Syria

Between embassies

Trying to get to Congo on the end of a kite
The kite string broke, and down they all fell.....

When I was at the RDC embassy, a woman came in full of loud laughter which served only to mask the berating nature of her words. She was supposed to leave for Kinshasa that night and was wondering if she should cancel her plane ticket.

I gathered that she had family there, grown children with a Congolese spouse from the sound of it. She herself was clearly Ivorian and she was having a terrible time getting confirmation. But she barged into the office and sat down in the middle of my meeting with such confidence and familiarity that it seemed clear she'd done this before.

I've been having wildly fluctuating ideas about my trip- everything from it's too expensive to a soul searching why am I even doing this to I really need this trip- and throwing in the visa uncertainty isn't helping. I am trying to adjust to no expectations. If I get the visa, great, I will go explore, reflect, and experience. And if I don't, then I'll find a plan B.

But even as I try to will my mind into accepting this flexible, free flowing attitude, a stubborn part of me is resisting. Why? Why the hell is it so hard to get into Congo? (And of course, being me, this is having an immediate adverse effect. It's so hard to get into Congo that I simply must get in. I'm not sure I even really want to go, but if they are going to refuse than I just have to try harder.) 

I did some quick searching to try and figure out why some countries are more difficult to get into than others. Congo didn't actually make any of the lists I found about unwelcoming countries or those with the hardest to get visas. And while these sites break the cost/effort ratio down for travelers, they don't really explain why a country would want to essentially refuse visitors.

Campos and Kimeria each write about their perspectives on African travel and visa procurement from the economic standpoint and as a curious traveler. I've also long experienced the difficulty of non-Americans in trying to get a US visa. But knowing it all exists doesn't explain why.

The US will state their fear of immigrants entering (in search of the dream) and then having no means of support. In recent months, this fear has been expanded to include all sorts of other random reasons and just plain coming out with the truth- racism- or ethnicism. The US doesn't really want you unless you're rich, white and male.

I'm not really clear what kind of visitor Congo is looking for. Connected, I guess. On my original visit, I was told by a secretary that I should have someone at my embassy call someone at his embassy. "You know, between embassies," he said, "things can happen."

In search of ghosts

There are always a million reasons why I haven't written -most to do with logistics, ie  my magnetic interference with all things electronic- but it is also the continued disenchantment with this city (through no fault of her own, perhaps.) I feel a need to add that last part because I know plenty of people fall in love with Abidjan- and a friend of mine wrote me these words, which probably have a ring of truth to them. "All countries are fabulous, it's just the heart perspective from where we're experiencing it."

And the heart perspective these last 3 years has been a little traumatized. I think I have needed a lot more nurturing and immersion than I can find here. Phil, the infamous camel drawing, blogger, traveler and restaurant owner, shares his thoughts about learning a language here. Granted, the post is a few years old, but it reminded me of all that I loved about learning Lingala. I completely agree that "if you  can understand how a language operates you are learning more than a means of communication, you are learning about a culture."

Not having a language to learn has thrown me off a bit, although truly the contracted French here really qualifies as it's own language. A stop in the Kinshasa embassy filled my ears with Lingala and made me realize once again how much I miss the sounds of African languages. So, before I get started with my Bambara studies, I am off to reconnect with my Lingala.

Preparing to return to Congo is an exercise in itself. A friend suggested perhaps I am searching down ghosts and it is more than possible he is right. But I have made several appointments with strong women, hopefully to inspire and motivate me. Maybe even kill off those ghosts altogether.

I've acquired a list of little bits of nothing intended to give a picture of life here (taxi drivers who pick you up with one destination agreed upon, only to change their mind half- way through and drop you off at a random location, without charge, but less convenient for finding new transport; a supremely congested traffic jam reminiscent of Kinshasa lock ups; the way a neighborhood street will fill up with tents for a wedding or birthday, and a soccer field transformed into a nighttime cafe) but none of these inspire a real story.

