A Good Shoe Guy

The beginning of school crept up on me with stealth and under cover of darkness. I received a text on Saturday evening suggesting it would be "good for me" to go to the new teacher orientation Monday. That's it. No time, no location, no further notice. I was left scrambling for how exactly to arrange a nanny.

A Sunday night email gave me a time - 1:00- and an even later text (10:20!) let me know 2 o'clock would be good. Despite the contradiction, I made it to school on time, enjoyed a somewhat decent lunch and discovered the week would be full of orientation type stuff. So long vacation, hello working world.

Having spent most of my meetings at the French school staring at chic shoes, I was determined not to let it happen again (Not to mention the walk part of my commute in a pair of gifted new shoes that tore my feet up- again. I could digress into an entirely new post about the hazards of women's footware, but I'll try to stay focused.)

With no time to spare, I resolved to find my courage and head down to 9kilo and buy some shoes. Simple. I have never been a great shopper- it's just not something I do well. Shopping in public is kind of my nightmare. You might think there is really no other way to shop, but I am ready to argue that it is possible to find a fairly private aisle for shoe browsing, trying on and purchasing in a department store or even a mall shoe store.

9kilo (Neuf kilo, as we call it) is the intersection of two major roads. There is a small grocery store, a home supply store and a collection of restaurants. The Librarie de France is here along with a bank and an Orange cellphone recharge, supply and money transfer office. Down the entire length of one side runs a vegetable market. Because it is also on the stop for the bacchas, it is usually a bustling place. All four corners of the intersection are crowded, home to one type of taxi stop or another, and filled with vendors. In the evening the shoe and clothing sellers come out and begin setting out their wares.

The shoe displays range from a pile to pick through thrown out on a cloth on the ground to fancy rows of pairs, set out carefully with one shoe at an angle to the other giving the whole arrangement an artistic flair. It seems to usually be guys selling shoes and a few of them are generally milling about. There is not an ounce of privacy to be found.

I walked down one side of the road and back again to where I started. I stopped and watched a few women buying shoes, I eyed a few pairs myself and even conversed with a few of the sellers. They tried to make a few suggestions but nothing caught my eye enough to make me jump in. Finally, a guy yelling 1,000 franc inspired me to look again. For a thousand franc I figured I couldn't go wrong. Happily his little set up was a few steps away from the roadside and I felt slightly shielded from the masses.

Once you begin touching shoes, someone is there to help. They ask your size and then try picking stuff out for you. They will present their selection and urge you to try it on. If you accept, they are there to bend down and squeeze your foot into the shoe (no benches to sit down on means you could benefit from an extra hand, especially if your hands are full. I think it is more about maintaining dignity however.) It felt rather odd to be having a stranger put a shoe on my foot, but I fought the urge to just reach down and do it myself.

I did buy a pair or two from the 1,000 franc guy and went off in search of something truly satisfying. I'd been to all the stops and back. There was one final place that had still been setting up on my initial way past and so I hoped they'd have more of a selection. It was the last chance really.

Luckily, I found a lot of good looking shoes there. And by now I knew my size. The guy who helped me made me realize the value of a good shoe guy. After my first few choices, he understood my style and began presenting some appealing choices. He even waved off a few selections his shoe seller buddies tried to offer- vetoing on my behalf. Some of the shoes I thought for sure would be too small, actually fit. After that, I kind of trusted his judgement and even tried on a few that I wouldn't necessarily have picked myself. New style is always fun. And he was right, they looked great. Some other women trying on shoes jumped in to comment as well. 'Those are perfect for your feet," they said. What better sales pitch?

I ended up going home with 5 pairs of shoes- more than I have ever bought at any one time. They are used shoes, they probably won't last too long, but it was a lot of fun and not too expensive. I have broken my phobia of shopping en plein air and so now know I can just run down to 9kilo anytime I get a shoe jones or find myself feeling less than chic.

As one seller called out, trying them on is free, and so I'll keep that in mind as well. The whole experience left me feeling a bit pampered- and completely psyched that I won't spend the next meeting staring forlornely at all the fancy shoes in attendance.

