School years tend to take on themes. At this point it feels as though I have lived through the Year Of--- in just about every topic. There was the Year Kids Kept Climbing Out the Window (and coming back in through the door, oddly enough. Not a real escape but rather an alternate expression of indecision.) That same year I thought for a moment an especially energetic young guy might actually win the scuffle with the panic button people. It was my first official teaching post and I realized in one brief, breathless moment I might need a panic button for my panic button. Or I could just win the kids over. It was the same year I taught poetry by Tupac and introduced students to authors who looked and sounded like them - curriculum design inspired by student need. We put court in session- a reader's theater that was all too real for most of them- and held passionate debates about Walter Dean Myer's Monster We read Maya Aneglou and Toni Morrison and broke the taboo against all their private angst. Cutting was a thing then, too, so we turned to Patricia McCormack and followed her character Callie through her own cutting experience. It turned out to be the Year of Opening My Eyes to the Power of Literature.
Other years followed.The Year of the Garden, The Year My Prinicpal Got Divorced (it was only afterward I found out that all the hell I'd been living through that year had an underlying cause...) There was my first year in Africa when I had the Class Who Loved to Read and Write as Much as Me- it was like we were made for each other. There really couldn't have been a better welcome to world of international teaching. Of course, a few years later there came the Year of the Class Who Made Me Want to Run for the Hills shortly followed by the Year When My Colleague Actually Did Make Me Flee.
For awhile, I thought this year might turn out to be the Year of the Parents. By mid-October I'd already had several intense parent meetings and a heated exchange with a mother bear. Luckily, I have my own mother bear and it kicked in to protect a student who was the real focus of her anger.
After some reflection, I don't think this year is going to be about parents however. It seems to be shaping up to be about me. And I don't mean I am taking over. This is one thing I have been noticing more and more and finding weirder and weirder--- the tendancy for teachers to use their classroom position to go on and on about themselves. To share stories of their lives that moves well beyond instructional purpose and hugs the border of narcissistic domain. I'm not doing that.
But I do feel free this year. The amount of singing and dancing going on in my science and math classes is probably a shade beyond normal. It might be something to do with age, or place, or maybe it is just this particular class that inspires something in me. But whenever I feel a dance or a song coming on I just go with it. I usually don't go too far with it- just a sample before I turn it over to them and say make this into something. Get back to me and we'll make a video.
They've already taken the X-Y Coordinate dance and choreographed a number to go along with Nae-nae (a little too catchy for me and it ends up in my head for days! "Now watch me X..x...x Watch me Y. And watch me X...x...x...you get it....) Our 15 minute daily calendar warm up has turned into a full theater production complete with costumes, props and an Emcee host. It's wild. But it has them begging to do calendar, which is really just a review of skills like finding factors, solving equations, reviewing multiplication and decoding prime factorization.
So I'm going with it. We're doing everything and anything that seems exciting, worthwhile, silly, spontaneous, and interesting. Because the math needs spicing up and the science is just engaging enough to hold all of our attention, and---why not? I am finally comfortable in my skin and if the waning and waxing of the moon makes me imagine a modern dance move or a karate kid "wax on-wax off"- then why not share it- and the accent to go with?
I do recognize a bit of this is coming from a place that is searching for more. I am underwhelmed with the ordinariness of Abidjan and looking for something inspiring. I miss my kids at Stand Proud and I miss my nightly English classes with La Jeunesse. I miss doing something like making art with a real artist and dancing in a truope of young divas (even if I wondered what the heck I was doing there the whole time.) I miss pulling up to a carrefour and having a quick exchange with a pack of street kids. I miss seeing their faces and checking in on them and having them know me. I miss feeling connected.
So I've become a bit reckless and I dance in class occasionally, and sing in my off tune voice once in awhile and pull out all my theater tricks to enhance our school day hours together. We've recently smashed a cell phone or two in our search to uncover the workings inside. I've found an opening in the curriculum that allows me to take them down the path of Congo's minerals and the resulting conflict and devastation to a people. I feel passionate again for a moment. The Year of the Teacher. I'm going with it.
6.11.15
3.11.15
The problem with a good idea
The same old things have kept me away for awhile and in true form I have been collecting post ideas. I'm starting with what's close to mind and will revisit a few thoughts from the past- though recurring and therefore surely relevant.
A future post is certain to outline The Year Of.....and it is shaping up to be a year of many things...one of which is finding out I don't really love all the things as dearly as I thought I did. Or rather, all good ideas potentially have a dark side.
Many international schools have turned their Halloween parade into a storybook character parade. Our school is no exception. From a distance, this sounds like such a fabulous idea. Use a holiday laden with candy getting, stranger door knocking and dead spirit revelling and turn it into something wholesome- encourage and endorse a love of reading while still allowing for the all important costume designing.
My class voted on a goal of achieving "Best Costumes Ever" and so, in an attempt to support this lofty objective, I decided I should dress up too. I have never been much of a costume wearer. In the US my go-to Halloween digs included a sweatsuit and a pair of headphones. Jogger. Subtle, already in my closet and different from my daily wear. I used to have red jogging pants and matching zip up jacket (I can't imagine why I ever had such a thing, but I did) and I wore it with gusto.
My current approach was similar. I did a google search for characters who had things I already own. "Character with glasses" and "characters in a blue dress" were two of my first searches. The choices came down to Waldo and Madeline. I briefly conisdered Red Riding Hood since I have a smashing red sequined thing that I thought might be fun to wear.
