It's that season. Despite nearly 10 years in Africa, this remains the season where I lose track of time. I guess I am still waiting for the cold of winter to set in. I have to keep reminding myself what time of year it is, and that the new year is approaching. I always have a sense that I will miss it. Being on vacation from school only adds to my timelessness.
Contract season is also about this time for the international teaching world. It has passed seamlessly for once. I've secured a new post for next year in enough time to return my "intent to return" as a negative, comfortable in the knowledge of a new post for next year. We are going to Mali.
Mali has been on my list since I began teaching in Africa so I am extremely excited to be able to accept. Top it off with the fact that I've already worked with the director and can be assured that our educational philosophies are a good match. It feels like so many positives coming together for a prosperous new adventure.
In the meantime, I still have 6 months or so left to get through here in Abidjan. I begin to wonder what I can do, or should do, to expand my experiences here. I don't have a fuzzy warm feeling of the country though I sense it is more to do with the moments in my life than the country itself- perhaps.
I want to take advantage of the remaining time to see more, do more, understand more, but I also sense that if I couldn't make it happen in 2 years of living here, it's not likely to happen in the next 6 months either.
It's also the season for elections.....in Congo. Although the outgoing president never organized any elections. The people have decided to uphold their constitution and so we wait- tomorrow being the deadline- to see how the citizens take hold. It's sure to be intense and my thoughts remain concentrated there, in a country I have grown to love and support, despite my distance.
#telema The government has called for a cut in all social media and phone connections. I am confounded by the public-ness of this. The letters are posted and the news is out. People are preparing to be cut off from the outside world. Activists have been kidnapped and the military is in the streets. More is coming. As much as I believe Kabila will see that the revolution is not virtual, but real, and the media blackout will not change events- I wonder. What if the providers simply refused? Where is that one strong, convicted mind that will simply continue business as usual?
And how will we get notice of what is happening? I am having faith there is a plan for this but I have no inside knowledge this time around. I am far from events, a mere witness. So I rest in prayer, in positive energy, in sending strength and courage for the newest of posts- the interim government that must take place when all else falls apart.
And I do not doubt that many will pay, have already paid and are paying now with the supreme sacrifice. And my heart is there too. All the little I can do from where I am.
15.12.16
The Problem with Giving..or The Echo of Truth
A long time ago, in another place and another time, a friend spoke to me about giving. "They don't even ask," he said. It was a program that was offering food- some kind of breakfast- for people. If you know me, you know I've forgotten the details, the context, the citations. But I remember the big idea. The program was offering bread. And the people, despite being known for eating bread, wanted something healthier. But no one asked and they just assumed bread was the thing- forgetting that people are often faced with hard decisions, decisions made not from choice but from necessity. Given a choice, they didn't want bread.
What I took away from that conversation is that, in the act of giving, to be truly useful, you need to consult the people you are giving to. It sounds like elementary advice. But it is a step often ignored in the vain of....'we know what you need/want.' Or perhaps 'this is what I want you to want.'
Despite my lesson, I find I am facing the truth of the matter once again. In the blah of Abidjan that I am confronted with, and following my nature of wanting to do more than just me, there was the case of Melissa. Remember her? Girl child on her way to education? Because I believe in education. Because I am a teacher. Because everything I read tells me literacy is the path to improving not just one generation, but a future generation.
We've gone through a few tutors for Melissa. The first found us a second who eventually said he couldn't continue. "She doesn't respect me," he said. But I think the real cause was rather, she doesn't have a strong command of the French language. She has no base in reading and too often the questions posed were simply not understood. He took her silence as disrespect, or maybe it was just an excuse to say he couldn't handle the task.
In any case, I sought out a real teacher. Someone who knew what we were up against. Someone who could begin at the beginning. Someone who'd instructed my own child. But Melissa didn't come. She hung out after school playing with friends. I imagine her in the very throes of childhood. Her 12 year old body delighting in the socialization and carefree ways of a much younger child. When she showed up late for the session, for the third time in a row, I asked her what time school ended. She put a finger to her lip and tilted her head.
