Rising Above

While I haven't traveled anywhere this holiday season, I have had a steady stream of unlikely visitors. Not family,  and friends is a bigger word than I would use to describe them---I am not sure there really is a word. The first was my business partner, though it seems we are less in the process of creating a business, more like a social enterprise. We're still working out where the profits are going to come from.

The second was our nanny from Abidjan. I just got a little side tracked reading old Abidjan posts looking for a link to share. She has been there for us since before Mbalia was born, making her more like a second mother.

Back when I thought I might be visiting Kin for the holidays, I invited her to come and stay with Mbalia, feeling secure with her in the midst of my Bamako nanny woes. In the end, I have found a pretty amazing nanny and I didn't go to Kinshasa. Christine was still really looking forward to coming and what's more festive than out of town visitors? Nabih and Mohamed are both off in Dakar and the house has been feeling a bit empty.  Christine's presence was sure to spice things up.

It has been a fun week, not at all awkward, though Christine and I are not exactly friends. We have always managed a good exchange, however ,and Mbalia is delighted to see her. She spent the first few days literally attached to her side and even now, after a whole week together, she still keeps close tabs on Christine. It's going to be a hard goodbye.

Christine and I have had a chance to swap stories and learn a bit more about each other. It turns out she didn't actually grow up in the lettuce fields of M'Puto as I had imagined. When her father died, Christine was just 6. There are four girls in her family and all but the youngest were shipped out to 'relatives.' Christine ended up in the cacao fields with someone she thinks is her uncle. I didn't press her on this point- but it is curious that she is not sure of the relationship. I think it points out the lack of closeness and comfort. Surely, it didn't feel like home.

I asked her what that meant- working in the orchard. The men would chop the cacao and she would gather. She also chopped away weeds and things, keeping the area clear. We'd been walking through the park during this conversation, having brought Mbalia out to play for the day. I took a look around at the botanical gardens, so neat and pristine in the National Park.

It hit me that Christine was likely one of those children, the kids who work on the cocoa farms. At 18 she left for Abidjan, joining her older sister there. She still has scars from her work as a child.

I couldn't help but imagine the memories she holds, and the path that has taken her from that life to the present. She is still trying to find her way, a single mother without many prospects for employment. She makes juice and sells it in the market when she is not cleaning houses. It's an inconsistent income. A difficult path from challenging roots.

We try to brainstorm solutions. She is pretty talented at braiding hair. I've told her to start taking and saving pictures of hairstyles she creates. She admits there are things she doesn't know about adding mesh and creating some really complex styles. There's a lot she could learn.

Her inability to read and write gets in the way. Even though she has been attending night school for several years, I sense that the progress is slow. She tells me she ranked third in her class during the last evaluation. When I ask her what kind of things she can read, she tells me she can read the text that they use in class. It doesn't sound like a very practical application.

I am all too aware of the language classes that result in students who 'read' excerpts of text and fill in blanks responding to what they've understood. It is a rudimentary system at best. I don't have a lot of faith in it, but maybe patience is what's required. It takes time to learn to read. Honestly, I am not sure how long it can realistically take a grown up to learn to read. This study suggests even six months can make a huge difference.

But reading needs to be relevant in order to be applied. We talked a bit about how it is still possible to be an entrepreneur, even without literacy. It takes time and a little bit of capital to get a business going. In a small way, Christine is already running her own business. She makes and sells juice. But she is faced with problems such as not having consistent electricity to keep things stored properly. She could expand to making the milk drink popularly sold in the market, but this spoils too quickly without refrigeration.  

Christine is still just under 30. There's time and she is pretty determined. It only takes one good opportunity. But then again, it takes at least one good opportunity. It's not easy rising above our childhoods.

Pure joy in seeing each other again

Dinosaur photo shoot

unrelated to the post but interesting playground design

always a good sport, Christine and Mbalia ,best buds

Secrets uncovered

Vacation has a way of warping time.  I am constantly in danger of being sucked into a vortex of creativity, isolation and loneliness. I may get a lot of work done, and it is extremely satisfying, but long bouts of isolation can have a dizzying effect on the senses.

Despair finally drew me out - my pile of empty paints is nearly larger than my pile of working paints, which threatens my progress and my emotional well-being. There is nothing good about grinding to a halt in the middle of a satisfying (and potentially successful) creative stream.