My experiences here have been tainted with the overwhelming amount of time I spend working. While understanding the French elite has opened a new perspective, it is not exactly the one I've been longing for.

So I am off in search of ghosts and whatever remnants of myself I left behind in Congo before embarking on another adventure- new language, new customs and new dance rhythms to learn.

** I've just come across this phenomenon of Japanese forest bathing. I've long recognized living in the jungle was a huge part of my seduction to Kinshasa. I have a deep love and attachment to trees, Instead of chasing ghosts, I will imagine a soul soothing forest bath.

Some images from around town:

Traveling preacher- a little morning church on your doorstep 

Piles of bones- tree slaughter continues

These great musicians played at our arts fest-I'm pretty sure
that's the music manifesting itself 

The weaver let me try his "bike." Even
though my mind repeated the steps, my
feet didn't always pay attention. 

How many years does it take to get lightning
quick like him?

The tents go up, the road closes. Celebration underway

I love this tree at the dance studio
It's like she's wearing her own
costume

My neighbor and I had a discussion about
whether tables at night on the soccer pitch
was ridiculous or entrepreneurial...
A few days later the addition of a small tv
 (rabbit ears style) seemed to give some merit
to her ridiculous vote. 

More of the balafonists...it was great to play
with them. Looking forward to more lessons
in my new spot 

Definitely gonna miss my favorite pottery teacher
and his wry grin whenever the pots get too "artistic" 

Public transit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Fool and the Contra-Fool

I had been keeping up with my list pretty nicely, my miss/ won't miss list about Abidjan. I was actually surprised that the miss side was getting a little long and half-heartedly wondering how to put it all together. But then a few taxi stories happened, and I lost my wi-fi for a week, which turned out to be blissful, and I almost forgot that I was keeping a list at all. 

Then one afternoon, after a long, tiring day when my patience was low and my head pain, leg pain, neck pain, over-all-getting-older body pain was high, the fool showed up and I wondered how I could have forgotten to add him to the list. Definitely a NOT miss.

He always seems to show up when I am at my lowest. We first met the fool when we lived in M'Puto village. He is one of those street wandering people who is out of touch with the world, but just enough in touch to have random conversations. I suspect he has a home somewhere and a family that takes him in each night because he is one step up in cleanliness than the true street person would be. He is left to wander all day and he makes his rounds throughout the neighborhood. People know him and generally just say he is "not right." He's definitely one of those cases that highlights the lack of mental health care in Africa. 

He took an interest in the boys and used to follow them around whenever he happened to cross paths with them. It didn't help that Christian, with his soft heart, used to buy him a soda every so often. We saw the fool less after we moved, but he was still a presence in the neighborhood.

I am not sure when it happened, exactly, but at some point he started believing in a mythical relationship between us. Whenever he sees me, he will start following me, talking to himself the whole time. In a few instances, when I'd gotten into a taxi, he stood there talking to me, as though making plans for later. Most of his words are incomprehensible, but occasionally he will come out with a complete phrase, Meet me at Soccoci or We left Deux Plateaux together or some other description of a completely imaginary event. Sometimes he catches the taxi driver off guard just enough that he waits, thinking there is a real conversation happening. 

The fool will follow me into a store, trailing along behind me pretending to buy something. He will go wherever I go and if I turn around or stop walking, he will do the same. There is no shaking him. A few nights he followed me close to home. I will not go all the way to my house, because I  fear if he knows where I live, I will find him there every morning, waiting outside my door. On those occasions when I'd arrived just to the phone cabine before my house, Ivan, my ever friendly and oh so reliable phone cabin guy, would intervene and get the fool turned around in the direction he'd come from. One talking to was so effective he didn't even follow me the next few times he saw me.

Ivan has left his post, however, and I am a bit defenseless on the route home now. Diallo, our friendly neighborhood boutique guy, tried helping me one night, but he is too soft spoken and gentle to have any effect. That night I sat watching a soccer match at a collection of tables and chairs that had sprung up as an eatery and gathering place in response to Ivan's closure while Diallo tried to convince my stalker to go on his way.

