Glass bottom taxi

The roads to school are filled with orange lake-sized puddles. Normally, a taxi ride would be one solution to over-coming this. Large, mud walking boots are another. I haven't yet acquired the knee-high rain gear that are prevalent here, so most mornings I opt for a taxi.

There is a particularly large puddle, stretching from one side of the road to the other, where someone- or several someones- have placed a line of rocks down the center. I've yet to capture a photo of this beautiful bridge, but it's coming.

One afternoon I had arrived at just this spot and was contemplating the journey across. The rocks are sharp and edgy with flat surfaces that shimmer in the sun. The faces are not exactly flat, and the reflecting sunlight suggested a slippery slope. I wasn't really sure I wanted to risk it. The water is a deep, rich red and I could imagine it covering my clothes, my bag, my self.

Luckily on that day, a colleague from school passed before I had to take the first steps. On another morning, however, I was passing through that same puddle in a taxi, fascinated by the shape of the rocks (regretting again my inability to capture their allure with a photo) when I felt a sudden wetness.

Like a virtual reality game gone too far, as I watched the water ebbing and flowing from the movement of the car, I felt a splash of coolness from the seat. I whipped around to inspect the source, and sure enough, I could see clear through to the road. A glass bottom boat with no glass.

Mud bridge between two puddles near our house

Pression

My aunt has accused me on more than one occasion of being brave. Something about moving to Africa and living and working here. I might have felt brave (or rather scared out of my mind) the first few months, maybe even the first year. But after 8 years? It's just become a place I live. I guess, in the absence of fear, it is hard to see bravery.

Even though I live in a huge city, I am lucky enough to be able to maintain that small town feel. As humans, we tend to develop routines and create small pathways of daily use. I definitely do this. My world in Abidjan is limited and so develops a cozy, familiar sense that makes it seem safe, for the most part.

Moving around here has an infinitely safer feel to me than getting around Kinshasa, though I adapted there. I can recall many more moments of needing to be hyper aware and even fleeting sensations of fear. Here? Not so much.

Well, at least it hadn't been that way. While I am always aware of my surroundings, it has been possible to relax. This past month, however, developers (?) tore down the collection of kiosks and little market stalls that filled the corner known as 9kilo (neuf kilo.)  People were left without homes, shops or any way to care for their families. Everything. Just gone. The view of that area is shocking and discouraging- it's become a waste field of rubble and broken dreams. Not to worry, though, the trucks have moved in and are shoveling it all out- to make room for some over-priced collection of apartments or stores no doubt. I think about photographing it but (aside from my continuous problem securing a "real" camera) I don't think a photo can really express the tragedy. It is reminiscent of the roadside on the way to Bassam, miles and miles of ruins. Or the way Kinshasa police often moved in and destroyed businesses and storefronts. Piles of smoldering wood and broken concrete mixed in with bent umbrella frames and torn plastic.

Some people will argue that those cement block shops and wooden tabled vegetable stands are ugly, an eye-sore. They clog up traffic and create unsafe places where people loiter. I don't know if any of it is true. Those small cement buildings are beautiful in the way they represent the creativity, the entrepreneurial spirit, the desire and drive and motivation to face each day with energy. Those wooden vegetable stands with their black plastic umbrellas are beautiful in the way they represent the strength of women to persevere through a hot day, earning money to care for their children. There is beauty in the way those umbrellas shelter generations of mothers, aunts and daughters as they talk and laugh together, do each other's hair,  and prepare food for the community passing by. There is beauty in their interactions and personal connections. It is the beauty of human will.

Whatever replaces it will be sterile and square and painted in a dull and lifeless color. I will never be able to see it as pretty or prefect. I think I will probably always see the shadows of evil lurking on the edges, remembering everyone whose lives were disrupted and discarded without a second glance.

It's left many people desperate, this development. Last week, when the evening nanny didn't show up I wondered what had happened. She travels a bit to arrive and so there is always the possibility of gbakka accidents or other problems. I couldn't reach her for the entire weekend, which only added to my concern. When she finally arrived on Monday evening, she told me her story.