Single Independence

It's a holiday today- no real surprise there. Abidjan has more holidays than any place I've lived, Many are so obscure I have to look them up. Even people on the street can't tell me what we are supposed to be observing. Today is Independence Day however, so that's an easy one to figure out.

I've been slowly and randomly trying to get a pulse on the politics since elections are mere months away. It's in stark contrast to American politics where debates are airing and presidential candidates are popping up by the billions. I haven't heard much in the way of candidates here.

I've half heartedly been keeping my eye on the news. Newspaper stands can be found on every block. They usually resemble a piece of wood with all the options tacked up side by side. There are generally a small crowd of people around reading the day's headlines. You can't turn the page or get inside unless you purchase and so everyone is limited whatever can be gleaned from the cover.

The caption for this Ivorienne comic said
something like, Hey, you gonna pay for that?!
Technically, there's no peeking allowed.

I'd spent some time considering this, wondering if it affected the layout- from an editor's perspective- and wondering if it affected popular conception of the news (how many people are basing their knowledge of events on the first paragraph of an article?) Actually, there is usually a lot less information included on the front page. There are a lot of photos and many headlines but not a whole lot more. Many of the choices resemble a tabloid magazine to me, offering a mix of the unbelievable, gossipy type 'news' right alongside the current events. I have a hard time figuring out which journals are reputable.

I asked my favorite corner cabine guy about it one day. I asked him about the popular opinion of the president as well. According to him it's time for Ouattara to go but, in true African style, he is considering changing the constitution to allow an extended term. I have no idea how that's going to play out in coming months.

In the meantime, I am wondering how the country will celebrate. I am not sure I even remarked on the holiday last year, aside, perhaps, from realizing a closed store or too- most often the first alert that it is a jour feriere. 

Holidays are kind of hard in my house, which is terrible because they were hard in my house as a kid and I hate to perpetuate the cycle.  While this post highlights some of the joys and difficulties of parenting alone, no one really mentions celebrations. I find it hard to create a day that feels different from every other day. After all, it's still just us.

A friend in Kinshasa seemed particularly good at creating traditions and hosting activities to make the days seem festive. We decorated candy houses and tried picking up M&M's with chop sticks all in the name of celebrating one holiday or another.

For Mbalia's birthday the boys pitched in with cleaning the house and blowing up balloons. I'd made pizza and cake. We put her in a cute party dress and tried to snap a photo of her in a party hat- which she kept snatching off her head faster than I could press the button. But in the end we still had a sense of waiting. Waiting for someone else to show up and make it feel like a party.

Loud music was fun for a bit. Mbalia loves to dance to pretty much anything- the latest hip hop, Congolese hits, commercial diddies and even the 30 second blip at the beginning and end of the news cast. We are endlessly delighted in watching her moves grow (she has 6 distinct dance moves now) and I love the way she drops everything when the rhythm grabs her. You can see she just can't resist.

Eventually though, our day began to feel like any other day. Abidjan subdued. But maybe that's what happens even on the most extravagent of holidays, though there's really nothing like having some extended family and friends around to cheer things up.

This holiday we've been invited to a new teacher BBQ welcome- kind of a funny way to celebrate Ivoirienne independence. I thought briefly about bringing a green, orange and white cake but.....it's not gonna happen. This signals to me the first event in a line of events that means school is starting. Work is starting. A whole new year is beginning.

Despite feeling a little sad and resistant today, I am trying to remember to view this as a new beginning. So maybe the next holidays will be a little more full of good friends and cheer.

A real conversation

America is blowing up. The headlines get more and more fantastic (as in unbelievable) and leave me alternately rooting for some dramatic social uprising that would result in much needed change and simply shaking my head in disbelief and hopelessness.

The continued violence and discrimination based on skin color is an age old fight that I'm not convinced America can put to bed. Despite my cynicism, I do root for her. But it is hard to imagine the event, or series of events, that would really bring about change. Perhaps they are underway now, though I sincerely believe money is at the foundation of most problems and the war that needs to be fought is one of class and poverty.

