There are a few random updates, endings to stories once began and long ago noticed. There is a certain clarity and satisfaction that comes from random updates, from being able to look upon someone's experience as a series of events, each piece providing a bigger piece to the puzzle and illuminating a sense of logic and purpose to what, at the time, may feel random and disjointed.
The trick, of course, is maintaining patience and perseverance when regarding our own lives. It's so much easier to see a plan as someone else's life unfolds. So here is what I have witnessed:
Remember this guy, who travelled all the way to our quaint little CIAD in search of true love only to be shunned by his desired and taken in by some random family in the neighborhood? It wasn't too long ago that I caught a glimpse of him, straight from a Grimm's fairy tale of friendly ogres and gentle giants. It was a silhouette I saw of him walking down the dirt road, hoisting a propane tank (those cursed propane tanks!) over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes walking alongside a woman who barely reached his shoulders. There was a sense of chivalry to the image. A gentleness and sweet exchange hovered in the air above them. Apparently he'd persevered and found someone who appreciated his spirit. I guess he has settled in with her and the two make a delightful pair. I still don't know what he "does," as in what permits him to fly off in search of a new life and make his home in a quiet little village just north of Abidjan center, but he has found a bit of paradise for the moment it seems.
There is the story of the towel people and somewhere along the way we've become acquainted. This is in the broadest sense of the word. I don't know his name or anything about him, nor he of me. But we've become accustomed to greeting each other with a neighbourly good morning- or good evening- and a sincere wish for a 'bonne journey.' I can't be sure how it happened, a meeting of the eyes I suppose, as most human contact can be reduced to this. What is the underlying connection that causes it to expand? At times, even if he is sitting at the hair salon just out of sight, he will call out to me and wish me a good evening, or a welcome home. I wonder often at what causes two humans to progress through the stages of noticing each other, to making a connection and then to committing- even if it is as simple as saying hello. On other mornings, I wonder even more. Now that school is back in session and I am leaving hom earlier, I see him outside sweeping- honestly a bit of a rarity among African men. The morning sweeping routine is often reserved for women unless it is in front of a shop or cabine- and I am overcome for a moment wanting to find out the details. Yes, I want an interview. I imagine all the questions I would pose, an amateur anthropologist studying the human quirks in my neighborhood. Does he live alone (I know he does not as I have occasionally witnessed the towel woman) and is he an early riser? Obviously, but what is it that propels him outside to in the wee hours to perfom this chore? These questions are still a mystery even as we have taken a step or two across the bridge of complete strangerhood.
There is another neighborhood acquaintance whose mystery has been unravelled. I still see him occasionally, a Frenchman who lives in the neighborhood. We most often cross paths as I am returning home and he as well, though from within the cartier. I remember wondering where he could be going- or coming from- deep within the neighborhood. A recent visit from a friend seems to have unveilled the mystery. Just a short walk away is the ferry to Marcory. I had thought this ferry was only available from M'Pouto by the Sol Beni side of the lagoon. Turns out there is a hidden little port right here in our neighborhood. I have yet to take this voyage but my friend, and friends of hers, took it several times. I imagine this is where the Frenchman is off to every morning and where he returns from in the evening. He must work somewhere in Marcory or Zone 4 and travels back forth avoiding high traffic by way of the lagoon. It seems like an enchanting commute.
The stories of my African neighborhood....not so different from yours, hey?
.
19.9.16
18.9.16
the search continues
My search for dance continues, the Company Mouyae having turned out to be more of a foster family than an adoptive family. I am not sure what happened there, though it definitely seems to be a theme in Abidjan. Just as something gets started, begins to feel like it might be a real possibility, it fades away, often inexplicably.
I finally went to the Village Kiyi, a place that's been on my periphery for the last year or so, but I'd never made it there. I was in search of an artist I'd seen a few times but never gotten direct contact info from. This whole dance thing is like a full time job. A serious hunt. The Village is a bona-fide school of dance dripping with culture. The walls are covered with paintings both on canvas and geometric mural designs directly on the walls.
There are several stage areas including an outdoor amphitheater and a more traditional indoor space. The stage is black wood, the walls are covered with large canvas paintings of city scenes and there is a refreshing cross breeze through the open doorways. I am enveloped in a serious spirit of creativity and history.
The emcee comes on (to keep me entertained during my wait, I've been whisked into the culminating performance of the kids summer program) and gives an impressive introduction to the recital we are about to witness. One of the students will begin by introducing the show in English. She is to be followed by another student with the French version. The emcee suggests even more languages in coming years. "Pourqoui pas Arabic or Chinese?" he asks, stating at the Village, they have their ' head in the future and their feet in their culture.' A synthesis of the spirit of Abidjan, where all cultures and languages seem to collide, combine and morph into something new entirely.
Unfortunately, as with most places I am learning, there are a million opportunities for children but few for adults. I leave my number and receive assurances of a phone call to come once they get their adult classes started. I've been down this road so many times I'm not anticipating anything. The search continues.