So I took some initiative and contacted a local artist who has a prolific showing of work in the area. He has painted many restaurant, school and theme park murals. I friended him on FB and asked if we could meet.

This is a hit or miss approach and luckily, I struck gold. Drissa turned out to be super friendly and completely revealing. We met at Le Savana  and spent the afternoon talking art. Really refreshing. Everyone has a story and Drissa is no different. We swapped histories and perspectives on art. We have a lot in common and the conversation flowed freely. I could have talked on into the night.

Eventually I let him go to work and made my way back home, promising to get together again soon, hoping to visit his atelier and suggesting a collaboration of sorts- between us and between our students.

Drissa took me to the Papeterie de l'Amitie- a potential source for acrylic paints, which, unfortunately on this day had only a few bottles of mustard gouache and some very watery purple 'tempera-acrylique.' I grabbed a card so in the future I could call to see if they'd received a shipment before heading out. We went back to the restaurant so he could teach me plan B.

In Abidjan people kept trying to get me to do things with glue, insisting the gesso I was searching for was really just glue. I even went so far as to try coating a freshly pulled canvas with it, to no avail (and no surprise, either.)

Apparently, I had the technique all wrong. Drissa assures me he paints with glue all the time. There are colored dyes available cheaply and in plenty of quantity at any quincaillerie (hardware store.) Large buckets of white interior house paint can also be used and it makes a fine gesso base coat (and is also mixed with glue and water to create a consistency for any number of surfaces.)

After a quick demo, our conversation continued - and to think, I worry about having something to say. Lately, I've had to cut things short in order to get anything done. But I enjoyed his story- I am really loving people's stories. There is a place for this collection of human narratives, even if I haven't found it yet, I sense it.

His dedication to drawing and creating art began at a young age. Although he comes from a creative family, his mother dyes fabric and works with design, Drissa experienced pressure from his father's side of the family to do less representational (and perhaps more ornate design.) Despite this, he continued with his passion, often secretly. At the age of 17, he decided to stop his pursuits in soccer and continue full time with art. He gave himself 3 years to make something of it.

His chain of events plays like a beautiful crescendo. One small break led to another bigger and better until he found himself among top name musicians and artists, painting drop backs and collaborating on projects together.

Of course, the route to success is never without set-backs. He had his share of hard times, stowing away in random market stalls to sleep and secretly drawing on neighborhood walls.  He had a lost chance at love when the woman he was involved with wanted him to move to France. He didn't see a future in art there, all of his work being here, and so chose to stay. She couldn't support the climate, the heat, the dryness and chose to continue her artwork at home in France.

Drissa has traveled a bit, participated in residencies in Morocco and France. He has exhibited in Dakar and Europe, but there is an energy that keeps him coming back to his country. He's managed to buy some land, after one of his more successful exhibits abroad, and he's begun the slow process of building his own studio and exhibit space.

He works with neighborhood children when he can, when he is not traveling or preparing to show in one festival or another. He teaches them drawing and gives them a chance to experience what it's like to make art, to be creative. To express themselves.

Perhaps his most successful story is his younger brother, who he has trained and is beginning to come into his own.  We talked a lot about his experiences making art communally, something that has become more important to me lately. It's not for every artist, indeed, he talked about the competition and jealousy that can sometimes be present in the large workshops he's participated in. But there is also often an air of community and collaboration, of creative construction that contributes to personal growth.

Lucky for me, he is at that point in his career where he is open to sharing. I left the restaurant armed with secrets uncovered. Ready to try my hand at the plan B painting method and looking forward to our next exchange- a visit to his workshop, some art making with the kids and maybe a shared canvas between us. Sounds like a bright spot in the Bamako haze that has descended.

Mixing lesson: glue, tint, house paint (optional)

L'artiste Drissa (photo from his FB page)

Interior of Savana, kind of a sweet spot despite the odd
 musical nostalgia I've been subject to every visit

Newly completed mural at Savana

Entrance wall of Savanna

Working at night- preferred painting hours

Following me

One of the hardest things for us traveling teachers to do is to experience our new post without constantly referring to our most previous placement. It's a challenge most of us don't achieve. When faced with new systems and new routines, it's only natural to compare past experiences.

I am aware that I appear to have developed a slight obsession with Congo, not just the school but the country as a whole. It's quite inexplicable really, since I didn't love it quite so much when I was there, and I remember well how things just don't work (two failed visa attempts attest to this.)

