It always starts with the taxi drivers. Understanding the culture, getting where you need to go and keeping your finger on the tone of the people, the politics and the history. The most useful thing would be to speak Bambara. It would make them happy and it would help me get to the right destination without a lot of touring the city, which occasionally happens. We could probably also have some good conversations. Malians do seem to be pretty friendly once you break the language barrier.
I had intended to learn Bambara and even wanted to get a head start before leaving Abidjan. But something has happened. An unexpected emotion has crept in and made this new-country experience a bit different from the others. I was talking with a friend who has noticed a similar reaction.
Its the fatigue of learning a new language, discovering new rituals and meeting new people. I don't want to play the introduction game with other ex-pats (where are you from, how long have you been here, where else have you been?.....) I don't want to hear about long job titles that explain nothing. I don't want to ask questions about the hideously inflated job title and I don't want to explain myself. It's rare that swapping stories of countries visited leads to a meaningful exchange. Mostly it feels like someone trying to impress me with tales of their egos and adventures.
Telling you where I am from is even less effective. It only leads to labels and stereotypes that don't fit anymore, if they ever did. The kind of information to be gotten by asking about my American life is bound to be misleading. And I can't explain my African experiences with any greater clarity. Can't we talk about other things than where we've been and where we think we're going?
It's the first time I have arrived somewhere with an idea of about how long I'd like to stay. And it is affecting my ability to become engaged. Sure, I want to see things, learn about the culture and dance- of course. I want to absorb the music and the dance and the art as much as possible. But I am wary about investing. Learning a language means I might end up staying longer than intended. Making connections means I might end up feeling comfortable and at home, which will make it harder to leave.
Resistance. It's like a little rough edge around everything I do. I have a very keen sense that there is a fine line for me to be walking here in Bamako. It appears to be the kind of place you don't expect to stay, but then 5 or 10 years later, you find you are still there. And I don't want to still be here in 5 years. I think.
There is great music. Stunning dance. Beautiful art. Strong traditions and interesting history to explore. There are a lot of attractive things. So why am I in such a hurry to get out of here?
It's complicated. Or maybe I am complicated. The only thing to be certain is that dance show I saw last night was amazing. The costumes were a modern, brilliant interpretation of shiny bazin. The whole effect reminded me of a fireworks show. The grand finale when you think each explosive display is the last, only to see it followed by something more colorful with a pattern more complex and breathtaking the previous compilation.
It was a good show. I saw a few artists I know and maybe strengthened some connections. Simply put, one nice evening in Bamako. It did inspire a series of flashbacks, reminding me of so many other good shows and artists and experiences that I loved. It was impossible not be confronted with the temporality of it all. While I am reminded of the importance of living in the moment, enjoying each experience in the present, I can't help but feel a tinge of resistance.
Showing posts with label transitions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label transitions. Show all posts
18.2.18
21.7.14
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.
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.
27.4.14
The Trouble with Chocolate
One of the best things about working at the same school my boys go to has been our morning walks. Living on campus means we have a short walk, but the jungle canopy filled with birdsong lends a magical air to our mornings. There is usually something interesting to see along the ground or beside the road and Nabih's keen eye is certain to pick it up. For several years he was into rock collecting and would often stop to unearth some hoped for treasure (unfortunately turning out to be a buried bit of glass or scrap of old linoleum as often as a true find.)
Nabih often lets loose casual phrases of observation that strike me as profound statements on the human condition. Children seem to have a way of doing that with ease. By the administration building that we pass everyday, there is a tree caught in a continuous, fast-forward cycle of the seasons. Its leaves bud, grow, turn red and fall to the ground. We usually pass one of the groundskeepers using a rather loud leaf blower to corral them all into neat piles that can be swept away into the forest.
"Have they ever considered it might be prettier with the leaves on the ground?" Nabih inquired one day. I had to agree. The leaves are a startling shade of red and very large and crisp. They make a lovely ground cover, in the poetic sense. Practically, I guess the steps and parking area just before the entrance to the main office of the school looks neater and tidier swept free of leaves- no matter how crisp and colorful they are.