It was clear she'd either lost track of time in her joy of playing or she'd deliberately passed her study hour with friends. The professor had long since gone home. He'd had requests from other families that wanted his time. Families where kids showed up on time. Took their studies seriously.
"La mama ne pas interesse," he told me as we waited. It's not possible to impress the importance of education on a child whose parent does not reinforce it. I felt a gnawing at my gut. I knew he was right. I can offer, but I cannot force. I can value, but I cannot impose.
In the end, we had no choice but to discontinue. The mom is too focused on having help with household chores. She herself is not literate. She tells me, "If it doesn't 'stick' this year, then she won't continue."
It's not about sticking. I know the girl is sitting through hours of hours of class in a language she barely understands. How can it 'stick?' She's bored, confused and lost in her daydream world. She needs focused study, one on one that addresses her specific needs. I know this. I believe in this.
But mom wants someone to help with the baby, to help with cooking, to help with the washing. She's looking at today and I am looking at tomorrow.
There is a narrow part of me that doubts my intention. Where is she going anyway? Won't knowing more just make her aware of what she can't have? Isn't ignorance bliss and the reality is education doesn't always lead to a job, especially in Africa. A stubborn part of me resists.
In the end, it doesn't matter what I want or think or value. She is not my child. She will learn what is important from her mother. I am a little crushed. I am wracked with guilt. Isn't there more I could do/should have done?
This evening, her mother approaches me with a request. She says she's bought some land and wants an advance to start construction. I don't know what to say.
I'd been planning to let her go in the new year. I'm tired of the halfway job, the house full of kids, the chaos, the lies and the taking advantage. But in her words I hear the echo of truth. She was raised with a farming mother. Farming is what she knows. If I wanted to help, maybe I should have asked. It seems like the brilliant solution I forgot to consider.
Except she wants the advance for sand and cement and building. I am not sure I believe her. She is skilled in the art of knowing what she knows when it's convenient and not knowing when it serves it her best.
I'm not sure how to go forward, wracked with guilt and indecision. I have needs too. A job is a job. My priorities for my child take precedence. My priorities for myself...right? But I get all confused at certain moments. I wish it was more, I wish it was less. It's all the problem with giving. Finding the balance between what you need and what you can offer.
What I took away from that conversation is that, in the act of giving, to be truly useful, you need to consult the people you are giving to. It sounds like elementary advice. But it is a step often ignored in the vain of....'we know what you need/want.' Or perhaps 'this is what I want you to want.'
Despite my lesson, I find I am facing the truth of the matter once again. In the blah of Abidjan that I am confronted with, and following my nature of wanting to do more than just me, there was the case of Melissa. Remember her? Girl child on her way to education? Because I believe in education. Because I am a teacher. Because everything I read tells me literacy is the path to improving not just one generation, but a future generation.
We've gone through a few tutors for Melissa. The first found us a second who eventually said he couldn't continue. "She doesn't respect me," he said. But I think the real cause was rather, she doesn't have a strong command of the French language. She has no base in reading and too often the questions posed were simply not understood. He took her silence as disrespect, or maybe it was just an excuse to say he couldn't handle the task.
In any case, I sought out a real teacher. Someone who knew what we were up against. Someone who could begin at the beginning. Someone who'd instructed my own child. But Melissa didn't come. She hung out after school playing with friends. I imagine her in the very throes of childhood. Her 12 year old body delighting in the socialization and carefree ways of a much younger child. When she showed up late for the session, for the third time in a row, I asked her what time school ended. She put a finger to her lip and tilted her head.
It was clear she'd either lost track of time in her joy of playing or she'd deliberately passed her study hour with friends. The professor had long since gone home. He'd had requests from other families that wanted his time. Families where kids showed up on time. Took their studies seriously.
