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

The Fool and the Contra-Fool

I had been keeping up with my list pretty nicely, my miss/ won't miss list about Abidjan. I was actually surprised that the miss side was getting a little long and half-heartedly wondering how to put it all together. But then a few taxi stories happened, and I lost my wi-fi for a week, which turned out to be blissful, and I almost forgot that I was keeping a list at all. 

Then one afternoon, after a long, tiring day when my patience was low and my head pain, leg pain, neck pain, over-all-getting-older body pain was high, the fool showed up and I wondered how I could have forgotten to add him to the list. Definitely a NOT miss.

He always seems to show up when I am at my lowest. We first met the fool when we lived in M'Puto village. He is one of those street wandering people who is out of touch with the world, but just enough in touch to have random conversations. I suspect he has a home somewhere and a family that takes him in each night because he is one step up in cleanliness than the true street person would be. He is left to wander all day and he makes his rounds throughout the neighborhood. People know him and generally just say he is "not right." He's definitely one of those cases that highlights the lack of mental health care in Africa. 

He took an interest in the boys and used to follow them around whenever he happened to cross paths with them. It didn't help that Christian, with his soft heart, used to buy him a soda every so often. We saw the fool less after we moved, but he was still a presence in the neighborhood.

I am not sure when it happened, exactly, but at some point he started believing in a mythical relationship between us. Whenever he sees me, he will start following me, talking to himself the whole time. In a few instances, when I'd gotten into a taxi, he stood there talking to me, as though making plans for later. Most of his words are incomprehensible, but occasionally he will come out with a complete phrase, Meet me at Soccoci or We left Deux Plateaux together or some other description of a completely imaginary event. Sometimes he catches the taxi driver off guard just enough that he waits, thinking there is a real conversation happening. 

The fool will follow me into a store, trailing along behind me pretending to buy something. He will go wherever I go and if I turn around or stop walking, he will do the same. There is no shaking him. A few nights he followed me close to home. I will not go all the way to my house, because I  fear if he knows where I live, I will find him there every morning, waiting outside my door. On those occasions when I'd arrived just to the phone cabine before my house, Ivan, my ever friendly and oh so reliable phone cabin guy, would intervene and get the fool turned around in the direction he'd come from. One talking to was so effective he didn't even follow me the next few times he saw me.

Ivan has left his post, however, and I am a bit defenseless on the route home now. Diallo, our friendly neighborhood boutique guy, tried helping me one night, but he is too soft spoken and gentle to have any effect. That night I sat watching a soccer match at a collection of tables and chairs that had sprung up as an eatery and gathering place in response to Ivan's closure while Diallo tried to convince my stalker to go on his way.

It was late, and while I generally believe, as does most of the neighborhood, that he is harmless, we passed a few dark patches in the road that made me really consider my situation for a minute. It is frustrating to have no power over your circumstances.  And I really have no idea which connections have gone wrong for him, or when the others may follow suit, fragile holds on this world snapping as he imagines a slight or insult or even a fit of jealous retribution.

The therapist part of me hates to call him the "fool." It is how the Africans refer to him. But the person part of me gets angry when he appears with his relentless effort. This last time, I'd had a particularly long day, and I'd pulled a muscle in my leg which made walking painful. He was there when I got out of the taxi and my whole body sighed. I just wanted to go home and rest, but it was clear, with his presence, that would not be a quick or easy route. I decided to go to the pharmacy, something I'd been avoiding just because I was dreaming of soft cushions and an overhead fan.
The pharmacy security did not let him in, but he stood outside waiting. I bought my coveted Advil 400 and left. Predictably, he followed me to the main road. I had been wondering if I, myself, had ever made it clear that I didn't want him around. Maybe my silence was sending a message of its own. I took the opportunity to turn and tell him to leave me alone, go on his way, continue his day but just leave me be!