But I am not the only one to experience this curious attraction. I've heard plenty of stories of others who have passed through, some on artistic residencies, others in the field of research, all reporting a desire to return. We say the same thing- there is something about the energy, the ambiance, an electricity in the air that just isn't found elsewhere. Congo is alive. Perhaps the draw is real.

Certainly when I was living there, I remember the number of adults who'd returned to the country they'd grown up in as children. There was even the case of my neighbor who had come back after years away, only to take over her mother's job. And just now, a former student has completed college, married and set up shop, her husband having procured the former job of her mother. Oh, the crazy circles Congo inspires.

Aside from the country itself, and the amazing storms, there are fond memories of the work we did at the school. It was a time of growth and development and those kinds of building and creating memories always linger pleasantly.

I have been trying to dampen my constant references to the country, but it's a concentrated effort. Congo just seems to be everywhere. She supplies so many of the resources we require for 'modern times.' Whether it was rubber for tires or coltan for electronics, Congo has been there. Everything about her seems amplified, from the quality of music and art to the degree of suffering to the natural beauty of the environment.

Although I have been trying to censor my conversation (just a little bit, after all, the story of Congo is a story worth telling,) it just seems to come up. Everywhere. Yesterday we went to the National Parc with the intention of working on our project (with the added benefit of a place to play for Mbalia.) It also happens that exhibits from the Biennial, Rencontres de Bamako, were showing there.

After wrapping up our business plans, we took a walk through the display. We'd been enticed by the sound of a Congolese voice speaking Lingala. Inside, we were welcomed with a photography exhibit by Georges Senga, and just around the corner, a video on loop by Joseph Moura. The animated account of his experiences was both powerfully terrifying and a stunning piece of art.

I can't escape the Congo. Even if I were trying (harder) I think she is following me.

Captivating animated video telling Joseph Moura's provoking
 story 'because of my love for this country nothing
would stop me...'

Deep Secrets

A blog post formed in my mind the way they often do, beginning with a feeling in response to some small experience, perhaps a vague hook or a title surfaces at some point, and then a few connections are made, linking this random experience to more common human threads of emotion.

I felt fairly prepared for my Sunday morning writing. And then I had a visitor from out of town. My friend was here for exactly one and a half  days before he ventured out on his own. I returned from school to find him sitting comfortably in the house, having arrived a mere 20 minutes before.

Remembering my own harrowing experience trying to get back home, I was a bit in awe. I began to wonder if I'd imagined the communication difficulties with the taxi-men.  I chalked it up to being white, being a woman. A million and ten reasons tried to surface explaining the disparity. Once he started telling me how he'd written everything down well, I recalled that it was I who wrote down the reference points, based on evidence gathered from my experiences gone wrong.  Because I'd learned that the taxi drivers call all of the rondpoints in Sotuba the rondpoint Sotuba, and because I'd learned that the Shell station was a pretty reliable reference point (you can't change the name of an established business with a 6m orange and yellow sign,) I was able to make a note with references that couldn't go wrong, no matter how little French or how much Bambara.  He wasn't necessarily more savvy than I, but just received better 'get home directions' than I had (or, at least this was the  way I chose to frame the story.)

It was helpful to remember this last part because sometimes living in Bamako can feel like a deep trove of well-buried secrets to uncover. Everything simple seems to require days of searching and asking questions. It began a month or so after arrival. I'd been having some health issues and one of the possible remedies was to renew my packet of the pill.

Taking contraceptives was never something that was talked about in my family, along with a long list of many other non-discussed life mile-stones. It is only recently that I have realized how many women take it for reasons other than preventing childbirth. All this time I thought I was alone.

Contraceptive use in Mali seemed like another one of those sticky issues. The country in general feels a bit more conservative than other countries, but I am not really sure if I am so truly in touch. The amount of tourists that has passed through here perhaps had an effect of loosening restrictions. At this point I am probably still working on stereotypes from the media and quarter-truths.

Regardless, I do feel that Mali is a male country and going into the pharmacy didn't prove me wrong. I'd made my way down to Mohamed V, having been told it was the pharmacy to go to if all the others didn't have what you needed. I should take a minute to mention this whole adventure might have been more easily solved if I'd just gone to the doctor- but, well, the Tale of Two Clinics is a blog post I still haven't committed to paper, though it's well formed in my head. I generally avoid doctors except in the most emergency of cases and this didn't seem to be that. Besides, I hadn't visited the illustrious Mohamed V.

