Controlled swerve

We're on the road again. After 4 years of relying on public transportation, we're back in the driver seat. I spent the first few weeks playing a hybrid game of taxi and personal car- Bamako routes are complicated and sometimes the best way to get somewhere is just to let someone else drive.

I've conquered most of my fears about getting lost and being overtaken by motorcycles and have been, mostly happily, zooming around town. Normally, this would lead to a plethora of road stories- previously a favorite genre of mine. I don't have any. Or rather, I don't have one.

There are two horses pulling an overloaded cart straight down the middle of the road, trying to make a left hand turn.  The cart driver and horses take on a technicolor glow as the background scene- an 18 wheeler truck, yellow Mercedes taxi and multiple blue Xingda motorcarts- fades into a blurred collage of shape and color.  The sky turns a dark gray, threatening a rain storm any minute. I imagine an oil painting on oversize canvas.

There is really nothing unique in this scene. A drive to anywhere, on any given day, is likely to result in a similar scene.  Bamako streets are a kaleidoscope of contrasting images: old donkey driven carts stacked impossibly high with grass or manure or garbage, and bold new machinery painted in bright primary colors. Crisp bazen robes covering ladies dripping with golden jewelry and dusty street kids in torn clothing carrying empty tin cans. 

It all fits together, in a somewhat precarious manner. Cows munch grass and lounge on the shoulder, one with a hoof carelessly reaching into the roadway. It requires a bit of a swerve to miss, but a controlled swerve because there might be a moto on the left, trying to pass recklessly in the median and he- or she- might need to swerve a bit, a controlled swerve, to get out of the way of another big truck coming down the opposite side of the roadway, or a taxi who is swerving- just a bit, a controlled swerve- to get around a donkey cart meandering on the shoulder- the one across from the cow whose foot is in the road.

We are dancing on this road, all this controlled swerving and weaving in and out, the oversize trucks creating blind spots and the undersize motorcycles fitting into them. It's a choreography, not of precision, but of rhythm and tandem motion.

It's not just the movement- but the color. Bazen and wax prints are everywhere- fancily dressed women flying past on motorcycles, high colorful head wraps, long flowing robes of men, that blue- beautiful deep brilliant Tuareg blue of turbans protecting faces from the dust.

Everywhere there is a sight to see. There is nothing that can't or won't be carried on a motorcycle. A freshly cut cow's head, a living sheep cradled around someone's middle, tires circling the driver, children hanging on the front, the back, the middle, sometimes even driving.  While I have seen things tied to motorcycles, like small bikes and packages, the most alarming is the driver who is also holding something- a large bowl tied with a cloth (someone's dinner,)  a few chickens, a wooden window frame. It doesn't matter what he's holding (although I think it matters when it comes to live animals, a sudden jerk...) it's the fact that he's driving with one hand. Nothing free to grab the other handle. All of his swerving must be extra controlled. He needs to maintain super balance.

Aside from the traffic of transportation, there are the pedestrians to watch out for. Surely a group of women or children- those young boys with their restaurant sized empty tomato paste cans, the Quranic school boys who are supposed to be learning the praises of Allah but are instead sent off to beg for change in the sun, the rain, the cover of day and night- any of those groups will be on the side of the road, raising their hand in a misplaced, schoolroom gesture, trying to gain permission to cross the street.

People laugh as they cross the street. I've been observing them. Nearly everyone does it. Whether they are guided or goaded, whether they have someone holding their hand and trying to stop traffic for them or whether they are making a mad dash, they arrive on the other side laughing and shaking their heads.

It is the fear of risking your life, I realized. It's that laugh that comes from carnival rides and other trauma induced situations- in the last moments, we realize the intense severity of our actions- the consequences of a decision gone wrong, one bad calculation, and the only response is laughter. What madmen we must be and yet, what choice is there? A road must be crossed. 

Those are the Bamako streets we are navigating these days, not so different from streets in rural, developing cities across the world. India, I am told, has the most unimaginably crowded streets anywhere. I think often of the rules of the road- especially for motorcycles- in the US. I cannot imagine the lines of traffic and the hours we would pass stalled on unmoving roadways if every motorcycle were to remain on the pavement only, in one lane only, one motorcycle behind another, taking up the same space as a car. It could never work.

And so I am left to point out all the things you cannot do in the US. Mohamed is studying for his learner's permit and it is a great chance to quiz him on all the differences in driving situations.

There is nothing I can do about the directions, though. While difficult in any country, directions are especially challenging here. I have had some people come right out and tell me, "No, I can't give you directions." (But you are there, right? Somehow, you arrived there? And you can't explain that?) No, no they cannot.

Lots of people mention GPS. Full disclosure, I am a little behind the times in this area. When I was in the US, my aunt was crazy about using this- a wonderful little tool that told her to "turn right here" and other helpful advice. I don't have this feature.

My girl is obsessed with maps these days- the old fashioned, hold in your hand kind, and I am happy to support this dying skill. I am all about google maps and looking things up. I don't mind staring at the big picture and trying to make visual connections between where I am and where I want to go (and where I am likely to make a wrong turn and get lost.)

old school

where we are & where we want to go- so easy

Except when I type in a destination, I see only a blue line. It turns occasionally, left or right, but there is no way for me to determine where that turn happens- in real life. Which road do I take? Clicking on the details option is even less illuminating. Google doesn't know everything.

Navigating the streets of Bamako is frustrating. Only the very large highways are named, along with an occasional main road. I know the names of 4 roads here. Otherwise, there is nothing. Landmarks are surprisingly hard to come by. The side roads all seemed to be lined by the same collection of cement block houses and tin roofs.

My neighbor used to always ask me if I was good with north and south. No, I don't feel especially skilled with an internal compass. I am not even really sure how that helps. But I do tend to have a good sense of direction, though in my visual world, I think of things as up and down or left and right. And all roads seem to lead in a circle here, spitting me back out in the direction of home eventually. It makes note-taking a creative affair.