In the meantime, cultural appropriation is the buzz word of moment and articles keep popping up in my FB newsfeed that potentially point to me. I'm not sure if these two articles are the same person but they have an awful lot of similarities. They appear to be a year apart and so my ever present cynic wonders if they are even real people.

I'm not even sure I really want to get tangled up in this mess but I've been writing about enough mundande things lately that it's probably time to try something in the current events realm.

I don't actually appear to have much in common with these women except hair. Well, maybe an experience of Africa, as Shayna said she got her dreads in Ghana. Am I supposed to examine why I wanted dreads? Well, aesthetics played a big part, sure. I am drawn to the hairstyle- even now it is frequently the dreaded head that catches my eye on the street, whether male or female, black or white ( and I want to throw in other colors and ethnicities but I have never seen an Asian dreaded. I did a quick google search and turned up this guy- photos of him smiling, serious, shirtful and shirtless- all really attractive.) Fact is, it's a nice look- to me.

But there's more, of course. Being human, aesthetics play the primary role in much of what we do. But also being human, we eventually get down to the next level. I've never been particularly attracted to the Rasta movement- not in terms of religion, not in terms of stereotypical perspective (ie ganja use)- though I appreciate the music and the peaceful aspect. But I'd never been told dreads were only for rastas. This post suggests even Jesus may have worn dreads. So what is my dread story?

After my first trip to Africa, I started dreads. It was a way of taking control of my life and expressing my passion. I'd just left an incredibly (oddly surprising, though it shouldn't have been) relationship with a racist times 10. How I ever got there is beyond me (or rather, a much, much longer story) and I wanted to remind myself that I did love Africa, passionately and always had. I still had longings for said racist and this spurred me into getting a tattoo of Chiwara- an antelope dance mask from Mali signifying, among other things, agriculture and the ability to provide food for one's family and village. I was trying to prevent myself from lapsing back into that oh-so-easy state of just having a guy around who could provide material comfort- and an easy lifestyle for myself and my children. I could do this, provide for them- for us- alone if needed.  It wasn't worth a compromise on my moral sensibilities.

But the hair, yeah. The hair was something for me. A way to show the world I was more than just the plain old mousey blonde. I started the dreads and then met an incredible drummer whom I fell in love with. He didn't like them and spent an afternoon lovingly combing them out. I remember that night with an odd tenderness- his careful brush strokes slowly erasing the person I'd waited so long to become.

I should have seen more in that moment. Fast forward 7 years and I found myself divorcing and living in Africa. A few things initiated my second quest for dreads. One- the unavailability of a good haircut in Africa and Two- the freedom to be ME again. A very good friend spent several evenings sectioning my hair, backcombing and twisting. He wasn't Rasta, I'm not even sure he knew what he was doing, but he followed my instructions and it was a labor of love.

The first months of dreads are no picnic and although I'd originally entered into it for ease of morning routine, they did require lots of effort and attention for the first year. But dreads are all about patience, or so I've been told, and this is another reason that I committed to the process. A committment, for years, before you achieve a solid locked-in hairstyle. Not for the faint of heart. I remembered a co-worker on my first go around who had admired my dreads and said she'd always wanted them. When I told her it was a style you couldn't really undo her face got pale and she kind of hedged away form the whole idea. Exactly my point. It's a statement you make that can't really be undone for a job interview, a hot date, or whatever else might call for some conformity. And I was looking, am forever looking, to improve my ability to have patience. To persevere in times of trouble and uncertainty with a calm faith in the future path.

I was ready to commit. I don't care what Annah says, tattoos, piercings and dreads are sure to count as a potential mark against you in a job interview. You can't take them out- but you can make them neater or bind them up in a wrap. My dreads were undone and redone by Africans. Does that count for something? Not sure.