The pharmacy is located in the middle of the grand marche, which translates into crowded streets, difficult parking and an overwhelming number of customers inside. The routine was pretty clear- a bunch of baskets lined the counter and one had only to place their prescription in the basket in order to secure a place in line. Then, just find an unclaimed portion of floor space to step back into and wait for your name. This was great, except I had a question, not a slip of paper. Actually, I had a slip of paper, too, handwritten by myself but it required explanation, and, of course, my question.

I hung out near the counter hoping to catch someone's eye and maybe have a conversation. My first attempt didn't go well as I had reversed two of the letters in what I thought was the brand name. It was close to a girl's name, but not exactly. The woman at the counter took a look at my paper and could only focus on a girl's name. The conversation couldn't get past that.

To my horror, the school chauffeur, who'd driven me down to Mohamed V, had also come in. He had good intentions and only wanted to help, but this was definitely not a matter I wanted to share. There's no such thing as HIPPA here. I spotted a sign hanging from the ceiling that suggested there was another area for consulting so I took my question down there. The man tried his best to help me, but he was a bit stymied by the girl's name as well. I'd written Melanie instead of Meliane.  In either case, I had already gone to one pharmacy where the pharmacist had been especially helpful by looking up the brand name in a book and he was able to find comparative medicines. I'd been hoping for something similar here. The blue book of pharmacists.

One man handed me off to another, supposedly more senior man who was a bit brusque- it was a busy Saturday morning. In the end, I lost my nerve to ask for exactly what I wanted, between his gruff demeanor, the chauffeur standing by and the waiting room full of men, I chose instead to just leave. Empty-handed. Great.

Back at the ranch, I did some googling. What I wanted to find was the name of the specific pill used in Bamako, if in fact, there was one. My research turned up several interesting articles by various NGO's and others studying the hows and whys of contraceptive use in Mali. Turns out many men buy the pill for their wife, although there were a number of secret pill users. I was also able to discover the name of a popular contraceptive. Armed with this new information, I set out for a pharmacy close to me- I figured if it was going to be helpful, it had to be convenient, too.

This pharmacy is just next door to a Marie Stopes, and so it seemed logical they would have something. I just wasn't speaking the right language yet. I handed the pharmacists my new slip of paper, this time written with the correct spelling of Meliane and the Malian version, Pilplan.

He came in seconds with a packet, which he offered to me saying, "Deux cents francs." I thought it wasn't possible I could have heard him right and so asked him to repeat. Sure enough, this box of contraceptive, which Trump has been trying to make ever harder for Americans to access, was 200 francs, something like 35 cents.

When I got home, I opened the box to find there was a 2 month supply inside. Which meant approximately 17 cents per month. And the 5 or so pills at the end of the pack were iron, not placebo. I had to appreciate the ingeniousness of it. Sometimes, Africa does it better.

It was such an easy transaction I wondered why it had taken so long and felt so complicated. Just like once I understood the clearest directions to get home, it seemed so obvious. Maybe not all secrets are buried so deep. Slowly, slowly Bamako is making sense. (But it's still way too dusty and hazy to breathe. I am not sure if there is any fix for that.)

Attie & Siby

The road stretched ahead, marvelously empty of the city traffic. Trees, tall grasses, and startling rock formations met the eye in all directions. In the hazy distance, an archway appeared on the horizon.

Malian countryside

I missed the most interesting geological formations, but the
colorful plateaus were also a pleasure

Side country roads sprang up everywhere...inviting the curious

This weekend gave me the first chance to get out of Bamako....and it has happily also provided me with a chance to introduce you to my neighbor, Attie. Attie invited me to a little market town of Siby, where she was hoping to stock up on some shea butter before returning home to Holland this Christmas season.

Attie is just one of several people from the Netherlands that I have met here in Bamako; it seems to be another of those interesting, and possibly slightly unknown, migration connections.  There is a pocket of Dutch here in Mali, and West Africa in general, which should, perhaps, not be so surprising since the Dutch have a fairly prolific history of migration and colonization. I distinctly remember learning about the Dutch East India Company in my upstate NY elementary school, likely only because we did a play about it. But they've had strong roots in Surinam, South Africa, and even the Gold Coast.