My directions for getting to the Parc National include phrases like, "turn when you see the mountain" which resulted in a little debate between Nabih and I about when, exactly, we saw the mountain and which turn we should take. There are indications to "turn at the green fruit and vegetable stand" or "turn left at the mosquito tents" and " head straight down voodoo head road," which is possibly an insensitive way to describe the road but honestly, it's the one that sticks. This is the road that has a huge table piled high with monkey skulls. I cannot imagine where the big demand for monkey heads is coming from, (soup?) and so my Western mind stubbornly reverts to cliches (though, cliches are not entirely without their merit. They were born for a reason.)

I also note architecture- "pass the Malitel and the beautiful bank" - a stunning tribute to traditional design, although this article suggests a sinister component. I am choosing to let the visual impressiveness win out over the back story. (Maybe-- I am sure I have ruined the whole effect now and all future trips past the "beautiful bank" are going to be marred by the fact that it is the headquarters of the controversial franc cfa..... another disquieting example of how components of present beauty mingle with the horrors of colonial history in everyday African scenery.)

This wikipedia article  about the building mentions several bridges by name and a few roadways. The problem is no one actually calls them that. So is Martyrs Bridge the first or second bridge? I only know it is not the third bridge because that one is by my house. The other bridges are downtown, locally known as the First and Second- the order in which they were built I presume. I also remember looking on a map and someone pointing out the first bridge is actually located between the second and third (a quirky reference to CDG?)

I've been suspecting that driving around Bamako is a bit like a metaphor for living here. The best places are generally hidden and unannounced- impossible to find on any map, no sign on the door- networking is the only way to arrive. You've got to know someone....

And all of these controlled swerves- little detours that don't bring you too far out of your way, but just far enough for something interesting to happen- potentially. Or not. I'm still waiting for the Bamako magic to hit me, and getting ever more suspicious that it might just pass me by this time.

Motorcycle madness

It's been difficult to write about Mali. Bamako is a new experience for us in many ways. While there are the general 'African staples' that make a familiar connection between countries, the differences abound. I've yet to be enchanted, which shouldn't really influence my writing, but then, of course, there is school.

 It's generally accepted that the first year at a new school is all about understanding. Understanding the curriculum, the educational philosophy, the work ethic, the rhythm of teaching and learning. There are reports to read and documents to write, there are resources to be found and protocols to decipher. And then of course, there are students. The student body of a school comes with its own set of cultural contexts to dissect and examine. While all of this is going on, there is the de-struction that must happen as well. The letting go of processes, events and understandings from "the old school." Granted, sometimes it is helpful to bring new ideas or routines but most often, these things must be designed site-specific.

The concurring need to understand the systems at a school for elite or expatriate children and the necessity of organizing oneself within the host country presents full time challenges. Language, social constructs, locating places for everyday needs. There hardly seems to be time for anything else. Add to this the fact that Bamako is mystifying me and the motivation to stay up late working on reflections of the latest move is lost in the dust kicked up by a thousand motorcycles.

The motorcycles are really the problem for me. I think. I'm not really sure, but I do know they appear to be having a profound effect on my ability to live simply. One example can be found in this short story.

A few nights ago, I decided to go out to grab something from the store- a few bottles of water and maybe a bottle of wine. A friend had recently brought a bottle of wine "from the gas station." I had been hearing about the multitude of things that could be acquired "at the gas station," everything from yogurt to solar powered lamps to wine.

So I set off determined to check this mysterious wonderland out. It's a short walk down the main road and across the round about. Five or six minutes, tops. Except when I arrived to the round about it was plagued with a million lights surging past. I don't see especially well in the dark, and have particular trouble with assessing distance- the worst kind of trouble for crossing a busy Bamako intersection.

The line of cars was endless and the stream of motorcycles daunting. I stood on the edge, waiting. I wandered down the road a bit and back up again, looking for a slowing of the current where I could safely traverse the river of traffic. I even briefly considered taking a taxi, to cross the street. Eventually I gave up and started to head back home. Defeated by a round about.

But then 2 things happened. First, it'd been a particularly rough couple of days and I was really hoping for a glass of wine. My ego probably kicked in a little bit, too- defeated by a street crossing? Really? The second and more important thing that happened is that I saw a donkey cart out there making its way around the circle. "A donkey can be out there, but I can't?" Surely I could walk faster than that donkey was going.

I turned around and made my way back. The donkey cart was impeding traffic just enough for me to make a mad dash across the first road. I walked across the empty circle lot, noticing the occasional patch of grass and a small collection of discarded plastic water bags. Crossing the street on the other side was much easier as most of the traffic was heading out to the third bridge.

I made it to the gas station, which did not have wine but did have Welch's fruit snacks - granted, a favorite of mine, but not exactly a replacement. They were selling for 1,000XOF a bag which means I didn't buy but did file away in my reserve list of possible snack sources for Mbalia in a pinch.

Of course, they might not be there the next time I go. If I go. The way back was a little more traumatizing. Again, passing over onto the center circle was fairly easy. I almost got creamed by a car that came speeding around the corner, but I managed to clear the road moments before contact. The real problem was crossing back over to my fairly quiet side road. The steady stream of cars and motos had not abated at all, and now I was stuck in the center.

I admit there is a lot of fear for me surrounding these bikes. I can't help but imagine how personal and painful getting run over by a motorcycle would be. These images do not help me muster the courage to take the plunge. I stood in that center isle for a long while, feeling frustrated, stupid and helpless. I couldn't cross the road. Seriously.

Since I am writing this post, there's no secret to how the story ends. I made it home, no motorcycle mash-up and I did not have to pass the night sleeping under the stars in the barren center island. The chicken finally crossed the road. But the huge amount of effort involved in this endeavor puts a damper on any future excursions.

It also puts a damper on personally driving. Colleagues suggest I buy a car, assuring me I will gain a new perspective and sense of liberty. Despite navigating the busy Kinshasa streets with all of their pitfalls and obstacles, I am not sure I am ready for the motos of Bamako.

It's the babies.  There is tragic poetry in the way their smooth round heads peek out from the cloth that has secured them to their mother's back. Sometimes they are just a bulge in an ornately decorated scarf wrapped around their mother's head. It may be long enough to protect them from the sun and the dust, but nothing protects them from the hard earth.

