his own negligence in observing traffic laws. And if he wasn't the culprit? He was definitely the younger of the two and the less wealthy. There's a certain African sensibility to that as well.
11.7.17
4.7.17
The third state
I'm in that other kind of limbo state known to frequent travelers- packing hell. Packing hell occurs during the mid-state of packing, when all the little random items begin appearing and mysteriously multiplying. It's that point in time when you feel like you are spending all of your time packing, and boxes are getting filled- there's a pile to prove it- but you can't tell if you're really making progress. Perpetual packing aka packing hell.
Which is why it's no surprise that the highlight of my week has been falling in love with a new ab machine at the gym and making this delicious healthy treat at home. I've managed to stay away from them for the last 30 minutes, but I am not sure how. Distraction is my only savior.
It's a pleasure to find an easy recipe that I have all the ingredients to. In preparation for Mali, I am trying to remember all the things we made from scratch in Kinshasa. I have no idea how sparse it will be, but I do have a recipe for crackers. Your basic Saltines. That's how bad it's been. Baking is a pleasure though, something I am trying to remember on these gray rainy days. (And happily, there are even people in the house to eat it now, freeing me from that pressure.)
But it's entirely possible that I could be back to making tofu and soy milk straight from the soybeans, or souring my own yogurt on a weekly basis. I am not really sure what to do about the rumor that I won't find tahini there- we are all pretty addicted to yogurt-tahini salad dressing. And tuna mix. And carrot dip. And even straight spoonfuls. Mbalia favors it as an all over body lotion.
Luckily, the Minimalist Baker has me covered on that front as well, though I'd need to invest in a food processor. I am looking forward to a real kitchen to bake in. Inspiration is so much easier to find when you have a counter.
For now, though, we are all here trying to weather these cool, gray days. In France, I remember feeling shocked at how late the sun set. It really was 10:00 at night before the skies began to darken. While the first day was disorienting, soon enough it felt like a gift. I was a little kid with permission to stay up all night. There was so much to see and do and suddenly, a billion extra hours to do it in. I could use a few of those hours now.
Back in Abidjan, the sun faithfully sets every day at 6:30. By 10 o'clock, the night feels hours old and morning seems just around the corner. I'm trying to be the minimalist packer, but I know that it will be comforting to have our familiar things. Luckily, we are able to ship by land this time. I still have nightmares about the move here. I can't believe how much we brought by plane.
I will be happy not to be writing about furniture dreams or which clothes wash best by hand. I am excited by the prospect of travel, and newness and learning. There is nothing like a good adventure for inspiration.
Which is why it's no surprise that the highlight of my week has been falling in love with a new ab machine at the gym and making this delicious healthy treat at home. I've managed to stay away from them for the last 30 minutes, but I am not sure how. Distraction is my only savior.
It's a pleasure to find an easy recipe that I have all the ingredients to. In preparation for Mali, I am trying to remember all the things we made from scratch in Kinshasa. I have no idea how sparse it will be, but I do have a recipe for crackers. Your basic Saltines. That's how bad it's been. Baking is a pleasure though, something I am trying to remember on these gray rainy days. (And happily, there are even people in the house to eat it now, freeing me from that pressure.)
But it's entirely possible that I could be back to making tofu and soy milk straight from the soybeans, or souring my own yogurt on a weekly basis. I am not really sure what to do about the rumor that I won't find tahini there- we are all pretty addicted to yogurt-tahini salad dressing. And tuna mix. And carrot dip. And even straight spoonfuls. Mbalia favors it as an all over body lotion.
Luckily, the Minimalist Baker has me covered on that front as well, though I'd need to invest in a food processor. I am looking forward to a real kitchen to bake in. Inspiration is so much easier to find when you have a counter.
For now, though, we are all here trying to weather these cool, gray days. In France, I remember feeling shocked at how late the sun set. It really was 10:00 at night before the skies began to darken. While the first day was disorienting, soon enough it felt like a gift. I was a little kid with permission to stay up all night. There was so much to see and do and suddenly, a billion extra hours to do it in. I could use a few of those hours now.