Attie is also Mbalia's pre-school teacher, our elementary art teacher and a kindred spirit.  She's spent a lot of time in Africa, has a few multi-cultural children and knows her way around a market. She drove us down the Malian highway commenting on the amazing birds in the trees, the beautiful flowering buds and singing to classic blues and African greats. Her commentary was sprinkled with a mixture of euphemisms like "schips" and an out and out m-f@$%er every now and then. She is the best combination of all the titles she wears- pre-school teacher, art teacher, grandmother, strong single mother, bike rider, nature lover, wax print and bazin fabric appreciator, and aficionado of West African culture.

Mbalia & Attie, in the shade of a mango tree

We stopped just outside of town and had a snack in a field of mango trees. The Arch of Kamandjan could be seen in the distance and there was a constant, pleasant breeze. Many small groups passed us- groups of boys, women carrying their loads to the market, men on bikes, motorcyclists. Everyone waved hello and those on foot walked right up to greet us. Most of the kids offered a very proper, "Ou vas tu," which I kept hearing as "voiture." They weren't asking about our car but were wondering where we were going. I guess they were ready to serve as guides in case we needed. Or maybe they wanted a piece of our orange.

Some of the kids just stood there forming a little circle with us for what seemed like a long time. They never asked for anything directly and their intention wasn't quite clear. Curiosity? Hunger? One group of boys watched us taking pictures under the mango and "warned us" of a serpent in there. Attie has been in Mali for a good number of years and can remember "before the crisis" when tourists were abundant. She attributes the friendly and bold nature of people here to their familiarity with tourists from around the world. And of course their generous, joking nature which is a pleasure to be on the receiving end of. (With my best theater face, I put on my courage and looked deep into the tree branches for that snake. Luckily, he wasn't anywhere I could see.)

After our snack, we set off across the plains to take a walk toward the arch. The Arch of Kamandjan holds an important place in Malian history and warrior legend. The fields just below are said to have been the battlegrounds where Sundiata earned his title as King of the Malian Empire. Apparently you can (or could?) rent bicycles and take a tour, although the road gets very steep and is better served by hiking. We passed several motorcycles and an occasional biker or two, presumably on their way to or from the market. Attie and I both agreed it would be an interesting journey, on another day.

Some passing boys warned (or teased us) about
a serpent in the tree. Later evidence suggested
maybe there was something to it after all.

Mango love everywhere

Freedom! No worries about getting
creamed by a motorcycle

The famous arch

Very sweet broken down house- with real doors in place!

The doors had beautiful carvings and seemed
 in remarkable condition. While I've seen them
 in plenty of artist markets, I've never actually
seen them in place on a house before.

We got closer to the arch, but it didn't get any clearer. Heavy haze.

Fresh snake skin just hanging from the tree.

Mbalia drawing circles in the
 sand around Miss Attie

We walked until we ran across this restaurant. As is typical, gems like these are often described as "the French guy's place," although said French guy might not necessarily be on the premises anymore. True to Attie's nature, she saw the open gates and a truck in the drive and said, "Come on man, let's check it out." So we made our way down the dusty drive, marveling at the sweet breeze and relaxing nature of the space.

Restaurant advertising on the road to the arch

Someone came out to greet us and offer a drink. He moved a small table into the shade, set out some chairs and viola, restaurant open. While we were enjoying a beverage, a few other women came along, two on a bike and one older lady on a motorcycle. They all sat together and enjoyed a meal. It seemed like perhaps they were staying there, or had been frequent visitors.

You can rent a small round room for 6,000FCFA per person per night. I could definitely imagine bringing a book, some pencils and maybe some writing gear. What an extremely relaxing and beautiful scene to wake up to. (I did not see a hammock however, the only improvement I could really think of. The couple running the place were super nice, the breeze was constant and the air cool.)

I imagine this would be a beautiful morning or sunset view

Our little table under the shade of the mango

Covered eating area

Solar panels, because, yes.

Looking down this well gave me a terrible
vertige- deep and dark. And of course
Attie had a fantastically bizarre story
to share about a friend and a horse
who fell into a well together......

Hand washing system. This version included:
water in the teapot, strainer cover over the
bowl, and a place for holding soap. Super
 effective and much "classier" than just the
bowl and the pot. It works easiest with two
 people, like most systems in Africa. 