My mind is scarred with images of potential accidents.  Perhaps a result of too many defensive driving courses (oh, I was a demon of speed at one point in the timeline of my past) or perhaps it is the result of age and experience. The idea of a vehicle as a weapon, as a tool and a machine is one that has been well developed in me. Most people are driving with a sense of urgency and destination. They are not locked in the present moment. Their decisions are based on where they want to go and what they are hoping will happen next. No one is focused on the context of now.

The fact is I am in fear. This is not the kind of fear I can face down, not like fear of speaking in public or fear of opening oneself up to the criticism of others. I could never undo the image of an accident involving a baby. An accident of any kind is traumatic, but the roads are narrow and densely populated. I could almost believe there is often not enough speed to make accidents fatal. But it wouldn't take any amount of speed to crack open an infant skull.

I'm not exactly sure how to defeat my unease. Familiarity often plays a role in deadening our sense of anxiety. I sat outside a barber shop yesterday, just watching the flow of traffic. It was a Friday and entire streets were closed as people lined up for afternoon prayers. It was amazing to see whole blocks of people united in this act of faith, pausing their daily activities to come together in prayer. Right where they were. Afterward, a group of children lined up to get their treat from a store. They ran off with their bags of milk and something like rice pudding. Although the street was narrow, it hosted the common assortment of motos, small vans and transport trucks. I was amazed at how the children managed to find the right moment to dash across- and thought nothing of crossing back if a friend called them from the other side, or they forgot to return a borrowed hat. They watched, they waited and they took the risk. I resisted the urge to close my eyes.

For now, the motorcycle culture is a huge barrier to my ability to assimilate. Even as I witness the sense of liberty and ease it undoubtedly adds to Malian life, I cannot acquiesce. Perhaps I need to ride more myself. Or learn to drive one. Or maybe I need to be involved in public service campaigns (Allez avec ton enfant mais pas sur le moto ou Enfant a dos?--Prenez pas le moto) but it is hard to change habits. There is evidence of yearly helmet campaigns, but rumors of neck breaking Chinese fabrications are strong. Many people believe the helmet will slice into the neck, possibly severing a vein during an accident. Apparently this is perceived as a much greater risk than cracking your head on the pavement.

It's possible I will find a way to get over my fear. It's more likely I will find a way to crush it down and pretend like the dangers don't exist. Whatever the strategy, I will need to find a way to live with it until I can move on to another country, with an easier range of cultural constructs for me to navigate. 

African sensibility

Shards of green glass littered the roadway, sparkling in the sunlight like emeralds. Overturned orange crates lay scattered throughout the ruins, a few still protecting 1 or 2 intact bottles. The motorcart itself seemed to be unscathed. It was parked just off to the side, around the corner. The driver stood in the middle of the mess, hands on hips, assessing the personal cost of his miscalculation. A well dressed man in crisp African clothes gestured to a policeman as the two made their way across the intersection. Perhaps he was the other driver. It wasn't clear which vehicle was his.

I've passed several accidents in the last few weeks. They seem to come in waves like that. Twice my passing coincided with the arrival of the police. I've long been curious about the after incident process but have never actually seen it. In the first case, a policeman was drawing with chalk around the vehicles, large squares outlining their placement. Presumably, the cars could then be moved.

The tendency to leave cars- and even victims, as I saw one hit bicycle rider today- in the exact spot of the accident leads to such traffic congestion and delay. Not to mention it often seems dangerous to those involved as they often stand discussing the problem right there too. No cones, no one redirecting traffic, not even any palm fronds in the road (although someone had placed a cement brick next to the biker guy's bag of rice that had apparently flew from his basket. And to be fair, if it goes on long enough, eventually an on-looker will jump in and start trying to sort out the tangled traffic. Usually. )

We passed the bottle accident a second time on our way home, about 20 minutes later. He was in the middle of the street with a broom sweeping up the mess. I couldn't help but feel for him. No matter whose fault the accident, his life was taking a hard toll that day. Surely he'd be held responsible for the crates of beer that had been destroyed. Any insurance process would take far too long to be of any help to anyone.

Even as I was empathizing with him, there was something about his act of cleaning that struck a chord with me. African sensibility I could get behind, if, in fact, the accident was the result of his own negligence in observing traffic laws. And if he wasn't the culprit? He was definitely the younger of the two and the less wealthy. There's a certain African sensibility to that as well.

Public transit

Now that I've collected taxi stories in three different colors, it's as good a time as any to return to this old favorite. Though they vary in degree of seriousness, they all serve to remind me how quickly life can change. Public transit seems to carry an inherent risk with it and eventually, I figure my odds are going to run out.

I am hoping my new spot will allow a walk to work. I have come to recognize a small stress in the search for a taxi every morning. (Crossing the main road after work for the ride home practically deserves its own post. It holds a high spot on the won't miss list and is a major stressor.  I hate that road.)

The morning commute appears less dangerous, mostly because there is usually less traffic and no major road to dash across.  But I do need to make sure I have exact change and on some mornings, even that isn't enough. There are mornings when taxis are scarce. There just aren't any. It's the randomness of these mornings that creates the stress. You can never be sure until you get to the road and start trying to hail a cab if there will be any (to hail, or any with space.) One morning, one of those scarce taxi mornings, a driver actually refused my fare, because he was looking for more than the regular price.  The law of supply and demand in full, frustating effect.

On the morning of my story, however, there was nothing remarkable about my yellow taxi search. I'd found a cab and squeezed in the back, perhaps the uncomfortable middle, but on my way nevertheless. We had just passed the new roundabout- where mintues can make the difference between a two second circle or a twenty minute standstill. Timing is everything in the morning. And this morning, timing seemed good. There weren't too many cars, although you could see it was beginning.

As we rounded the turn and began to exit, a large SUV also began to exit. I am not exactly sure what happened, lost in the daydreams of my morning commute. The drivers began yelling at each other through open windows and the SUV began to put the squeeze on, narrowing our driving lane until the chauffeur had no choice but to stop or pull up on the sidewalk, a place well crowded with pedestrians.

