Forest Art

A chance walk through the botanical gardens turned up some mysterious artwork- functional or merely aesthetically pleasing, I can't be sure. But this kind of mystery slightly less disturbing than all of that surrounding the Banco....I think.

A bundle of fronds, neatly packaged

Mystery dwellings

Interesting natural design

Forest spirits

Last weekend we were able to take a small trip to the Banco Forêt, a forest preserve located in the heart of Abidjan. The entrance we used was located just off a busy, 4 lane highway. Our driver, long time resident and fellow teacher, informed us several times that this particular stretch of highway was home to frequent traffic accidents often attributed to the mysterious spirits of the forest.


After meeting our guide, we rode about 3 km down to a central parking area. Here we viewed the first forestry school in West Africa, once the prime center of the area capable of attracting forest guards from all of the neighboring countries. Now, it seemed quiet and deserted.
Our entire afternoon was filled with lush greens and wild earth. It was soul filling. I reminisced about all the places in Congo we'd been able to visit in their savage originality. Abidjan is just overflowing with cement and I haven't concentrated my energy into escaping it.


During our visit, the guide emphasized how well the forest was secured and patrolled. The official word is that things are much improved from "the crisis." (a recurrent and oft-used phrases to describe the war years.) To prove the point, he tells us that the military conducts trainings here and this is supposed to discourage the undesirables. It doesn't stop the stories.


From political concentration camps to this 10 year old account of thieves and spirits to the more recent accounts of smokehouses and human heads, the mystery of the forest cannot be put to sleep. In 2009, the search for Guy-André Kieffer, a French-Canadian journalist, expanded to include Banco- though without results. The forest continues to have such a reputation that in April of 2016,  artist Affou Keita is said to have been "surprised" in Banco- suggesting perhaps she was there to do more than just film her latest music video but, in actuality, to take part in ceremonial rituals to avenge those against her. In May of 2016, the discovery of a body with multiple piercings and no identifying information continues to add to the mystery of the site. 


While we enjoyed our trip in group, and I joked frequently about returning with a bicycle, the persistent myths have wedged themselves into my psyche. A walk in the botanical gardens, without security, will be much more refreshing. 

The highway and city view from the "forest door"

Really enjoyed the shape of the new buildings- yet to be opened

The ceilings were a cozy weave of fronds

It didn't take Mbalia long to find a buddy

Forestry school

A rag tag gang of forest explorers

A  dreamy little forest house

Heavy rains = brown river

Forest silhouette

We had a forest guide and security

These fountains were dotted throughout

Our guide was very thorough

Straight out of a Wes Craven

500 year old tree..dying

Mbalia gets a photography lesson

Our motley crew

This building, air conditioned in the
middle of the forest, housed skulls
and skeleton parts

Giant leaves

The tree of intrigue

In front of the 500 year old tree- eco-tourists I guess.

The Year of Work

Dear Reader,

Are you still there? It may seem I have abandonded you, but take heart, I have not. Each school year presents a theme and this year appears to be the year of work. I fear, at times, these Abidjan years may pass in this hunkering down state of seriousness, which is not at all fun, but I am holding out hope.

I have begun to realize a new relationship with Africa. Our long affair has morphed into a common law marriage. And while I cannot imagine being without her, I do find myself searching for the magic that caused me to fall in love in the first place. It is there, hidden amidst what has become our everyday intimacy.

A few months ago, when I realized how routine we'd gotten- Africa and I- I decided perhaps I should try to take one appealing photo everyday. You can see how that has worked out. I have fallen far short of one everyday, but I did manage to capture a few. Despite this year of work, I am still grateful for many things and occasionally the mundane becomes magical.

 

Sometimes - or really often times- my neighborhood takes on postcard quality.  I am surrounded by the beauty of groups of women in colorful cloth going about their daily chores of life. There is a sense of support and closeness among them that is the inspiration for all those 'carrying water on their heads' postcards and paintings. It's not the water or the feat but the relationship that inspires. (Although I have found myself practicing the head carry more and more, it's just plain convenient- when it's not spine crushing and neck breaking, of course.)