This round hut can be rented for 6000FCFA a night (per person)

After our drink, we made our way back to the car, again passing groups of women and children. One particular group of women were so enamored with Mbalia they walked right up to her and formed a circle around her, asking questions and saying hello. It would have been intimidating for a grown person, let alone a 3 year old, but she handled it mostly well. While she didn't exactly greet everyone in the traditional method, she did make it clear she wasn't a baby when someone suggested as much (as in cute baby. Not a baby, she insisted. Earlier she'd also refused to be called a princess, firmly reiterating her recent claim to be a dinosaur. She relegated Miss Attie to the status of princess and took a lot of pictures of "the princess and the dinosaur.")

The princess and the dinosaur- grinning to the left.

 There was only one group of older boys that was somewhat bothersome, insisting Mbalia should hand over her Spiderman sunglasses. By this point, I was carrying her on my back and she was feeling sleepy. There was no way she was going to stand for a bit of teasing, and definitely not about the "Fiyah man's." She loves those things.

But we did pass another group of sweet boys, the smallest getting a ride in a push cart from his older brother. They exchanged greetings and when Attie turned the infamous, "Ou vas tu?" question on them, the oldest insisted he wasn't French. So they switched over to Bambara for the standard exchange. He had a winning smile and we had a chance to see it again as we drove away, waving goodbyes to all the women and children we passed. Toubabi is the general term they call out for foreigners and there was plenty of that being shouted after us as well.

We passed through a typical African market in our search for the shea butter that had inspired the trip. It was a bit more spacious and there were considerably less flies than the Bamako markets. The smells of fish powders and smooth nut butters filled the air.

Our ride back to the city was unremarkable if pleasant. We did catch a glimpse of a monkey crossing the road. He was as beige as the tall grass and we might have missed him but for Attie's vigilance with all things natural. I noticed a number of boys riding on the outside of the sotramas, Mali's version of the African vans that shuttle people from place to place. Every country does it slightly differently and here the seats go around the inside, with everyone sitting looking in at each other. A campfire circle without the campfire.

On the main roadway, the vans are just as often packed with people as they are overflowing with goods. In addition to being piled high on top with extra baggage, each van had at least one boy riding on the back, his feet perched on the bumper, holding onto the rails on top and one hand looped through a window or grasping the door edge. Some of them faced out, backs resting on the doors, gazing at the landscape as it passed and others clung precariously to the van with an eye facing the road ahead. One boy in particular had a melancholy look on his face. He held loosely onto a back door ladder, head leaning on his arm. Behind him were white doors painted with a Che Guevera portrait.

It was a deeply poetic image, but my phone had long since lost the battery and something about snapping his photo would have surely marred the moment. We gave him a thumbs up for encouragement as we passed and he returned the gesture with a tired smile.

Another van had 3 boys on the back, one perched up on top of the baggage. We passed him further down the road only to find he had descended from his vantage point and was holding on to the edges like the other guys. It seemed like a long, hard, and dangerous journey to Bamako. There can be no getting tired on the way.

I was extremely tired on the return trip and could barely keep my eyes open. All the fumes and dirt of the day had left me with a massive headache.  Mbalia, a robust airplane traveler, fared less well in the car and eventually passed out herself.

In all, it was a tranquil day, calm and peaceful. Worth a return trip to Mande country.

Presenting as Black

The past few weeks have felt like a whirlwind. Both planned and unexpected travel sent me spiraling through the vortex of time, leaving me disoriented and slightly confused. I am slowly getting back on my feet, grounded as they are here in Africa.

I haven't traveled out of Africa in the last 5 or 6 years. In June, I took a quick trip to Paris, which was like visiting a foreign country in a way I'd never quite imagined France (which is, in fact, a foreign country.) In November, I had the chance to visit again and took every opportunity to stay in the same neighborhood, eliciting a cozy sense of the familiar.

That trip, the basis of which was research, expanded my perspective on future initiatives in Congo. I began to sense the construction of a foundation and structure which I haven't yet had time to fully process.

I'd arrived home for less than 24 hours when I was flying off again, to the far away and even more foreign land of America. A family emergency called. While the flight to Europe is highly doable, even including the roundabout layovers often accompanying cheaper fares (I am still not able to comprehend how the long-cut equals less money- surely the short-cut requires less expense?) the trip to the US is unbearable. 3 flights, 8 hour layovers and, on the return, the uncharted but by-now-to-be-expected "hop" through a neighboring country.