In response, he raised his hand to signal a taxi for me. I was having the kind of day where I decided to just hail a cab and outrun him in search of the refuge my small home offered. And there, on the heels of my anger, he was helping me flee. 

While he makes my won't miss list, there is another follower that I will miss. He is one of Mohamed's old friends and a neighborhood kid. There's a fine group of them now, between Mohamed's friends and Ousmane's soccer trainees, that say hello to me as we pass on the dusty streets of our cartier. But this one, I've always had a soft heart for this one. I remember one rainy evening, when the heavy downfall let up for a minute and all of the boys ran for home, but he, he stayed. Mohamed pulled out some old board games and looked for lost pieces so they could amuse themselves 'old school style' since the power was out. His staying had an air of nothing better to do and nowhere better to go.

Since then, I have found him often at my house, long after Mohamed is no longer there. I've found him crashed on the living room floor after a particularly intense morning of soccer training. I imagine his house full of cousins and uncles and noise. I smile to think my cold, hard floor feels like a little bit of peace to him. He's been known to sit outside the front door, resting on an empty potter, using the internet when no one is home. And sometimes, when I come back with groceries to find him there, he grabs a shopping bag and brings it right in, and sits down for a minute.

I see him around the neighborhood, walking fast and always a quick smile on his face. I am told he is intelligent, keeps a fragile bond with the other boys- hanging when it's good but knows enough to leave when it's not. He is always polite, snatching a bag from my hand or offering to carry my packages whenever he sees me walking. "Bonjor tantie," he says, his long legs don't seem to break any stride as he smoothly replaces my hand with his and takes off at a gamble. I met him at my house, wondering how we managed to arrive at the same time, when he was so far ahead of me. He told me he stopped home to report in on some errand he'd been sent on before making his way to my house, package in tow. It all appears like one effortless stride, he is so fast and focused.

My favorite memory is the day I'd been walking with Mbalia, who stopped mid-street to comment on something or notice something in her 2 year old way. T comes along with his light steps and scoops her up, keeps walking, though the way he moves is more like a hover board speeding just inches above the ground. He is sweet talking her all the way to the house. I am sure she has no idea what has just happened. 

She has always loved seeing Mohamed's friends, since he left especially, and I am sure she was just reveling in his attention. I opened the outside door and he brought her in, deposited her on the porch and even helped her to take off her shoes and socks before he was speeding out into the night again. Full service delivery, I think.

It makes the miss list because I am always impressed how these boys, and this boy in particular, will drop what he is doing and go out of his way to help. They have banded together before to help me, countless times, really, with carrying the propane tank and even hooking it up (you never know when a certain tank will have a valve that just doesn't turn.) I am impressed by this ingrained sense of duty they have to help an older person. There's no question. You are walking with something, they carry it. You need something, they go to the store to get it. It is the heirarchy in Africa that is helpful, creates an order and structure. They've accepted me into it here and I just might miss that. The neighborhood kids, and this one in particular.

3 Legs-- The story of a weekly journey

Like all worthwhile journeys, the voyage to EDEC (ecole de danse et de l'exchange cultural)  can be dividied into several distinct parts. I have al. ways travelled this way, mentally dividing the legs of my journey into separate stages, each one qualifying as a bona fide journey of its own.

What are the qualifications of a good journey? While this is a topic that could easily derail my entire post- I've narrowed it down to two for the moment.
Closeness. Usually this is obtained by walking but slow moving traffic or a bicycle could also do the trick. I am a lifelong believer in the idea that you never really get to know a place unless you have walked it, however.
Attention to detail. This usually means being alone, only because once we become part of a traveling pair, we generally tend to focus on the other and not the surroundings. I mean this in the event of taking a routine path (it's a lot easier to be part of a pair and awed by the Great Wall of China on your first visit than it is to be part of a pair and notice something new on a walk to the store you have made a million times. You tend to get more lost in the conversation with your partner than the street sights that have become a lifeless wallpaper.)