 I find my perspective as audience member for traditional dance shows does not usually match the joy and impression of other viewers. I am a bit more critical and see a lot more "behind the scenes" details that could be improved. I am trying to view this as a result of experience and therefore not a bad thing, but sometimes it would be nice to just be swept away in awe. Guinee....Congo...I am counting on you guys to still hold this power over me...

I pass this sign frequently and usually feel this is exactly what I need. Abidjan has me a little lost at times and it would be so relieving to just call the right number and get a little 'soul adjustment.'

I almost hopped out of the taxi to get a better shot of this key dangling mysteriously from a billboard. I watched for another week or more from my taxi window on the way home each day. Eventually a heavy rain storm washed it away. I still can't help but wonder about the story of it's placement- where did it come from, who placed it there and why? Did they see it as a work of art in just the way I did?

I took this photo one morning because the afternoon before I'd seen a group of boys playing here. They stripped off their shirts and appeared ready to dive in. Really, they just splashed around laughing and having fun like any kids might when faced with what is essentially a giant puddle. I realized there were two eyes to see this with- boys playing in an oversized puddle or poor African kids swimming around in dirty water.  My African eyes almost snapped a picture of sweet joy after a strong rain, but then my Western eyes woke up and asked....how will people really look at that picture? So here is the puddle, sans enfants. Bring your own joy.

A view of the city from the third floor of a school gym where I used to work out on Saturday mronings. This window also overlooks the school pool and entranceway. I used to be so captivated by the luxuriousness of this place. And the reminder that Abidjan is vast. This view also made me a little homesick for Kinshasa, remembering the scene as you drive out of the city towards Bas Congo...vast, a little hazy and promising potential in the suggestion of wild greens ahead.

This photo is from a walk down a busy main road. I had some random time between tutoring jobs and was trying to walk slowly. I stopped here to clean out some phone messages and realized that, although these things are as common as squirrels in NY, they're not squirrrels, and I am not in NY.

My baby girl is growing up thoroughly African. She has a few bad habits, like sucking her teeth and looking at you out of the corner of her eye or throwing her wrappers on the ground- even if she is inside, she will walk to the door and throw it outside in the yard. I am really trying to turn this habit around. But she also has beautiful habits like carrying things on her head, helping wash whatever needs washing (and plenty of things that don't- she just loves water,) wearing babies on her back, laughing long and loud and giving that reassuring smile at just the right moment. She speaks words in at least three languages (four if we include the one none of the rest of us can't quite figure out- her own private language) and my favorite- she loves wrapping fabric around her in the exact perfect way you wrap a pagne, complete with knee bend and waist wiggle.

This one is just for fun. We still go to school together, usually on Sundays. She does something artistic like make a painting or string some beads and I try to catch up on random schoolwork. Or sometimes we just go down the slide. It may not be the beautiful jungles of TASOK, but we still manage to carve out a few moments of fun in this year of work.

more random updates

There are a few random updates, endings to stories once began and long ago noticed. There is a certain clarity and satisfaction that comes from random updates, from being able to look upon someone's experience as a series of events, each piece providing a bigger piece to the puzzle and illuminating a sense of logic and purpose to what, at the time, may feel random and disjointed.

The trick, of course, is maintaining patience and perseverance when regarding our own lives. It's so much easier to see a plan as someone else's life unfolds. So here is what I have witnessed:

Remember this guy, who travelled all the way to our quaint little CIAD in search of true love only to be shunned by his desired and taken in by some random family in the neighborhood? It wasn't too long ago that I caught a glimpse of him, straight from a Grimm's fairy tale of friendly ogres and gentle giants. It was a silhouette I saw of him walking down the dirt road, hoisting a propane tank (those cursed propane tanks!) over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes walking alongside a woman who barely reached his shoulders. There was a sense of chivalry to the image. A gentleness and sweet exchange hovered in the air above them. Apparently he'd persevered and found someone who appreciated his spirit. I guess he has settled in with her and the two make a delightful pair. I still don't know what he "does," as in what permits him to fly off in search of a new life and make his home in a quiet little village just north of Abidjan center, but he has found a bit of paradise for the moment it seems.