The men exited their vehicles as the insults quickly turned into punches. Not yet 7 am and they had a brawl going. They were so close to my window I could see the struggle on the face of the SUV driver, the surprise and frustration as the blows landed.

A passenger in the front seat got out and ran between the men. With some effort he managed to pull them apart. It took long enough that questions began to run through my mind. What are the qualities that inspire a person to get involved? The man next to me didn't make a move to get out and offer any help. Why not? I felt stuck in my inner seat, but knew I couldn't get out, or intervene. (Years with sons have taught me that I am usually the one to get hurt in these kinds of scuffles. Inadvertently, perhaps, but I had no place intervening in a grown man's squabble. And then I was frustrated by that thought and my lack of muscles.) 

Eventually everyone returned to their cars, driving off with a last bit of rage. "Meet me at 9kilo...he's got to get out sometime," our taxi driver snarled, referring to the passenger who had stopped the fight. I wondered what kind of rage fueled such anger before the sun had even gotten comfortably into place. I wondered what the woman in the back of the SUV had been thinking the whole time and I wondered if the chauffeur would still have a job. My stop was less than a block away and I marveled at how easy it was to put the whole mess behind me as I walked in to school.

The following week I found my story in the cover of night with the neon glow of fancy gbaka lights. While I don't really remember the color of the gbaka, inside it always seems a flourescent blue. Gbakas in Abidjan have some of the fanciest interiors I have ever seen, often strung with LED tube lights and flat screen T.Vs spewing the latest videos into our evening commutes. This one had all the amenities.

I was coming from my Friday night dance class, meaning traffic was inevitable. When we reached the main intersection, the red lights of stopped cars shone brighter than our interior blue light show. Drivers have all kinds of tricks for evading the lines of stalled traffic, and our driver did not disappoint. He rode the narrow edge between the curb and the open sewer gulley ( the same place where I'd seen a gbaka nearly run a woman over some months before.) He took the 'short-cut' through the gas station and joined the queue of vehicles who'd also taken this route. We found ourselves, as short-cuts often lead to, at angle incongruous to the precise lines of cars in front of us. We were directly behind a large truck and it soon became clear there was problem. I am not sure if someone reversed, or someone pushed ahead too quickly, but we seemed to be attached to the truck in front of us.

The apprentis jumped out and there was a general congregation of people in the middle of the road, forming a soup of men and lights and vehicles, swaying and rocking and shouting and figuring. Finally, we were unstuck and the road ahead cleared a bit. We assumed our driver would continue and take the right turn in the direction of our intended travel. Instead, he followed the truck through the next turn around and began heading off, back in the direction we had come from.

Passengers started shouting and the apprentis started banging ( there is always a lot of banging involved in gbaka travel) and finally the driver stopped for a minute. "Saute, saute. On vas marche," a woman next to me shouted. We jumped into the dark waters of the night street like passengers abandoning a sinking ship.

Apparently our chauffeur intended to follow the truck driver- in the wrong direction with a bus full of passengers- to seek revenge. Road rage at its craziest.  Again. luckily for me, I was less than a block away from my stop and quickly walked to the next leg of my transit. Other passengers, however, had been intending to go as far as Faya, and would need to find a new ride at the main intersection. The apprentis had enough mind to collect my fare before I disappeared into the night, but what about the others? Do you have to pay when your driver suffers from an irrational fit of road rage and only gets you half-way to your destination?

I found myself asking this same question a few short weeks later. This time, I was in an orange taxi- taxi express in Kinsahsa terms. Orange taxis generally take just one passneger and offer you door-to-door service, or street-to-door as the case may be. I was returning from a new tutoring job, this one well across town. We were returning at dusk, an hour when the threat of traffic looms on the horizon. Our route took us past the president's quarters, which can be a sticky area. But we'd made it past there, and the occasional back ups by the Golf Hotel without much of a delay.

I was busy in my mind when I happened to glance up. There's no escaping the cliches. I saw everything in slow motion. The car in front of us, another red taxi (everyone calls them red, but they are so obviously orange- I don't really get it.) The back end was getting larger and larger. There was no sign that we were slowing down but I didn't say anything. Until it was too late. Perhaps I gasped, or sucked in a breathe sharply, or maybe I even said something. But it wasn't Hey! Stop! or Attention! It was nothing useful.

By the time the driver came to, because surely he was off in some daydream of his own, we'd already slammed into the car in front of us, which had, in turn, slammed into the car in front of them. Three car pile up.

We all exited the vehicles and I began wondering what to do. In Kinshasa, the rules were clear. Get away. In the US, you stay to file a report. I wasn't really clear what the rules were here- and did I have to pay? Because once again, I hadn't quite reached my destination.

I hung around for awhile. I asked the driver of one of the other vehicles what would happen next. They seemed to be debating about whether or not to call the police- well, I guess they call the sapier pompiers- the firefighters- but everyone was debating how long it would be before they showed up. The taxi drivers had to call their bosses. A passenger in the other taxi was injured and bleeding. He didn't leave the backseat and alternated between sitting with his head down and laying on the backseat. The woman with him kept asking the (my) taxi driver what he was going to do.

"He's bleeding," she kept saying as the drivers walked around the cars assessing the damage. "That's material things. What are we going to do about him?" she asked. Another taxi driver stopped for a minute, perhaps to offer support (again, what makes people get involved? I took a class on this way back when and poignant moments have never left me. Victims and Their Experiences it was called. And it was mind blowing.)

Bystanders streamed out from the plant and garden stands along the roadside. I wondered if I was supposed to stay and give my testimony.  It seemed pretty clear which driver waas at fault. However, he said there were no brake lights on the other taxi, so it wasn't completely his fault. I couldn't speak to that. I didn't remember if there were lights shining as the back of the taxi loomed closer.

I knew that my head hurt, I'd managed to block most of the impact but not all. The next day a deep and angry bruise appeared on my knee, but I didn't feel it at the time. I was nauseous and tired and I couldn't tell what was accident related or just the result of working too late on too little sleep for too many days. Eventually I handed my driver most of the fare and headed home on foot. I found a yellow cab after 10 minutes of walking and continued my commute, wondering what had happened to the bleeding man, grateful there were no serious injuries that would haunt me into the night.