I finally went to the Village Kiyi, a place that's been on my periphery for the last year or so, but I'd never made it there. I was in search of an artist I'd seen a few times but never gotten direct contact info from. This whole dance thing is like a full time job. A serious hunt. The Village is a bona-fide school of dance dripping with culture. The walls are covered with paintings both on canvas and geometric mural designs directly on the walls.
There are several stage areas including an outdoor amphitheater and a more traditional indoor space. The stage is black wood, the walls are covered with large canvas paintings of city scenes and there is a refreshing cross breeze through the open doorways. I am enveloped in a serious spirit of creativity and history.
The emcee comes on (to keep me entertained during my wait, I've been whisked into the culminating performance of the kids summer program) and gives an impressive introduction to the recital we are about to witness. One of the students will begin by introducing the show in English. She is to be followed by another student with the French version. The emcee suggests even more languages in coming years. "Pourqoui pas Arabic or Chinese?" he asks, stating at the Village, they have their ' head in the future and their feet in their culture.' A synthesis of the spirit of Abidjan, where all cultures and languages seem to collide, combine and morph into something new entirely.
Unfortunately, as with most places I am learning, there are a million opportunities for children but few for adults. I leave my number and receive assurances of a phone call to come once they get their adult classes started. I've been down this road so many times I'm not anticipating anything. The search continues.
 |
| Beautiful archway. The space behind the stairs appears unfinished, half lived in and completely alluring |
4.9.16
No such thing as a 5 alarm fire
The sky was on fire. As we got closer to the main road we could see a billowing cloud of black smoke. The roadway was crowded with onlookers and many of them began to turn and run in our direction. A whole neighborhood was burning. Propane tanks were exploding. There was one lone firetruck and it didn't appear to be the kind holding water.
Basically everyone was just waiting for the fire to burn itself out. The neighborhood was one of wooden shacks, built close together and highly flammable. The story? Someone put their dinner on and then ran out to the market, forgetting all about it. The result? Beyond homelessness, most people lost everything they had. The lesson? There's more to development than new roads and tall buildings. Basic community services are a necessity for true progress.
There's no such thing as a 5 alarm fire. The big trucks weren't rolling out. There wasn't an ambulance on scene. There were no police and no social service agencies to help residents pick up the pieces of their now shattered lives. My house burned (partially) down and all of these services were there, waiting for me when I rounded the corner and was surprised by the event. One house. This was an entire neighborhood.
Some people had gone off to work early in the morning and came home to discover the news in the nighttime, long after the lone firetruck had packed up and gone away. They found only their neighbors sorting through rubble, hoping to salvage any bits and pieces that remained.
Basically everyone was just waiting for the fire to burn itself out. The neighborhood was one of wooden shacks, built close together and highly flammable. The story? Someone put their dinner on and then ran out to the market, forgetting all about it. The result? Beyond homelessness, most people lost everything they had. The lesson? There's more to development than new roads and tall buildings. Basic community services are a necessity for true progress.
There's no such thing as a 5 alarm fire. The big trucks weren't rolling out. There wasn't an ambulance on scene. There were no police and no social service agencies to help residents pick up the pieces of their now shattered lives. My house burned (partially) down and all of these services were there, waiting for me when I rounded the corner and was surprised by the event. One house. This was an entire neighborhood.
Some people had gone off to work early in the morning and came home to discover the news in the nighttime, long after the lone firetruck had packed up and gone away. They found only their neighbors sorting through rubble, hoping to salvage any bits and pieces that remained.
3.9.16
The way of art
Happily beginning this year as the lower school art teacher. Full time. Dream come true. You can read all about it here. It means a new year, a new position and the never ending game of curriculum development.
I do love this part of teaching. Designing a path to guide students along, developing investigative questions, bookmarking resources, and imagining experiences is a huge part of what makes my work satisying. There is nothing easy or short about curriculum writing. It is bread made from scratch, fresh pasta rolling through the machine, pastels carefully flattened, lovingly stuffed and tenderly fried. Creating curriculum is a homemade Thanksgiving meal all the way to picking fresh cranberries from the backyard.
I have all the ingredients spread out on my desktop. Tabs are open to grade level documents, science and social studies year long overviews, national art standards, AREO art standards, my own visual art curriculum (a place for storing images and links to resources) and, finally, the Pre-K-5 yearlong art curriculum overview.
I switch back and forth between documents along with web resources such as art blogs, pintrest, educational journals and google images. I bookmark relevant artists, living and dead, local and international, well known and obscure. I'm looking to make art come alive by exposing students to ALL the possibilities in art. We're not all Rembrants and vanGoghs.
So what role does art have for us? This is just one of many questions that my students will spend the year exploring. What is the role of art in society? What is the responsibility of governments in safeguarding art and making it accesible to all? What role does art play in documenting and resolving conflict? How can art record history and uncover complexities in international and national relations? How does art contribute to unity and reconciliation?