Our short walk is generally filled with Nabih's nonstop talking- commentaries on the latest books he's read, usually involving some sort of Pokemon battles- but frequently I am graced with a gem of inspiration delivered with Nabih's "but, of course" logical attitude. He has a knack for delivering a creative idea or solution to Mohamed and I as if we are little children who should have known better all along. It makes suffering through the Pokemon sagas almost bearable. There's always hope that an invaluable spark of wisdom will grace my morning at any moment.
Our walk home is equally insightful. One day last week there was another momma-child couple walking just behind us. I could hear snippets of their conversation, filled with the question and answer routine of 7 year olds. I remember it fondly. Endless wonderings about the universe, how it works and why. Luckily, by 9, Nabih has begun to suppose his own answers which far exceed anything I could offer.
While I wasn't necessarily listening in on their conversation, little phrases and catch words floated up to us on the breeze. Apparently the boy had been carrying home a candy bar from a class party and it was becoming something of a mess as a result of the Kinshasa heat and his tight grip. Mom clearly had one eye on contamination factor of chocolate smeared hands and was trying to avert a clothing crisis. While he chatted on, musing about the workings of the world, she tried to direct focus to the small melting river in his grasp. She may have started by using a word just above his understanding - which he immediately questioned- and she was talking her way around it, trying to explain while not detracting from the pleasure of the treat.
"It's better if you don't cuddle it....." and the rest floated off on the wind, leaving me with an image of hugging a candy bar while gently rocking it to sleep. I pondered this as Nabih continued his play by play of something fascinating that occurred on the playground. Don't cuddle your chocolate. Surely there was profound wisdom in there.
I adore chocolate. I love to have one candy bar- Dairy Milk Fruit & Nut my current favorite, dark chocolate a very close second- usually acquired during the shopping trip once or twice a month. There is something so satisfying and delicious about indulging in my one little candy bar that makes me feel luxurious and spoiled. I think there are millions who can understand the appeal of a good quality chocolate. It maintains a fascinating place in history as the food of the gods as well as a focus for psychological and scientific studies - what's so appealing about chocolate anyway?
Considering the 'orosensory' pleasure of chocolate, it easily becomes a metaphor for all things sweet and beautiful- the small moments in life we cherish. Those times together that we don't necessarily get every day but wish we could extend. They seem fleeting even as we are in the midst of treasuring the moment. Walks to school, Sunday afternoons at the pool, sun showers and thunderstorms, decorating gingerbread houses and learning to make fried chicken. All examples of ordinary moments savored in the present for their bitter sweetness, because you know one day you'll look back from the future and miss these times.
Trying not to cuddle your chocolate means it's ok to enjoy the moment as it happens- and then let it pass. It doesn't need to be captured on film, stored in digital memory or shared on facebook. It can just be. One moment that you recognize has fulfilled you, made you happier and more appreciative of the world around you. One good moment in life. And then move on. When you try to hug too hard, or hold on too long, inevitably something gets broken. Don't squeeze the kittens.
It's a good lesson as we prepare to leave Kinshasa behind. Whenever I get too sentimental about the boys leaving the only school they've really known, or when I panic just a little at the thought of trying to learn new streets, make new friends, understand new rituals and customs, I try to remember not to cuddle my chocolate. I want leave this part of our lives behind knowing there will always be fond memories, perhaps a chance to return and visit old friends, and a future ahead full of possibilities- perhaps to be sweeter, perhaps to be harder but most definitely to be lived. And savored to the fullest.
An occasional chocolate bar in our new home will surely help with the transition.
Nabih often lets loose casual phrases of observation that strike me as profound statements on the human condition. Children seem to have a way of doing that with ease. By the administration building that we pass everyday, there is a tree caught in a continuous, fast-forward cycle of the seasons. Its leaves bud, grow, turn red and fall to the ground. We usually pass one of the groundskeepers using a rather loud leaf blower to corral them all into neat piles that can be swept away into the forest.