I tried to give some suggestions to my 5th graders. I tried to tell them that striving for Best Costumes Ever might mean we had to search beyond all the Wimpy Kid and Dork Diaries characters- who are really just kids like us- and try for something a little more.... creative.
But the books kids are reading in 5th grade aren't filled with the most colorful characters- not in appearance anyway. At a certain point, a character becomes loveable or memorable because of their actions and words and inner thoughts and less because of their appearance.
One kid really seemed to capture the essence of it all by coming in with a cartoon mask cut-out- a nice spin on the stick figure drawing essence of those books. Another managed to create his own homemade ninja costume eerily resembling a lego ninja character gracing the cover of his book.
But the more the kids searched and planned for their choices- my chocolate brown and coffee colored students- the more I saw there weren't enough characters that really resembled them. And I wanted to opt out. I suddenly found myself not wanting to support this idea- this idea rooted in literacy and cozy bedtime tales and reading and imagining characters from books- not movies. It became an idea I wanted to veto.
It's not news that there aren't enough diverse characters in children's literature. I'm not surprised just merely saddened again. I thought of all the time I used to spend searching for books to fill my classroom library and to make required reading as part of the curriculum. Hours and weeks and months and a lifetime really, always keeping eyes open for just the right tales, with a range of characters experiencing an array of life stories. Children from countries around the world, from all levels of economical backgrounds and family lifestyles, with skin colors that are pale and red and brown and beige and tan and dark. With eyes that are straight and slanted and green and blue and brown and black and seeing and nonseeing. With legs that work and those that don't.
It's one thing to search for that and acquire that and strive to put that in my classroom (my long lost and beloved classroom.) But in the libraries? In the popular culture of kid speak and kid read? They aren't going to be doing all that searching. They are taking what's readily available, mass produced, deemed a success and pushed to be popular. They are choosing from what's easy to find and it doesn't necessarily resemble them.
So my excitement for the Storybook Character Parade dwindled quickly. By the time I was talking to a colleague- who responded wryly that she would be- of course, what else- "Aya from Yopougon" I was completely disspirited. (google image search Aya and then google image search black storybook characters, or African storybook characters)
It's easy enough for the little ones to still become princesses and battlefield warriors. There are plenty of cats and rabbits and turtles in childhood books. The more imaginitve might opt to become trucks or cars or even talking, walking vegetables. Truthfully, no one is ever too old for a picture book. But the kids get it. They get the idea of taking a favorite character and making it come to life. They want to do it.
It's just that the options are sorely limited.
A future post is certain to outline The Year Of.....and it is shaping up to be a year of many things...one of which is finding out I don't really love all the things as dearly as I thought I did. Or rather, all good ideas potentially have a dark side.
Many international schools have turned their Halloween parade into a storybook character parade. Our school is no exception. From a distance, this sounds like such a fabulous idea. Use a holiday laden with candy getting, stranger door knocking and dead spirit revelling and turn it into something wholesome- encourage and endorse a love of reading while still allowing for the all important costume designing.
My class voted on a goal of achieving "Best Costumes Ever" and so, in an attempt to support this lofty objective, I decided I should dress up too. I have never been much of a costume wearer. In the US my go-to Halloween digs included a sweatsuit and a pair of headphones. Jogger. Subtle, already in my closet and different from my daily wear. I used to have red jogging pants and matching zip up jacket (I can't imagine why I ever had such a thing, but I did) and I wore it with gusto.
My current approach was similar. I did a google search for characters who had things I already own. "Character with glasses" and "characters in a blue dress" were two of my first searches. The choices came down to Waldo and Madeline. I briefly conisdered Red Riding Hood since I have a smashing red sequined thing that I thought might be fun to wear.
 |
| Blue dress, yellow hat- I can do that |
I tried to give some suggestions to my 5th graders. I tried to tell them that striving for Best Costumes Ever might mean we had to search beyond all the Wimpy Kid and Dork Diaries characters- who are really just kids like us- and try for something a little more.... creative.
But the books kids are reading in 5th grade aren't filled with the most colorful characters- not in appearance anyway. At a certain point, a character becomes loveable or memorable because of their actions and words and inner thoughts and less because of their appearance.
One kid really seemed to capture the essence of it all by coming in with a cartoon mask cut-out- a nice spin on the stick figure drawing essence of those books. Another managed to create his own homemade ninja costume eerily resembling a lego ninja character gracing the cover of his book.
 |
| My Vote for Best Costume Ever |
But the more the kids searched and planned for their choices- my chocolate brown and coffee colored students- the more I saw there weren't enough characters that really resembled them. And I wanted to opt out. I suddenly found myself not wanting to support this idea- this idea rooted in literacy and cozy bedtime tales and reading and imagining characters from books- not movies. It became an idea I wanted to veto.
It's not news that there aren't enough diverse characters in children's literature. I'm not surprised just merely saddened again. I thought of all the time I used to spend searching for books to fill my classroom library and to make required reading as part of the curriculum. Hours and weeks and months and a lifetime really, always keeping eyes open for just the right tales, with a range of characters experiencing an array of life stories. Children from countries around the world, from all levels of economical backgrounds and family lifestyles, with skin colors that are pale and red and brown and beige and tan and dark. With eyes that are straight and slanted and green and blue and brown and black and seeing and nonseeing. With legs that work and those that don't.
It's one thing to search for that and acquire that and strive to put that in my classroom (my long lost and beloved classroom.) But in the libraries? In the popular culture of kid speak and kid read? They aren't going to be doing all that searching. They are taking what's readily available, mass produced, deemed a success and pushed to be popular. They are choosing from what's easy to find and it doesn't necessarily resemble them.