It was late, and while I generally believe, as does most of the neighborhood, that he is harmless, we passed a few dark patches in the road that made me really consider my situation for a minute. It is frustrating to have no power over your circumstances.  And I really have no idea which connections have gone wrong for him, or when the others may follow suit, fragile holds on this world snapping as he imagines a slight or insult or even a fit of jealous retribution.

The therapist part of me hates to call him the "fool." It is how the Africans refer to him. But the person part of me gets angry when he appears with his relentless effort. This last time, I'd had a particularly long day, and I'd pulled a muscle in my leg which made walking painful. He was there when I got out of the taxi and my whole body sighed. I just wanted to go home and rest, but it was clear, with his presence, that would not be a quick or easy route. I decided to go to the pharmacy, something I'd been avoiding just because I was dreaming of soft cushions and an overhead fan.
The pharmacy security did not let him in, but he stood outside waiting. I bought my coveted Advil 400 and left. Predictably, he followed me to the main road. I had been wondering if I, myself, had ever made it clear that I didn't want him around. Maybe my silence was sending a message of its own. I took the opportunity to turn and tell him to leave me alone, go on his way, continue his day but just leave me be!

In response, he raised his hand to signal a taxi for me. I was having the kind of day where I decided to just hail a cab and outrun him in search of the refuge my small home offered. And there, on the heels of my anger, he was helping me flee. 

While he makes my won't miss list, there is another follower that I will miss. He is one of Mohamed's old friends and a neighborhood kid. There's a fine group of them now, between Mohamed's friends and Ousmane's soccer trainees, that say hello to me as we pass on the dusty streets of our cartier. But this one, I've always had a soft heart for this one. I remember one rainy evening, when the heavy downfall let up for a minute and all of the boys ran for home, but he, he stayed. Mohamed pulled out some old board games and looked for lost pieces so they could amuse themselves 'old school style' since the power was out. His staying had an air of nothing better to do and nowhere better to go.

Since then, I have found him often at my house, long after Mohamed is no longer there. I've found him crashed on the living room floor after a particularly intense morning of soccer training. I imagine his house full of cousins and uncles and noise. I smile to think my cold, hard floor feels like a little bit of peace to him. He's been known to sit outside the front door, resting on an empty potter, using the internet when no one is home. And sometimes, when I come back with groceries to find him there, he grabs a shopping bag and brings it right in, and sits down for a minute.

I see him around the neighborhood, walking fast and always a quick smile on his face. I am told he is intelligent, keeps a fragile bond with the other boys- hanging when it's good but knows enough to leave when it's not. He is always polite, snatching a bag from my hand or offering to carry my packages whenever he sees me walking. "Bonjor tantie," he says, his long legs don't seem to break any stride as he smoothly replaces my hand with his and takes off at a gamble. I met him at my house, wondering how we managed to arrive at the same time, when he was so far ahead of me. He told me he stopped home to report in on some errand he'd been sent on before making his way to my house, package in tow. It all appears like one effortless stride, he is so fast and focused.

My favorite memory is the day I'd been walking with Mbalia, who stopped mid-street to comment on something or notice something in her 2 year old way. T comes along with his light steps and scoops her up, keeps walking, though the way he moves is more like a hover board speeding just inches above the ground. He is sweet talking her all the way to the house. I am sure she has no idea what has just happened. 

She has always loved seeing Mohamed's friends, since he left especially, and I am sure she was just reveling in his attention. I opened the outside door and he brought her in, deposited her on the porch and even helped her to take off her shoes and socks before he was speeding out into the night again. Full service delivery, I think.

It makes the miss list because I am always impressed how these boys, and this boy in particular, will drop what he is doing and go out of his way to help. They have banded together before to help me, countless times, really, with carrying the propane tank and even hooking it up (you never know when a certain tank will have a valve that just doesn't turn.) I am impressed by this ingrained sense of duty they have to help an older person. There's no question. You are walking with something, they carry it. You need something, they go to the store to get it. It is the heirarchy in Africa that is helpful, creates an order and structure. They've accepted me into it here and I just might miss that. The neighborhood kids, and this one in particular.