Back in Abidjan, the sun faithfully sets every day at 6:30. By 10 o'clock, the night feels hours old and morning seems just around the corner. I'm trying to be the minimalist packer, but I know that it will be comforting to have our familiar things. Luckily, we are able to ship by land this time. I still have nightmares about the move here. I can't believe how much we brought by plane.
I will be happy not to be writing about furniture dreams or which clothes wash best by hand. I am excited by the prospect of travel, and newness and learning. There is nothing like a good adventure for inspiration.
2.7.17
Nasepeli forte
I was born a traveler. I have always loved people watching and found a certain kind of pleasure of being in limbo- that unique traveler transit state during the time it takes to get from one place to another. In my younger days, I was known as a walker. I really felt I could walk forever and distance meant nothing if I had somewhere I wanted to go. I wasn't afraid to just get out there and start trucking.
Eventually I got a bike and that led to even more freedom. There is nothing quite like the wind whipping through your hair as you speed down the streets. The world was just a little bit more open and in my control (no more waiting for bus schedules, no more walking for hours.) I could get to places on time and riding home at night left me feeling like I owned the world.
Of course, having your own car is the ultimate in freedom. You are only limited by the cash in your pocket and land-sea borders. In these later years, I've become pretty proficient at mass forms of transport- buses, taxis, trains, even airplanes. There is a certain freedom here too. It lies not so much in control, but in a sense that you can navigate any city or village or stretch of road you happen to find yourself on. And I'd been feeling pretty good about my skills in all of these areas.
Until I got to Paris. I made a series of novice mistakes that nearly had me on a completely different kind of adventure. It started with neglecting to change my francs in Abidjan. I really thought it would be no problem to change them in France, given their tight colonial history and continued close relationship. There were so many places in Paris reminiscent of Abidjan (of course, that's like saying the mom resembles the child. I quickly realized the French had imported most of their stores, restaurants, brands and even street names. It was disorienting to be surrounded by such familiar places in a completely foreign country. Then I realized the French probably wanted it that way, in reverse.)
My first stop in Istanbul was not promising. I missed my connecting flight - which ordinarily wouldn't matter so much, more of that in transit limbo I kind of love- but I had 2 meetings immediately after my arrival, which was now delayed by 3 hours. I managed to connect for a minute to the airport wi-fi and dash off a message to my friend, but when I went in search of cash exchange I was denied. The guy behind the desk gave me a kind of clueless head shake. Nope, never heard of that money and not gonna take it. I started to feel a little stuck. Isolated with my random African cash, broken down phone charger and no way to reliably get in touch with anyone. I held out hope for France.
Upon arrival, however, I saw the same money exchange stands with the same currencies listed. No XOF. I asked the woman where I could exchange my cash and she suggested somewhere in the city- a city I couldn't actually get to because I didn't have any money for the train. What a newbie mistake! I was losing faith in myself- this was actually when the African villager sensation began to set in. Really, I hadn't changed my francs in the airport before coming? What was I thinking?
Luckily, a few things happened. I still had some charge on my phone and roaming kicked in. After a few minutes of imagining myself as Mehran Nasseri, the inspiration for The Terminal, I called my friend to explain my situation (completely embarrassed- yes, come pick up your country cousin from the airport because she doesn't have any way to get into the city. Apparently there is a whole list of people who have lived temporarily in airports, albeit with far nobler reasons than mine.) I was also able to google XOF money exchange. There were 2 places listed, one just right outside the metro. If only I could get there. (And yes, throughout my trip as we passed the multitude of street beggars and the occasional street performer, I was chided about my close call and reminded of how I'd almost been forced to consider alternate strategies for getting a metro ticket.)
Money continued to be a bit of sore spot for me during my short stay. I couldn't get used to the small numbers. I remember going through this exact experience in reverse when I first started traveling in Africa. Guinea is one of the worst for having unusually high numbers in relation to their money. Congo and West Africa have a similar number system (although different dollar/euro conversion values.) Thinking in terms of thousands is pretty ingrained in me.