So my excitement for the Storybook Character Parade dwindled quickly. By the time I was talking to a colleague- who responded wryly that she would be- of course, what else- "Aya from Yopougon" I was completely disspirited. (google image search Aya and then google image search black storybook characters, or African storybook characters)
 |
| Aya- so much more than a book- in Cote d'Ivoire |
It's easy enough for the little ones to still become princesses and battlefield warriors. There are plenty of cats and rabbits and turtles in childhood books. The more imaginitve might opt to become trucks or cars or even talking, walking vegetables. Truthfully, no one is ever too old for a picture book. But the kids get it. They get the idea of taking a favorite character and making it come to life. They want to do it.
It's just that the options are sorely limited.
 |
| A subtle Madeline, already cooking up ideas about how to open minds next year |
11.10.15
Election Season
Some places have hurricane season, others have tornado season. Here in Africa we have election season. It's not all that different. Disaster preparedness. I've been trying to stock up on essentials like food and water. A propane shortage in the neighborhood reminded me I should get an extra tank of that as well. A rare power outage last night reminded me I need candles. And lighters.
Nabih and I spent our time in the dark, hot night making a list of other things we might have forgotten to add to our list. Mohamed was at a birthday party and when I called to check in he asked to sleep over. He ended the conversation by assuring me if there were any "election problems" I should call him immediately and he would come over to save us. Sweet man-boy that he is. I accepted his offer but let him know I was pretty certain we would be fine.
In general, I think this time the elections will go well. The president is still eligible for another term and it is likely he will win. Posters and billboards of running candidates have begun to pop up all over town but it feels forced- as though they are there just to prove there is actually more than one possibility for a win- even if no one believes it.
Guinea is suffering her own election woes now and Burkina Faso hasn't really solved her problems which began a year ago. No matter which country, the story seems to read the same. Will the elections be free and fair? Has the opposition party united enough to present a real challenge to the incumbent and will the people accept the results? The questions are always the same. The answers appear dismally similar as well. The articles read like a madcap MadLibs- change the country names and photo captions and potential candidates to those from the country of your choice. The rest of the facts remain. African presidents don't want to leave, African people live in economic distress and aren't sure who to trust and the elections are met with suspicion, false hope and ultimately, anger and frustration.
The small words on the street offer conflicting accounts, as far as I can gather. It is in keeping with all things Ivorian. The country seems so equally divided on all matters that there appears to be no real majority. Of course, I am an outsider with very little insight. Half the taxi drivers and phone credit men believe Ouattara is doing a great job and is the only one who can continue his work. The streets are a mess of construction and destruction in case there is any doubt he is doing his job. (Cinq chantiers anyone?)
On the other hand, there are plenty of university students and taxi drivers (it always comes down to the taxi drivers, doesn't it? The heart of any good economy, the ones with their finger on the pulse of the country...) who think the president has had his turn and enough is enough. They are not awed by the propoganda and they don't like certain restrictions being laid out- they want a free chance and a fair chance for change.
At times the expectations seem too high to possibly be met. There is too much need in general and it is unlikely any candidate can promise real improvement. In the meantime, the country waits in anticipation. Foreigners make plans for vacations or other conveniently timed trips that will take them out of the country for those weeks. Locals stock up on provisions and try to prepare for the inevitable.
In a conversation this morning, we were talking about a family that was leaving. "For the war?" someone said, an inadvertant slip of the tongue. She meant to say elections. Somehow these two ideas have become synonymous, despite the signs appearing to promote a different reality. Elections are not violent, they read. And We work toegther in our diifferences to unite as a country.
The question no longer seems to be if something will happen but for how long. There are sure to be unsatisified citizens. By now, the entire world has come to equate burning tires and rock throwing with protest. Not in just in Africa but everywhere. Anywhere. Baltimore, for example.
With these images in mind, I've taken to wondering about my neighbors as I make any of several trips through the neighborhood out to the big road. My neighbors see me every day. I am a stranger among them, some friendlier than others but in the end a stranger. And I wonder how much it would take for them to turn against each other. To turn against me.
It's all unpredictable and could just as easily pass without complication. I don't spend too much time dwelling on possibilities. You can't live peacefully in Africa if you do. So, I am taking this extended weekend to stock up and prepare for a few days stuck in my house. Or a week, or a month. And after that....well, hopefully election season will drift out on the ocean currents and we'll be left to navigate the next season. (It's not apple season, which I was waxing nostalgic about in the grocery store this morning. I guess the next season would be holiday season- or the dry season- or, a bit further out on the horizon but coming nonetheless, harmattan season.....) There's always a season to look forward to.
Nabih and I spent our time in the dark, hot night making a list of other things we might have forgotten to add to our list. Mohamed was at a birthday party and when I called to check in he asked to sleep over. He ended the conversation by assuring me if there were any "election problems" I should call him immediately and he would come over to save us. Sweet man-boy that he is. I accepted his offer but let him know I was pretty certain we would be fine.
In general, I think this time the elections will go well. The president is still eligible for another term and it is likely he will win. Posters and billboards of running candidates have begun to pop up all over town but it feels forced- as though they are there just to prove there is actually more than one possibility for a win- even if no one believes it.