Lessons to be learnt: yoga & dance therapy

My exercise routine has been whittled down to yoga and salsa, twice a week each. For the moment, I've had to let go of my gym routine (one day I will have arm muscles and be a bada#$ at kickboxing or capoeira- the dream is not dead, just postponed.)

My routine doesn't include traditional dance or drum, which is a major disappointment for me. Luckily there is a light at the end of this tunnel- I've got my eyes on Mali to restore me to my former self. In the meantime, there are lessons to be learned.

Both classes are the only ones I've found that have the potential to challenge me (except of course the beautiful people at Compagnie Mouye, who inexplicably broke my heart, though I don't think they know how deeply.)

My yoga teacher is Anne, from Ananda YOGA Abidjan. She has a great way of differentiating class- I guess yoga lends itself to that naturally, but she is knowledgeable and encouraging. A bonus is her home studio, which has an aura all its own. It's a quasi outside studio with open windows and a soft decor. Her yard has illuminated trees, which remind me of Kenya, and a dreamy porch. Sometimes we meet on the grass, and other times we meet in her garage-turned-studio but always the air is quietly enveloping. Even when we meet at the Bushman Cafe, the class is tranquil and the music enchanting.

I would describe myself as in the middle of my yoga journey (physically speaking)- there are several who can go further than me and plenty who can do less. It is the right mix of reminding myself I'm not half bad, but I have plenty of room to improve. As I often tell Mohamed, you never want to be the best on the field. You need to see the challenge and not let your ego get too comfortable. Humility is important.

There are days when my yoga workout leaves me in an emotional state near tears. Apparently, this isn't so unusual. I am still convincing myself of the mind-body connection, having long decided I could plow through anything if my mind were strong enough. In reality, a lot of what I am 'plowing through' gets stuck up in muscle memory. I am only half as strong as I think I am. It's what leaves me emotionally vulnerable after an intense hour and a half of yoga.

I'm only slightly interested in tracking what positions elicit what emotional response. A friend is doing her master's on a related topic which has increased my interest a bit, but I spend more time trying to figure out what I need to let go of and what's worth hanging onto.

Forever indulging in self-reflection, I know about the arts as therapy. I believe in the arts as therapy. But I admit to not experiencing much more than the visual arts- my go-to in times of crisis. Lately, I've begun to understand, truly feel the power of movement. That is to say, movement as therapy.  I don't mean therapy as in, I do it to prevent sadness or stave off depression (which is where I concentrate a lot of my effort.) But I mean therapy as in, I have a lot of issues to work out. (which I do, though the list is getting smaller.)

I've always understood I need to dance- and have been dancing since I was 6....or 4? I recognize that the worst times of my life- the teenage years- were the ones where I stopped dancing, and often regret. What if I'd kept dancing, wouldn't they have been so much more formative, in the positive sense? I have no doubt.

Just before I stopped dancing....

It's not so much that I stopped dancing, but I stopped publicly dancing. I stopped believing in myself as a dancer. Many a night I found my own beat in the privacy of my bedroom, but never, ever in public. It wasn't until my early twenties that I decided to tackle the problem- the fear- of public dancing. And so began my love affair with traditional African dance.

But for all of the twenty something years I have since been dancing, I am still only comfortable with a routine. A prescribed set of steps I can memorize and present. I harbor great issues with free form dancing or anything outside of a class, really. Or a performance that has been rehearsed and can be anticipated.

A class represents safety. I can make mistakes, there is a low level of judgement and I can stop at any time. A performance represents security, anticipation, no surprises. But there is something else going on in class, especially salsa class, which I have only just figured out.

My Friday nights are dedicated to a private class. This is a chance for me to receive instruction tailored to my individual level- and to dance with a master. Because I know I am leaving, I've asked for the class to be accelerated. I am somewhat new to the style, but not to dance as a discipline.