"La mama ne pas interesse," he told me as we waited. It's not possible to impress the importance of education on a child whose parent does not reinforce it. I felt a gnawing at my gut. I knew he was right. I can offer, but I cannot force. I can value, but I cannot impose.
In the end, we had no choice but to discontinue. The mom is too focused on having help with household chores. She herself is not literate. She tells me, "If it doesn't 'stick' this year, then she won't continue."
It's not about sticking. I know the girl is sitting through hours of hours of class in a language she barely understands. How can it 'stick?' She's bored, confused and lost in her daydream world. She needs focused study, one on one that addresses her specific needs. I know this. I believe in this.
But mom wants someone to help with the baby, to help with cooking, to help with the washing. She's looking at today and I am looking at tomorrow.
There is a narrow part of me that doubts my intention. Where is she going anyway? Won't knowing more just make her aware of what she can't have? Isn't ignorance bliss and the reality is education doesn't always lead to a job, especially in Africa. A stubborn part of me resists.
In the end, it doesn't matter what I want or think or value. She is not my child. She will learn what is important from her mother. I am a little crushed. I am wracked with guilt. Isn't there more I could do/should have done?
This evening, her mother approaches me with a request. She says she's bought some land and wants an advance to start construction. I don't know what to say.
I'd been planning to let her go in the new year. I'm tired of the halfway job, the house full of kids, the chaos, the lies and the taking advantage. But in her words I hear the echo of truth. She was raised with a farming mother. Farming is what she knows. If I wanted to help, maybe I should have asked. It seems like the brilliant solution I forgot to consider.
Except she wants the advance for sand and cement and building. I am not sure I believe her. She is skilled in the art of knowing what she knows when it's convenient and not knowing when it serves it her best.
I'm not sure how to go forward, wracked with guilt and indecision. I have needs too. A job is a job. My priorities for my child take precedence. My priorities for myself...right? But I get all confused at certain moments. I wish it was more, I wish it was less. It's all the problem with giving. Finding the balance between what you need and what you can offer.
24.11.16
Nurturing Trees
I spent a week or so researching trees for a school mural project. The idea is each class will be assigned a tree to study. They will create leaves, seeds, flowers and fruit on clay rounds. The rounds will become leaves on a Tree of Life wall mural. I am pretty excited by the project because it will be long lasting and is located in the perfect spot- an enclave covered in shade by a massive flamboyant tree and filled with picnic tables where the first graders eat their snack.
Since my Kinshasa days I have been fascinated by the way humans congregate under and around trees. It would make a stunning photo essay. The ways people use trees for leisure, as part of business, for protection and cover from the sun. Trees become holders of things, shelves. They become parts of buildings and grow through walls. Trees exhibit a resilience that is simply admirable.
My moringa trees are an excellent example. There are two miracle trees- useful for everything from medicine to cleaning water-growing on my little patch of dirt I call a yard. They grow faster than we can keep up with, every so often stripping them of their leaves, drying them and using them for tea and all kinds of garnishes. I think the nounou was particularly disturbed by the way they shed their leaves all over the driveway. Every so often she would ask if she could cut them. I obliged as long as we collected the leaves for use. I have noticed that one of the stumps has stopped regrowing- highly unusual as they love nothing more than a good trim. I suspect she treated it with something.
Around the same time, I took a few of the chopped branches and stuck them in the earth, trying to create a little fence around my plants (the children are constantly playing and stepping there and I was trying to keep people out of the area.) In response, the trees have bloomed and now I have four moringa trees. It was that easy. That unplanned. The trees decided to grow despite me (or my nounou.)
In more recent days, the prospect of a new president has me more concerned than ever about the environment. Like most Americans I am reading everything I can, trying to educate and activate. The potential problems are overwhelming. This article, before Trump was even elected, merits a link mostly because of what it doesn't talk about. Perhaps history shows that humans have a tendency towards self-implosion, only to come out better for it on the other side (supposing you are not among the million or so sacrificed in the purge) but history doesn't really show us how the environment will fare.