When the clerk told me something was 5...it took a minute to process. 5 what? And I couldn't stop adding thousand to the end of my money sentences. "Shoes for 7 thousand euro? Not bad." When I got a handful of change, I wasn't even sure what to call it. There was also a 10 and a 5, but obviously they weren't euros. Centimes is the correct word, but no one ever seems to use it. I would hear prices like 5 64. A blank stare was really all I could offer to that.
It's amazing how fast habits of thinking can form. I have only been in Abidjan for 3 years and the small change problem has already been deeply implanted. I had small anxiety attacks every time I wanted to buy something, knowing I had a 50 euro bill. Fortunately, the rebuff never came and, much like the whole crossing on the pedestrian light, I was continuously amazed.
The small change problem in Abidjan is a huge source of frustration for me. Especially since I've come to understand that people often do have change, they just hoard it. It's become automatic to ask for the small amounts (do you have 200 franc?) so they can return a 500 or 1,000 bill. When I need to say no (because I really don't have it or because I am hoarding it myself for taxi fare) the larger stores will miraculously come up with the change (or occasionally offer a 50franc candy or laundry soap packet.) The smaller stores are obligated to refuse the purchase if they have no change to offer you.
I had a small breakdown on the cashier at a roadside boutique yesterday. I'd just come from the store across the street who couldn't sell me an item because of change problem. He started to complain as well about the problem of change, suggesting I buy more than I needed or at a higher rate, when I just lost it- I think it's cyclical for me and I was probably due a little road rage over the problem of monnaie. "How can you be in business if you have no change? You don't have change, customers don't have change, no one has change so how can you even have a business?" He just smiled and nodded his head and said, "Oui, ce ca," which infuriated me even more.
Refreshingly, Paris seemed to have no problem with change. I had a little trouble believing my small coins were worth anything however (really, a 2? What am I going to do with a 2?) and the oddity of money played around in my brain. It's really only useful because a group of people have agreed to accept it as valuable. Even these euros would lose their merit once I stepped out of the western world. And in some remote village, trying to purchase anything with a crisp orange 50 euro bill would only result in a puzzling glance and a sideways smile.
On the return through Turkey, I exchanged 5 of my 2 euro coins for Turkish lire. I bought a sandwich, a cup of tea and some candy. I was pretty successful in using up every last lire. They had an interesting machine in the airport for those who weren't so thrifty. The machine allowed you to charge up your visa, Amazon or other online accounts using the last bits of lire that you hadn't been able to spend.
As it is, I still came back with a pile of centimes. I had a plan to incorporate them into a piece of art. Whenever I think about it too closely, the money systems we've developed disturb me deeply. And that's just considering paper systems. Turns out my newbie traveling errors weren't restricted to the problem of converting cash. Traveling without a credit card creates its own set of potential problems.
If money systems set us apart, language systems have a way of bringing us together. Even in the absence of fluency, effort is all that's required to create a sense of harmony. The first leg of my return trip reinforced this idea completely.
My flight home was near dawn and I'd prepared by writing down the earliest bus and train times. What I'd completely neglected to do was look up ticket selling hours. We arrived at the metro just around 5:30 am, but there were no stands open. A line of stark, cold machines were the only thing greeting us. We had seen machines in another station that allowed you to buy a ticket with coins or cash, but on this morning, at the main station, all we saw were the card eating variety.
Rookie mistake. We wandered in circles a bit, trying to figure out what to do. My friend was urging me to just follow behind someone quickly when they passed through the gate. I considered it briefly, not even realizing I would have to do the same thing on the other end. I wasn't really prepared to do that, I was just unable to think towards a logical solution. Which is what led me to approach a man at one of the machines and just get a closer look. They only take cards, right? No coin deposit or one of those money sucking slots? No? Nope, ok.
I wanted to ask him to purchase a ticket for me in exchange for the cash but for some reason these words didn't come out. (More of my amateur traveler self showing its roots. Ugh, really?!) Luckily, my friend had the same idea and while I wandered down to the gate again, they struck up a conversation about my travel woes.