Except. sometimes, possibility haunts us as much as reality. Traffic accidents are a major cause of death in Africa, something I think about everytime I am on the road. It is a false sense of comfort to think if you are driving you are more in control, but I don't even have that to offer a bit of solace. I am at the mercy of chauffeurs who succumb to road rage, who battle with money to keep their taxis in safe working conditions- so many times I have diagnosed a problem (having a mom who worked for years in the automotive industry has taught me a thing or two about the sounds cars make, not to mention years of tooling around in my own clunkers) but often drivers don't know or won't admit the problems their cars are suffering from.

It's a risk, public transit in Africa. Everytime I get in a taxi or gbaka, I think of my children. I wonder what would become of them. I think of myself. Will there be pain if the gbaka tips over? How long will I wait for treatment if my accident is serious? Will it be the waiting or the injury that does me in? It takes a lot of effort to close my mind to the possibilities, the risk. I always imagine that meme I ran across, about stalled traffic in Germany versus stalled traffic in Africa, and the comment, il faut changement de mentalite.  The images and lessons from Defensive Driving are never far from my mind. I think courses like these might make a difference. But, of course, I am not really sure how many drivers have even passed any sort of test about road rules or practical driving.

There is no shortage of driving schools, though the clients I see there are generally women. For me, the  plus grande question, we call the boy who rides the door and calls out the destination, we call him apprentis- but what is he really learning? And in a few years, he will move to the driver's seat.  

Queen of Hearts

She closes her eyes halfway and nods her head, indicating I should get in the car. Her face shows firm resolve as though committed to something she’d rather not do but has recognized is for the greater good. She is a stout and strong woman and reminds me of a Midwestern farmer’s wife. Something about her manner brings to mind the phrase “a good Christian woman,” but she is Lebanese or Tunisian and clearly Muslim. 

We first met the day after the soccer game, the big championship that Cote d’Ivoire won.  I was walking to school, unclear if it had been cancelled and she was just returning. She beeped her horn to get my attention and pulled off to the side of the road. 

“There’s no school today. I just came from there,’ she informed me.  “I see you often on your way. If I see you again I will give you a ride. I am not far from here.” And so it was settled. Whenever she passes me, she honks, pulls over and offers me that head nod that seems to say, I gave my word and I’m going to honor it to death. 

Getting rides seems to be the only thing I am good at here in Abidjan. My neighbors are excellent about offering 'to advance me.' They always comment on how they see me walking around the neighborhood, and they ask about the baby. Apart from people I semi-know (or who semi-know me,) there are plenty of free rides to be had from the taxi drivers. Yeah, free. I can't believe nor understand why this is a thing here.  Orange 'express' cabs and yellow 'woro-woro' cabs have equally advanced me a leg of my journey and then refused pay. Its often a moment of joyful surprise in my day.

My Lebanese neighbor (from the newer side of the cartier) has three cherub faced children with lusciously curly hair. They are unstrapped and roll around the backseat in that terrifying African way children in cars have. Loose items just waiting to be ejected. The oldest is usually brushing her hair, and the other sister alternates between standing up to look out the window and crawling around the floor for some dropped item. The little boy sits silently on the edge of the seat. They all stare at me with large brown eyes and smile shyly.

Our conversation has varied over the three trips she’s offered. I try to make a little small talk and have learned enough about her to know her husband is with the World Bank, they came here unexpectedly and she prefers Tunisia. Much of the ride passes in silence and I figure that is ok too. 

This particular morning we get off to a hiccupping start.  I want to throw the word jalopy in here, but I am not sure why or if it really applies. Perrhaps it is this part of the definition "...an old-style class of stock car racing in America, often raced on dirt ovals" that most describes my experience. The car itself is not old or out of shape exactly, but the driving...

I feel like I’ve gotten on a ride at the fair. There are jerks and false starts and unexpected accelerations. She is saying something to me but a sense of vertigo prevents me from fully comprehending.  She speeds up and passes a car as we go around the turn. We approach an intersection, but there is no slowing down. We race through cutting off a taxi who blares its horn and swerves to the right. Amidst the braking and blaring she offers a comment on the situation.  “You see how they drive here?” She shakes her head in dismay and tsk tsks with her teeth.  I am feeling a bit Alice in Wonderland at her perception of things and my breakfast begins to speak to me from the pit of my stomach. I notice that she does bear a slight resemblance to the Queen of Hearts. I get lost in thoughts of flamingo mallets and rolling hedgehogs.

As we arrive at the school, there is a line of traffic waiting for pedestrians to cross. It's not a long line and things are relatively quiet. In general, everyone is heeding the security guards charged with maintaining order in the early morning flow. I am always impressed by how competent they are at their job. I admire the choreography they execute as cars stop and go, turn and advance and then wait again. Like the gears and cogs of a machine working together to produce an efficient and artful effect. My Queen of Hearts wants no part of this, however. 

She pulls into the opposite lane and jumps the queue completely. The school is on the right hand side and so she needs to cut off whoever is at the front of the line in order to cross back over. The security guards actually help her to do this, remove the barrier so she can make the turn and enter the parking lot. No one blinks an eye. “So that is how it is done,” I think as I release my death grip from the door handle. Oxygen floods my brain as I realize I hadn’t been breathing. 

She turns to me and curtly nods her head. Mission accomplished. “Have a good day.” She smiles slightly and I feel I am dismissed.  I put my feet on solid ground, rather enjoying the dizzying after effects of my morning commute. I know by the time I reach my classroom I will have morphed back into the dependable teacher persona that my job requires, but for the moment, I feel otherworldly and life is brimming with possibilities.

Wonderland- Alice's kind

I know I am supposed to be concentrating on things I love about Kinshasa, but sometimes, the lack of logic overwhelms me. I am a book person. A logic and reason person. A facts and research person. An observe and make conclusions type of gal.