It may well be that we've done enough damage to alter the earth irrevocably. And if we haven't already, four years with Trump's team will surely set us firmly on that path. Of course, the earth will continue to spin, it's just a question of in what state.
All of this uncertainty brings me back to the trees. Each tree I researched resurrected memories of a relationship. The avocado tree with her branches full of fruit, bending low to offer me her gifts and raising back up again at the end of the cycle, patiently growing again. The star fruit tree at the end of our driveway, offering up its bittersweet fruit for eating, lending her shape to colors for stamped birthday card designs. There were the mango trees, whom I made a portrait series of in all their stages of beauty from birth to decay. And the glorious mountain apple tree who showered me in neon pink carpets as she shed her flowers to bloom forth soft, pale apples. Banana trees and bamboo trees providing sturdy leaves for making art and strong stems for creations of all kinds.
I want to get back to nurturing trees the way they nurtured me. We could all do with nurturing some trees. We are so far from nature we've forgotten our dependence. It's what the water protectors are all about. It's what we all need to be about.
Since my Kinshasa days I have been fascinated by the way humans congregate under and around trees. It would make a stunning photo essay. The ways people use trees for leisure, as part of business, for protection and cover from the sun. Trees become holders of things, shelves. They become parts of buildings and grow through walls. Trees exhibit a resilience that is simply admirable.
My moringa trees are an excellent example. There are two miracle trees- useful for everything from medicine to cleaning water-growing on my little patch of dirt I call a yard. They grow faster than we can keep up with, every so often stripping them of their leaves, drying them and using them for tea and all kinds of garnishes. I think the nounou was particularly disturbed by the way they shed their leaves all over the driveway. Every so often she would ask if she could cut them. I obliged as long as we collected the leaves for use. I have noticed that one of the stumps has stopped regrowing- highly unusual as they love nothing more than a good trim. I suspect she treated it with something.
Around the same time, I took a few of the chopped branches and stuck them in the earth, trying to create a little fence around my plants (the children are constantly playing and stepping there and I was trying to keep people out of the area.) In response, the trees have bloomed and now I have four moringa trees. It was that easy. That unplanned. The trees decided to grow despite me (or my nounou.)
In more recent days, the prospect of a new president has me more concerned than ever about the environment. Like most Americans I am reading everything I can, trying to educate and activate. The potential problems are overwhelming. This article, before Trump was even elected, merits a link mostly because of what it doesn't talk about. Perhaps history shows that humans have a tendency towards self-implosion, only to come out better for it on the other side (supposing you are not among the million or so sacrificed in the purge) but history doesn't really show us how the environment will fare.
It may well be that we've done enough damage to alter the earth irrevocably. And if we haven't already, four years with Trump's team will surely set us firmly on that path. Of course, the earth will continue to spin, it's just a question of in what state.
All of this uncertainty brings me back to the trees. Each tree I researched resurrected memories of a relationship. The avocado tree with her branches full of fruit, bending low to offer me her gifts and raising back up again at the end of the cycle, patiently growing again. The star fruit tree at the end of our driveway, offering up its bittersweet fruit for eating, lending her shape to colors for stamped birthday card designs. There were the mango trees, whom I made a portrait series of in all their stages of beauty from birth to decay. And the glorious mountain apple tree who showered me in neon pink carpets as she shed her flowers to bloom forth soft, pale apples. Banana trees and bamboo trees providing sturdy leaves for making art and strong stems for creations of all kinds.
I want to get back to nurturing trees the way they nurtured me. We could all do with nurturing some trees. We are so far from nature we've forgotten our dependence. It's what the water protectors are all about. It's what we all need to be about.
9.11.16
Feeling American
Although I've been working on a tree reflection, a necessary pause for the elections seems acceptable. It's been at least 5 years since I have been in the US. With each passing year I feel further and farther removed. It is more than the passage of time. It is more than internal growth and change. It is more than I am able to explain here. It's enough to say America and I are like unknown cousins at this point.