Guinea is suffering her own election woes now and Burkina Faso hasn't really solved her problems which began a year ago. No matter which country, the story seems to read the same. Will the elections be free and fair? Has the opposition party united enough to present a real challenge to the incumbent and will the people accept the results? The questions are always the same. The answers appear dismally similar as well. The articles read like a madcap MadLibs- change the country names and photo captions and potential candidates to those from the country of your choice. The rest of the facts remain. African presidents don't want to leave, African people live in economic distress and aren't sure who to trust and the elections are met with suspicion, false hope and ultimately, anger and frustration.
The small words on the street offer conflicting accounts, as far as I can gather. It is in keeping with all things Ivorian. The country seems so equally divided on all matters that there appears to be no real majority. Of course, I am an outsider with very little insight. Half the taxi drivers and phone credit men believe Ouattara is doing a great job and is the only one who can continue his work. The streets are a mess of construction and destruction in case there is any doubt he is doing his job. (Cinq chantiers anyone?)
On the other hand, there are plenty of university students and taxi drivers (it always comes down to the taxi drivers, doesn't it? The heart of any good economy, the ones with their finger on the pulse of the country...) who think the president has had his turn and enough is enough. They are not awed by the propoganda and they don't like certain restrictions being laid out- they want a free chance and a fair chance for change.
At times the expectations seem too high to possibly be met. There is too much need in general and it is unlikely any candidate can promise real improvement. In the meantime, the country waits in anticipation. Foreigners make plans for vacations or other conveniently timed trips that will take them out of the country for those weeks. Locals stock up on provisions and try to prepare for the inevitable.
In a conversation this morning, we were talking about a family that was leaving. "For the war?" someone said, an inadvertant slip of the tongue. She meant to say elections. Somehow these two ideas have become synonymous, despite the signs appearing to promote a different reality. Elections are not violent, they read. And We work toegther in our diifferences to unite as a country.
The question no longer seems to be if something will happen but for how long. There are sure to be unsatisified citizens. By now, the entire world has come to equate burning tires and rock throwing with protest. Not in just in Africa but everywhere. Anywhere. Baltimore, for example.
With these images in mind, I've taken to wondering about my neighbors as I make any of several trips through the neighborhood out to the big road. My neighbors see me every day. I am a stranger among them, some friendlier than others but in the end a stranger. And I wonder how much it would take for them to turn against each other. To turn against me.
It's all unpredictable and could just as easily pass without complication. I don't spend too much time dwelling on possibilities. You can't live peacefully in Africa if you do. So, I am taking this extended weekend to stock up and prepare for a few days stuck in my house. Or a week, or a month. And after that....well, hopefully election season will drift out on the ocean currents and we'll be left to navigate the next season. (It's not apple season, which I was waxing nostalgic about in the grocery store this morning. I guess the next season would be holiday season- or the dry season- or, a bit further out on the horizon but coming nonetheless, harmattan season.....) There's always a season to look forward to.
One bright spot
The new road has one benefit (for me- theoretically it has many benefits for the city, though I am yet to be wholly convinced.) As part of our daily commute we now make our way past the new round point, complete with center fountain (still under construction. It was actually spouting water one day- opening day maybe- but has yet to stun us with its full beauty. I think colored lights are even part of the complete show.)
The formerly empty lots and green spaces are now destined to be 'parks' with stone benches already in place. People can be seen sitting there even as early as 7 am. The ground around them is still dirt, though it is easy to imagine the grass that will be planted.
On my way to dance the other night, I took a closer notice of the scenery. These round points are found all over Abidjan and the one in Palmeraie has a similar fountain in the middle. It has much more green space around the fountain section however, and the park is contained within. I noticed the overgrown grass and the pathways crowded with untrimmed foliage of bushes that surely created a beatiful landscape in its original design. It looks like a magical place, despite the dry fountain and weeds. I wonder if this is the fate of the round point in Riviera III.
But for the moment, the paint is still fresh and the construction continues. The one bright spot? They've painted the walls along either side with a colorful motif and splashed African silhouettes on top. It makes me happy to pass this mural everyday.
The formerly empty lots and green spaces are now destined to be 'parks' with stone benches already in place. People can be seen sitting there even as early as 7 am. The ground around them is still dirt, though it is easy to imagine the grass that will be planted.
On my way to dance the other night, I took a closer notice of the scenery. These round points are found all over Abidjan and the one in Palmeraie has a similar fountain in the middle. It has much more green space around the fountain section however, and the park is contained within. I noticed the overgrown grass and the pathways crowded with untrimmed foliage of bushes that surely created a beatiful landscape in its original design. It looks like a magical place, despite the dry fountain and weeds. I wonder if this is the fate of the round point in Riviera III.
But for the moment, the paint is still fresh and the construction continues. The one bright spot? They've painted the walls along either side with a colorful motif and splashed African silhouettes on top. It makes me happy to pass this mural everyday.
 |
| The triangle design with different hues is a motif found all around Abidjan. |
 |
| I haven't really captured the space well. This area adjoins the new road. I didn't have the heart to snap a shot of the dirt park- formerly the horses playground. They can now be seen grazing on small patches of grass outside the large neighborhood homes. |
10.10.15
The second part aka Leg 2 (and probably 3)
When I descend from the taxi, the air is electric. It is that time of evening when everything is beginning to come alive. I merge into the streaming pedestrians and we all cross the big road together. It is two lanes each direction with a concrete divisor. It stretches so far in each direction that people can often be found crossing in the middle and carefully hopping the wall. Even old ladies and women in fancy African attire. First one leg, take a moment to stradle and shift the weight, then the other leg. A hop down and huddle against the wall as the traffic screams past. I hate to watch it. Little kids gear up like they are about to take off on a marathon, looking first one way then the other before madly dashing out and over.