None of which make living in Kinshasa any easier. I stopped at the bank today- unsure if it was open or not, I pulled into the spot just before the closed gates (usually open when the bank is open. Reasonable, right?) After noticing a few cars still in the parking lot, I decided to pull ahead and park just off the road, thinking maybe those cars would be exiting any second (haha.) Of course, the roadway was filled with traffic and I waited for an opportune moment to merge. The bank security saw me idling and came over. Yes, I knew I had to leave but of course, figured it was traffic permitting. After watching me wait and look behind me for several minutes at long lines of cars, he came over and tapped on my window. "Pull ahead," he said as he motioned forward, grinning hugely. Friendly even, the way you grin at the town idiot who talks to herself.

Which is kind of what I was doing. I have had that kind of week where it made perfect sense to me to roll down the window and tell him I was waiting for a break in traffic before pulling out onto the roadway. Logically. It wouldn't make sense to pull out into traffic. And therein lies the error. A bystander jumped off the car he was sitting on and stepped before me to motion exactly where it was I supposed to be. I didn't need guidance, I just needed some patience to let the cars pass. After visiting the ATM and getting ready to pull forward into an empty lane of traffic, the helpful (?) bystander again flew from his perch and landed in the roadway, ready to help me steer into the path of any oncoming (now nonexistent) traffic. I had now become the incompetent mondele who couldn't drive. It wasn't until much later (and maybe a beer) that  I realized they all thought it would be perfectly normal to pull right out in front of the 10 wheeler cement truck coming my way. Of course, the supreme logic didn't hit me until after I had already ranted about an entire country of backward thinkers (the exact words were less precise and a bit more cutting. I was in a state.) People pull out in front of cement trucks, speeding taxi buses and motorcycles carrying small children all the time. It's the way things work. Otherwise you would be sitting on the side of the road waiting forever, just hoping for a free space and a safe moment like an idjit.

But I do realize now that most of my woes stem from (still) trying to impose my order of thinking on people who think another way. If only I could understand, and even more so, accept, the logic of Wonderland, I would be in a much better space.

After months of storing up old glass mayonnaise bottles and tins of canned tomatoes, I finally asked Mama Vero to get rid of the garbage. She had a solid look of confusion on her face and I realized I needed to define "garbage." While I fully support recycling and reusing, I just couldn't think of a way to use 50 glass mayonnaise jars and 75 small tins of tomato paste. Artist though I might at times be, I was out of ideas. Yes, these are garbage in my world.

I know that many in Kinshasa reuse the glass bottles to fill with any variety of liquids from gasoline to cooking oil. We've designed recycling centers at the school to consist of large drums to hold glass, tin and paper garbage. The idea behind this was that any campus workers who found a need for the glass and tin could then help themselves to the barrels. A multi-service center. I can get rid of my glass and people who need can benefit from reusing old (and free) containers. A perfect system which does not necessitate me storing months and months of reusables in my kitchen. Sort of.

Other definitions of garbage include food that has gone bad (no, the refrigerator doesn't keep it good forever) and food that is still good (I know we haven't eaten all the bread in two days but we want to eat it, it's not bad yet.) And items that appear healthy ( I don't want these things, in this bag here, that came from the hospital-the plastic and other items that could keep germs) but maybe they aren't really (no, really, even though you washed them, I don't want the containers that came from the hospital where there are germs and other bacteria we can't see lurking in the small cracks and crevices that just can't get clean.) That was a week long affair - trying to explain that one. And maybe I am a bit paranoid, but if you have spent any time in  a Kinshasa hospital, you would probably agree old plastic containers should just go in the garbage.

These are just a few examples of things that need to be redefined or rethought in order to obtain peaceful synchronicity. It always seems to be the weird balance of people who think for themselves at the precise moment when you don't want them to, and yet, when it seems a clear moment of logical thinking is in order, there's nothing. I strive to find the balance and am continually missing it.

The results are terrifying. I become enraged, disgusted, disappointed, discouraged and disoriented. It's not just Congolese. I think there is something in the air that affects us all. I ask the sub to have kids complete pages 2 & 3 and she replies, "No problem I'll do my best to make sure they complete pgs. 1-5." Wayside Stories at it's best.

I am mystified. It transcends language, country of origin and educational experience. It's the air we breathe and it requires us to accept the boundaries of Wonderland as our new frontier. Alice seems to have fun and gets only mildly agitated in her new world, but she is a visitor and the story doesn't last long enough for us to see how truly crazy she becomes. I have tried shirking my link to logic and reason, crossing over to the land of no expectations and complete surprises. It's challenging.

I've developed a few strategies for this. One is to make observations rather than emotional comments. "Look, there's a taxi who has decided to stop in the middle of the road and look for passengers. We are waiting behind him (for 20 minutes, maybe we should sing along to this great song on the radio, kids.) " or "Look, children, it's a classic T-jam" - my new phrase for when a car comes across the lane and stops dead in front of you. You are unable to move forward- though the road may be clear ahead- and neither can they- because they have inevitably crossed into a major traffic back up but thought it more logical to block your path so you could both converse through the windows and keep each other company. (Making friends is an important social skill and can even be fun.)

Other strategies include making lists, repeating, repeating and maybe even try repeating if that doesn't work. Pictures and explanations are mildly helpful. I have noticed that lengthy explanations only serve to muddy up the real issue. I am pretty terrible at making things black and white, but in Alice's world, gray is only yellow and so it doesn't help at all.

It leaves me just plain crabby. I end up thinking things like, "No, I don't want to practice English with you just because you think it will be fun and expect me to try and understand all the mangled words you say. I have no idea what you are talking about. No, I don't want my children to reveal all of their personal information to a complete stranger just because we both happen to be waiting in the same line..."  Days like these I envy the Chesire Cat....just a big smile....ability to vanish.....no need to form any sort of logic. I aspire to that.

Get out of your car and kiss me....and other odd adventures in DRC

“Remember what Bilbo used to say: ‘It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”” — J.R.R. Tolkien

As a child, I followed Bilbo's adventures never knowing that I might be closer to his reality one day than I could ever imagine. Stepping out the door in Congo is always certain to lead to one sort of adventure or another. But, as with any long vacation sequestered here on campus, I tend to get led into a foggy haze and my thinking becomes otherworldly. It was in this dream like, slightly confused state that I set out to the closest store to get a few things. Nothing important, just some small unnecessary items. Completely forgetting there's no such thing as a quick run to the store.