The man agreed to purchase a one way ticket to Charles de Gaulle in exchange for 10 euro cash. Good Samaritan in the airport. As he was completing the transaction, he made small talk of the globetrotter kind. He himself was a visitor to Paris and asked where we were from. When talk of Congo came up, he surprised both of us by continuing the conversation in Lingala.
"Nazoloba Lingala un peu mais nasepeli forte..." I couldn't have had a better end to my Paris stay than running into a random, helpful stranger who loves Congo as much as I do.
Eventually I got a bike and that led to even more freedom. There is nothing quite like the wind whipping through your hair as you speed down the streets. The world was just a little bit more open and in my control (no more waiting for bus schedules, no more walking for hours.) I could get to places on time and riding home at night left me feeling like I owned the world.
Of course, having your own car is the ultimate in freedom. You are only limited by the cash in your pocket and land-sea borders. In these later years, I've become pretty proficient at mass forms of transport- buses, taxis, trains, even airplanes. There is a certain freedom here too. It lies not so much in control, but in a sense that you can navigate any city or village or stretch of road you happen to find yourself on. And I'd been feeling pretty good about my skills in all of these areas.
Until I got to Paris. I made a series of novice mistakes that nearly had me on a completely different kind of adventure. It started with neglecting to change my francs in Abidjan. I really thought it would be no problem to change them in France, given their tight colonial history and continued close relationship. There were so many places in Paris reminiscent of Abidjan (of course, that's like saying the mom resembles the child. I quickly realized the French had imported most of their stores, restaurants, brands and even street names. It was disorienting to be surrounded by such familiar places in a completely foreign country. Then I realized the French probably wanted it that way, in reverse.)
My first stop in Istanbul was not promising. I missed my connecting flight - which ordinarily wouldn't matter so much, more of that in transit limbo I kind of love- but I had 2 meetings immediately after my arrival, which was now delayed by 3 hours. I managed to connect for a minute to the airport wi-fi and dash off a message to my friend, but when I went in search of cash exchange I was denied. The guy behind the desk gave me a kind of clueless head shake. Nope, never heard of that money and not gonna take it. I started to feel a little stuck. Isolated with my random African cash, broken down phone charger and no way to reliably get in touch with anyone. I held out hope for France.
Upon arrival, however, I saw the same money exchange stands with the same currencies listed. No XOF. I asked the woman where I could exchange my cash and she suggested somewhere in the city- a city I couldn't actually get to because I didn't have any money for the train. What a newbie mistake! I was losing faith in myself- this was actually when the African villager sensation began to set in. Really, I hadn't changed my francs in the airport before coming? What was I thinking?
Luckily, a few things happened. I still had some charge on my phone and roaming kicked in. After a few minutes of imagining myself as Mehran Nasseri, the inspiration for The Terminal, I called my friend to explain my situation (completely embarrassed- yes, come pick up your country cousin from the airport because she doesn't have any way to get into the city. Apparently there is a whole list of people who have lived temporarily in airports, albeit with far nobler reasons than mine.) I was also able to google XOF money exchange. There were 2 places listed, one just right outside the metro. If only I could get there. (And yes, throughout my trip as we passed the multitude of street beggars and the occasional street performer, I was chided about my close call and reminded of how I'd almost been forced to consider alternate strategies for getting a metro ticket.)
Money continued to be a bit of sore spot for me during my short stay. I couldn't get used to the small numbers. I remember going through this exact experience in reverse when I first started traveling in Africa. Guinea is one of the worst for having unusually high numbers in relation to their money. Congo and West Africa have a similar number system (although different dollar/euro conversion values.) Thinking in terms of thousands is pretty ingrained in me.
When the clerk told me something was 5...it took a minute to process. 5 what? And I couldn't stop adding thousand to the end of my money sentences. "Shoes for 7 thousand euro? Not bad." When I got a handful of change, I wasn't even sure what to call it. There was also a 10 and a 5, but obviously they weren't euros. Centimes is the correct word, but no one ever seems to use it. I would hear prices like 5 64. A blank stare was really all I could offer to that.