I cross at the light, which is marginally safer. Just on the other side is a stop for the bakkas. The callers are always trying to persuade me- and all the other passersby- to join them. "Transfer Liberte?" they ask while trying to usher me inside. I wonder where this Liberte is and vow to find out one day. A gas station is right off the corner and it is always a little hazardous trying to get across its exit and entranceway. If traffic is particularly bad, the bakkas come flying through here in their attempt to find a shortcut. I have occasionally had to jump to the side or stop mid stride in an effort to avoid getting creamed.
Once past the station, I am mostly on safe ground. There is a walkway off the roadside and if that isn't enough room, there is also a dirt path even further from the roadway. There are a few large stores here, but the real excitement is in the street vendors. There is a hat man with all manner of headgear from baseball caps to wide brimmed floppy sunhats. This evening, he is trying one on for a customer, which makes me smile. The hats have always seemed to hold a lot of dust and be just a bit too worn to truly look attractive but this man, wearing one of the floppy brimmed blue hats, makes it look just fancy enough to buy. He is holding a small mirror in his hand and I think it is an unusual technique- him trying the hat on- just odd enough to work. I am walking fast though, and so I don't see how the story ends.
My eyes have moved on to the umbrella men. One of them is busy sewing the plastic tarp that covers the metal spindles of his umbrella. Other large umbrellas are tightly wound and leaning against the wooden fence. These are not the small carrying umbrella but the large kind used for sellers. A glance across the street reveals a mass of them covering the fruit and vegetable stands that run the opposite length of the road.
Just after comes the ballerina-flat vendor. His shoes are laid out neatly on a large white cloth in row after colorful row of ballerina flats. This is the beginning of shoe alley. From here to the taxi station I pass shoe sellers, all with their own particular style of displaying their footwear. Most pair them up and set one at an angle, mimicking department store displays. Some just throw out a big pile and customers can be seen rifling through searching for a match. I always keep an eye on the shoes and the shirts and other odd items for sale, window shopping as I walk.
As I near the corner, things get busy again. There are women frying plantain chips and another bakka stop which always makes for a crazy interlude. People hopping in and out, the loud bang on the back metal door signaling the driver to speed off or to stop and let people out.
There is a small road to cross with a triangular island of shoe sellers. It appears to be nothing more than a dirt path but taxis can come speeding in or out unexpectedly. I've learned to pause and look carefully before stepping out and making my way over to the 'gare.'
The taxi station here is bustling, as all taxi assembly points are. Amidst the jewlery and food and phone credit stands are commuters and long lines of taxis waiting to be filled (on a good day. Some days the taxi lines are empty and it is just us pedestrians waiting for a taxi to come along so we can jump in.) This is the collection point and so not everyone is taking the same route. I must make my way over to someone who usually asks my destination. When I tell them, they call out "Appelle Guiraud" and whoever is going in that direction will beckon me over. Here taxis don't leave until they are full and, while this doesn't usually take too long, there is always the possibility of a wait.
Once we are cleared, we make our way into the bumpy streets of Palmeraie. Leg 3. Back on wheels, I am relegated once again to staring out as the sights pass me by. I do more window shopping, keeping my eyes on favorite clothes to see if they've sold and imagining coming back one day just to shop. I never do.
I read the same store names and think the same thoughts about them on my trip. My favorite- Top Shop Babi, which I can always hear in a Kinsahsa friend's voice. The theme of this store is Peace, Love and Fashion and her voice reads me the sign every time I pass. There is the great tree with moss and vines hanging down under which sit more fruit sellers. The tree is all that is left of the jungle that once covered this area and it is beautiful and lonely, out of place and wonderfully grounded all at the same time.
Sometimes the drivers take a side road, which is dust covered gravel and has tires placed carefully in sculpturesque positions in the middle and off to the sides. I think it is meant to bar the road from traffic as it is being worked on but nothing deters a taxi driver. They speed down the road, their tires kicking up rocks and dust and they veer sharply to the left or right avoiding the artwork. It is a mini Indy 25 that they all seem to enjoy. Back on the main road, they resume a normal pace and merge with traffic.
It isn't long before my corner approaches and I get out. EDEC takes up the entire block. The entrance I use is about halfway down and there is a beautiful broad leaved tree just outside. I really love the shade and comfort this tree provides as it stands overhanging the green metal door that leads into the school. There is some work going on in the yard, creating an outdoor performance stage, and I hope it will never reach this tree.
My entire journey takes about 30 minutes but it is enough to make me feel as if I have crossed into another world. By the time I arrive, I am ready to be enveloped by the music of the drum.
I cross at the light, which is marginally safer. Just on the other side is a stop for the bakkas. The callers are always trying to persuade me- and all the other passersby- to join them. "Transfer Liberte?" they ask while trying to usher me inside. I wonder where this Liberte is and vow to find out one day. A gas station is right off the corner and it is always a little hazardous trying to get across its exit and entranceway. If traffic is particularly bad, the bakkas come flying through here in their attempt to find a shortcut. I have occasionally had to jump to the side or stop mid stride in an effort to avoid getting creamed.
Once past the station, I am mostly on safe ground. There is a walkway off the roadside and if that isn't enough room, there is also a dirt path even further from the roadway. There are a few large stores here, but the real excitement is in the street vendors. There is a hat man with all manner of headgear from baseball caps to wide brimmed floppy sunhats. This evening, he is trying one on for a customer, which makes me smile. The hats have always seemed to hold a lot of dust and be just a bit too worn to truly look attractive but this man, wearing one of the floppy brimmed blue hats, makes it look just fancy enough to buy. He is holding a small mirror in his hand and I think it is an unusual technique- him trying the hat on- just odd enough to work. I am walking fast though, and so I don't see how the story ends.