I resisted salsa for many years, unfortunate really, because, back in those aforementioned dance-less teenage years there were quite a few Latino hot-spots in my neighborhood, and if I'd been inclined, I could have been an accomplished salsa dancer by now (oh, the could haves and would haves...) One of the main reasons for my resistance was the machismo quality of salsa- or what I perceived as that anyway.

On occasion I am still troubled by the imbalance of power. It is hard for me to let the man lead, to surrender, in essence. Because I have issues, being a woman. If you are a woman, you might know something about what I am talking about.  I say it's not fair that the man gets to call the shots and can plan his moves in advance, while, as the woman, I have to be ready to respond to whatever direction I am given. This perspective is not helping my salsa.

Henri, my teacher, tells me that the move is always the same, a right turn is a right turn and cumbia is cumbia no matter what the man is deciding to do with his hands, or whether the position is open or closed. He's right of course, but he is a man. He gets to be in the lead. And he is probably coming from a much healthier perspective than I, I who have all of my issues buried deep in the memories of my muscles, just waiting to pour out at the most inopportune and inappropriate moments.

Salsa is a beautiful dance, an image of positive communication between the partners. But I am just now realizing that throwing someone like me in the mix can produce some unexpected results. I spent a lot of time trying to get over the fact that I am not in control. I was trying to "let go" and feel loose and free, and actually suspecting I had conquered that whole need-for-control aspect. (or mostly. Well, I was aware it existed, at any rate, and awareness is a great step, right?)

The dance was going well, and I felt beautiful, like those salsa dancers. Henri is an excellent teacher, providing just the right amount of critique and positive feedback to keep one encouraged, but motivated to improve. I felt like I might actually be able to learn this style, and who knows, maybe even go out for a salsa evening and meet some real people. When, WHAM! He didn't come flying into me- he is the professional after all- but it felt like that.

Our turns were a bit faster than I'd been practicing and he was really challenging me with varying the position between open and closed. When all of sudden he made the move from open to closed just a bit too fast and a hand too firm. I broke away feeling dizzy and slightly ill. I shook my head and waved my hands. What was that?

He was truly bewildered, poor unsuspecting guy, just trying to teach a dance class when the student has a traumatic reaction right there in the middle of it all. He looked at me with a question on his face.

"That was....that was..." I couldn't really get any words out. I wasn't sure what it was. "Too much," I finally sputtered. I'd thought at first that I was just responding to things moving too fast and not being able to keep up, a slight embarrassment about not being able to rise to the challenge he was presenting.

"That was great, no?" He seemed oblivious to all of my discomfort, happily. Something was going on with me, but I surely didn't want to advertise it there, in that space where I had been seeking refuge from my demons. I relived a few moments from my past, moments I thought I'd long put to rest and realized I was dealing with a bit more than an 'it's-not-fair-I-don't-get-to-chose-the-dance-moves' response to salsa. There was something inherently more complex going on there for me.

I am glad that dragon finally revealed itself, so I can slay it once and for all (or maybe that won't actually be possible?) but at least I can look him square in the eye and show him I am not afraid of dragons. Then I can get back to enjoying my dance. I am going to try and focus on the positive aspects of salsa and learn the lessons that need to be learnt. And embrace the person I am now. Nevermind the one I used to be. I can see there is a reason why my exercise routine has been whittled away to salsa and yoga. We need each other.

Cause of death

While Americans are busy marching for women's rights and holding out hope for their universal health care, small stories from the people between the lines are unfolding every day. Yesterday (ok, sometime last week, it's taken days to finish this post) I was riding to see a tailor on the other side of town (forever in search of a skilled and talented tailor...although at this point, I'll take capable.) Part of our drive passed through a section of town that I can only describe by saying I was reminded that some people are leading dismal lives. Dirt, poverty, frustration and anger. The sun shining doesn't bring light or happiness here - just plain heat.