But my experience as a dreaded white woman in Africa is probably different than one in the US. Maybe. In Africa, dreads symbolize the arts. I've encountered artists who have dreads and those who haven't. Those who haven't sometimes cite the potential discrimination having dreads would elicit. They don't want friends and family and potential employers to think they are druggies- or militants. My ex cited a moment in border crossing when his dreads caused a problem- he went through a few days of detention because they thought he was associated with militant rebels. Dreads can be scary in Africa...though I admit I am at less of a risk for being accused of militant relations. So...I should take them out because of this?

I've also encounted the artists who are drug free and they strive to express this message, all the while keeping their dreads. And this is me too. I keep them to suggest my creativity, to suggest I am more than meets the eye- a white woman in Africa- but also an artist. It is a way of immediately connecting to others like me. That's what we do as humans, right? Find ways to express ourselves so we attract others like us and form common bonds.

One night in Kinshasa I remember sitting around a nighttime table talking with friends. And one new acquaintance asked what I did. The ultimate non question. What do I do? I am a million things, but always we break it down to what makes us money. I am a teacher, but I am an artist as well. He knew, he said, because of my hair. A simple thing, a nothing thing but everything.

I think my dreads show I am open. Open to hearing your story, to hearing more than just words and seeing more than just what you present. Maybe it's an easy out for me, someone of few words. Someone who is afraid you will judge me before you've had time to get to know me. My hair says....wait a minute. There's more here. Maybe.

Of course, I've met those who hate it. And in one love angst afternoon, I actually tried to uncomb them (never gonna happen at this stage.) But in the end, they are me. Because I love Africa? Because I love art? Because I love the way they look? Because in someone else's life they represent nonconformity and rebellion? Maybe they mean that for me? Does it matter?

When those women cut their hair, I'm not sure the masses will get it. I'm not sure it's enough of a statement. Better to keep them and ignite questions that will allow you to express long winded answers about Africa and enslavement and oppression.

But the race story plays out differently in Africa. I can't erase my white skin or exchange it for black. I'm still me.I don't have a chauffeur or a cook or live in a mansion. I can't fly off to Europe or America whenever I want. Even if my white skin suggests I can.  And the only way I have of saying- hey- maybe I am not like all the rest- is in the way I dress, another point of contention among the cultural appropriation group.

Yep, there's even people who say I should not dress the way I do. I wear an African pagne nearly everyday. Even before I got to Africa. Difference is, in Africa, people complement me. They say, "Well dressed" and recognize my choice of clothing is a complement to their culture. They don't think I am stealing it, but they recognize me as someone who appreciates fine style.

And isn't that what we tell kids in school? Copying is the sincerest form of flattery? I dress this way because it is beautiful, it is comfortable and, as a muslim woman, it adheres to my ideals of modesty. Is that enough? Have I stolen another culture's identity?

Truth is, Black Americans in Africa are seen as American first and African second. I'm back to my original point that the fight is more about class and poverty than race. As a teacher, I strive to introduce my students to new cultures in a way that transcends food and clothing. How do we express culture? It is so much more than hairstyles and clothing and food. And what if I haven't a strong cultural background and so lean towards yours? Is that wrong? To love what I've learned about and encompass it in my own life? Isn't that how we grow as humans?

And if my dress, my hairstyle, my language invites questions from you- doesn't that give me an opportunity to share what I've learned? Breaking the silence, so to speak?

I remember moving to Miami and trying to find a good fit for our drum and dance. We'd made contacts, started a non-profit and searched out studios. We went to play-drum- for one woman who held dance classes regularly at a gym. My then husband played and I tried to dance but afterward I wondered what the hell we were doing. We tried to get our flyer posted but she said, This is what I do- I can't have you posting flyers here and taking my business. She had a point, perhaps, but her rhythms were all wrong and her dance steps were unrecognizable. I later asked my husband if he knew what she was doing. He had no idea either.

Maybe that is what cultural appropriation is- presenting someone else's culture in all the wrong way. But the point is- who's to know? I was so frustrated by what she was doing....but her students had no idea the steps she presented weren't really the steps. How could they know?