More importantly, at this age, how does art play a role in my personal life? These are big questions and we only have 40 min. once a week to figure it all out. In addition, or concurrently, there is the teaching of technique- yes, art is a skill like reading or writing or mathematics and it can be learned and improved. It needs to be practised.
There is also exposure to historic works of art, artists and movements. On my physical desktop, I have lists of movements, illustrative works, and the must-haves in the art world. There are painters, sculptures, and illustrators. There is art history and contemporary art.
Aside from the planning of units and lessons, there is the learning of names. 214 + or -. When I might have had 2 Aishas, there are now 4. There are at least 7 Mariame, Mariama or Mariannes. And a whole host of names I can't even pronounce. I make phonetic notations but some 50 kids later, I've forgotten what my shorthand means. When the child (or the whole class) corrects me, I look at my notes and nod my head. Yup, that's exactly how I've written it and it still didn't make sense. I spend my class periods calling everyone by their name everytime I talk to them and sometimes I just walk around randomly telling them who they are. Because nothing is worse than seeing them on the playground shouting out, "Hi Ms. Soumah!" and I can't say their name back.
I spend my lunch duty walking around talking to kids about their meals, their names and any other random conversation starters in an attempt to remember. I know it will come, and it is by far easier to remember in the confines of the art room- it's just generalizing to the wider school context that presents a challenge.
I know from perusing art teacher blogs that many have it worse. They write of no sinks, no classrooms (I did do a stint of art on a cart way back when...)They have 1,000+ students (?!!) and 3 schools to shuffle between. The most incomprehensible-- 20 min. classes.
I don't even consider making art, personally, if I only have 20 minutes (maybe something to consider if I had a table and a studio space to just pop in and out of.) But art, and learning, is about getting into that zone- "the flow"- where time is lost and it's just you and the medium.
I wish I had time to help my students experience this at every art class. Time to look at art thoughtfully and learn the words to respond to elements that are striking and the time to discover what they like and don't like. We can't do it at every class, but I am realizing it is something I can build in consistently.
It is a journey. When we discussed "what is art?" during our first class session, I was delighted to see many kids were already reading the room. "Well, it says art is not a thing," they pointed to the quote on the wall. "Art is a way."
I do love this part of teaching. Designing a path to guide students along, developing investigative questions, bookmarking resources, and imagining experiences is a huge part of what makes my work satisying. There is nothing easy or short about curriculum writing. It is bread made from scratch, fresh pasta rolling through the machine, pastels carefully flattened, lovingly stuffed and tenderly fried. Creating curriculum is a homemade Thanksgiving meal all the way to picking fresh cranberries from the backyard.
I have all the ingredients spread out on my desktop. Tabs are open to grade level documents, science and social studies year long overviews, national art standards, AREO art standards, my own visual art curriculum (a place for storing images and links to resources) and, finally, the Pre-K-5 yearlong art curriculum overview.
I switch back and forth between documents along with web resources such as art blogs, pintrest, educational journals and google images. I bookmark relevant artists, living and dead, local and international, well known and obscure. I'm looking to make art come alive by exposing students to ALL the possibilities in art. We're not all Rembrants and vanGoghs.
So what role does art have for us? This is just one of many questions that my students will spend the year exploring. What is the role of art in society? What is the responsibility of governments in safeguarding art and making it accesible to all? What role does art play in documenting and resolving conflict? How can art record history and uncover complexities in international and national relations? How does art contribute to unity and reconciliation?
More importantly, at this age, how does art play a role in my personal life? These are big questions and we only have 40 min. once a week to figure it all out. In addition, or concurrently, there is the teaching of technique- yes, art is a skill like reading or writing or mathematics and it can be learned and improved. It needs to be practised.
There is also exposure to historic works of art, artists and movements. On my physical desktop, I have lists of movements, illustrative works, and the must-haves in the art world. There are painters, sculptures, and illustrators. There is art history and contemporary art.
Aside from the planning of units and lessons, there is the learning of names. 214 + or -. When I might have had 2 Aishas, there are now 4. There are at least 7 Mariame, Mariama or Mariannes. And a whole host of names I can't even pronounce. I make phonetic notations but some 50 kids later, I've forgotten what my shorthand means. When the child (or the whole class) corrects me, I look at my notes and nod my head. Yup, that's exactly how I've written it and it still didn't make sense. I spend my class periods calling everyone by their name everytime I talk to them and sometimes I just walk around randomly telling them who they are. Because nothing is worse than seeing them on the playground shouting out, "Hi Ms. Soumah!" and I can't say their name back.
I spend my lunch duty walking around talking to kids about their meals, their names and any other random conversation starters in an attempt to remember. I know it will come, and it is by far easier to remember in the confines of the art room- it's just generalizing to the wider school context that presents a challenge.
I know from perusing art teacher blogs that many have it worse. They write of no sinks, no classrooms (I did do a stint of art on a cart way back when...)They have 1,000+ students (?!!) and 3 schools to shuffle between. The most incomprehensible-- 20 min. classes.