"Have they ever considered it might be prettier with the leaves on the ground?" Nabih inquired one day. I had to agree. The leaves are a startling shade of red and very large and crisp. They make a lovely ground cover, in the poetic sense. Practically, I guess the steps and parking area just before the entrance to the main office of the school looks neater and tidier swept free of leaves- no matter how crisp and colorful they are.
Our short walk is generally filled with Nabih's nonstop talking- commentaries on the latest books he's read, usually involving some sort of Pokemon battles- but frequently I am graced with a gem of inspiration delivered with Nabih's "but, of course" logical attitude. He has a knack for delivering a creative idea or solution to Mohamed and I as if we are little children who should have known better all along. It makes suffering through the Pokemon sagas almost bearable. There's always hope that an invaluable spark of wisdom will grace my morning at any moment.
Our walk home is equally insightful. One day last week there was another momma-child couple walking just behind us. I could hear snippets of their conversation, filled with the question and answer routine of 7 year olds. I remember it fondly. Endless wonderings about the universe, how it works and why. Luckily, by 9, Nabih has begun to suppose his own answers which far exceed anything I could offer.
While I wasn't necessarily listening in on their conversation, little phrases and catch words floated up to us on the breeze. Apparently the boy had been carrying home a candy bar from a class party and it was becoming something of a mess as a result of the Kinshasa heat and his tight grip. Mom clearly had one eye on contamination factor of chocolate smeared hands and was trying to avert a clothing crisis. While he chatted on, musing about the workings of the world, she tried to direct focus to the small melting river in his grasp. She may have started by using a word just above his understanding - which he immediately questioned- and she was talking her way around it, trying to explain while not detracting from the pleasure of the treat.
"It's better if you don't cuddle it....." and the rest floated off on the wind, leaving me with an image of hugging a candy bar while gently rocking it to sleep. I pondered this as Nabih continued his play by play of something fascinating that occurred on the playground. Don't cuddle your chocolate. Surely there was profound wisdom in there.
I adore chocolate. I love to have one candy bar- Dairy Milk Fruit & Nut my current favorite, dark chocolate a very close second- usually acquired during the shopping trip once or twice a month. There is something so satisfying and delicious about indulging in my one little candy bar that makes me feel luxurious and spoiled. I think there are millions who can understand the appeal of a good quality chocolate. It maintains a fascinating place in history as the food of the gods as well as a focus for psychological and scientific studies - what's so appealing about chocolate anyway?
Considering the 'orosensory' pleasure of chocolate, it easily becomes a metaphor for all things sweet and beautiful- the small moments in life we cherish. Those times together that we don't necessarily get every day but wish we could extend. They seem fleeting even as we are in the midst of treasuring the moment. Walks to school, Sunday afternoons at the pool, sun showers and thunderstorms, decorating gingerbread houses and learning to make fried chicken. All examples of ordinary moments savored in the present for their bitter sweetness, because you know one day you'll look back from the future and miss these times.
Trying not to cuddle your chocolate means it's ok to enjoy the moment as it happens- and then let it pass. It doesn't need to be captured on film, stored in digital memory or shared on facebook. It can just be. One moment that you recognize has fulfilled you, made you happier and more appreciative of the world around you. One good moment in life. And then move on. When you try to hug too hard, or hold on too long, inevitably something gets broken. Don't squeeze the kittens.
It's a good lesson as we prepare to leave Kinshasa behind. Whenever I get too sentimental about the boys leaving the only school they've really known, or when I panic just a little at the thought of trying to learn new streets, make new friends, understand new rituals and customs, I try to remember not to cuddle my chocolate. I want leave this part of our lives behind knowing there will always be fond memories, perhaps a chance to return and visit old friends, and a future ahead full of possibilities- perhaps to be sweeter, perhaps to be harder but most definitely to be lived. And savored to the fullest.
An occasional chocolate bar in our new home will surely help with the transition.
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