I enjoy the journey to my dance and drum classes almost as much as the classes themselves. In fact, as I have been considering searching for a new school or changing classes, a part of my mind that resists brings up the trip. "But then you won't get to go this way anymore...." it says with a kind of finality that closes the question for now.

Leg 1

The first leg stretches from my house to the 'big road' where I will take my first taxi to 9 kilo, where I will leave Riviera III in the direction of Palermaie. I travel this part of the trip several times a day, every day, as it is the only way to get somewhere from my house. There are small variations that could be made- a few forks in the road where one can decide if they want to 'go low or go high,' but in general it is routine. I say hello to the same people, occasionally run into a neighbor I haven't seen for awhile but mostly pass the same houses and wonder about the same strangers.

One of my favorite places to ponder about is the home of the towel people. The towel people are early risers. We see them often on the way to school in the morning- 6:30 am! They are outside their gates, just across the dirt path. It looks like they are planning a garden of some sort as they have been working the earth here. Digging, weeding, turning over. And they do this work in their towels. Never together. It started with glimpses of the man. He looks quite sexy in his towel- it is long and reaches his ankles. There is something alluring about a man in a skirt- the right kind of African skirt. (I hear women around the world laughing at me in disagreement and men just shaking their head in impossibility, but it is true. You must come to see it- dancers in Congo with their torn fabric skirts sewn back together in tatters that allow for freedom and movement, swirling color and every so often a glimpse of bare leg. And now, my neighbor, outside in the dawn raking his soon to be garden in a long, dark green, terry cloth towel. )

It is not just the man in his towel- hence the name towel people. It happened one afternoon that a woman came out in her towel. She had been sweeping and was throwing the pail of dirt and dust away. That was the day they earned their name. A whole house full of people who could be seen at any hour wearing their towels to perform household and garden chores. Fascinating.

On this day, as I make my way out to the big road, the recyclers are passing through. They usually make the rounds early in the morning and once in the evening. "Gâté, gâté, gâââtéé," they sing. It is the word that means spoiled or broken. They are here to collect broken electronics. After the refrain, they sing out different kinds of electronics they will accept. Anything really. Telephones, T.V.s, one guy even called out for refrigerators which brought a smile to my face. Typically, it is a single man walking down a dirt road with a sack hung over his shoulder, santa style. I conjured up images of him arriving at my house and throwing our oddly functioning refrigerator in his bag and hoisting it over his shoulder, carrying on with his calling and collecting. 

Once I get to the street, I begin walking toward the main crossroads. I haven't had to actually walk to the end in months. Yellow taxis make their way up to the small bridge where they can turn left and head out to 9Kilo or Deux Plateux with ease. There are two car washes on this corner, and what looks like the makings of another. Car washes are definitely a thing in Abidjan and they deserve their own post- one with pictures, which is currently my challenge. The camera phone does nothing justice and Abidjan car washes can be akin to nightclubs in their bright lights, big style and waiting lines. I've even begun amassing a list of hotspots to cover if I find myself back in gear again. I imagine a bewildered taxi driver who will chauffeur me around to all the random places I've selected and shake his head and tsk tsk as I click away. Crazy Americans, he will say and this time he will be talking about me (but only after he has discerened that I am not German (super high on the guess list these last few weeks...??!!?) or French or from any of the other countries everyone supposes before I tell them the truth.)

Once inside the taxi, my journey changes perspective. I am now eyes looking out at scenery rather than becoming part of it. As a pedestrian, I am the background, but in my new mode of transport I whizz by my favorite new park filled with basketball players, kids on swings and soccer teams. I look longingly at garden trees and flowers for sale, imagining those I hope to purchase newly nestled in my small front patches of yard, welcoming me home every night. I whizz by my bank- which I love to hate, and the pizza place recently closed which always makes me wonder about the sweet and patient South American man who made ice cream by hand. We pass the bread store, and I check to see if the woman I buy avocadoes from is sitting in her usual spot out front. There is the photo guy who never has ink to print his pictures, the little haircut dive with the young hipster inside who is the only one the boys trust with their precious tendrils, and the other photo place where we get the endless photo identite from. I watch all of these places pass outside the window, each one spouting forth another memory, a momentary sensation of having shared time together and therefore having lived.

