Innundated

It was bound to happen. Our cartier turns into a swampy mess of river roads every time it rains and so it was only a matter of time before we were inundated. I took some photos on the way to school this morning- everything from flowing little streams to cute puddles to lake sized ponds dotting the path to the main road.

Residents have a variety of strategies for coping with the transformation. The simplest being to sing a self-comforting song about how much you love your neighborhood in order to provide courage to get through the ridiculousness of living on dirt roads. (The guy I witnessed singing on an early morning was particularly cheerful. He wore a broad smile and had his pants rolled high around the knees. He was trying hard to convince himself that his neighborhood was number 1.) Other methods include digging trenches or building mounds to try and control the direction of the running water. Where accumulation is inevitable, walking paths are created with plywood planks or well placed stones.

Of course, there is the traditional sandbag method- rice bags, in our case, filled with dirt (most likely- and somewhat ironically- from the very road itself.) More intensive measures include having a cement barrier put in around your entrance. This results in the need to step up and over and then down into your doorway. It seemed like such an odd arrangement when I first moved here, but now I understand.

We are mound builders on my road. Or rather, someone is a mound builder. I am not sure who the mystery person is that creates the mound faithfully throughout the rainy season, but I have gratefully benefited from its presence. It prevents the water from turning down the road and instead forms a bank- guiding the river to continue straight past our houses and off into the bush area before the lagoon.

This past weekend- well, for the past several weekends, really- the rain has been steadily falling from gray skies. It feels a bit like early spring in the US- still very cold, but with an air of growth and hopefulness. On Saturday night it rained particularly hard. There was force and continuity for hours. And even when it slowed down, there was a quiet stream of water falling.

Early Sunday morning we were up having breakfast (4 am suhoor ) and the rain was calm. I stayed awake for another hour or so before returning to cozy down with Mbalia with visions of a lazy Sunday morning. I still managed to wake before her and wondered about the time. I stuck my hand out from under the mosquito net to reach for my phone and felt an icy cold surprise. My phone was floating in about 2 inches of water.

My mattress, which is really just a piece of blue foam on the floor, had become an island sponge in the middle of my bedroom. The computer, some favorite books and piles of clothes were all drifting along or soaking up water. An extension cord caught my eye and I wasn't really sure if I should step off the mattress.  I remembered my hand splashing around in a blind search for my phone and deemed it mostly safe.

Once I overcame my electrocution fears, I was ready to brave the water and survey the damage. All three bedrooms were flooded. The living room and kitchen had much less water, suggesting the house is built on a slant? I didn't really know where to begin. I started by trying to save the things that were sitting on the floor getting water-logged, which was just about everything since the floor is our biggest piece of furniture.

After rescuing most of my paintings, baskets of important papers and throwing soaked blankets into the washrooms- which were ironically dry- I grabbed the mop. When I first moved to Africa, I remember resisting the mopping method. I searched everywhere for my traditional image of a mop- round head with straggly cords coming off that I could swish back and forth. It was not to be found. The squeegee on a stick is the preferred method.

The squeegee is paired with a soft cloth that gets dipped in soapy water (if you're lucky. In many cases, the water is just sprinkled across the floor- soap or not- sometimes just a water/bleach mix which is hard on the olfactory nerves) and the cloth is laid down. The squeegee goes on top, the cloth gets draped over an edge and the whole contraption is pushed around the floor.

I understand the concept now and I am mostly proficient with it, but in those first weeks I longed for nothing more than my familiar mop (and broom. There's a parallel tale to the sweeping techniques here but it doesn't exactly fit in this story.)

On this wet morning, however, the squeegee was exactly the tool I needed. Ousmane grabbed a bowl and a bucket and began bailing out the house like a sinking ship. I corralled and cajoled the water through the doorways and out the main entrance. In a few hours, we managed to take back control.

By then the rain had slowed, the water levels in the yard had receded and the mound man was back on duty.