In Abidjan it can be all too easy to forget that the difficulties are just as dire as in any developing country. There are plenty of highways, bridges and roundabouts connecting malls, shopping centers and restaurants. There are plenty of clean storefronts and bright neon advertising. Neighborhoods are spread out in such a way that you might never need to leave the confines of your area. Those that do leave residential cartiers are most likely on their way to commercial ones and so the poverty stricken neighborhoods end up being isolated and out of view. But they make the news often enough. And just because they aren't as visible, doesn't mean they don't exist, along with all of the problems that take root there.

While American women are marching, Ivorian women are having babies. There have been a lot of new babies since I've arrived. Aside from several neighbors, the nounou at my house had a baby and both the nounous who work for my friend gave birth.

The first was a younger woman, young enough that I think of her as a girl. She has her own family now, and was sequestered by her 'husband's' family during the birth, nothing too remarkable, both baby and mom healthy. The second woman, however, did not fare so well.

She already has a child and apparently the first birth was not easy. She appeared swollen about halfway through her pregnancy and we advised her to put her feet up, see her doctor and all sorts of other things pregnant women are always getting advice about.

Eventually it came to a point of increased concern. Her hands were so swollen she couldn't close them enough to pick anything up. We wanted to send her to the hospital right away. We tried to let her know how dangerous it could be. The problem was, the nurses weren't expressing the same message. One nurse told her she was going to bleed a lot, supposedly a warning that she should start saving money for medicines and treatment for a complicated birth. Her blood pressure was elevated, but the only council she received was to stay away from salt and oily foods.

I know that Abidjan has better care to offer, the problem is affordability. Many Ivorians have health insurance. But I think a whole lot more don't. And there was the doctor strike. She'd had plans to go to the village to have her baby, the ever elusive 'village'- home to family and traditional rememdies that cure all ills (being able to relax and have someone take care of you surely one of the most traditional of cures.)

However, one afternoon found her in an ambulance, touring the city in search of a hospital that would take her. She was turned away by several. She cites the strike or no room as reasons for this. We wonder if the severity of her condition and the light pocketbook weren't an influencing factor. Finally, she ended up in a clinic in Adjame. She had an emergency c-section and was still in pain when I talked to her a day later. She'd barely seen the baby but told me he was 'under covers'- the phrase for the care premature babies receive.

She'd racked up a hefty hospital bill and they weren't giving her any post natal care until she paid. During that first phone call, she told me they would keep the baby until the bill was settled. With Kinshasa flashbacks, I wondered how long the baby was expected to stay in the hospital. Preemies usually require more care, and I wasn't really sure how early he was.

News came later from her sister that the baby 'didn't stay'- their phrase meaning he'd passed away. She hadn't informed the mother yet. There is no way to know if it was because he simply came too early, or because, as rumored, the clinic didn't even treat him for the first 24hrs to see if he would, in fact, 'stay.' Or if it was a not having money for the required medicines.

I can't know the real answers, and I don't want to. It's bad enough to know that better pre-natal care might have saved him (or possibly not.) My thoughts were focused on the mom. She was clearly suffering, not only from her surgery but from the pre-eclampsia that'd gotten her there and the news of her baby's death. She needed money.

We scraped together what we could, my contribution much less than I felt good about, and she eventually received some medicines and was released in a day or two. But there remains that frustration of the 'holding the patient prisoner' model. There is the frustration of the patient needing to purchase the medicines (most often a relative must be there to get the prescription and then go to a pharmacy to purchase the medicine and bring it back.)

I couldn't, and still can't, have never been able to, wrap my mind around this. The hospital staff will work around this woman, watching her deteriorate and possibly pass away herself, because she can't purchase the required after birth medicine? It smells awfully close to murder. My memories invaded with images of another patient, languishing on a hospital bed, head split open, in and out of consciousness while hospital staff waited for the all important dollar. And even my own birth story, suffering malaria, pleading for a bag of glucose, anything to get the treatment started, while those around me negotiated the cost of my impending delivery.

Somewhere along the way, we humans decided money holds the most value, pieces of printed paper and imprinted coins worth more than our lives. It's better that I don't know the real cause of the baby's death. It's hard enough to sleep at night.