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.
3.3.17
27.2.17
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.
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.
21.2.17
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.
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.
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.
5.2.17
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.
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.
26.1.17
Synchronicity
I'm not really sure where this post fits, or if it even fits. I'm not sure if it means something, or if this kind of thing happens to everyone. But I do know I am not the only 40-something single white mom out there. So maybe this happens to everyone. Or at least someone. Besides me.
Because so far 2017 has me feeling like I need a book (I do) or a tv show (probably not) about my life. Or maybe even a reality series. It's just been a train wreck.
And while I've already commented on how the new year in Africa is often filled with apologies and calls for forgiveness, this year it seems filled with something else as well. Messages from my exes.
It's not easy to be my age and realize that most of the plans and hopes and dreams are not working out as anticipated. It requires a deep reaching search for resilience and perseverance. It requires flexibility to re-imagine the coming years and reshape expectations (or ditch them altogether. It's what all the yogis suggest these days.) Being over 40 and still single includes a bit of soul searching as well. (I searched a bit to put a link here, but, really, it's all just depressing. I'm going back into denial for a bit. Who's over 40?) How did I become that lady? That older, single lady that just hasn't been able to make a match, meet a partner, create something solid that lasts with another human?
While I am struggling to reinterpret myself and keep my inner thoughts positive, my exes start calling and texting and sending messages that leave me checking the calendar. What year is it again? How long since we last talked?
Nearly every message contains an "I love you." A few contain a "you're beautiful.' And several suggest regret. There is no blame, no cruelty and no name calling (actually, there never was. These guys each went their own way for unexplained reasons, professing love as they backed out the door.)
All of these random messages have arrived in strange synchronicity. I don't have many exes. Since my divorce, I could count 4 significant relationships. The fact that my ex-husband and 3 of those significant relationships have all resumed contact with me at about the same time, with a similar cheery message, is surely meant to impress upon me something that I can't discern. It leaves me with a sense that if I could just unravel the mystery, decode the meaning, then I would know exactly how to move forward.
In the meantime, I have no idea what it means when everyone you've dated in the last 10 years says, yeah it was great, and you are great...sorry we didn't last, we should have lasted, can I call you? And then they do. All around the same time. My phone is ringing and beeping and sounding off like an alien spaceship landing.
Yet here I remain, single as ever. But apparently still a great and beautiful person. Or something like that.
Because so far 2017 has me feeling like I need a book (I do) or a tv show (probably not) about my life. Or maybe even a reality series. It's just been a train wreck.
And while I've already commented on how the new year in Africa is often filled with apologies and calls for forgiveness, this year it seems filled with something else as well. Messages from my exes.
It's not easy to be my age and realize that most of the plans and hopes and dreams are not working out as anticipated. It requires a deep reaching search for resilience and perseverance. It requires flexibility to re-imagine the coming years and reshape expectations (or ditch them altogether. It's what all the yogis suggest these days.) Being over 40 and still single includes a bit of soul searching as well. (I searched a bit to put a link here, but, really, it's all just depressing. I'm going back into denial for a bit. Who's over 40?) How did I become that lady? That older, single lady that just hasn't been able to make a match, meet a partner, create something solid that lasts with another human?
While I am struggling to reinterpret myself and keep my inner thoughts positive, my exes start calling and texting and sending messages that leave me checking the calendar. What year is it again? How long since we last talked?
Nearly every message contains an "I love you." A few contain a "you're beautiful.' And several suggest regret. There is no blame, no cruelty and no name calling (actually, there never was. These guys each went their own way for unexplained reasons, professing love as they backed out the door.)
All of these random messages have arrived in strange synchronicity. I don't have many exes. Since my divorce, I could count 4 significant relationships. The fact that my ex-husband and 3 of those significant relationships have all resumed contact with me at about the same time, with a similar cheery message, is surely meant to impress upon me something that I can't discern. It leaves me with a sense that if I could just unravel the mystery, decode the meaning, then I would know exactly how to move forward.