Since I've been flying to Africa, I have frequently experienced this touch down in a country bordering the final destination.  It usually comes at the end of a long series of flights and is just enough to play havoc on the last vestige of patience. Essentially, it is like an additional flight- meaning I really took 4 flights home, rather than 3. But it is not listed on the itinerary and so, despite it's regular occurrence, still manages to come as a surprise.

But my story is not really about the flights, although allowing for a moment of motherly pride, my girl turned out to be the best travel buddy ever. At three, she managed to weather the planes and airport layovers with an energy and enthusiasm that was inspiring.

Best travel buddy ever

My story, or the part I am choosing to focus on, is really about that small town in mid-America I found myself in. I'd had plenty of reservations about traveling. I don't do America well and small town America...well, frightened might not be the right word exactly, but there was definitely resistance of a sort.

I decided to approach it as I did any travel- a foreign culture to be observed and wondered at. Curiosity makes for a great lens. I mustered up enthusiasm for the huge hay bales that lined the grassy plains on the way from the airport. They resembled a Van Gogh or a Monet. I allowed myself to be enchanted. And when we passed a collection stacked to resemble a caterpillar and painted green, I smiled with childish delight. So this is America.

My trip included a family reunion of sorts, and surely that is a story of it's own, especially since it's been a good 20+ years since we have seen each other. How do you even begin a reunion like that? In some cases, it is easy enough to just pick up where one left off. That is to say, pretend like the 20 years never passed. I suppose the ability to do this is what makes us family, as opposed to a collective group of strangers assembled in the same vicinity?

The plan went well enough. I'd thought of a few questions to ask my brother, who's never been much of a talker. I'm potentially not much of a talker either,  so the reunion with him left me feeling a bit nervous. What the heck do you say to someone after 20 years? I decided to focus on the present and our main reason for being together- the ill health of our mother. I also had a few questions prepared about his life in the small town and his aspirations in business, which I'd thought he'd recently started. (Later that day, I managed to pick up some more tips from my great aunt, who has a gift for random conversation starters. At 88, she hoovers between sounding extremely intelligent and occasionally unpredictable. With her in the lead, we covered topics from the political leaning of the mayor to Trump's proposed tax plan to the local educational system. My brother did his darndest to answer in between summarizing the story of Ray Kroc and the McDonald's brothers.)

And through it all, my girl was shining. She is undeniably cute and has a way with people. She charmed up to her uncle immediately. He'd barely opened the door when she stepped outside and gave him a huge hug- or embraced his shin, in any case. She wasn't intimidated in the least by his 6'2 frame. We went out for coffee and the entire time she engaged him in a silent coloring game that included a ton of hand signals, thumbs up and random kisses.

Though her English is coming along, generally in unexpected spurts of words strung together in nearly complete sentences, she still prefers French, and often settles for a mix of both languages in her daily speech. While she was winning hearts with her charming ways, a translation was occasionally called for.  As we left the restaurant, we stopped for a creature from the pirate/santa who was creating animal balloons. (This was a rather odd affair that resulted in him calling out, "Balloon popping, balloon popping," every 15 minutes or so throughout our entire hour and a half stay. His fire alarm alert was a bit anti-climatic as it was generally followed by a muted puff of air nothing like the large explosion we'd been led to believe was coming.)

Pirate/Santa's kaleidoscope of colored balloons

Mbalia wanted a wolf but finally settled on a puppy (though I feel certain she would have been content with the deer and a name change.) The pirate/santa took his work seriously, however, and tried to include her in as many decisions as possible. I was busy being distracted by his colorful bag of balloons when I snapped out of it to see she had taken a step forward and was slightly in the man's face. "I said rouge," she was exclaiming a bit indignantly. To be fair, she had been politely asking but after several misunderstood requests, she felt a need to assert herself. A small clashing of cultures. We all got a laugh and the pirate/santa switched over to his French accent for the rest of the puppy constructing.

Pirate/Santa and his French accent for my girl

We left happily, blue and red puppy in tow, en route for my mother's apartment. My brother's wife agreed to take Mbalia to play and spent a beautiful afternoon outside in the crisp fall air. Later on, my brother took a turn with his niece, who couldn't get enough of the swings at the nearby playground.

Blue puppy, black kid?