My point is- same thing for hair, I guess. There is no way to know what others present is 'real' or 'not real.' In the end, we are always left to do more research, ask questions, dig deeper on issues that are important to us. There needs to be a doorway. My dreads have not yet served as an opening point for further discussion (that I am aware of) but they could. And if anyone asks, I am ready to respond.

I'm ready to break the silence on Congo's mineral rape and child exploitation. I am ready to expel my perspective about years of enslavement and lack of education and training for the DRC youth. I am prepared to talk about child sorcerers and throw away kids. I have words about Africa's wealth and America's waste.

Was I born into it? No. Did I educate myself? Somewhat. If my dreads or my dress invite you to ask a question, I'm ready to respond.

But do I have to be? Isn't it enough that my hairstyle or my clothing choice represent years of searching for who I feel most comfortable as - as a person- and then present in all honesty? Do I need to  justify it? Do we need to justify who we are- or can we discover each other through conversation and shared experiences and interesting appearances?

The whole reason I never wanted to get into this tangeld mess is because this post doesn't even represent a fraction of what I really have to say. But I guess it's enough for now. Unless I run into you on the street or a backlit bar or my living room. Then maybe we can sit down and have a real conversation. What's going on?

And finally, most of the links in those articles don't make any sense to me or- can't you always find a link that supports your cause- right or wrong? I'm keeping them. I love my dreads. Thanks Kazadi.

What's your story?

I've had a few experiences lately that leave me wondering if it happens to everyone. Sometimes I will be tripping along in my own world of weirdness and suddenly it occurs to me that maybe these things happen to everyone. Or perhaps the contraire is more likely. I am tripping along in my own world, assuming these things happen to everyone only to find out they don't. So I'm wondering, what's your story?

Does the woman in the office at school, the warm hearted Anne-marie, does she make everyone feel like her long lost daughter? I can count the number of times we've met, and maybe even the emails we've exchanged, but today she told me she'd seen an outfit that made her think of me. I said great, I've been looking for a new style and she offered to 'get me fixed up' next week. We ended our conversation with a high five and I left feeling like I was saying goodbye to my mom or my aunt. Does she make everyone feel so good?

And yesterday I hopped in a taxi only to have an immediate offer of marriage. "I'm taking you home with me," the driver said. Albeit, this was more creepy than flattering and at first I thought I'd misheard him. I thought he'd asked me if we were going home, meaning he'd been the one to pick me up earlier in the morning. It got a little tricky for a moment as I realized I was the only woman in a car with 3 men and I had to do a quick mental recheck to make sure I'd jumped into a yellow taxi, clearly marked. I had. Eventually the guys got out and some women got in and we convinced the driver to go a little further than he intended so we could all get out closer to home. He looked at me at one point and apologized. "I was just kidding you know," he said. But that could have gone way wrong for a minute there. Does this happen to you too?

Lately memories from long ago have been popping up at random moments, or even worse, in my dreams. They aren't pleasant moments but ones that highlight bad decisions or missed opportunities or painful experiences I'd thought I'd buried deep and long gotten over. Not so apparently. The past rearing its ugly head to remind me I haven't quite gotten it all together yet. You get those blasts from the pasts haunting you?

Sometimes it comes in the way of a person. Communication from afar. A text, an email, a quick message full of words I can't quite put into context. I am not sure how to respond and can't even tell if it is a positive or negative thing. It just is. Any mystery messages from beyond falling on your doorstep lately?

The thing I really want to know about is the staring. It's pretty obscene here in Abidjan. Everywhere we go people stare. Hard. I have noticed they do it to Christian, to the boys and to me. All the time. Even in my neighborhood where you would think they are over it by now. Whatever it is that's making them stare so hard. But nope. If there is one thing I can be assured of it is that every trip out will be filled with people staring, sometimes commenting, but always looking. I've stopped checking to see if I have something on my face or if my hair is sticking up. Sometimes I notice a woman- a tew  days ago for example- I saw a woman wearing what looked like her nightie, a black lace slip, outside. Maybe she was running to the store quick, I don't know. But no one seemed to notice she was in her private clothes. I imagined for a minute what would happen if I  ran down the street in my lace nightie (well, if I had a lace nightie. I thought about getting one just to try it out.) There is just no way I could get away with that. And I wonder why? What's the story? Have you ever worn your pajamas outside? And how did it work out for you?