Which is why I was surprised at my reaction to the news. The News. I wasn't surprised by the news itself, having suspected somewhere in the back corners of my mind that America would unleash this evil on herself. We've come too far from needing to fight for or protect anything. Americans have been taking the easy life for granted for a long time and forgotten what it's like to go without.
So I wasn't surprised at the official word, but I was surprised at my reaction. I thought I wouldn't have any strong response either way. Maybe a small smile and a raised eyebrow with the begrudging thought "Well, she did it," should Hillary have won. Or a shake of my head and a "Those Americans, they've done it now," in the case of an unspeakable win. But neither of those scenarios played out.
Devastation washed over me like a wave. A great tsunami tidal wave. I was reminded of my French colleagues after the Charlie Hebdo shootings. They were visibly saddend. When offering a routine Bonjour, ca va? they answered by shaking their downcast heads and saying how discouraged they were. There was a school wide notice from the administration and a strong sense of national pride and mourning. I was a little in awe of the intensity.
But today, I found it was on my mind. And when colleagues offered a casual how are you? I couldn't refrain from saying "Dare you ask? It's a travesty..." I admit to feeling American, but even more, I feel human. And I am sorrowful for us. I want schools closed for a day of mourning and flags hung at half-mast.
It seems now we will have a chance to find out if all the checks and balances in place to preserve democracy and power heavy rule actually work. Mr. Michael writes about reassuring children about the future by bringing up those democratic processes designed to prevent total control or out-of-control acts. I'm not so sure.
I was reminded of the literature circle I am leading with a tutoring group. We are reading Red Scarf Girl about the Chinese Cultural Revolution. In order to bring about that drastic policy change, Chairman Mao played to the peasants, the young, the barely formed and the uneducated. He set about reversing historic cultural values and turning social conditions on their head. The have-nots and know-nots were suddenly prized while the educated and successful were persecuted. It sounds eerily and terrifyingly similar to what is happening in the US.
While I don't believe the guy was initially gunning for the head role, nor do I believe he took himself seriously (I actually think each outlandish move was a calculated cry for someone to "please undo this mess I've gotten myself into") now that he is there....now that he has thrown the biggest toddler tantrum possible and gotten his dessert without eating dinner, he is only going to continue experimenting with the limits of power. A kid in a candy shop.
There is a chance the next 2 years won't throw the country - and the world- into turmoil. It's completely possible. But there's every chance it could go the other way too. And more important than all of that is the very fact that intolerance, hatred and egoism remain entrenched in the fabric of American communities.
It's a blow for humankind. That's what my devastation was about. Any small hope I'd harbored (and at this point it was pretty small and deeply buried) has been finally extinguished. Humans cannot turn the bright corner, save the planet, stop war, love themselves or each other. We cannot organize collectively to make decisions in the our best interest. And I am not the only one wondering if the antichrist has arrived.
Or maybe this is the doom before the bringer of peace arrives? Maybe that last little flicker of hope isn't completely extinguished after all.
1.11.16
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.
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| A bundle of fronds, neatly packaged |
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| Mystery dwellings |
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| Interesting natural design |
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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.
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.
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| The highway and city view from the "forest door" |
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| Really enjoyed the shape of the new buildings- yet to be opened |
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| The ceilings were a cozy weave of fronds |
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| It didn't take Mbalia long to find a buddy |
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| Forestry school |
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| A rag tag gang of forest explorers |
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| A dreamy little forest house |
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| Heavy rains = brown river |
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| Forest silhouette |
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| We had a forest guide and security |
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| These fountains were dotted throughout |
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| Our guide was very thorough |
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| Straight out of a Wes Craven |
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| 500 year old tree..dying |
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| Mbalia gets a photography lesson |
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| Our motley crew |
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| This building, air conditioned in the middle of the forest, housed skulls and skeleton parts |
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| Giant leaves |
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| The tree of intrigue |
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| In front of the 500 year old tree- eco-tourists I guess. |
21.10.16
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.
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.
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...
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.
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