I stopped to get cash at the ATM not far from school. The ATM spits out hundreds like an angry llama. I am always intrigued by the idea that you can spend US dollars on the street in Congo...anything bigger than a $5. No one will even look a single dollar bill. When I've received one as change in a bank or supermarket, even I have shaken my head in disbelief as though it were play money. "Can you give me francs? What am I going to do with that?" I say, knowing there's nowhere to spend a dollar. Its amazing how quickly our paper system becomes devalued. And to think, I used to collect change.

With a crisp brand new one hundred dollar bill, I continued on to the "corner store." Once inside, I picked up a few things totaling slightly less than $5 and was promptly told they would not accept my overzealous payment. I've had problems of this sort before in this store. A slight tear, too many wrinkles. They are very particular about American money. Crisp, clean and wrinkle free. But my hundred was fresh from the machine and so I didn't really see the problem. Too big, I guess. I just shook my head, muttering that only in a country such as Congo would they refuse to accept money. It happens all the time. Refusal to bargain to a fair price, refusal to sell, refusal to accept money for a just exchange. Bizarre. In my fugue state, I went out to the car.

There is a "point of no return" in Kinshasa and for me it lies just after the first round about leading to the boulevard and downtown. Once you drive past that, returning traffic could take hours and its definitely a no man's land out there. At the parking entrance, I looked to my left, saw the endless line of cars and decided to turn back towards Kintambo, the busy market area I had just come through. Traffic is often horrendous through there and the streets crowded with pedestrians and sellers make it something o f an obstacle course. However, I figured I could go to a cozy little store tucked on a side street and pick up some cheese, maybe some onions and get change for my oppressive one hundred dollar bill. It's an interesting store that always has a side of goat hanging to the left of the entrance. I guess they are also a butcher. I usually turn my head when I enter to avoid the graphic image. Once inside, it actually seemed like a good plan until, just as I was about to pay, someone came in and asked me to move my car. I was apparently blocking an exit from the driveway. I moved the car and drove away empty handed, albeit for that crisp, useless American money.

I headed downtown weaving through darting pedestrians, trying to heed traffic cop signals and ignoring the street boys that wanted me to perform crazy maneuvers in order to let the taxi buses through. The holiday season in Kinshasa, as in any big city, impossibly adds to the number of cars and confusion on the road. About halfway down, I came to a stop as directed by the officiating officer. He was motioning for a large truck to make a left hand turn from the oncoming lane. However, the cross lane the truck was turning into was not actually moving. The truck could not make it across the boulevard without completely blocking our way forward. At times like these I think of the simple rules of NYC driving, 'Don't block the box.' It seems obvious.

Predictably, the cars in my lane began shouting, gesturing and honking. What was happening before us simply didn't make sense. Our road was open but we were being made to wait for.....well, it wasn't quite clear. I guess it should also be predictable by now but I was taken a bit by surprise when cars started to go around the huge truck....to my left. Which meant they were now on the wrong side of the road traveling against oncoming traffic. "I am NOT doing that," I thought. But I did. I was swept up in the flow of moving vehicles and soon found myself on the wrong side of the road, immediately aware of two distinct problems. First, obviously, I was on the wrong side of the road. Second, and more importantly, the line behind the truck stretched on for quite a distance. There was no immediate access back to my correct driving lane. With safety (and perhaps a bit of mob mentality) in numbers, we all proceeded to drive defying traffic rules and common sense. Think of a car chase scene in your favorite action adventure film...though somewhat slower and with a bit more control. Just as panic began to set in, I saw an opening that would allow me to cross over into the land of sanity. I veered to my right and was soon merging into the world of correct driving laws.

With all of the traffic surrounding me and now coming in a variety of directions, things were hectic and a bit confusing. I had to come to a sudden halt just before a crosswalk where another traffic cop had given the signal. (There are no 'yellow' hand signals that I am aware of here. It's simply a turn of the body and outstretched arms that let you know if you should stop or go...slowing down is for cowards I guess.) I had passed the 'line' a bit and immediately caught the eye of the policeman. He walked up to the front of my car with large gestures. I made my own gestures in return, apologising and recognizing that I was ill placed. I even reversed a bit into an oncoming truck in an attempt to rectify the oversight. Upon reaching my front grill, he made a somewhat hilarious motion of throwing himself on top of my car as though I had hit him. No, no I shook my head. I wasn't even close to you. There were no pedestrians in sight and I had crossed the line ever so slightly. I realized the radio was on and turned it down so I could hear what he had to say.

He began pointing at me and then pointing next to him. He wanted me to get out of the car. I've never had this request before. Usually they approach the window and ask to see your license. If he moved from the front of my car however, I would be free to drive off. He continued pointing and motioning while I continued shaking my head and apologizing, trying to explain the mass of cars and confusion I had just driven through. He put his hands to his lips, Italian style. It was not the hunger sign but the get out of your car and kiss me sign. Or maybe it was my hazy head and confusion that led me to this translation. I simply didn't know what he was asking for. I tilted my head and raised my eyebrows. Was he serious? Someone on the street shouted at him and he turned. He stepped aside from the car, pointed his finger at me and told me not to drive off even as he watched me slowly pulling away.

I had nearly arrived at my destination and so pulled into the lot and purchased a few items. The downtown area was packed with people and events and general holiday commotion. It's like confetti on the eyes trying to discern if there is a real situation or just  a crowd of people waiting for transport. A bunch of police seemed to be surrounding a pushcart. I couldn't tell if the man emerging from underneath it had been hit or was repairing something. It's always that way with people under vehicles.

My return trip was equally eventful in that children seemed to be dashing from one side of the street to the other in a crazy game of 'red light, green light.' This was no game of course, just the ordinary day to day of trying to get somewhere in Kinshasa on foot. I stopped to let a young street vendor escort two little boys most of the way across the street, happy they'd had some help in their personal adventure. He went two- thirds of the way with them and then gave them a slight push as he threw his hands up in the air. "Off with you," he seemed to be saying, as he returned to his post and his friends by the side of the road. I was almost feeling hopeful.