A soft lovey

It's been a year since we welcomed our little lovey into the world. I set out one Saturday in search of the perfect birthday gift- her own soft cuddly lovey. It was the girl in the tower who inspired this idea. During the last week and a half she took to bringing "Doodoo," her well worn and ragged teddy bear to our tutoring sessions. Doodoo sat at the table with us, or more often, snuggled in her arms. He was missing his nose and she frequently stuck her finger there in a gesture of comfort. She sniffed his empty nose space too, as though breathing in courage and wisdom. I asked her what it smelled like one afternoon when my observations of her began to feel more like those of a child psychologist conducting research.

She didn't have the words to tell me he smelled like childhood or warm blankets and cozy bedtime stories. She didn't say he smelled like her mom or her dad or the sea salty air of Miami. "Cardboard," is all she answered as she took another soul filling sniff.

I began to wonder if my little princess needed a lovey. Actually, I'd been wondering about this for awhile as I  searched for ways to 'get your child to sleep through the night.' (Nope, we're still not there.) Despite having 5 children, I continue to second guess everything.Of course, there is a constant influx of 'research' telling us parents that everything we thought we knew is wrong. Then there is the plethora of 'evidence' that French parenting is better, or maybe it's just the food. These articles don't even mention the wealth of literature about Chinese toilet training or other methods that result in a diaper free child by a year and a half (or even sooner!) To make it all even more complex, as we Americans are wondering if we should imitate others, they are second guessing themselves too. Turns out, no one knows what's best.

My recent dilemma involved whether or not we should stop co sleeping and how to get her to transition to her own bed. One article suggested using a soft object to transfer with- after giving it 'my smell.' I have mixed emotions about everything and only half a heart to try this approach. Part of me is completely against trying to make her dependent on a material item, part of me understands I cannot actually induce this state even if I want to - only she will decide if she needs/wants it or not- and part of me thinks it is a great idea. It's been a rough year. Maybe I could benefit from a soft cuddly myself.

In the end, I have given up transitioning her to her own bed but still want the lovey- an irrational mom urge to make sure my daughter has something fluffy hanging around the house to remind us all how cute and cuddly she is, even when I am face to face with plenty of children who are just fine without cute cuddlies. Despite all we do, or don't do, as parents it seems like most of us turn out just fine (or rather, we learn to deal with whatever psychosis we develop as a result of what our parents did or did not do. Unless we turn out to be homocidal killers. But I don't think having a teddy bear is going to make or break that life path.)

It sounds simple, heading out to get a stuffed animal of some sort. But of course, I have all these pre conceived ideas about what it should be like and limited choices to find it. I've managed to lose expectations in most other areas of my life, but just when I think I've got my zen on, I get overwhlemed with bias about something as trivial as a child's toy. Added to this is the fact that plush baby toys don't really seem to be a thing in the department stores I went to. (I am sure I could find an abundance of choices in the market but I simply did not have the energy- and hold a sneaking suspicion that those are not new or necessarily plush in just that way that I was obsessing about looking for.)

Like Golidlocks, the first store held only toys that were too hard or too small or odd throwbacks from Christmas. I then enlisted Nabih to take a little journey across town and we compared choices in two more stores. Store number 2 had a super cute giraffe with a not-so-cute price tag. Store number 3 had some teddy bears....Nabih liked them, but they didn't especially call out to me. Tucked in just below the bears sat one last white elephant. He was just soft enough and had a trunk perfect for latching on to. Mbalia grabbed him right away and held on tight for the rest of our shopping adventure.