There is the story of the towel people and somewhere along the way we've become acquainted. This is in the broadest sense of the word. I don't know his name or anything about him, nor he of me. But we've become accustomed to greeting each other with a neighbourly good morning- or good evening- and a sincere wish for a 'bonne journey.' I can't be sure how it happened, a meeting of the eyes I suppose, as most human contact can be reduced to this.  What is the underlying connection that causes it to expand? At times, even if he is sitting at the hair salon just out of sight, he will call out to me and wish me a good evening, or a welcome home. I wonder often at what causes two humans to progress through the stages of noticing each other, to making a connection and then to committing- even if it is as simple as saying hello. On other mornings, I wonder even more. Now that school is back in session and I am leaving hom earlier, I see him outside sweeping- honestly a bit of a rarity among African men. The morning sweeping routine is often reserved for women unless it is in front of a shop or cabine- and I am overcome for a moment wanting to find out the details. Yes, I want an interview. I imagine all the questions I would pose, an amateur anthropologist studying the human quirks in my neighborhood. Does he live alone (I know he does not as I have occasionally witnessed the towel woman) and is he an early riser? Obviously, but what is it that propels him outside to in the wee hours to perfom this chore?  These questions are still a mystery even as we have taken a step or two across the bridge of complete strangerhood.

There is another neighborhood acquaintance whose mystery has been unravelled. I still see him occasionally, a Frenchman who lives in the neighborhood. We most often cross paths as I am returning home and he as well, though from within the cartier. I remember wondering where he could be going- or coming from- deep within the neighborhood. A recent visit from a friend seems to have unveilled the mystery. Just a short walk away is the ferry to Marcory. I had thought this ferry was only available from M'Pouto by the Sol Beni side of the lagoon. Turns out there is a hidden little port right here in our neighborhood. I have yet to take this voyage but my friend, and friends of hers, took it several times.  I imagine this is where the Frenchman is off to every morning and where he returns from in the evening. He must work somewhere in Marcory or Zone 4 and travels back forth avoiding high traffic by way of the lagoon. It seems like an enchanting commute.

The stories of my African neighborhood....not so different from yours, hey?





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the search continues

My search for dance continues, the Company Mouyae having turned out to be more of a foster family than an adoptive family. I am not sure what happened there, though it definitely seems to be a theme in Abidjan. Just as something gets started, begins to feel like it might be a real possibility, it fades away, often inexplicably.

I finally went to the Village Kiyi, a place that's been on my periphery for the last year or so, but I'd never made it there. I was in search of an artist I'd seen a few times but never gotten direct contact info from. This whole dance thing is like a full time job. A serious hunt. The Village is a bona-fide school of dance dripping with culture. The walls are covered with paintings both on canvas and geometric mural designs directly on the walls.

There are several stage areas including an outdoor amphitheater and a more traditional indoor space. The stage is black wood, the walls are covered with large canvas paintings of city scenes and there is a refreshing cross breeze through the open doorways. I am enveloped in a serious spirit of creativity and history.

The emcee comes on (to keep me entertained during my wait, I've been whisked into the culminating performance of the kids summer program) and gives an impressive introduction to the recital we are about to witness. One of the students will begin by introducing the show in English. She is to be followed by another student with the French version. The emcee suggests even more languages in coming years. "Pourqoui pas Arabic or Chinese?" he asks, stating at the Village, they have their ' head in the future and their feet in their culture.' A synthesis of the spirit of Abidjan, where all cultures and languages seem to collide, combine and morph into something new entirely.

Unfortunately, as with most places I am learning, there are a million opportunities for children but few for adults. I leave my number and receive assurances of a phone call to come once they get their adult classes started. I've been down this road so many times I'm not anticipating anything.  The search continues.

Beautiful archway. The space behind
the  stairs appears unfinished, half
lived in and completely alluring

No such thing as a 5 alarm fire

The sky was on fire. As we got closer to the main road we could see a billowing cloud of black smoke. The roadway was crowded with onlookers and many of them began to turn and run in our  direction. A whole neighborhood was burning. Propane tanks were exploding. There was one lone firetruck and it didn't appear to be the kind holding water.

Basically everyone was just waiting for the fire to burn itself out. The neighborhood was one of wooden shacks, built close together and highly flammable. The story? Someone put their dinner on and then ran out to the market, forgetting all about it. The result? Beyond homelessness, most people lost everything they had. The lesson? There's more to development than new roads and tall buildings. Basic community services are a necessity for true progress.