Upon reaching 9 kilo- the big, big road at the end of Riviera III where all the stores and the fruit and vegetable market lie, where the yellow taxi station is and the bakkas come to discharge passengers, where worlds collide and passengers embark and disembark each on different legs of their own personal journeys, I exit the taxi and so commence leg 2. 

Rounding the Corners

There are two significant corners in my life, though it is only just now that I have come to appreciate the second (actually the first if we are talking proximity.)

The farthest away, but most noticeable, involves food. (Hence the most noticeable. It is taking me longer to notice the subtle, I admit. Over aged or over stressed, not sure which.) I have noticed this corner since we moved in. It sports a healthy outgrowth of rocky rubble. All the other roads and corners in our neighborhood are dirt packed except this one. When I come to the corner each morning on my way to work I step gingerly from rock to rock  and imagine myself crossing a raging river filled with crocodiles. I suppose the rubble pile is left over from some construction or demolition job long past. The house just in front of it is in some state of repair- or disrepair- and has a wonderful set of outside steps leading to nowhere. They appear stone worn and ancient and I imagine, if I make it across the river alive, I will rise to safety by following their path to the nonexistent rooftop.

When I come home, I find this same corner but in reverse. The change in perspective brings a whole new story. Or maybe it is the smell of plantains. Just a few steps away a woman has set up her umbrella, her chair and her outside frying vat. She has plantains bubbling away and a plateful drying on some cardboard next her. It is a sweet smell and I always wonder how many days of this I need to accumulate before the memory of that smell and arriving home are deeply associated and strongly implanted.

The second, first corner is the one right by my house. I love this corner because of the encounters it creates. The sheer volume of people walking down my road is slightly perplexing because my road doesn't actually appear to go anywhere. Despite this, I run into- sometimes quite literally- a variety of people, all at different stages within their day. In the early morning there are men in suits talking on phones, women in patterned dresses off to sell their baked goods and young kids with freshly baked baguettes for breakfast. In the afternoon there are gossiping teenage girls, young guys with earphones singing out their favorite tunes and rascally children calling out and chasing after each other. In the evening the adults are back, sharing news of their day or speculating on the latest actions of their bosses or neighbors or husbands. The children arrive home for the last time from school and the road becomes alive with soccer skirmishes and screams. The telephone cabine/one-stop-odds-n-ends shop begins to fill with happy hour patrons. The air sings with loud discussions and laughter. It's a lot for a street that appears to go nowhere. A small corner with big spirit.

The other end of my road- houses in one stage or another of
construction. The amount of foot traffic suggests the
 'road to nowhere' is a deceiving description

Earlier in the day I'd crossed paths with a young guy who came dancing around the corner. He was skipping and bouncing and feeling the joy of life. His energy made me smile. I might have caught him by surprise because he paused - only for a second, the same second I was wondering if he mistook my laugh for mockery rather than admiration- before continuing in stride and uttering a deep, "Hello, my sistah." Which of course made me immediately think of Ousmane (my echoic memory in effect, no doubt.) Which led me to just enjoy being called sistah for a minute. Which immediately led to memory retrieval of an article I'd read about the effects of calling everyone by family names. I can't find that exact article but I did find this one. Both seem to lament the practice of turning every stranger into someone familiar, every casual acquaintance into an obligation and every potential date into an incestuous affair. I spent mere seconds contemplating this before I returned to simpler thoughts.

This is how I have been spending my weekend. Contemplating people I run into while rounding the corners and trying to keep my thoughts simple and sweet. It takes a lot of energy which is exactly the point. Yesterday afternoon I rounded the corner, again caught up in the cavalcade of my own personal thoughts, engaged in a sort of mental boxing.