As we put other packages into the cart, Nabih and I continued to discuss the choice. He really wanted the bear. I pointed out that Mbalia really wanted the elephant. Nabih pointed out there were a few flaws with the elephant. Some stitching was coming undone and his eyes were glued on wrong.We spent some useless time double checking the shelves for a second version but there was only row after row of brown teddy bears and no white elephants.

Mbalia's special needs lovey

At the check out line, Nabih kept putting the elephant on the counter and Mbalia kept snatching it off again. That seemed to confirm we'd made a good choice. Eventually I managed to get it run by the scanner and hid in my shopping bag so we could wrap it and surprise her with it the next day.

She has never been one of those babies who responds to a pacifier or other comfort routine, well, except nursing, which is why she is still not sleeping all night. I am not convinced that she will take to this new friend the way I was imagining. But I can feel secure in mom duties knowing that she has at least one plush toy, to love or to shun as she desires.

So far, it's love

Lessons from the arts

I'm currently on nanny number 4, job number 3+ and salsa class number 2. I guess the theme in Abidjan is never give up. After several disappointing classes in salsa and my solo traditional classes, I put the search on for something satisfying.

There appear to be a variety of choices around the city and picking another one to try felt kind of like a random stab in the dark. I ended up at CNRTO (Centre National des Recherche sur Tradition Orale) which is a gem of a building in Cocody.

The name alone holds promise and despite my inital (unsuccessful) efforts to find out more details about the purpose of the center, a quick online search turned up this quote buried in a report from the ONU:

Cet institut dispose d’une documentation (transcription et traduction des enregistrements) sur les contes, les proverbes, la musique traditionnelle, le langage tambouriné, la parole des masques. On y trouve également des documents audiovisuels, des photos, des diaporamas, des films documentaires, des bandes magnétiques enregistrées et mises en fiches.

The 2 story building has a majestic entrance, grand columns and round staircases. The studio is upstairs and the walls are lined with doorways which open to allow the cool breezes to flow through. It's like dancing on a rooftop. A small balcony surrounds the meeting area and a veranda leads off to the front, creating another small space where dancers can meet, try out steps or just observe the class. 

There were about 20 people in attendance, and, remarkably, enough guys to create 10 equal couples. We changed partners often which gave me the experience of dancing with someone other than my love (something I really haven't done much of in the world of salsa.) 

The class was no beginner class and I was happily surprised to see I kept up with the constant addition of steps. I believe in dancing with as many different teachers as possible in order to maximize one's experience. However, my past experience with salsa has been limited to one teacher and so I've often wondered if I could really dance. Turns out I can. Well enough, anyway. To be certain, I am no professional but apparently my base is solid. 

Everything dance reminds me of Christian and because of that I found the class lacking that magnetic energy and draw he seems to effortlessly exude. In reality, the class was great. The last 10 minutes or so were given over to dancing 'comme tu veux' and this gave me a chance to do some freestyle- well, as the woman it gave me a chance to see if I could follow the lead. I do have a tendancy to lean towards control and in salsa, it just doesn't happen that way. I am forever working up to dancing impromptu and this class seems like it will give me a chance to get comfortable enough to go out for a dance evening. (Oh my childhood issues that get in the way of fun. Do we ever get over them?)

I am always amazed at the power of physical memory and sure enough, a few of the leads had me anticipating a movement that wasn't forthcoming. I've got most of Christian's routines down but in salsa dance, you follow the male (have I mentioned that? It's definitely something I am working on)  and so in a few cases my follow through was not quite what it was meant to be. In one horrifying moment, I found myself taking the lead and kind of forcing the hand of my partner, which we laughed about and I apologized profusely for. It's all in good fun, however and he wasn't as mortified as I. 

There are always good lessons to be learned in the world of art. My dance and music classes continue to provide metaphors for skills I could benefit from in my day to day. Trusting others to take the lead at times is one of them. On a contrary note, I have been taking drum classes- the doundoun- which serves as the base in African dance and drum. I have been in the middle of more than one class wondering how it is I came to this particular instrument. Really I've been infatuated with drumming since I was ten, that part is no surprise.The surprise is that in playing this instrument, one must maintain a steady, dependable tempo for the duration of the song. I am usually good for the first few minutes but inevitably when the djembe gets going I am distracted and falter. Another metaphor for life.