My eyes have moved on to the umbrella men. One of them is busy sewing the plastic tarp that covers the metal spindles of his umbrella. Other large umbrellas are tightly wound and leaning against the wooden fence. These are not the small carrying umbrella but the large kind used for sellers. A glance across the street reveals a mass of them covering the fruit and vegetable stands that run the opposite length of the road.
Just after comes the ballerina-flat vendor. His shoes are laid out neatly on a large white cloth in row after colorful row of ballerina flats. This is the beginning of shoe alley. From here to the taxi station I pass shoe sellers, all with their own particular style of displaying their footwear. Most pair them up and set one at an angle, mimicking department store displays. Some just throw out a big pile and customers can be seen rifling through searching for a match. I always keep an eye on the shoes and the shirts and other odd items for sale, window shopping as I walk.
As I near the corner, things get busy again. There are women frying plantain chips and another bakka stop which always makes for a crazy interlude. People hopping in and out, the loud bang on the back metal door signaling the driver to speed off or to stop and let people out.
There is a small road to cross with a triangular island of shoe sellers. It appears to be nothing more than a dirt path but taxis can come speeding in or out unexpectedly. I've learned to pause and look carefully before stepping out and making my way over to the 'gare.'
The taxi station here is bustling, as all taxi assembly points are. Amidst the jewlery and food and phone credit stands are commuters and long lines of taxis waiting to be filled (on a good day. Some days the taxi lines are empty and it is just us pedestrians waiting for a taxi to come along so we can jump in.) This is the collection point and so not everyone is taking the same route. I must make my way over to someone who usually asks my destination. When I tell them, they call out "Appelle Guiraud" and whoever is going in that direction will beckon me over. Here taxis don't leave until they are full and, while this doesn't usually take too long, there is always the possibility of a wait.
Once we are cleared, we make our way into the bumpy streets of Palmeraie. Leg 3. Back on wheels, I am relegated once again to staring out as the sights pass me by. I do more window shopping, keeping my eyes on favorite clothes to see if they've sold and imagining coming back one day just to shop. I never do.
I read the same store names and think the same thoughts about them on my trip. My favorite- Top Shop Babi, which I can always hear in a Kinsahsa friend's voice. The theme of this store is Peace, Love and Fashion and her voice reads me the sign every time I pass. There is the great tree with moss and vines hanging down under which sit more fruit sellers. The tree is all that is left of the jungle that once covered this area and it is beautiful and lonely, out of place and wonderfully grounded all at the same time.
Sometimes the drivers take a side road, which is dust covered gravel and has tires placed carefully in sculpturesque positions in the middle and off to the sides. I think it is meant to bar the road from traffic as it is being worked on but nothing deters a taxi driver. They speed down the road, their tires kicking up rocks and dust and they veer sharply to the left or right avoiding the artwork. It is a mini Indy 25 that they all seem to enjoy. Back on the main road, they resume a normal pace and merge with traffic.
It isn't long before my corner approaches and I get out. EDEC takes up the entire block. The entrance I use is about halfway down and there is a beautiful broad leaved tree just outside. I really love the shade and comfort this tree provides as it stands overhanging the green metal door that leads into the school. There is some work going on in the yard, creating an outdoor performance stage, and I hope it will never reach this tree.
My entire journey takes about 30 minutes but it is enough to make me feel as if I have crossed into another world. By the time I arrive, I am ready to be enveloped by the music of the drum.
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| Photos of the grounds inside the gate- early in the school's life It doesn't look quite so neat and orderly these days |
 |
| I'm pretty sure these are living areas- they are so fascinating but I haven't seen the inside of one yet.It's hard to imagine just on the other side is a bustling street corner jammed with traffic |
4.10.15
A mother's grief
I woke up this morning with a mother's grief
Thinking of my/her sleeping children and realizing
It's still empty
The bed where once my/her daughter slept
Visions of the empty bed made our hearts race
And I snuggled closer in my blankets,
Wrapping my baby girl ever closer
She who was lying next to me because
Last night I shared this mother's grief
And knew if she had one more moment
She would never let her daughter sleep alone
I woke up this morning with a mother's grief
Thinking of the moments I/she could have gone back
to change it.
That moment of irrevocable decision
The before moment we see so often in the movies
And too rarely in real life.
I've spent this morning
Thinking of my/her daughter's depression
And I want to tell her it is a feeling I know
She did not cause it, or ignore it and could not
have fixed it.
Her journey to peace and healing
will be long, and hard, and solitary.
I hope she will carry sorrow and love
I hope she will carry sweet memories
But never guilt.
I want to tell her to leave the guilt behind.
And I want to tell her we are all there with her
Mothers in this walk of grief.
I/she/we are not alone.
Thinking of my/her sleeping children and realizing
It's still empty
The bed where once my/her daughter slept
Visions of the empty bed made our hearts race
And I snuggled closer in my blankets,
Wrapping my baby girl ever closer
She who was lying next to me because
Last night I shared this mother's grief
And knew if she had one more moment
She would never let her daughter sleep alone
I woke up this morning with a mother's grief
Thinking of the moments I/she could have gone back
to change it.
That moment of irrevocable decision
The before moment we see so often in the movies
And too rarely in real life.
I've spent this morning
Thinking of my/her daughter's depression
And I want to tell her it is a feeling I know
She did not cause it, or ignore it and could not
have fixed it.