Two small boys were peering through the cutouts in a wooden gate near one of the lettuce gardens. I smiled at them and was deciding whether or not to pose a friendly question in passing when one of them turned my way. He tore himself from his peeking and ran at me with gusto, grabbing my legs in a bear hug. I think I know this guy. He's done this before; not often enough to be expected, just random enough to always be completely surprising.

The second little guy attempted to follow suit but I could tell he was just as perplexed about the actions of his friend as I. "You mean I'm supposed to hug her?" he seemed to be asking. "And this is fun?" He moved in slow motion and his leg hug was limp. I patted his back and sent him off to follow his friend. The boys went skipping down the road, their interests caught by other things. When I came back from the store I found them slapping the tail end of a black jeep as though they expected it to respond somehow.

This wooden gate with interesting cutouts appeared just after
Cote d'Ivoire won the CAN. Patriotic car flags lined the top of it for days.

But it's only in these last weeks that I've come to realize the gift this is. Children like me. It's always been just a thing, a given. I like kids and they like me. Just like I have blue eyes and blond hair. Qualities I can't change and don't think about very often. But just lately, as I am searching and questioning and doubting, I hear a little voice piping up. Not often enough but present nonetheless. And it's telling me that receiving the love and trust of children is a gift and I better start being grateful for it. Start paying attention to it and treating it as the valuable thing that it is. Message received. I am working on the acceptance part. Sometimes the things we envision for ourselves seem bigger and more glamorous than the things we actually have. But for one mysterious minute, rounding that corner, I was as enchanting and lovely as movie star. What could be richer than that?

Strangers

Elephant carved chairs

Carved giraffes on the base

Secret door on the base too!

We've hit the four month mark. Although we've been in our new spot for four months, its hard to tell if we're making progress. We haven't hung any pictures and we still don't have any hot water or furniture, though we did get this amazing table and chair set for free from a friend of a friend. Our lives have changed in ways we didn't anticipate and often in ways we can't control. Loss of control is something my former colleagues explore as they settle into their new spot(s) and is one of the things that makes moving so hard. Trying to figure out and fit into a new culture, a new country and, ultimately, a new life takes its toll.

We've become a microcosm. Our little family functioning in its own small world.  The boys haven't met any friends yet and I spend most of my time among strangers.This means a bit of remaking myself- often by default. Every new posting offers a chance to reinvent oneself. A chance to meet new people and offer bits and pieces of yourself one small revelation at a time. Sometimes it all comes together and sometimes it offers a surprising glimpse into parts of yourself that you hadn't really considered before. Mostly it's some configuration of the two.

The thing about being in a French school is that I am presenting myself in a second language. I can't possibly be the same person I would be in my native language- for the good and the bad. I remember someone once telling me how different (and cute? did she say cute? she used some adjective that I can't quite remember) I am when speaking French. What it comes down to is a lot of second guessing. Should I send this email to my director in my grammatically incorrect and probably misspelled French? In English, I wouldn't dream of such a thing but now, I haven't really much choice. What I'm left to ponder is whether or not he thinks less of me - professionally- for it.

On the street, people are happy to hear my poor French. They love to tag me as American. I presume due to my accent, I've been tagged in many taxis and stores. It's not much different than me tagging the Senegalese, prevalent in Ivory Coast and easily recognizable due to the lilt of their French. I find a secret delight in being able to distinguish between the Africans and it is due to my experiences with people from many West African countries. I also find I have developed a fierce pride in being able to identify the Congolese singers on the radio. Singing in Lingala? Yup, that's me. They're playing my song. I try to find a way to work into the conversation that I have just come from Kinshasa. I suppose it is similar to the many drivers who like to tag me as American and then get directions in English (a right, yes? and left, gauche, non? I was giddily inspired to teach one taxi driver 'hang a louie' American slang for left, n'est-ce pas?) But those interactions are a far cry from the formality of the work place.