She'd taken a local local taxi to 9kilo. There were two men in the backseat, one on each side of her. The driver took a round about way, a little bit longer, a little bit darker, a little bit more secluded. The two men robbed her of her phone and all her cash. They slit open her purse and took whatever was inside.

I'd read stories about this in the newspaper. The cases I'd read happened in a different part of the city but described a similar event. You get in a taxi that isn't really a taxi but a group of people working together to rob you. It's this last part that is most unsettling to me. A man working on his own just has to deal with his own guilt (or lack of.) He can deny and be secretive, yet possibly harbor a better person inside. When you work as part of a team to deceive, steal and potentially harm another person, it seems to add an entire level. There is no denial, no secrecy but an out and open admission of who you are. When other people look at you, they will only see a crook and bandit. The fact that someone commits their crime with others means they are accepting of this part of themselves, maybe even proud of it.

I don't know if it is my age, my sensitivity, or my limited social involvement, but thinking of those three men planning and menacing a single woman is very disturbing to me. It made me pause the next few times I hailed a taxi. It even made me reject a few, taxis filled with men, taxis with only 1 spot open that was not close to a door, taxis that just didn't "feel" right.

Before I rejected too many taxis, however, I recognized my sense of fear. I realized that it would never work if I gave in to it. (I have to get around somehow, right? Unfortunately, most taxis are full of men, though I have often thought of creating a women only taxi service.) However, there was nothing left to do but take in a deep breath of bravery and common sense and hail a taxi. Just. get. in.

Maybe my aunt is right. Conquering whatever fear we face in the daily routines of our own lives requires bravery. Hailing a taxi, smiling at an angry boss, facing a brand new day without a loved one, saying goodbye to our children as they embark on adventures of their own. It all requires bravery.

Ten random things covering white strangers, burned children, taxi tricks and TV appearances…

It’s no use talking about my internet connection and/or computer issues. You may as well just assume prolonged absence equals one or both of the above.  In the meantime, I’ve been collecting ideas. Here are 10 random observations/experiences from life in Abidjan (trying to get back my “stranger’s eyes” to present things that might be different- or yet the same- about life in Africa.)

• ·         I leave my house at 6:50 every morning. What I notice most are the women sweeping. As I make my way through the neighborhood, they are everywhere- in front of every house with their small bundle of sticks tied together to form that traditional broom, sweeping up the garbage left by passersby from the night before. Lately I have been seeing an older man walking with a hand crutch. He is getting faster and I can tell he is trying to recover movement from some injury or illness. He is faithful in his routine and determined in his stride.  Noticing his perseverance is enough to inspire gratefulness in me. I walk easily and quickly to my destination. Something to be thankful for.

• ·      When I return the sweepers have morphed into sellers and they sit at their tables under umbrellas offering fruit, attieke, alloco (fried plantains) and soups or sauces they have prepared. I might pass any number of men praying outside their storefronts and it reminds me that Abidjan is (currently) a mix of peaceful religions. It’s something I like, all the churches and mosques which seem in equal abundance.

• ·         One morning as I was walking along lost in thought, 3 white people came around the corner. I was surprised by the sight of them- found them foreign actually and wondered what they were doing there. It took me a few minutes to realize that I probably look just like them. I spend my time looking out from behind my eyes and rarely at my own skin that I forget my otherness. It reminded me of a time when I was in Guinea and saw some Peace Corps workers coming up off the beach. They looked pale and ghostly, even ill to my eyes which had grown accustomed to rich brown skin with its dark, healthy sheen. There is a poem about that- about us being trapped within ourselves and only looking out. I remember it from 5^th grade, something about someone with an ugly face that didn’t really bother him or her because they could never actually see it. It used this word ‘ajar’ which I’ve never forgotten, though I haven’t been able to find the poem again.  (I think I’ve written of this before. After 7 years of blogging, it might be inevitable that I begin to repeat myself. Forgive me, or rather, indulge me.)