We spent a regular family day together, exchanging small talk and laughing at bits of nothing. My brother and his wife were enchanted with Mbalia and liked to tell stories of their misunderstandings together. Several times they referenced "walking down the street with a black kid," who was trying to express something in her repeated French that they just couldn't understand (and passersby or other park players were sort of wondering why the adult wouldn't respond to the child's needs.) It was a comic moment the way my brother told it, he has a knack for that, but I was kind of stuck on the "black kid" remark.

I tried processing this with my aunt later that evening. I wasn't sure where my discomfort was coming from and why. I am generally proud of my children's' African heritage and usually find myself emphasizing this over their American side. Perhaps it was the word black. Mbalia is not black- there are few people who actually are graced with the beautiful, deep skin tone we might call black. Most of us are hues of brown and tan and beige and peach. Generally, I see her as golden. And in Africa, she is definitely not passing as African. At most, people may suspect her of being a multicultural child (can I say mixed? I am not even sure anymore.) She is clearly foreign and I am not exactly sure how others see her. It is something I have thought of occasionally in terms of the boys as well.

We are most often surrounded by the many hues of whatever international school we are currently connected to, however, and this is a perfect fit. The student body is a healthy mix of shades representing the colors of the world. There are soft browns and golden sunsets, there are dark tans and milky whites. There are a million in betweens and no one seems to remark on skin color all that much. Rather, kids delight in exchanging country of origin tales ("I was born in.....but really my mother is from....and my dad is from....so I am all three!) They compare where they've been and what sights they've seen in each country. They take pride in knowing the cities of the world and having experienced a bit of them, even if limited by age and allowance. (One girl admitted that all she did on her great European vacation was spend time in a hotel room watching tv and swimming in the pool. She wasn't allowed at the grown-up parties and the family stay-over had been dedicated to business. She'd experienced a restaurant and a shopping trip, but not much more.)

Then there are always the half-remembered stories (I went there when I was three) and the familiar places (we always visit my grandma's village in Cameroun) but rarely is there anything about skin color. I think there is where my discomfort was coming from. America and it's preoccupation with race. My aunt assured me that my daughter "presented as black," but I honestly didn't see it. It wouldn't have mattered to me either way, except it felt false, an exaggeration.  I guess this is the dilemma of multi-cultural children everywhere. They don't belong on one side or another, but somewhere in between.

I think, with a bit of reflection, the one-drop rule was being applied and something about that infuriated me. To be fair, Mbalia is more than one-drop. She is half African and half-American, a much more authentic version of the term African-American than many black Americans (how many generations live and die in America before you drop the country/continent of origin?)

Perhaps if I'd felt they were referring to her African self, I wouldn't have felt as miffed. Somehow, simply referring to her as a color (that didn't even apply) seemed to negate both her heritage as an African and her heritage as an American (which I readily admit to emphasizing only when advantageous, ie passport country.)

Ironically, I remember feeling the exact same way in reverse shortly after Nabih was born. Someone on his dad's side of the family referred to him as "toubab," a word often reserved for whites or foreigners. I was upset because Nabih was, again, a golden child, and 50% African. Didn't that count for something? His dad tried to reassure me at the time that the relative had only meant "toubab" as in "one with no worries," and perhaps this is right. The words that Africans use to describe the foreign white people are generally not related to color but to location or economic status. One dictionary has this interesting suggestion about the root of the Lingala word mundele, used to reference white foreigners, or even black foreigners. (Note the actual word for white in Lingala is mpembe.) A similar situation is true of the Sousou word fote- which signifies a wealthy foreigner. And during one of my trips to Guinee, I heard my dance teacher, who'd been born and raised in the country but had lived outside for about 10 years, referred to as the "white Baga," obviously not related to his skin color but the fact that he returned to his Baga village a wealthier version of the man who'd left so many years before.

I hadn't ever considered my reaction to the question of race before. I have an undeniable pride in my children's African heritage, though perhaps I could do more to make sure they understand the nuances of their particular ethnicity. If this is my confused response to the question of being black, I wonder how my children will sort through their own experience of actually being the ones to straddle the color line. Mohamed has already confirmed he feels "more African than American," though I chalk this up to world view rather than skin color. In essence, I agree. I understand and feel much more comfortable among Africans than I do Americans. I suppose there will be no accusing me of presenting as black, however, at least not among the single minded Americans. A few Africans have wondered aloud at my country of origin, much to my delight.  Sadly, I have to admit that no, I am not Guineen or Ivorian...merely American. And a white one at that.