I remember being in Kinshasa and hearing the response of some teachers and administration to broken English. Unfortunately it wasn't in the vein of "Hey, give him points for the old college try." In fact, I recently spent one lunch break reading research on bilingual classrooms and I realized how far removed from the American perspective I've become. Some research on bilingual education sounds dismally negative- like a thing to do until the child becomes fluent in English rather than a thing to celebrate and encourage. In my world, the bilingual classes are sought after and fill up quickly.

But that doesn't stop me from thinking twice before clicking the send button on my emails. And a conversation in which I posed several questions to a fellow teacher resulted in me saying, "I'm really not stupid," in French, of course. To give him credit, my fellow teacher responded, emphatically, "Terae, I wasn't thinking that," but I felt it. Because I am someone different in French. I admit, happily, that spending so much time with French French speakers is increasing my vocabulary, possibly fixing my grammar (as opposed to African French which is filled with grammatical loopholes that make understanding the Ivorians akin to learning a new language on it's own- just when I've learned to stop saying nonante and septante, Belgicisms found in Congo) and adding to my repertoire of facial expressions (French French is filled with interesting sound effects and facial expressions which seem just as important as the words.) Yes, I am advancing, but often I still feel like a five year old. Even the students at recess look at me with quizzical eyes - making me wonder if what I am saying is actually what I mean to be saying.

Most days I realize that I am a mere shadow of the person I used to be. I can no longer have those stimulating give and take discussions about education, banter about the perfect word to use in creation of curriculum documents or other academic discourse. Not the way I used to. I am too busy learning the ropes and concentrating on comprehension. So I search for interaction in other ways.

These include passing remarks with strangers about catching a taxi - which resulted in a few days of fun early morning conversation with a woman who thought sharing a taxi would be good for both of us. Unfortunately we were heading in separate directions. Random conversations in the grocery store are another way to get my social fill. Yesterday I spoke with an older man who wanted to know how I prepare soya chunks. He was considering buying them on advice from a friend. When I grabbed a package he took the opportunity to ask how I make them. We kept running into each other in various aisles and the dialogue continued. Maybe he was as hungry for conversation as I.

Textured soy protein meat substitute
Tasty and a great conversation starter.

The businesses, stores and pharmacies in my neighborhood offer other chances for quick conversations. The people know me well enough to have a simple exchange. "Know me." My daily and weekly routines mean I pass the same people and we've begun to say hello. But I have no deeper an image of them than they have of me.

I often wonder how many times it takes for someone to remember me. Historically, I am not all that memorable. I have tried to infuse some humor into my casual interactions, lending to my memorabilia factor. I've noticed it can be as infrequent as one visit before someone recognizes and remembers me. The friendliness of Abidjan, perhaps.  Or the white factor. There are a few other Europeans in my neighborhood I am beginning to discover, but we are not many.

There is a white man, French I'm guessing, but since we haven't exchanged more than a passing hello, I cannot really know. I see him  many mornings in the neighborhood. We've begun to greet each other- for no other reason than we are both obviously strangers, I think. He seems more interesting as he is walking deeper into the cartier on his way to work while I am heading out. On a few occasions, I have seen him at the carrefour where taxis gather and I assume he is headed to the office. Most interesting would be a sit down and chat about what he is doing here and why. But I have no idea how to make this happen. Or if I even want to.

It's not much different in my workplace. Conversations occur in passing and often don't get much further than how are you? I'm not sure how to take it further and not yet convinced I want to. Slowly, slowly, or malembe, malembe as is said in Lingala. I've become known as the theater person at school and have even been approached by the director with an invitation to attend a professional development conference on the topic in February. I am excited to branch out in a new direction. Having an official paper documenting professional training in this area can only add to future opportunities.

For the moment, still taking it all in. Returning to my little microcosm after work and relishing my Sunday night dinners with a friend in English. Spending my weeks among strangers in French.