Photo walk of my journey to school each morning:

Just outside the door- a bit of water
but I am headed in the other direction

The first stretch- muddy: rich, deep,
 sink-up-to-your-ankles, stick-to-the-
 bottom-of-your-shoes mud

A cute little road stream with
impromptu stone bank

The first of the bigger sized ponds

Requires a glance ahead to find
 the best hop-skip-jump path

Reflective views lend a cheery
 air to the wet morning

Always need to take in the bigger
picture so you can plan the best route

The biggest and riskiest lake
chance of getting a shoe soak: high

Stone path, one person passage

Hug the wall and make sure
no cars are coming- miniature
tsunami  if one drives through
while you are on the high wire

The last section of pond-puddles
to navigate before the main road-
usually requires a bit of
 zig-zagging to get there

birthday blessings

My neighbor Assita stopped by to invite me to her birthday party. She was beaming with youth and joy that was contagious, if not slightly bewildering to me, I don't really "get" adult birthday parties. The mom in me associates birthday parties with screaming kids, smeared cake patches and crooked birthday hats. All I can see are bowls of soggy chips and plates full of half eaten hors d'oeurves. I have a long relationship with the joys and stresses of celebrating the children in my life...but not so much experience outside of that,

Having recently read an article in tiny buddha about the power of yes in making friends  (which is apparently a thing- from Yes Man, the book and the movie, to Shonda Rimes) I decided I needed to accept. I imagined stopping by a bit after the party had gotten into full swing, saying hello and trying out a few conversations and then heading to the gym for a much needed work-out. I guess this approach is called "making an appearance" and doesn't do much to actually instill friendship or create new connections, but I was hoping it would keep the neighborly ties pleasant.

I also planned to bring along Ousmane, always helpful to have at least one friend on hand when walking into the unknown. We arrived about an hour after the time we were told to come, which turned out to be perfect as everyone else was just arriving as well. We were shown to a few tables on the porch, a quiet porch where everyone was waiting. My dreams of a quick appearance began to slowly evaporate.

We waited, chatting quietly. Others arrived, though not many. In total, we were about 9. Our hostess came out to move us to another table and then Assita herself, looking transformed in a beautiful blue dress and flowing locks, insisted we join her at the table of honor.

As she made somewhat ceremonial introductions, Ousmane whispered to me that he had seen two of the women on TV. I nodded, not having seen them myself but realizing that we were among colleagues and friends of Assita, a screen writer and actress, so all things were possible-and probable.

The party began in a formal way, with glasses being served and soft drink selections presented. We were offered a choice of entree- rice or attieke- and served a healthy plate of food. Everyone commenced with the business of eating and Assita continued to beam. She has this inner light that is truly beautiful.

The party was far more intimate and calm than I had imagined. I didn't have a word to say to anyone, but it was a quiet party. The two divas were keeping us entertained with commentary and stories. They were out going enough for all of us.  Two young men sat across from me but I hadn't figured out their relation. They were serious and quiet-did I mention that as the theme of the party? - but pleasant.

The food was tasty, well presented, well eaten. We all remarked on the healthy dose of hot pepper at one point or another, but it was good. Our hostess, (I can only remember her as the mother of one of Mohamed's friends) is known for her delicious plates and she takes orders a week or more in advance.

The sun was setting and my gym fantasies were all but extinguished. I wondered what would happen after the food- being in completely foreign territory, all notions of what a party is having been set aside completely. There is really no way I could have been prepared for what happened next.

Apparently the two young men were ministers of a sort. I would have guessed the older gentleman to my left as the minister of the group, so I was somewhat surprised when they began praying. "Blessings for our sister," one of them began in a beautifully deep and rhythmic voice.

He went on to say that birthday celebrations were not about birthdays, really, but a chance to give thanks to God for life, for all that life had brought so far, and all it might continue to bring. He mentioned that many people didn't reach their (next) birthday and so each one signaled that you hadn't completed God's plan, there was still work to be done. He made a lot of good sense and I liked where he was going. He talked (preached) a bit more  and then came to a point when he asked everyone to say prayers for Assita. The whole table began talking aloud, not in unison but individual verbal expressions of giving thanks and asking for blessings for her as well as themselves and their families.

Ousmane and I were conspicuously quiet- or would have been but most everyone's eyes were closed as they were filled with the power of sending positive intentions to Jesus. It was quite emotional. Despite our differences in belief systems, I couldn't help but be awed by the concept. I haven't actually experienced a room full of people directing their energies at one person so concretely before. I began to imagine the different forms this could take. I was moved by their devotion and sincerity.