How often do the rhythms and dreams and actions of others distract me from my own path? I have been thinking lately that life in Abidjan is ok, it's good enough. It could be enjoyable in that calm and steadying way of family life and weekend barbecues. But I have never been really good at calm and steadying. I know passion and upheaval, change and turbulence. Longing and unfulfilled desire. Maybe it's time to change the story. Words from a beloved, and newly reunited, relative coming back to impact my current situation.

Although extenuating circumstances have taken the choice out of my decision to stay in Abidjan, I am thrilled to be in a place that honors the arts. Just when I am thinking it might be the French influence, I remember Nabih's history book and its outline of government in the village. One diagram showed the griot as having a prominent place just below the chief. To see the keeper of stories and histories and tradition given such an important position is comforting. Arts are healing. They are neccessary to the vibrancy and continued health of a people. 

It seems Abidjan has more than one lesson to offer and I, ever the willing student, am ready to learn.

A little bit of Paradisia

We've been in Abidjan for just over a year and I continue to reflect on reasons why we moved here. While still not convinced it was the right move, I have accepted it as the decision I made. I am certain if I had stayed on Kinshasa I would be wondering why I didn't just have the courage to pick up and start again. Such is the way of decisions- always looking greener on the other side, even if it is the side you've already been to.

There is plenty to be grateful for (consistent electricty and running water top among them) and added entertainment was one of reasons we counted for taking the plunge. Abidjan seemed to offer a bit more in the way of spending leisure family time and so on Sunday  we took advantage and headed out to Paradisia in M'badon, which is sort of just up the road from us (a country road.)

The name alone suggests there will be a lot to live up to, but it is helpful to remember in Africa all that's needed for a good time is a party dress and some loud music. We weren't disappointed in that respect. Mbalia got her dance on to latest hip hop tunes sounding from the speakers. (There's always a little question about the appropriateness of the music, in this case, blaring f-bombs rang out in stark contrast to the innocent looking happy birthday balloons in pastel colors.)

A spacious pavillion for all your party needs

We arrived early by Abidjan standards and the place was pretty empty. We decided to start off with the sandwich and drink that came with our ticket price. Not very exciting.

When you're ten, you try to be as
 cool as your big brother

When you're 13, you're too cool
 for photos

Mom gets one anyway

Mbalia is the only one who can
 really throw her head back and
 laugh. She always has a good time

Dancing in the sand

A nice view of the lagoon from palm shaded tables

Crackers while we wait for the food. 

The boys' take on the sandwiches.... next time try the hamburger. It could have been the early hour but my fries took so long we thought they forgot about them and so we headed off to explore the rides. (Our waitress found me later watching the boys on the teacups and let me know my food was ready.)

I love that the price seemed to equal the entertainment and nothing was too much.The rides weren't too high or too crazy. There weren't too many fried food or cotton candy stands and there weren't too many games just trying to suck the small change from your pockets. A very toned down amusement park experience. Exactly what I can handle.

Although I initially thought the boys might find it less than their speed, a ferris wheel and bumper cars hold the power to elicit a smile from anyone. And we all agreed the experience might be enhanced by the magic of a sunset. Walking around the small park, it was hard not to have memories of my own carnival experiences. Contrasting the two left me feeling grateful that this was the experience I could offer my children.

Nabih is a little nervous....

...although the ride doesn't seem too high

Dizzying fast tilting action gave Mohamed a headache

You can't help but smile watching these kids bump around.
 I wanted to take a picture of the stern look on the face of the
 guy running the ride. I can't imagine how he stops from grinning
all day. Maybe you get numb to it after the first 700 hours.

The only car left, a hot pink roadster for my guy

A rare side of  Nabih -smiling

Cute little building with kiddy rides

Our taxi had to pause for this cow crossing on the way home