Her journey to peace and healing
will be long, and hard, and solitary.
I hope she will carry sorrow and love
I hope she will carry sweet memories
But never guilt.
I want to tell her to leave the guilt behind.
And I want to tell her we are all there with her
Mothers in this walk of grief.
I/she/we are not alone.
3 Legs-- The story of a weekly journey
Like all worthwhile journeys, the voyage to EDEC (ecole de danse et de l'exchange cultural) can be dividied into several distinct parts. I have al. ways travelled this way, mentally dividing the legs of my journey into separate stages, each one qualifying as a bona fide journey of its own.
What are the qualifications of a good journey? While this is a topic that could easily derail my entire post- I've narrowed it down to two for the moment.
Closeness. Usually this is obtained by walking but slow moving traffic or a bicycle could also do the trick. I am a lifelong believer in the idea that you never really get to know a place unless you have walked it, however.
Attention to detail. This usually means being alone, only because once we become part of a traveling pair, we generally tend to focus on the other and not the surroundings. I mean this in the event of taking a routine path (it's a lot easier to be part of a pair and awed by the Great Wall of China on your first visit than it is to be part of a pair and notice something new on a walk to the store you have made a million times. You tend to get more lost in the conversation with your partner than the street sights that have become a lifeless wallpaper.)
I enjoy the journey to my dance and drum classes almost as much as the classes themselves. In fact, as I have been considering searching for a new school or changing classes, a part of my mind that resists brings up the trip. "But then you won't get to go this way anymore...." it says with a kind of finality that closes the question for now.
Leg 1
The first leg stretches from my house to the 'big road' where I will take my first taxi to 9 kilo, where I will leave Riviera III in the direction of Palermaie. I travel this part of the trip several times a day, every day, as it is the only way to get somewhere from my house. There are small variations that could be made- a few forks in the road where one can decide if they want to 'go low or go high,' but in general it is routine. I say hello to the same people, occasionally run into a neighbor I haven't seen for awhile but mostly pass the same houses and wonder about the same strangers.
One of my favorite places to ponder about is the home of the towel people. The towel people are early risers. We see them often on the way to school in the morning- 6:30 am! They are outside their gates, just across the dirt path. It looks like they are planning a garden of some sort as they have been working the earth here. Digging, weeding, turning over. And they do this work in their towels. Never together. It started with glimpses of the man. He looks quite sexy in his towel- it is long and reaches his ankles. There is something alluring about a man in a skirt- the right kind of African skirt. (I hear women around the world laughing at me in disagreement and men just shaking their head in impossibility, but it is true. You must come to see it- dancers in Congo with their torn fabric skirts sewn back together in tatters that allow for freedom and movement, swirling color and every so often a glimpse of bare leg. And now, my neighbor, outside in the dawn raking his soon to be garden in a long, dark green, terry cloth towel. )
It is not just the man in his towel- hence the name towel people. It happened one afternoon that a woman came out in her towel. She had been sweeping and was throwing the pail of dirt and dust away. That was the day they earned their name. A whole house full of people who could be seen at any hour wearing their towels to perform household and garden chores. Fascinating.
On this day, as I make my way out to the big road, the recyclers are passing through. They usually make the rounds early in the morning and once in the evening. "Gâté, gâté, gâââtéé," they sing. It is the word that means spoiled or broken. They are here to collect broken electronics. After the refrain, they sing out different kinds of electronics they will accept. Anything really. Telephones, T.V.s, one guy even called out for refrigerators which brought a smile to my face. Typically, it is a single man walking down a dirt road with a sack hung over his shoulder, santa style. I conjured up images of him arriving at my house and throwing our oddly functioning refrigerator in his bag and hoisting it over his shoulder, carrying on with his calling and collecting.
Once I get to the street, I begin walking toward the main crossroads. I haven't had to actually walk to the end in months. Yellow taxis make their way up to the small bridge where they can turn left and head out to 9Kilo or Deux Plateux with ease. There are two car washes on this corner, and what looks like the makings of another. Car washes are definitely a thing in Abidjan and they deserve their own post- one with pictures, which is currently my challenge. The camera phone does nothing justice and Abidjan car washes can be akin to nightclubs in their bright lights, big style and waiting lines. I've even begun amassing a list of hotspots to cover if I find myself back in gear again. I imagine a bewildered taxi driver who will chauffeur me around to all the random places I've selected and shake his head and tsk tsk as I click away. Crazy Americans, he will say and this time he will be talking about me (but only after he has discerened that I am not German (super high on the guess list these last few weeks...??!!?) or French or from any of the other countries everyone supposes before I tell them the truth.)
Once inside the taxi, my journey changes perspective. I am now eyes looking out at scenery rather than becoming part of it. As a pedestrian, I am the background, but in my new mode of transport I whizz by my favorite new park filled with basketball players, kids on swings and soccer teams. I look longingly at garden trees and flowers for sale, imagining those I hope to purchase newly nestled in my small front patches of yard, welcoming me home every night. I whizz by my bank- which I love to hate, and the pizza place recently closed which always makes me wonder about the sweet and patient South American man who made ice cream by hand. We pass the bread store, and I check to see if the woman I buy avocadoes from is sitting in her usual spot out front. There is the photo guy who never has ink to print his pictures, the little haircut dive with the young hipster inside who is the only one the boys trust with their precious tendrils, and the other photo place where we get the endless photo identite from. I watch all of these places pass outside the window, each one spouting forth another memory, a momentary sensation of having shared time together and therefore having lived.