I was reminded again of the African praise singers, or griots, only rather than singing about past accomplishments, they are there to manifest a positive future.

Later Ousmane told me about a similar experience in the Muslim community. If you have bought a new house, opened a new business or other momentous life event, your friends and family will gather to pray for you. Someone will read from the Qu'ran "jusque les gents plure"- until people are moved to tears. It sounds so beautiful, this gathering around and praying, or wishing well for another with all that you are, or sending positive energy in megablasts- however you want to frame it.

We made our exit soon after. My whole perspective of adult birthday parties, and birthday celebrations in general now altered.

Assita beaming with joy 

Us- with the guest of honor

Ousmane and the 2 divas

Keeping cozy

Ramdan has begun and I've encouraged the boys to join me this year. It feels especially hard at times- my only comfort being a million other people are feeling this way too. After surviving this year with 2 weeks of "sufferance" at the end of every month, it's more than ironic that now we actually have the food- we just can't eat it.

It's left me reflecting evermore on the purpose of Ramadan and the uses of food. I remember this from years past. Fasting has the potential to leave me feeling hungry and tired and grumpy. It's easy to doubt the purpose of it all. There are moments when crabbiness just takes over. We walk around the house scowling and nipping at each other like little dogs. Sleeping is a common distraction- and often a necessary one- as well as a way to escape the stomach pangs. But you're not meant to sleep the days away and feast all night. Flipping day and night is cited as one of the big tips NOT to do. I can see how it might be an easy habit to fall into.

This year I feel much more in the rhythm. It might be the fact that Muslims are so prevelant and present in our neighborhood (and in the city in general. A far cry from Kinshasa where the Muslim population stood out as a clear minority.) I am enjoying getting up early and preparing a complete breakfast for us. Previously, I'd been of the mind that the kids should sleep until they wake naturally, assuming if they're sleeping it's because they need it. Breakfast was usually an on-your-own kind of meal, everyone choosing their favorite and eating in various degrees of togetherness, except for the occasional Sunday. It seems hectic now, my hovering between kitchen and table, eating, making lunches, packing bags. The boys shuffling around, nibbling toast or crunching cereal, trying to find school supplies.

Our mornings have become a sharp contrast as we all wake early. The breakfast has already been prepared and we sit together to eat and talk- no multi-tasking. I see the benefits of waking up at the same time every day and having plenty of time to spare before heading off to school. Of course, the boys are on vacation and I know they can nap if they get tired so I don't feel bad at all about waking them. Naps fit in with the rhythm du pays in Ivory Coast. Getting up so early requires an early bed time, which they've always had (and mostly stuck to) since their days are so action packed they are literally exhausted by nightfall anyway.

The in-between times are a little trickier. I end up spending my time analyzing why I want to eat, especially on those long weekend days at home. (Distraction by way of going to school, talking with someone or generally keeping busy goes a long way  towards a successful fast.) I want to determine how often I am truly hungry as opposed to using food as a pasttime. I find myself answering that 'I just want to feel good.' I am happy to note that for me, eating has a component of feeling healthy. I don't crave junk (even my once so frequent chocolate bar has gone the way of the dinosaurs lately. We occasionally visit but it's less and less often. I did make my own chocolate bar recently. It was super tasty, and much simpler by way of ingredients which, in my mind equals, healthy.)

Eating to feel good includes eating for comfort. Sometimes, especially on those rainy Abidjan days, I want nothing more than a cup of tea and warm milk, a spicy soup or rice and sauce dish. In a bowl, of course, a cozy, cuddling ceramic bowl that fits exactly in two hands perched atop the knees while huddling under a blanket. I know then I am using the idea of food to pad my emotional memories with warmth and security. Since the tea and the soup are not really options, I search for other ways to keep cozy and relax. Without food. Using the other senses, smell for instance, can create just as powerful and nearly as cozy memories.

Sometimes feeling good means creating community. I am looking to use food as a means for sharing an experience, not just something we can do together (eat cookies and tell jokes) but something we can feel together (hot, melting chocolate chips and full belly rolling laughter.) When this is the case, I usually enlist Nabih to help me prepare something. We peel and slice and chop together. We beat and stir and cream together. And we try to remember not to lick our fingers.