I don't even consider making art, personally, if I only have 20 minutes (maybe something to consider if I had a table and a studio space to just pop in and out of.) But art, and learning, is about getting into that zone- "the flow"- where time is lost and it's just you and the medium.
I wish I had time to help my students experience this at every art class. Time to look at art thoughtfully and learn the words to respond to elements that are striking and the time to discover what they like and don't like. We can't do it at every class, but I am realizing it is something I can build in consistently.
It is a journey. When we discussed "what is art?" during our first class session, I was delighted to see many kids were already reading the room. "Well, it says art is not a thing," they pointed to the quote on the wall. "Art is a way."
28.8.16
Flippery
In preparation for the start of yet another school year, I went in search of new duds. Though I'd spent more time in Adjame than the beach this past vacation, I hadn't really found the market I was searching for. I'd spent a day wading through Forum, the "mall" of Adjame. Forum is mall-like in that there are several floors, it's inside, and there is a central hallway/walkway type of area (or truck drive through area, as the case was on the particular day I was there.) Yes, there was a truck driving through the central market area, home to fruit and vegetable sellers. In that way, Forum is kind of like a department store too. You can get food, clothes, and shoes all in one place.
It's unlike a mall in ways I can't really name. The stores are smaller, dressing rooms are hidden closet-ways behind curtains (oh, but the level of fancy! One store owner slid the curtain open to reveal a ceiling fan, light and mirror all tucked in to a 2m x 1m space!) The selection was less interesting than the dressing space, however, and the prices belonged to Macy's.
What I really wanted was the second hand store. The place where all the cotton, American hand-me- downs come in, get sewn up and sold again. Apparently this is called the "flippery." I tried to get a little history on the origin of the word, but no luck really. My American mind was left to associate it with "flipping"- buying something and then reselling it. Maybe that is the origin. No one I asked seemed to know what language the word came from or it's exact meaning, but they did steer me in the right direction.
A few clothing closets lined a wall in the back of this area. There were a lot of table top and even ground sellers. A lot of piles too. Flippery prices are perfect- 250-1000 FCFA (one vendor was calling out the incredible bargain of 2 for 500!- essentially 2 for $1.00) But it's only a bargain if you can find something you like. Shopping here requires sifting through a pile of clothes in search of something in your size, style and color. Every so often, the shopkeeper (who just might be standing on the tabletop shouting out deals to draw in other customers) reaches down and grabs the whole pile and overturns it. You need to hold tight to anything you may have been saving on the side or anything you are currently trying to view as the clothes are retracted with the force of the ocean and then come crashing back down in a wave of color and fabric. Sometimes a shopkeeper will toss things your way if he (predominately I noticed the shopkeepers of these kind of places as men) notices you selecting a certain palette or style. Occasionally it's helpful.
Throughout this entire space there sit the sewers. In the shops lucky enough to have actual wall space, the sewers sit in a back room. For the vendors selling from the ground, the sewers sit amidst the piles of clothes. Creativity abounds here as people have found ways to display their best items on makeshift wire walls and other fabrications. The sewers are busy repairing seams, tears and hems undone. Their work is sometimes apparent in uneven zigzags or unexpected folds. Ousmane admonished their work as hasty or less than skillful. I figured they were doing the best with what they had.
The best part of this area was cotton. Soft cotton shirts in simple styles for all ages. The worst part, especially for a non-shopper like me, was the necessary investment of time to sort and find. It's also hard to know what will fit. Some women were trying clothes on right there in the crowds. One woman even had the help of the vendor to shimmy into a pair of jeans. It was awfully reminiscent of my shoe shopping experience and I wondered if the seller planned on accompanying the woman home to provide such perfect assistance whenever she wanted to wear those jeans. I am a firm believer in the idea if I can't put it on myself, then it doesn't belong in my closet. Unfortunately the tailors here seem to assume everyone has a houseful of ready helpers when it comes to zipping, tucking and stuffing yourself into your clothing.
I have found one tailor who seems to understand my needs. I went in search of fabric for her to turn into a new wardrobe to spice up this next school year as the elementary art teacher. The fabric I was searching for could not be found in my usual haunts. I remembered vaguely browsing through a street lined with this kind of fabric when I visited Abidjan a few years ago. The search to find this exact spot again was, in the end, fruitless, but did lead me up and down interesting secret market pathways.
I ran across beautiful tied dyed batiks still drying in the sun. Walking further revealed all the steps of batik making from the huge vats of dyes to the pounding and rubbing on of wax. It was a fascinating tour and I hope to go back to ask questions and take photos. On the day I was there, the journey had already been long and wasn't yet finished.
These back streets were calmer, less crowded and had a small town, community air. Kids were playing here and there on the street, older children were doing chores and women were walking in small groups chatting, selling, or running errands. It was a good feeling. Until the motorcycles came.