In the meantime, I have no idea what it means when everyone you've dated in the last 10 years says, yeah it was great, and you are great...sorry we didn't last, we should have lasted, can I call you? And then they do. All around the same time. My phone is ringing and beeping and sounding off like an alien spaceship landing.
Yet here I remain, single as ever. But apparently still a great and beautiful person. Or something like that.
18.1.17
Mutiny
Since my last post, the list of miss vs. not miss has grown like wild fire. I've started making notes in my phone for an anticipated numbered account. Essential oils in the pharmacies is definitely going to make the miss list. Hugely.
I was on my way to the pharmacy during my lunch break yesterday, in search of a certain lavender neroli blend my yoga teacher uses, when I noticed them. In their black and gray marbled uniforms, the police sitting just at the end of the school parking lot stood out distinctly from our daily security, who wear canary yellow shirts and typical guardian gray pants with a black stripe down the side.
The policemen, about 5 of them, were all lined up in blue chairs looking bored out of their minds, a few actually napping in the shade. I have noticed a greater police presence, truckloads full sitting at corners and patrolling the streets. It doesn't feel like so many, but because there are usually none, the contrast is noticeable. I can't help but think of Kinshasa where the presence of military, police, guns and even the occasional tank were an everyday affair. It was only when the riot gear came out that we began to suspect something was up.
There's mutiny in Cote d'Ivoire and it has everyone on edge, wondering what will happen next. I am reminded this is the way of Africa, everything is fine until it's not. Apparently it began with the military going on strike in order to receive promised pay that never materialized. The president seemed to issue a super swift response (a good decision when guns are involved) acquiescing to the demand. It turns out, he only approved some of the pay, for some of the people (probably not such a good decision when guns are involved.)
In conjunction with, or directly because of (it's hard to be clear on the sequence of events) other government-paid entities went on strike as well. Doctors-this one actually stumped me for a minute, but when even the street roaming telephone credit sellers can go on strike, you know anything is possible. I hadn't realized doctors were paid by the government. I'm still not certain I completely understand that whole situation. UPDATE: Apparently the doctors are subsidized by the state- some of their pay comes from the government and some comes from the patients themselves. Oddly, the patients don't receive subsidized care. If you don't have money, you don't get treatment. And in these days, money won't help you much either. A strike is going on.
Teachers- this strike led to altercations between public and private schools, with the former insisting the latter strike to support them. This article and video describe a disturbing scene at a school in the area. Students became the clear victims of a matter that should remain between adults.
Conflict and tension are not just elevated on school grounds. The comments on this article reflect some of the challenges that occur when a country's military goes on 'strike'- effectively a mutiny when the people charged with protecting you are refusing to do so. The problem, common to many African militaries, is that a certain number of members have come in as 'rebels.' It results in a complex relationship between the incumbent president and the old and new guards. It seems like it should have been obvious to the president that if he only paid a few of them, the rest were not going to be happy. Likewise, once you pay out to a strike, it kind of opens the floodgates for others seeking their remittance. (Of course, the whole messy situation could be avoided by.....simply paying salaries on time in the first place, non?)
What remains impressive is the level of organisation inherent in the strikes, which included the administrative and finance capitals as well as the 'second city.' Rumors abound as to what will happen next. Although our director has been walking around all day and sending curious emails trying to staunch the flow of rumors, the fact is that in Africa rumors can be difficult to determine. Word of mouth is often the only reliable way to get messages around (especially in the face of presidents and the powerful who are known to cut off text messaging, internet connections and t.v/radio service.) We're all left trying to determine how to tell if something is rumor or merely truth traveling the old fashioned way?
Like much else in Africa, it all goes back to your connections. If your roots are deep, you will find water. For the rest of us? We're stuck just waiting it out, watching play by play and speculating on the possible outcomes. It's either that or the CAN.
I was on my way to the pharmacy during my lunch break yesterday, in search of a certain lavender neroli blend my yoga teacher uses, when I noticed them. In their black and gray marbled uniforms, the police sitting just at the end of the school parking lot stood out distinctly from our daily security, who wear canary yellow shirts and typical guardian gray pants with a black stripe down the side.