The thing that really stops my heart is the way the smallest of boys who are selling water run after the large taxi buses and cars. The taxi buses don't slow down for them and in order to make the sale they run along side throwing bags into the windows and hoping to catch the bills tossed back to them. Because the taxis tend to create an ominous third lane down the middle of the road, the boys are often caught between rows of traffic. I drive holding my breath for them with a foot on the brake. I was a bit distracted by the scene as several other street kids came up to my window on the right. 'Tis the season and everyone is looking for some holiday cash. I shook my head at them as I eyed a young girl looking to make a quick dash across the road. Anticipating her run, I slowed down. The boys on my right formed a little posse and one of them even stepped in front of my car, policeman style. Really? Accosted by a band of seven year olds. I steered around him cautiously, in wonder at this new boldness. They banged the back of my car a few times as I made my way past them.

I finally arrived at the house with some bread and cheese in tow, still laughing about kissing the policeman. I just can't get enough of these traffic stories. It's a dangerous business, stepping out of your door.

I've been Booted

When I first arrived at school, we were given an interesting orientation task. The staff was divided into groups and each group had to find something that all members had in common. A typical community building, ice breaking type of exercise. In general, groups came up with forgettable responses that did not truly get to the heart of the matter- unifying us as educators, neighbors, and colleagues. However, one group did manage to cross  the boundary and came up with a truly unique bond. They'd all been arrested at one point or another (well, except one person, whom they were willing to overlook in the name of sensationalism.) It was a funny and surprising admission from a group of teachers. One of them addressed us apologetically and said, "Well, when you live in Africa its not really that hard to get arrested." It seemed to change the perspective of trouble with the police from an "if" to a "when."

And so my "when" nearly arrived on this holiday weekend, though I have vowed personally to avoid African police stations if at all possible. Some doors seem likely to open only in one direction (it could also be my avid love of reading all things African or about Africa that has given me a slightly skewed vision of what goes on in some departments...)

We had taken a trip out to the store, as so many adventures seem to begin here. Road work has created a bit of havoc on the main boulevard. Before we knew it, we were coralled downtown much further than we intended to go. There was only one lane of traffic open, going in one direction. Choices were slim. We ended up by a frequented store (of many ex-pats here in Kin) and near the US embassy, a somewhat notorious part of town.

Not surprisingly, we were signaled to pull over. There were a lot of cars being pulled over. I was reminded  of the end-of-the month inspection checks in the U.S. But then my friend pointed out a white SUV with a yellow tire boot. It was empty and on the opposite side of the road, which had become increasingly congested. The Kinshasa gare central is in this area and just after the turn there is a large taxi pick up area. Between the taxis and the long line of cars pulled over, there wasn't a lot of room for other motorists to pass.

We began our dance with the police. They want the windows rolled down, I want to keep them up. They want my documents, I don't want to give my documents. They were asking for the 'card rose' which I didn't appear to have. I did have several letters with official looking titles and stamps however. And while I was carrying on this dispute, my friend and passenger noticed they were trying to boot us. I immeidately began to drive causing the 'booter' to jump back from the car. This also caused the police officer to become quite angry with me and we began something of a yelling exchange. My part went something like this, "Hey! Hey! Hey! You can't do that. What's the problem? We didn't do anything. Hey! Hey! Hey!..." and so on. His part went something like this..."Attention. Who do you think you are? You think this country is for you?!?! You need some discipline." And here all of my novels and travel biographies produced a vivid image of what Congolese police discipline might entail. I demanded pardon but continued to let him know that we had everything we were supposed to. So what was the problem? I let him know we had called someone to "help with the speaking" and he pretended not to hear me so I would roll down my window.

Onlookers and passing cars began to cause a fuss, as we were blocking the path of taxis. One of the orange vested men (the 'booters', I gathered) signed to me that we should pull up and over a bit. Ah, but how? I could go nowhere. He pantomined unlocking the boot so I could move out of the way. I just shook my head. If he unlocked my boot, I was driving away- although, with the traffic condition, I surely wouldn't get far. I figured it was only fair since he had thoughtlessly locked me in an inconvenient place for no apparent reason.

So we sat in the hot car, baking, discussing the benefits of a good sweat bath now and then. We watched the Congolese passing us and laughed at the way they stared at the tire and then stared at us. Doubletakes that caused the eyebrows to crumple in confusion or be raised in sympathetic wonderment. A few street boys even came over to speak some English and offer their advice: we were screwed. This really caused us to crack up in laughter. Everyone seemed to be telling us the obvious. But they did it with such concern and sincerity.

Once the boot has been applied, talking yourself out of the situation seems unlikely. I watched another couple get pulled over. The woman opened her door and stepped outside. (Isn't rule number 1 never to get out of the car? I thought.) I envied the way the breeze seemed to twirl her skirt around. Sweat dripped from my chin. We were waiting for some relief from the embassy. The man from the truck came over to inquire if we were ok...well, aside from being trapped-literally-inside our car. They drove away, no problems it seemed, leaving us contemplate why some mondele  were booted and others were not. Its all arbitrary here.

Our embassy guardian arrived, another Congolese police officer but in plain clothes. Upon sight, I didn't have much faith in him. "I am here for you," he told us and did take our documents and engage in discussion. There seemed hope of a resolution. It just came down to time. Resolutions can be lengthy....and costly. At one point, he snatched the papers from whoever was holding them and threw them in the car. "Don't give them anything!" he said. It didn't seem like things were going all that well. More discussion. Abruptly we were told we could go. The boot was removed. "We are not criminals..." I heard in careful, accented English as we drove away. It was the orange vested booter. Neither are we, I thought. Why the boot? It seemed like such extreme measures. Meanacing measures.

We did eventually make it to our intended destination, and shopped in soaking wet clothes, to the curisoity of those in the store. We even went to lunch to celebrate our freedom. On the way home, we passed the (gas)station in Kintambo and noticed  a group of orange vested men and a pile of yellow boots. Someone else's adventure.....