The revving of engines served as a warning, though barely. The first time it happened I watched women and children scramble to get out of the roadway. The bikes spun around corners and tore through the calm streets like something from a Mad Max film. Some of the boys had splotches of mud covering their faces and torsos like war paint. They were loud and fast and terrifying. They made one or two more appearances during our market trip. As we roamed, they were roaming too.
The last time it happened was completely unexpected. The revving came too late and was much too close to be a real warning. Ousmane and I were walking in the middle of a nearly empty street. We'd just come from viewing the rows of batik makers and were heading back towards the grand mosque of Adjame- the center around which all market life is built.
The first rider came skidding around the corner. He had his foot on the ground and was surely burning through his plastic sandals. Ousmane froze on the spot and I behind him, tugging at his shirt, thinking maybe we should get out of the street. There really wasn't time to go anywhere because milliseconds later another bike came crashing around the corner. He wobbled a bit upon seeing us and his friend. He went first one way, then another, making Ousmane's decision to remain put a sound one. All my senses were crying out to flee (no fight to be had in man against moto) but it was easy to see how disastrous that could turn out- me trying to avoid the bike, the bike trying to avoid me and neither of us sure which way the other was going.
This second guy zig-zagged his way past us and then we did move. We crossed the road and went down a slight hill into the maze of pathways leading around the mosque. My heart was beating wildly and my stomach was churning. By this time, the rest of the gang had shown up and gathered around the first biker- the one who had come skidding around the corner with his foot on the ground. I thought maybe he'd burned his leg on the exhaust pipe. It wasn't clear what, but something had clearly happened. There exclamations and a small crowd of onlookers began to form. We didn't stay to find out what the injuries were. Feeling more than blessed that I was able to walk away from the experience on two good feet, we headed back into the crazy crowded streets of the busy market. Too busy for boys on motorcycles. Just perfect for flippery.
It's unlike a mall in ways I can't really name. The stores are smaller, dressing rooms are hidden closet-ways behind curtains (oh, but the level of fancy! One store owner slid the curtain open to reveal a ceiling fan, light and mirror all tucked in to a 2m x 1m space!) The selection was less interesting than the dressing space, however, and the prices belonged to Macy's.
What I really wanted was the second hand store. The place where all the cotton, American hand-me- downs come in, get sewn up and sold again. Apparently this is called the "flippery." I tried to get a little history on the origin of the word, but no luck really. My American mind was left to associate it with "flipping"- buying something and then reselling it. Maybe that is the origin. No one I asked seemed to know what language the word came from or it's exact meaning, but they did steer me in the right direction.
A few clothing closets lined a wall in the back of this area. There were a lot of table top and even ground sellers. A lot of piles too. Flippery prices are perfect- 250-1000 FCFA (one vendor was calling out the incredible bargain of 2 for 500!- essentially 2 for $1.00) But it's only a bargain if you can find something you like. Shopping here requires sifting through a pile of clothes in search of something in your size, style and color. Every so often, the shopkeeper (who just might be standing on the tabletop shouting out deals to draw in other customers) reaches down and grabs the whole pile and overturns it. You need to hold tight to anything you may have been saving on the side or anything you are currently trying to view as the clothes are retracted with the force of the ocean and then come crashing back down in a wave of color and fabric. Sometimes a shopkeeper will toss things your way if he (predominately I noticed the shopkeepers of these kind of places as men) notices you selecting a certain palette or style. Occasionally it's helpful.
Throughout this entire space there sit the sewers. In the shops lucky enough to have actual wall space, the sewers sit in a back room. For the vendors selling from the ground, the sewers sit amidst the piles of clothes. Creativity abounds here as people have found ways to display their best items on makeshift wire walls and other fabrications. The sewers are busy repairing seams, tears and hems undone. Their work is sometimes apparent in uneven zigzags or unexpected folds. Ousmane admonished their work as hasty or less than skillful. I figured they were doing the best with what they had.
The best part of this area was cotton. Soft cotton shirts in simple styles for all ages. The worst part, especially for a non-shopper like me, was the necessary investment of time to sort and find. It's also hard to know what will fit. Some women were trying clothes on right there in the crowds. One woman even had the help of the vendor to shimmy into a pair of jeans. It was awfully reminiscent of my shoe shopping experience and I wondered if the seller planned on accompanying the woman home to provide such perfect assistance whenever she wanted to wear those jeans. I am a firm believer in the idea if I can't put it on myself, then it doesn't belong in my closet. Unfortunately the tailors here seem to assume everyone has a houseful of ready helpers when it comes to zipping, tucking and stuffing yourself into your clothing.
I have found one tailor who seems to understand my needs. I went in search of fabric for her to turn into a new wardrobe to spice up this next school year as the elementary art teacher. The fabric I was searching for could not be found in my usual haunts. I remembered vaguely browsing through a street lined with this kind of fabric when I visited Abidjan a few years ago. The search to find this exact spot again was, in the end, fruitless, but did lead me up and down interesting secret market pathways.