There's no such thing as a 5 alarm fire. The big trucks weren't rolling out. There wasn't an ambulance on scene. There were no police and no social service agencies to help residents pick up the pieces of their now shattered lives. My house burned (partially) down and all of these services were there, waiting for me when I rounded the corner and was surprised by the event. One house. This was an entire neighborhood.

Some people had gone off to work early in the morning and came home to discover the news in the nighttime, long after the lone firetruck had packed up and gone away. They found only their neighbors sorting through rubble, hoping to salvage any bits and pieces that remained.

The way of art

Happily beginning this year as the lower school art teacher. Full time. Dream come true. You can read all about it here. It means a new year, a new position and the never ending game of curriculum development.

I do love this part of teaching. Designing a path to guide students along, developing investigative questions, bookmarking resources, and imagining experiences is a huge part of what makes my work satisying. There is nothing easy or short about curriculum writing. It is bread made from scratch, fresh pasta rolling through the machine, pastels carefully flattened, lovingly stuffed and tenderly fried. Creating curriculum is a homemade Thanksgiving meal all the way to picking fresh cranberries from the backyard.

I have all the ingredients spread out on my desktop. Tabs are open to grade level documents, science and social studies year long overviews, national art standards, AREO art standards, my own visual art curriculum (a place for storing images and links to resources) and, finally, the Pre-K-5 yearlong art curriculum overview.

I switch back and forth between documents along with web resources such as art blogs, pintrest, educational journals and google images. I bookmark relevant artists, living and dead, local and international, well known and obscure. I'm looking to make art come alive by exposing students to ALL the possibilities in art. We're not all Rembrants and vanGoghs.

So what role does art have for us? This is just one of many questions that my students will spend the year exploring. What is the role of art in society? What is the responsibility of governments in safeguarding art and making it accesible to all? What role does art play in documenting and resolving conflict? How can art record history and uncover complexities in international and national relations? How does art contribute to unity and reconciliation?

More importantly, at this age, how does art play a role in my personal life? These are big questions and we only have 40 min. once a week to figure it all out. In addition, or concurrently, there is the teaching of technique- yes, art is a skill like reading or writing or mathematics and it can be learned and improved. It needs to be practised.

There is also exposure to historic works of art, artists and movements. On my physical desktop, I have lists of movements, illustrative works, and the must-haves in the art world. There are painters, sculptures, and illustrators. There is art history and contemporary art.

Aside from the planning of units and lessons, there is the learning of names. 214 + or -. When I might have had 2 Aishas, there are now 4. There are at least 7 Mariame, Mariama or Mariannes. And a whole host of names I can't even pronounce. I make phonetic notations but some 50 kids later, I've forgotten what my shorthand means. When the child (or the whole class) corrects me, I look at my notes and nod my head. Yup, that's exactly how I've written it and it still didn't make sense. I spend my class periods calling everyone by their name everytime I talk to them and sometimes I just walk around randomly telling them who they are.  Because nothing is worse than seeing them on the playground shouting out, "Hi Ms. Soumah!" and I can't say their name back.

I spend my lunch  duty walking around talking to kids about their meals, their names and any other random conversation starters in an attempt to remember. I know it will come, and it is by far easier to remember in the confines of the art room- it's just generalizing to the wider school context that presents a challenge.

I know from perusing art teacher blogs that many have it worse. They write of no sinks, no classrooms (I did do a stint of art on a cart way back when...)They have 1,000+ students (?!!) and 3 schools to shuffle between. The most incomprehensible-- 20 min. classes.

I don't even consider making art, personally, if I only have 20 minutes (maybe something to consider if I had a table and a studio space to just pop in and out of.) But art, and learning, is about getting into that zone- "the flow"- where time is lost and it's just you and the medium.

I wish I had time to help my students experience this at every art class. Time to look at art thoughtfully and learn the words to respond to elements that are striking and the time to discover what they like and don't like. We can't do it at every class, but I am realizing it is something I can build in consistently.

It is a journey. When we discussed "what is art?" during our first class session, I was delighted to see many kids were already reading the room. "Well, it says art is not a thing,"  they pointed to the quote on the wall. "Art is a way."