• ·         When I arrive at the corner, I search for a yellow taxi to take me up the hill. This past week they have been waiting, empty or half- filled and I have only to hop in. Other weeks, they are hard to come by and lines of people push and shove to get a space. I can’t find any rhythm to the lack or abundance, except it seems one week of scarcity is usually followed by a week of abundance.  The week before last I actually ended up walking all the way to school which made me 20 minutes late and left me drenched in sweat.

• ·         I used to think of the yellow taxis as a kind of cavalry arriving to gallantly bring the masses to their duties.  I had patience in waiting for them to come swooping down the hill, sometimes in twos or threes- just the perfect number to accommodate everyone at once. A few experiences since then have changed my analogy. The first- that long, hot walk to work. The second – the negotiations. Because it is morning and demand is high, some of the drivers only accept 150 to go up the hill, when the usual price is 100. Most never have change and so people who are looking for monnae are out of luck. There is a bit of a monopoly on transportation and so we passengers have no choice but to find the extra 50 franc and come with exact change. One orange taxi driver tried to raise the price because I didn’t have exact change. “Change costs money in Abidjan,” he told me. “But only the Christians do that, non?” I threw the religion card because in Islam-maybe all religions?- usury (using money to make money such as interest in repaying debts) is forbidden. For good reason I think. He had no response and we agreed on the regular price, my lack of change no longer a problem.

• ·         I have noticed, on those busy weeks when taxis are short and crowds are full, a sneak attack. It looks like this: The taxi pulls up and the jostling begins as people surge forward. Some lean in to talk to the driver (a sure way to lose a spot. While you are discussing destination or change, someone leaps in and takes your spot. But that is not the sneak attack.) While everyone is trying to get in the door, some clever (or devious) person will run around to the other side (or sometimes even come from across the street, recklessly launching himself into traffic in hopes of securing a seat.) They open the door and squeeze into the left hand side (safety generally assumes right side entry and exit.) This sneak attack works just as often as it doesn’t. Sometimes the people who had assumed they had the three spots in back angrily push back and the sneak attacker is forced back out the way he had come. Other times, the person is able to hop in and securely claim their space. It’s a little bit of action adventure (and sometimes comedy) entertainment in my morning.

• ·         While I am at school I observe the children running around at recess. I love to watch their made up games, their devilish smiles and the intense concentration they put into sports. I’ve come to recognize most of the kids who play in my area since they seem to choose the same games and stick to something of a routine. There are quite a few kids with body burns and large scars. One boy in particular has noticeable head wounds, healed but no hair will grow there. Several have arm burns. I don’t know the story behind any of them or why there seems to be an abundance of this, but I notice it. I wonder if the other kids make fun of them- I’ve never seen or heard it in my short half hour outside with them.  What I see, however, with my mother’s eyes, are children that are graced to be here. Their struggle with death is evident and I imagine the family- the mother, the father, the aunts and uncles- who are feeling grateful to have their child still among the living. When I see these children running and playing happily, I look at them and think of how they must be loved.

• ·         My neighbor, the screenwriter, has visited me and invited me to the casting of her script next Saturday. She’s assured me she will give me a preview of the lines I am to read and tell me a bit about what to expect there (beaucoup de gens, is what she said. Exactly what I am afraid of. ) I’ve been trying to determine if I am trying out for my role or if it is assured. I get the sense it is assured, being that it is a small part and requires a white woman. But surely, Abidjan is plein des etrangers and I am not the only white woman here.  She’s also looking for a biracial 17 year old, if you know anyone. She had her eye on Mohamed for a minute but he is too young.  It turns out the TV series might not be my debut on Ivorian TV as my class was filmed last Friday for a documentary-like presentation on French schools in Africa and the use of technology. I prepared a SMARTBoard lesson and we suffered through it while they filmed us. To be certain, the kids were quiet and deathly calm, not at all like their usually lively selves. The film crew visited three classes at our school and in the end will compile a 2 minute clip of us- so we may or may not make the montage. But as a trial run, being in front of the camera was not too disturbing. I could make a career out of it yet.