The policemen, about 5 of them, were all lined up in blue chairs looking bored out of their minds, a few actually napping in the shade. I have noticed a greater police presence, truckloads full sitting at corners and patrolling the streets. It doesn't feel like so many, but because there are usually none, the contrast is noticeable. I can't help but think of Kinshasa where the presence of military, police, guns and even the occasional tank were an everyday affair. It was only when the riot gear came out that we began to suspect something was up.
There's mutiny in Cote d'Ivoire and it has everyone on edge, wondering what will happen next. I am reminded this is the way of Africa, everything is fine until it's not. Apparently it began with the military going on strike in order to receive promised pay that never materialized. The president seemed to issue a super swift response (a good decision when guns are involved) acquiescing to the demand. It turns out, he only approved some of the pay, for some of the people (probably not such a good decision when guns are involved.)
In conjunction with, or directly because of (it's hard to be clear on the sequence of events) other government-paid entities went on strike as well. Doctors-this one actually stumped me for a minute, but when even the street roaming telephone credit sellers can go on strike, you know anything is possible. I hadn't realized doctors were paid by the government. I'm still not certain I completely understand that whole situation. UPDATE: Apparently the doctors are subsidized by the state- some of their pay comes from the government and some comes from the patients themselves. Oddly, the patients don't receive subsidized care. If you don't have money, you don't get treatment. And in these days, money won't help you much either. A strike is going on.
Teachers- this strike led to altercations between public and private schools, with the former insisting the latter strike to support them. This article and video describe a disturbing scene at a school in the area. Students became the clear victims of a matter that should remain between adults.
Conflict and tension are not just elevated on school grounds. The comments on this article reflect some of the challenges that occur when a country's military goes on 'strike'- effectively a mutiny when the people charged with protecting you are refusing to do so. The problem, common to many African militaries, is that a certain number of members have come in as 'rebels.' It results in a complex relationship between the incumbent president and the old and new guards. It seems like it should have been obvious to the president that if he only paid a few of them, the rest were not going to be happy. Likewise, once you pay out to a strike, it kind of opens the floodgates for others seeking their remittance. (Of course, the whole messy situation could be avoided by.....simply paying salaries on time in the first place, non?)
What remains impressive is the level of organisation inherent in the strikes, which included the administrative and finance capitals as well as the 'second city.' Rumors abound as to what will happen next. Although our director has been walking around all day and sending curious emails trying to staunch the flow of rumors, the fact is that in Africa rumors can be difficult to determine. Word of mouth is often the only reliable way to get messages around (especially in the face of presidents and the powerful who are known to cut off text messaging, internet connections and t.v/radio service.) We're all left trying to determine how to tell if something is rumor or merely truth traveling the old fashioned way?
Like much else in Africa, it all goes back to your connections. If your roots are deep, you will find water. For the rest of us? We're stuck just waiting it out, watching play by play and speculating on the possible outcomes. It's either that or the CAN.
17.1.17
The obvious things
I still wake with images of Kinshasa streets. There is a certain place, there, I want to visit or a certain street, here, I want to walk down. There are neighborhoods and markets and shady tree spots I want to frequent. Just the other day I battled with an overwhelming urge to go to Kintambo magasin. Weekly I miss Bandal, and in the middle of my yoga class I was overcome with sensations from a certain curve in the road through Macampagne. When I hear the apprentis call out for Liberte I think I hear Limete and a surge of hope rushes through me. Today, I was trying to clarify a number to the cashier when I said septante- a number that only exists in Kin (and maybe Belgium.)
I cannot tell if these urges stem from merely spending so many years in the place or from real love and affection. I remember well my love/hate affair with Kin- though, admittedly, near the end I think I was more in love than in despair.
With another impending departure, I am left wondering what I will miss - what I will not miss- and the hidden secrets that will only reveal their tenderness once I am absent.
I try to be especially observant these days. What do I see, smell, hear, feel as I travel through the city? What is unique to Abidjan and what is part of the deeper African thread that connects countries on the continent?