It's amazing how fast habits of thinking can form. I have only been in Abidjan for 3 years and the small change problem has already been deeply implanted. I had small anxiety attacks every time I wanted to buy something, knowing I had a 50 euro bill. Fortunately, the rebuff never came and, much like the whole crossing on the pedestrian light, I was continuously amazed.
The small change problem in Abidjan is a huge source of frustration for me. Especially since I've come to understand that people often do have change, they just hoard it. It's become automatic to ask for the small amounts (do you have 200 franc?) so they can return a 500 or 1,000 bill. When I need to say no (because I really don't have it or because I am hoarding it myself for taxi fare) the larger stores will miraculously come up with the change (or occasionally offer a 50franc candy or laundry soap packet.) The smaller stores are obligated to refuse the purchase if they have no change to offer you.
I had a small breakdown on the cashier at a roadside boutique yesterday. I'd just come from the store across the street who couldn't sell me an item because of change problem. He started to complain as well about the problem of change, suggesting I buy more than I needed or at a higher rate, when I just lost it- I think it's cyclical for me and I was probably due a little road rage over the problem of monnaie. "How can you be in business if you have no change? You don't have change, customers don't have change, no one has change so how can you even have a business?" He just smiled and nodded his head and said, "Oui, ce ca," which infuriated me even more.
Refreshingly, Paris seemed to have no problem with change. I had a little trouble believing my small coins were worth anything however (really, a 2? What am I going to do with a 2?) and the oddity of money played around in my brain. It's really only useful because a group of people have agreed to accept it as valuable. Even these euros would lose their merit once I stepped out of the western world. And in some remote village, trying to purchase anything with a crisp orange 50 euro bill would only result in a puzzling glance and a sideways smile.
On the return through Turkey, I exchanged 5 of my 2 euro coins for Turkish lire. I bought a sandwich, a cup of tea and some candy. I was pretty successful in using up every last lire. They had an interesting machine in the airport for those who weren't so thrifty. The machine allowed you to charge up your visa, Amazon or other online accounts using the last bits of lire that you hadn't been able to spend.
As it is, I still came back with a pile of centimes. I had a plan to incorporate them into a piece of art. Whenever I think about it too closely, the money systems we've developed disturb me deeply. And that's just considering paper systems. Turns out my newbie traveling errors weren't restricted to the problem of converting cash. Traveling without a credit card creates its own set of potential problems.
If money systems set us apart, language systems have a way of bringing us together. Even in the absence of fluency, effort is all that's required to create a sense of harmony. The first leg of my return trip reinforced this idea completely.
My flight home was near dawn and I'd prepared by writing down the earliest bus and train times. What I'd completely neglected to do was look up ticket selling hours. We arrived at the metro just around 5:30 am, but there were no stands open. A line of stark, cold machines were the only thing greeting us. We had seen machines in another station that allowed you to buy a ticket with coins or cash, but on this morning, at the main station, all we saw were the card eating variety.
Rookie mistake. We wandered in circles a bit, trying to figure out what to do. My friend was urging me to just follow behind someone quickly when they passed through the gate. I considered it briefly, not even realizing I would have to do the same thing on the other end. I wasn't really prepared to do that, I was just unable to think towards a logical solution. Which is what led me to approach a man at one of the machines and just get a closer look. They only take cards, right? No coin deposit or one of those money sucking slots? No? Nope, ok.
I wanted to ask him to purchase a ticket for me in exchange for the cash but for some reason these words didn't come out. (More of my amateur traveler self showing its roots. Ugh, really?!) Luckily, my friend had the same idea and while I wandered down to the gate again, they struck up a conversation about my travel woes.
The man agreed to purchase a one way ticket to Charles de Gaulle in exchange for 10 euro cash. Good Samaritan in the airport. As he was completing the transaction, he made small talk of the globetrotter kind. He himself was a visitor to Paris and asked where we were from. When talk of Congo came up, he surprised both of us by continuing the conversation in Lingala.
"Nazoloba Lingala un peu mais nasepeli forte..." I couldn't have had a better end to my Paris stay than running into a random, helpful stranger who loves Congo as much as I do.
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