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.

Bursting with emptiness

It seems slightly unfair that we wait for this time of reprise and then find ourselves with long lonely days that are so hard to fill. It feels like more waiting, more limbo. I'm trying to remember all of the things I wanted to do with this abunudance of time. Very few are accesbile. I try to remember the spirit of adventure and determination that motivated the decisions which have brought me here. I've been deserted. I can't think  of a single way to meet someone.

I am the only white person in my neighborhood and it shouldn't make a difference, but, of course, it does. (I am sure I wouldn't know how to make friends with a bunch of European or American neighbors either, but they would. They might reach out to me.) Mohamed pointed out this situation, albeit indirectly, as we were walking home one evening. "I hate it when they call me 'white boy.' Like in Kinshasa when  everyone called me mondele. Aren't I metisse?" It doesn't happen often here but occasionally the little ones can be heard saying, "Regard le blanc," which sounds especially odd in their French. Being white seems so much more exotic when it's in a non-European language.

It's the first time Mohamed  has come out with a decision. I've been waiting to see how he will 'identify.' American, yes. There's always a deep pride in being American, though in the last months it's been peppered with questions. The boys are forgetting real memories and trying to determine how much of their images are assimilated by others' ideas of  America- or media representations- and how much is due to real experience. Mohamed has dreams of becoming the first great American soccer player. He thinks he can change the way the country views the sport if they have one of their own to root for. It's likely America will claim him when he's famous, even if he has grown up in Africa. She is forgiving like that. But if the boys are metisse, than it leaves me as being the only real Caucasian around. Does it matter? It seems to suggest a bunch of things which may or may not be true. Very few are taking steps to find out.

There is one bright spot in my day. Our next door neighbor has a cutie little girl who is often busy doing chores around her yard or running errands.Whenever our paths cross or gazes meet, even  from a distance, she is quick to greet me. She pauses whatever she is doing and looks at me directly with a firm but hopeful stare. "Bonour Tantine." Her voice is strong and quiet. I can't help but smile and return her greeting or offer a wave. It's nice to be seen.

We're not the only foreigners however. Abidjan is sprinkled with West African transplants. There's even a young guy we pass just down the road - a fan of Mohamed's- who has taken to greeting me with a deeply accented 'good morning.' Apparently, incredibly, he doesn't speak much French. But Mohamed said he couldn't really understand his version of English that well and guessed he might be Jamaican. There is such a variety of African pidgin English he could be from anywhere really. I haven't heard him say more than 'Morning,' which seems to come at any time of day and so can't hazard a guess.

But it's a thread.That's what we search for as strangers in a new place. Some common thread that can connect us to another and form the beginning of a web of belonging. Ties that bind.  I think often that I am not the only one alone, without family. Death is rampant all over the continent and plenty are left without complete families. But the African system of greeting ' brother,' 'sister,' 'auntie,' or 'uncle' seems to take care of that, obliging connections where Americans might not see any.

It's a tangled web, I notice, often filled with under layers of suspicion and doubt. But on the surface, even the most orphaned African can find him or herself surrounded by a shield of brothers and cousins and aging aunties. It's something I can't do- or at least will take much longer. Erasing the boundaries and the lines of my history to feel surrounded by people who know me. It's a forever case of not fitting in anywhere. There's no past to retreat to and no clear forward to step into.

Here in this newness, I pass houses overflowing with people. I walk down small streets filled with busyness. I catch snatches of conversation, see endless games of soccer between children and adults alike. I see groups of women with children, young girls running errands and people passing their time in daily routines. I return to my house and feel it bursting with emptiness.

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.