I've begun a list of the more obvious things, hoping the subtle will emerge from the shadows and make themselves known while I still have a chance to appreciate them in person.
I am certain to miss the cool breezes that seem to blow through every street in the evening hours, effectively erasing the heat of the day. I will miss alloco and garba and attieke...staple foods of the street, frying fish at 9 am alerting me that the noon meal is nearing. Perhaps I will miss the afternoon siesta- or the long French lunch- when neighborhood streets, engulfed with the midday sun, are quiet and empty. School children have returned home for lunch, a nap, a bit of time with their family, though it is not our school children. The American school toils on through the heat and takes no breaks to reunite with family in the middle of the day.
Perhaps I will wax nostalgic for the strong smell of coffee and coco that emanates from the Nestle factory. There is the possibility to search online and actually find results, though real communication about events always seems hidden and hard to come by. There are art galleries and grocery stores and malls all filled with bright lights and shiny items I don't really need. Will I miss this? Perhaps I have grown too comfortable here in the heart of one of Africa's most complacent cities.
I snapped these photos of a trend that impressed me from the first. Businesses post their code of ethics and offer "I-statements" to their customers as a way of education. Although Ivory Coast ranks 38 on this list of literate countries (and falls well below RDC) Abidjan seems to be teeming with a literate population. Bookstores are full and Ivorian authors prominent...though some titles elicit smiles rather than curiosity. 'I'm leaving my wife for the maid,' or 'I'm in love with house-boy.' The bookstore in Cap-Nord, one of the smaller shopping centers in Riviera III, hosts an author book signing nearly every weekend. Success seems possible.
A well-developed middle class has led to other pastimes, like day-time T.V. This past vacation I spent some mornings in the gym and caught snatches of a talk show with pertinent issues of the day- 'My family falsely accused me of sorcery and abandoned me. I found refuge in my art [painting,]' and 'Hairstyles that are inappropriate for young girls,' that last highlighting how weaves and heavy braids pull on little girls' fragile heads, complete with young guys who say it is beautiful and women who wonder why it is necessary for a 5 year old to look like a fashion model.
Abidjan is home to Africa has incredible talent, a show that I happened to watch a few times and then got hooked after I stumbled across 2 groups I know personally. I had to stay tuned for their appearances and 1 of the groups made it to the finals. It was fun to cheer them on---and in the process I have developed a terrible crush on Fally. Silliness.
Aside from interesting TV, Abidjan works in many other ways that are appealing to foreigners. There are lines and systems, people listen to the police and drive (mostly) on the right side of the road. There are emergency numbers to call, and while I have criticized them in the past, I now recognize that they do respond and they do try to serve the population.They have a facebook page and admit there are challenges to overcome, even as they train new recruits.
The difficulty in addresses is something I won't miss, or rather, will probably experience in a completely new way. The most puzzling thing about Abidjan is that there are actually street signs- so many streets are labeled with a mysterious number system that no one ever uses. E678 is at crossroads with E544. I like to imagine how effective it all might be if they were labeled with actual street names, and then I try to imagine what those names would be. It leaves me feeling just slightly nostalgic for the street signs of America. I remember with fondness the names of streets I haunted, streets I avoided and streets that hold memories of more than one kind.
I won't miss the stink of the lagoon just after crossing the bridge (which does have a name.) There is a project to clean it up, but it's been going on for the 3 years I've been here and I haven't noticed much improvement. I wonder if it is actually possible to clean up a body of water- though all the perimeter signs announce a grand partnership and a grand plan for a new vision and a new lagoon. I see what they do in my neighborhood, on the other side of the lagoon and I think there are a million 'sides' to the lagoon. No one is monitoring them all and people continue to be people.
A lot of Abidjan brings me face to face with how people are ruining our planet. I envision us as little parasites running amok, creating disease and bringing damage to our host. The constant building and prevalence of cement are particular soul killers to me.