Often, I find that "feeling good" means showing others how much I care. Whether it is a "language of love" or a form of wish fulfillment, cooking for others is most often pleasurable. While I do admit to falling into the cooking-is-a-dreadful-unappreciated-duty-and-I-wish-I-could-order-take-out perspective at times, cooking during Ramadan is kind of like a month of Thanksgiving. We plan our favorite dinners and a simple dessert. The boys take a few nights of cooking to show off their skills and concoct a winning combination. The joy of cooking flows both ways. The eater and the preparer reap rewards.

Another one of the tips to avoid during Ramadan is spending too much on fancy meal favorites, however. I find after a whole day of fasting, any food is going to taste great so keeping it simple is easy. Our menu is not too different from what we normally eat, it's just the planning and anticipation that is different. The best desserts involve a lot of fruit, though we've had cookies on a night or two. I have come to really enjoy the completeness of our meals. Just as I am thinking it would be great to do this all the time, I realize it is better to keep it as our Ramadan tradition. (I don't think it would be sustainable for me, though, at the same time, I am realizing there are people who eat this way every night.) I'm feeling happy to be finally giving my boys some memories and bona-fide traditions of their childhoods.

Another realization all this reflecting has resulted in is that, as a parent, I have often unknowingly assumed my children have acquired the same background knowledge as I. It's not at all logical, but I think as parents we somehow feel our experiences are transmitted by osmosis and our children gain- not necessarily the details and real life knowledge- but the essence of what we know.

I had a rather unusual and lucky childhood in that I was exposed to most of the major religions. My mother sent us to Catholic school, my parents were Methodist, their best friends were Jewish and my step-grandmother was....Evangelical? (I'm not exactly sure, but her brand of religion scared the heck out of me. That makes it Evangelical, right?) I know stories from everywhere. Added to all of that, I then embarked on my own grand search and discovered Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam and a smattering of other, smaller belief sets. I'm happy with what I know and my journey to uncover it all. But I realized my boys don't have any of this knowledge. And it's pretty much my fault. I didn't want their minds closed or filled with absolutes. The result was creating a void.

I still get nervous when I think of sending them off to be educated- or exposed.  I've begun trying to share my stories and my knowing, but it's a long tricky road. Sometimes it feels like a long, tricky, lonely road.  I want them to make their own journeys (and of course I would be inwardly rooting for them to end up exactly here, where I am....but I know that anything can happen on a journey and anything should happen. That's what makes it a personal journey. It's just hard to have faith sometimes.)

Mohamed has a few friends observing and he's begun going to mosque with them. This is good. The beginning of his road. I like to think once he is connected with a mosque, he will find himself at home anywhere. I remember a drummer friend from long ago. He'd arrived to the US young, new, and overwhelmed. One of the first things he'd done was to find a mosque and trek across town every Friday. It was a way of returning to the security of his home. A way of keeping cozy. Maintaining his identity and connecting with others. It is what religions are meant to do?

In the meantime, I continue my own journey. As we try to keep the fast this Ramadan,I am striving to do more than remember people who are hungry. I want to understand the complex role food plays in our lives. There is far more than just sustenance to be grateful for.
 

Mikes at the Airport

     Travel has always held a certain appeal to me. Walking is my standard passion, allowing me to feel in control and on the move. Though I have never felt limited by how far my feet can actually take me, bicycles and automobiles offered a second freedom, opening the roads and highways up to endless destinations. Airports, however, have become the ultimate symbol of converging cities, countries and continents. They are a point of potential where everyone is on the brink of some new adventure. My first international flight enchanted me with its multitude of languages and customs. I waited patiently for the English version of the announcements, delighting in the sounds of Flemish, French and Spanish that came before. I secretly loved the fact that my native tongue wasn't first or even most important. 

     Airports are a place of bringing people together. Even a departing friend or family member suddenly becomes all the more dear and close to heart in the face of an airport goodbye. Strangers are flung together for long hours and uncomfortable circumstances which often results in a sense of camaraderie and unity. People feel more at ease sharing their stories and taking time to talk to those that they may have previously brushed past brusquely on the street. Its kind of a limbo state in between the busyness of everyday life and the quiet contemplation of a retreat. The busyness of an airport is usually of the hurry-up-and-wait variety while the contemplation comes along in sleepy waves as the clock jumps hours trying to keep up with the plane, hurling its passengers back and forth through time. Even those waiting on the ground have gone through their own kind of warp, anticipating the arrival and setting out early to beat traffic. There is the suspense of wondering if the flight has made it in on time and all has passed as it should. 