I ran across beautiful tied dyed batiks still drying in the sun. Walking further revealed all the steps of batik making from the huge vats of dyes to the pounding and rubbing on of wax. It was a fascinating tour and I hope to go back to ask questions and take photos. On the day I was there, the journey had already been long and wasn't yet finished.
These back streets were calmer, less crowded and had a small town, community air. Kids were playing here and there on the street, older children were doing chores and women were walking in small groups chatting, selling, or running errands. It was a good feeling. Until the motorcycles came.
The revving of engines served as a warning, though barely. The first time it happened I watched women and children scramble to get out of the roadway. The bikes spun around corners and tore through the calm streets like something from a Mad Max film. Some of the boys had splotches of mud covering their faces and torsos like war paint. They were loud and fast and terrifying. They made one or two more appearances during our market trip. As we roamed, they were roaming too.
The last time it happened was completely unexpected. The revving came too late and was much too close to be a real warning. Ousmane and I were walking in the middle of a nearly empty street. We'd just come from viewing the rows of batik makers and were heading back towards the grand mosque of Adjame- the center around which all market life is built.
The first rider came skidding around the corner. He had his foot on the ground and was surely burning through his plastic sandals. Ousmane froze on the spot and I behind him, tugging at his shirt, thinking maybe we should get out of the street. There really wasn't time to go anywhere because milliseconds later another bike came crashing around the corner. He wobbled a bit upon seeing us and his friend. He went first one way, then another, making Ousmane's decision to remain put a sound one. All my senses were crying out to flee (no fight to be had in man against moto) but it was easy to see how disastrous that could turn out- me trying to avoid the bike, the bike trying to avoid me and neither of us sure which way the other was going.
This second guy zig-zagged his way past us and then we did move. We crossed the road and went down a slight hill into the maze of pathways leading around the mosque. My heart was beating wildly and my stomach was churning. By this time, the rest of the gang had shown up and gathered around the first biker- the one who had come skidding around the corner with his foot on the ground. I thought maybe he'd burned his leg on the exhaust pipe. It wasn't clear what, but something had clearly happened. There exclamations and a small crowd of onlookers began to form. We didn't stay to find out what the injuries were. Feeling more than blessed that I was able to walk away from the experience on two good feet, we headed back into the crazy crowded streets of the busy market. Too busy for boys on motorcycles. Just perfect for flippery.
14.8.16
funeral dance
It's complete. I've attended each of the cycle of life events in Abidjan. A funeral, or more precisely a wake, the most recent event to complete the cycle. Where once I had my eyes on comparing Congo with America, I now compare African countries or cultures with each other. There is often a lot of similarities- enough to suggest all those confused "Africa is a country" people should maybe get a little slack.
This wake took place outside in a community space, probably a lot of soccer going on there during the day. The set up was familiar- 4 tents creating an open square in the middle. The music- from machines to singers to musicians- carefully situated under one, the family and memorials in another, guests cozied up in hoodies and wrapped in pagnes under the rest. There are plastic chairs, plenty of plastic chairs. Many of the guests will stay all night and the neat rows of chairs will eventually transform into a zigzagged mess as people create sleeping areas.
There was a choir singing in the early evening hours and it gave way to the typical overly loud music. Most of what I saw was very similar, right down to the vendor who walked through at one point offering tissues for sale. The differences were in language (French dominates Abidjan) and musical selection (coupe decale.)
Sometime after midnight, the Nescafe carts showed up, on order or by business design I'm not sure. Most likely there was a bit of arrangement involved. One of the cousins walked around with a tray offering small cups of coffee to attendees. That same cousin made the rounds minutes later to collect the empty cups.
One major difference from my previous experiences was the presence of artists. Not just attending but playing and performing. The entire event began to resemble wedding sized entertainment with the customary walking-dance circle in the middle. I've participated in a few of these, my first in a village in Guinee. On that occasion it was celebratory, but structure seems the same regardless of the underlying emotion. The circle is slow, the dancing subdued, occasionally a leader emerges to throw out a sample step which everyone repeats for awhile. But in general, people just move in a circle swaying to the beat, sometimes erupting in a cry of joy or anguish, sometimes leaving the circle to find a quiet moment alone, other times leaning on and supporting each other as they make their way around.
After that dispersed, the artists presented their full tributes. Dancing, fire eating, acrobatics, hip-hop break style, and songs written or created in the moment for the moment. Once I got over noticing the wedding similarities, I started wondering about the tributes. Particularly among the hip hop crew, who were a bit younger, a bit more pumped. At a certain point, their competition and joy over winning began to strike me as more ego satisfaction than tribute to the deceased. Perhaps there is always that fine line with artists.
Equally confusing for my American mind, the pandering for money. It is routine to send a hat around (a persistent someone with a hat to be more precise.) It is also customary to dance in front of the principle family members, who are required to throw some money to show appreciation. It just all seems out of place in a time of sorrow. Having to worry about money and ritual and obligation.