• ·         I’ve come to realize that teaching English, or teaching in English, is not so much about the learning but the unlearning. I hadn’t before fully grasped that the biggest challenge is undoing the bad habits my students have picked up and helping them form new ones.  I know I struggle with this in my own language learning- and certainly just in the name of habits in general. Breaking bad habits is no easy task, establishing new ones always a challenge. Another of those teacher talents we must develop in order to achieve success.

• ·          The happiest news is that I have finally found a dance class- live drums, students of all ages and races and a price I can afford.  Surely there will be a full length post about dance in Ivory Coast once I get a few classes under my belt. I am so excited about this possibility. Dance was one of those strong motivating factors for coming here and it has been hard having patience these last eight months.

So there it is, 10 random things that have been filling my mind these past few weeks. I’m off to snap some photos of the building methods- fascinating and eye pleasing feats of architecture rampant around town. Stay tuned…….

When is a taxi not a taxi.....?

The most frequently asked question regarding taxis in Kinshasa is....how do you know which ones are taxis? Picking out the ones that are not taxis is oftentimes easier. Large SUV's, tinted windows, thick, solid tires. These are not usually signs of an African taxi. The taxi buses are a cinch....even when not painted in the traditional blue and yellow, they have people hanging their heads out the windows and the money guy leaning out the side door with a wad of francs carefully organized in his fist.

Cars come in all shapes, sizes and marks. Determining taxi from regular roadster can be challenging. The driver usually has one hand out the window making whichever hand signal identifies the area he covers. This is helpful in determining taxis from non-taxis.  There also tends to be a lot of beeping involved, another helpful sign.

On Sundays I generally take a taxi to my dance class downtown. Sunday is  a quiet day in Kinshasa and transport is relatively easy (or at least it has been so far.) The only sticky place is the road right outside the school gates. Sometimes it might be necessary to walk down to the corner and then down again to the larger road in order to find a cab. Usually this is not the case.

Today was a gray sky day in Kinshasa. It rained in the early morning hours, leaving the ground wet and the air cool. Several large cars flew past me- a sign that they are probably not a taxi, or at the very least, a full one. The street was empty. When another car came zooming by I held out my hand and waved it up and down, indicating I wanted to go to magasin, the Kintambo circle. The driver didn't exactly come to a screeching halt, but he did stop much further down the road and reversed back to where I was.

I noticed some boxes in the back window and a thought was born. A small thought that perhaps should have been given more attention. Taxis never have personal items- unless they belong to the passengers. The back door was locked, or at least it didn't open. This is not terribly uncommon in taxis. Usually the driver or an inside passenger will open it from the inside, in the case of broken door handles and other oddities that plague Kinshasa cabs. The car was empty, however, and so I sat in the front.

There are no telling clues in the inside of a cab. No meter, no name badge, no radio to dispatch. This car was decorated with flags on the windshield and stickers on the dashboard. Loud music played and I wondered. The thought was taking root. It's stereotypical to say that all Kinshasa taxis have cracked windshields, broken speedometers,  fuel gauges permanently on empty and door panels ripped out exposing wires and other inner workings that lends a feeling of being inside a radio. Some taxis do have plush seats and handles to roll down the windows still attached.

The driver introduced himself and asked a few questions. Polite enough, though it can be difficult to be the receiver of a barrage of what feels like personal information. My name, where I work, where I live, what I am going to Kintambo for. I guess it passes for small talk. It was pleasant enough and when I asked him to drop me at the customary taxis area, he refused my money.  "Have a nice Sunday," he said. Which is when I really knew it wasn't a taxi.  He continued on down the boulevard.

Just when a few friends had left me feeling disappointed and losing faith in Congolese men and their ability to be truthful and loyal, someone drives by, offers me a ride, refuses my money- and doesn't ask for my phone number. A nice little addition to my Sunday, with a splash of perspective.