     In Kinshasa, the suspense grows a hundred fold. Traffic is legendary. One can sit for hours barely moving, slowly following dusty detours. The alternative is to leave early enough to avoid the rush which allows you to arrive with hours to spare. Hours waiting for the protocol by a roadside gas station or sitting in the parking lot of Ndjili, wondering if your brother will actually make it past customs this time.

    The suspense builds because arriving at the airport does not provide any of the reassuring feedback one might receive in the US. There are no electronic flight schedules to monitor or any way to determine delayed or arriving planes. There is not even much sense of getting out of the car as entry into the airport is strictly forbidden.

     When I went to pick up Kazadi two years ago, he was flying in from Lubumbashi. It was a local flight and during the day. I spent some time hanging outside the doors where in-country arrivals exit. A man named Mike struck up a conversation with me as we were hustled from our shady waiting spot by humorless painters afraid of dribbling on us. We stood side by side in the narrow line of shade cast by a lamppost awaiting our guests. Turns out Mike, an herbal doctor, and his cousin needed a ride into the city, which I was happy to give them.

     Last Wednesday I was sitting in the car observing the airport at night. It had been a long journey, began when the sun was still high in the sky. I'd already witnessed my share of attempted car washers and competent tire changers overseen by a muscular man in fatigues. People were clearing out, cars were leaving and lights were being turned off from within. I wondered where my brother was and if immigration had their clutches sunk too deep. A tall man walked by dodging puddles from the recent downpour and discussing possibilities with the two young boys deftly wheeling his suitcases. I had spotted him earlier as he spoke to a woman just getting into her car. She appeared to be an airport employee leaving for the night. She had driven away and the tall man had disappeared somewhere. As he passed this second time, he noticed me gazing out the open window and I heard him say, almost to himself, "Let me see if I can request some services..." He changed course and made his way over.

     Turns out he was also named Mike, a Kenyan from Switzerland working at a local NGO. He'd had his car brought to the airport only to arrive and find it with four flat tires. He was also in search of a ride to the city. We talked a bit in French and English, remarking on the state of the country and the differences one could feel in the air. Our conversation was a mix of history and philosophy peppered with  personal revelations. It's amazing how easy it is to strike up a conversation with someone at the airport.

      In the midst of this, the protocol--who had all along been assuring me everything was fine this time and my brother was not going to be deported---arrived at the car. Alone. I immediately stepped out and began questioning him. All was not going exactly smoothly and he wanted me to begin making some calls. We had people on alert this time in case of this very thing. I looked at Mike as he loaded his bags into the back of the jeep and shrugged my shoulders. "You see, you've asked for a ride and now you are caught up in this problem." He seemed undeterred by a prolonged wait and was instead determined to offer his help in whatever way possible. Oh the unity inspired by an airport parking lot. We three charged up to the entrance ramp.

The officer there was not happy to see us. He seemed to think the protocol had disrespected him by returning with so many people who thought they were just going to march right in. Mike, being half Congolese though raised with his Kenyan side of the family, was very adamant about gaining entrance or, at the very least, some concrete information. I couldn't really tell if his claim to connections was valid or a mere show of pomp and flashing badges meant to inspire compliance. As I occupied myself with phone calls, Mike gained the ear of an official passing by at just that time. He informed us that all the detainees would be released immediately.

Ousmane came sauntering out minutes later. The protocol went back in to retrieve the passport, an affair that took another half hour or so. Mike and Ousmane became fast friends as they shared tales of their travels and woes. They surveyed the flat tires and commented some more on the state of the country. Mike repeated his vow to make formal complaints when he returned the next morning.

It was near midnight when we finally all piled into the small car, bags stacked high and knees scrunched tight. We made our way through dark and deserted streets back to the main city. I worried a bit about leaving Mike off at Kintambo to search for a taxi to his place in Macompagne. We left with an exchange of numbers I might never use and that sense of camaraderie and unity so often accompanying a travel ordeal. 


I seem to have developed a habit of picking up Mikes at the airport.