Of course, I am a funeral avoider. I don't have a lot of US funeral experience. Actually, I have only been to 2 funerals and both were filled with awkward tension, silent grief and an unbearable need to escape. Here in Africa, funerals appear to be more cathartic, community events. Grief is loud and visible. It washes over mourners like a wave, ebbing and flowing in its strength. Wailing women cling to their sisters and mothers one minute, only to be seen making their way around the dance circle the next. It is a long night but the presence of family, friends, and even random walkers-by lends a timeless air to the event.
I was a little in awe of how quickly 3 am arrived. I had been slightly worried about our ability to find a taxi home, which didn't turn out to be much of a problem. As we left, I thought about those who would stay in vigil all night. I understood again that sense of the night time being sacred, when we are closest to the spirit world. It's the perfect time for a funeral dance.
This wake took place outside in a community space, probably a lot of soccer going on there during the day. The set up was familiar- 4 tents creating an open square in the middle. The music- from machines to singers to musicians- carefully situated under one, the family and memorials in another, guests cozied up in hoodies and wrapped in pagnes under the rest. There are plastic chairs, plenty of plastic chairs. Many of the guests will stay all night and the neat rows of chairs will eventually transform into a zigzagged mess as people create sleeping areas.
There was a choir singing in the early evening hours and it gave way to the typical overly loud music. Most of what I saw was very similar, right down to the vendor who walked through at one point offering tissues for sale. The differences were in language (French dominates Abidjan) and musical selection (coupe decale.)
Sometime after midnight, the Nescafe carts showed up, on order or by business design I'm not sure. Most likely there was a bit of arrangement involved. One of the cousins walked around with a tray offering small cups of coffee to attendees. That same cousin made the rounds minutes later to collect the empty cups.
 |
| Coffee carts ready for your 2 am needs |
After that dispersed, the artists presented their full tributes. Dancing, fire eating, acrobatics, hip-hop break style, and songs written or created in the moment for the moment. Once I got over noticing the wedding similarities, I started wondering about the tributes. Particularly among the hip hop crew, who were a bit younger, a bit more pumped. At a certain point, their competition and joy over winning began to strike me as more ego satisfaction than tribute to the deceased. Perhaps there is always that fine line with artists.
Fire dancing by the son and
first time I have seen a woman fire dancing
Of course, I am a funeral avoider. I don't have a lot of US funeral experience. Actually, I have only been to 2 funerals and both were filled with awkward tension, silent grief and an unbearable need to escape. Here in Africa, funerals appear to be more cathartic, community events. Grief is loud and visible. It washes over mourners like a wave, ebbing and flowing in its strength. Wailing women cling to their sisters and mothers one minute, only to be seen making their way around the dance circle the next. It is a long night but the presence of family, friends, and even random walkers-by lends a timeless air to the event.
I was a little in awe of how quickly 3 am arrived. I had been slightly worried about our ability to find a taxi home, which didn't turn out to be much of a problem. As we left, I thought about those who would stay in vigil all night. I understood again that sense of the night time being sacred, when we are closest to the spirit world. It's the perfect time for a funeral dance.
4.8.16
Summer school
After a summer of dedicated working out, I think I am finally beginning to see some definition on my skinny arms. It is not easy to build muscle on skinny arms. All the literature tells me so. It's as much about diet and calorie intake as working out. There are certain foods you need to eat if you want to "bulk up." It seems a bit of a risk to hope the bulk falls in the right places. I reassessed my muscle goals after some research. I'm mostly pleased with the results, but it's a long, ongoing process.
Being in the gym a lot I can't help but compare us to rodents running circles on our human equivalent of hamster wheels. I think a lot about the people who develop their muscles as a result of physical labor and what this means for the collective human psyche that finds muscles attractive. It's easy to imagine muscles being a sign of someone who is hard working and able to provide for a family.
In our modern age, with intellect being the greater value, we are forced to simulate the notion of manual labor with all manor of motorized and iron contraptions. I often imagine the farmers and field workers and construction guys shaking their heads in a wonder at us, the over privileged gym members who not only have time but also spend money to replicate what for them is merely a day's work.
I can never forget the Congolese women, sitting under the shade of a tree, tapping out stones with small hammers. My inspiration for well defined arms. Those women were buff.
I know it comes at the price of long, tiring days with little pay. The proof of their arduous labor sculpted into their physique.
These are the kind of thoughts that roam through my mind when I notice young girls with well formed arms. The kind of thoughts I had when I looked up from my computer one afternoon and noticed the 12 year old girl sitting at the table had noticeable arm muscles. As much as muscles can be on a tall, skinny frame.
Earlier this summer, Christine's oldest daughter, Melissa, came back from the village. She hadn't received the school marks needed to pass on to the next grade and so Christine thought it would be better to keep her here. Or something like that. I have a perpetual sensation of feeling like I never truly understand the fine details. It could easily be that she wanted someone to help her around the house. My house and hers, which is where my problem comes in.