Upon reaching 9 kilo- the big, big road at the end of Riviera III where all the stores and the fruit and vegetable market lie, where the yellow taxi station is and the bakkas come to discharge passengers, where worlds collide and passengers embark and disembark each on different legs of their own personal journeys, I exit the taxi and so commence leg 2.
What are the qualifications of a good journey? While this is a topic that could easily derail my entire post- I've narrowed it down to two for the moment.
Closeness. Usually this is obtained by walking but slow moving traffic or a bicycle could also do the trick. I am a lifelong believer in the idea that you never really get to know a place unless you have walked it, however.
Attention to detail. This usually means being alone, only because once we become part of a traveling pair, we generally tend to focus on the other and not the surroundings. I mean this in the event of taking a routine path (it's a lot easier to be part of a pair and awed by the Great Wall of China on your first visit than it is to be part of a pair and notice something new on a walk to the store you have made a million times. You tend to get more lost in the conversation with your partner than the street sights that have become a lifeless wallpaper.)
I enjoy the journey to my dance and drum classes almost as much as the classes themselves. In fact, as I have been considering searching for a new school or changing classes, a part of my mind that resists brings up the trip. "But then you won't get to go this way anymore...." it says with a kind of finality that closes the question for now.
Leg 1
The first leg stretches from my house to the 'big road' where I will take my first taxi to 9 kilo, where I will leave Riviera III in the direction of Palermaie. I travel this part of the trip several times a day, every day, as it is the only way to get somewhere from my house. There are small variations that could be made- a few forks in the road where one can decide if they want to 'go low or go high,' but in general it is routine. I say hello to the same people, occasionally run into a neighbor I haven't seen for awhile but mostly pass the same houses and wonder about the same strangers.
One of my favorite places to ponder about is the home of the towel people. The towel people are early risers. We see them often on the way to school in the morning- 6:30 am! They are outside their gates, just across the dirt path. It looks like they are planning a garden of some sort as they have been working the earth here. Digging, weeding, turning over. And they do this work in their towels. Never together. It started with glimpses of the man. He looks quite sexy in his towel- it is long and reaches his ankles. There is something alluring about a man in a skirt- the right kind of African skirt. (I hear women around the world laughing at me in disagreement and men just shaking their head in impossibility, but it is true. You must come to see it- dancers in Congo with their torn fabric skirts sewn back together in tatters that allow for freedom and movement, swirling color and every so often a glimpse of bare leg. And now, my neighbor, outside in the dawn raking his soon to be garden in a long, dark green, terry cloth towel. )
It is not just the man in his towel- hence the name towel people. It happened one afternoon that a woman came out in her towel. She had been sweeping and was throwing the pail of dirt and dust away. That was the day they earned their name. A whole house full of people who could be seen at any hour wearing their towels to perform household and garden chores. Fascinating.
On this day, as I make my way out to the big road, the recyclers are passing through. They usually make the rounds early in the morning and once in the evening. "Gâté, gâté, gâââtéé," they sing. It is the word that means spoiled or broken. They are here to collect broken electronics. After the refrain, they sing out different kinds of electronics they will accept. Anything really. Telephones, T.V.s, one guy even called out for refrigerators which brought a smile to my face. Typically, it is a single man walking down a dirt road with a sack hung over his shoulder, santa style. I conjured up images of him arriving at my house and throwing our oddly functioning refrigerator in his bag and hoisting it over his shoulder, carrying on with his calling and collecting.
Once I get to the street, I begin walking toward the main crossroads. I haven't had to actually walk to the end in months. Yellow taxis make their way up to the small bridge where they can turn left and head out to 9Kilo or Deux Plateux with ease. There are two car washes on this corner, and what looks like the makings of another. Car washes are definitely a thing in Abidjan and they deserve their own post- one with pictures, which is currently my challenge. The camera phone does nothing justice and Abidjan car washes can be akin to nightclubs in their bright lights, big style and waiting lines. I've even begun amassing a list of hotspots to cover if I find myself back in gear again. I imagine a bewildered taxi driver who will chauffeur me around to all the random places I've selected and shake his head and tsk tsk as I click away. Crazy Americans, he will say and this time he will be talking about me (but only after he has discerened that I am not German (super high on the guess list these last few weeks...??!!?) or French or from any of the other countries everyone supposes before I tell them the truth.)
Once inside the taxi, my journey changes perspective. I am now eyes looking out at scenery rather than becoming part of it. As a pedestrian, I am the background, but in my new mode of transport I whizz by my favorite new park filled with basketball players, kids on swings and soccer teams. I look longingly at garden trees and flowers for sale, imagining those I hope to purchase newly nestled in my small front patches of yard, welcoming me home every night. I whizz by my bank- which I love to hate, and the pizza place recently closed which always makes me wonder about the sweet and patient South American man who made ice cream by hand. We pass the bread store, and I check to see if the woman I buy avocadoes from is sitting in her usual spot out front. There is the photo guy who never has ink to print his pictures, the little haircut dive with the young hipster inside who is the only one the boys trust with their precious tendrils, and the other photo place where we get the endless photo identite from. I watch all of these places pass outside the window, each one spouting forth another memory, a momentary sensation of having shared time together and therefore having lived.
Upon reaching 9 kilo- the big, big road at the end of Riviera III where all the stores and the fruit and vegetable market lie, where the yellow taxi station is and the bakkas come to discharge passengers, where worlds collide and passengers embark and disembark each on different legs of their own personal journeys, I exit the taxi and so commence leg 2.
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