It has been a lot of fun having her around the house to play with the kids, who are honestly like a couple of twins by now. Mbalia loves "talking" to Melissa on the "phone" and Melissa has the patience to do this for hours. She totes her baby brother around on her back and helps her mom with chores. She appears, like so many African girls, quiet, calm and happy most of the time. Always (a little too) ready to clear away, clean up and pitch in with whatever task is at hand.
But she can't read. She's 12 years old and still in 3rd grade. Somewhere along the way, something in the school system broke down. The hint of her muscular arms suggests a more complicated story. I wonder how often she actually made it to class and what happened after school. Christine already mentioned there was no one to support her with homework, although at 12 this should be mostly an independent thing.
Melissa is not confident with all of the letter names and sounds either. With such a huge delay, the question is whether there is a learning disability or if it is just lack of attendance. You can't learn if you're not there. Sometimes you can't learn even if you are there.
We went to visit the public school where she'd been enrolled before going to stay in the village. We were hoping for a summer program. Instead we found a collection of run down, closed up buildings. Random over sized bowls of laundry were scattered about. There weren't any (awake) people, though a glimpse of a dangling arm could be seen through a slightly open door.
We headed over to another school in the neighborhood, Mimy's "International" School (the quotes are mine. It seems en vogue to put 'international' in the school title though it is not often clear what merits such a lofty claim.) Here we found colorful walls, open doors and a real live person sitting in the director's chair.
The summer program seemed incredibly affordable (to me, Christine remarked it was a little expensive.) I can't speak to quality, but the director was friendly and the office showed signs of student success. We signed Melissa up and arranged tutoring sessions with someone in the neighborhood. He will come three times a week to try and provide the basic support needed to help her get caught up. One girl child on the road to education and literacy (strong arms included.)
Being in the gym a lot I can't help but compare us to rodents running circles on our human equivalent of hamster wheels. I think a lot about the people who develop their muscles as a result of physical labor and what this means for the collective human psyche that finds muscles attractive. It's easy to imagine muscles being a sign of someone who is hard working and able to provide for a family.
In our modern age, with intellect being the greater value, we are forced to simulate the notion of manual labor with all manor of motorized and iron contraptions. I often imagine the farmers and field workers and construction guys shaking their heads in a wonder at us, the over privileged gym members who not only have time but also spend money to replicate what for them is merely a day's work.
I can never forget the Congolese women, sitting under the shade of a tree, tapping out stones with small hammers. My inspiration for well defined arms. Those women were buff.
I know it comes at the price of long, tiring days with little pay. The proof of their arduous labor sculpted into their physique.
These are the kind of thoughts that roam through my mind when I notice young girls with well formed arms. The kind of thoughts I had when I looked up from my computer one afternoon and noticed the 12 year old girl sitting at the table had noticeable arm muscles. As much as muscles can be on a tall, skinny frame.
Earlier this summer, Christine's oldest daughter, Melissa, came back from the village. She hadn't received the school marks needed to pass on to the next grade and so Christine thought it would be better to keep her here. Or something like that. I have a perpetual sensation of feeling like I never truly understand the fine details. It could easily be that she wanted someone to help her around the house. My house and hers, which is where my problem comes in.
It has been a lot of fun having her around the house to play with the kids, who are honestly like a couple of twins by now. Mbalia loves "talking" to Melissa on the "phone" and Melissa has the patience to do this for hours. She totes her baby brother around on her back and helps her mom with chores. She appears, like so many African girls, quiet, calm and happy most of the time. Always (a little too) ready to clear away, clean up and pitch in with whatever task is at hand.
But she can't read. She's 12 years old and still in 3rd grade. Somewhere along the way, something in the school system broke down. The hint of her muscular arms suggests a more complicated story. I wonder how often she actually made it to class and what happened after school. Christine already mentioned there was no one to support her with homework, although at 12 this should be mostly an independent thing.
Melissa is not confident with all of the letter names and sounds either. With such a huge delay, the question is whether there is a learning disability or if it is just lack of attendance. You can't learn if you're not there. Sometimes you can't learn even if you are there.
We went to visit the public school where she'd been enrolled before going to stay in the village. We were hoping for a summer program. Instead we found a collection of run down, closed up buildings. Random over sized bowls of laundry were scattered about. There weren't any (awake) people, though a glimpse of a dangling arm could be seen through a slightly open door.
We headed over to another school in the neighborhood, Mimy's "International" School (the quotes are mine. It seems en vogue to put 'international' in the school title though it is not often clear what merits such a lofty claim.) Here we found colorful walls, open doors and a real live person sitting in the director's chair.
The summer program seemed incredibly affordable (to me, Christine remarked it was a little expensive.) I can't speak to quality, but the director was friendly and the office showed signs of student success. We signed Melissa up and arranged tutoring sessions with someone in the neighborhood. He will come three times a week to try and provide the basic support needed to help her get caught up. One girl child on the road to education and literacy (strong arms included.)
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