A friend in Mali has been sending me pictures of the earth there, 'just 15 min. from the school,' he writes. I interpret a pleading desperation to his messages. His words hold a life sustaining quality, as if he is saying, 'just hang in and once you get here you can breathe.' Sometimes he will even count down the weeks for me. I didn't know I needed this.
Oh, but I miss my Kinshasa jungle. I realize that is what made all the difference. There was plenty of building in Kin, plenty of construction and tree chopping. Plenty of garbage strewn streets and trash filled waterways, but being able to retreat to the tranquility of the jungle patch every evening, my eyes drinking in the green, my ears soaking up the sounds of bird calls and night noises, my skin absorbing the rich air....yeah, I can't get that back. An oasis in the middle of the city.
There isn't much that disturbs me about Abidjan. Not the way my frustration and anger rose up at times in Kin- where officials of one rank or another often seemed overly profuse in their stubbornness, eager to create an issue where none really existed for the mere entertainment value (though I always suspected much of this was due to the sheer powerlessness and poverty that people endure, requiring them to seek some small salvation and sense of dignity in whatever exchange they can. As if the manifested power struggle affirmed existence. I influence you, and therefore my presence holds value.)
I think the biggest thing I will not miss is the sense of lethargy and mediocrity that I feel. It is probably important to say that this is potentially a highly personal interpretation of things. But it has been a constant source of frustration. People are satisfied with 'just enough' and I rarely find that push for more, for excellence. I am speaking mostly in terms of the art world and it is fair to say my experience has been limited- although this appears directly linked to the fact that I have not been able to find a situation that meets my stringent criteria.
A neutral observation that doesn't really fit into either category is the prevalence of strikes. There is surely a post to come about this phenomenon, but the power of striking is something the Abidjanais know well. It was one of the first conversations I'd had with the taxi drivers, and it continues to be a presence. Abidjanais have learned how to organize and collectively make their voices heard. They recognize the value and power in this. The numerous strikes haven't yet affected me on a personal level, not much more than an occasional nuisance, which I mentioned once to a taxi driver who immediately admonished me. "The strike is not easy for them, either. But it is important." An obvious reflection I somehow missed. The truth is, sometimes I don't understand how the strikes help, or who they help. Or if they are even effective. But there is no doubt they've become woven into the fabric of the city, a city I don't anticipate missing much as I embark on the next leg of my journey.
I cannot tell if these urges stem from merely spending so many years in the place or from real love and affection. I remember well my love/hate affair with Kin- though, admittedly, near the end I think I was more in love than in despair.
With another impending departure, I am left wondering what I will miss - what I will not miss- and the hidden secrets that will only reveal their tenderness once I am absent.
I try to be especially observant these days. What do I see, smell, hear, feel as I travel through the city? What is unique to Abidjan and what is part of the deeper African thread that connects countries on the continent?
I've begun a list of the more obvious things, hoping the subtle will emerge from the shadows and make themselves known while I still have a chance to appreciate them in person.
I am certain to miss the cool breezes that seem to blow through every street in the evening hours, effectively erasing the heat of the day. I will miss alloco and garba and attieke...staple foods of the street, frying fish at 9 am alerting me that the noon meal is nearing. Perhaps I will miss the afternoon siesta- or the long French lunch- when neighborhood streets, engulfed with the midday sun, are quiet and empty. School children have returned home for lunch, a nap, a bit of time with their family, though it is not our school children. The American school toils on through the heat and takes no breaks to reunite with family in the middle of the day.
Perhaps I will wax nostalgic for the strong smell of coffee and coco that emanates from the Nestle factory. There is the possibility to search online and actually find results, though real communication about events always seems hidden and hard to come by. There are art galleries and grocery stores and malls all filled with bright lights and shiny items I don't really need. Will I miss this? Perhaps I have grown too comfortable here in the heart of one of Africa's most complacent cities.
I snapped these photos of a trend that impressed me from the first. Businesses post their code of ethics and offer "I-statements" to their customers as a way of education. Although Ivory Coast ranks 38 on this list of literate countries (and falls well below RDC) Abidjan seems to be teeming with a literate population. Bookstores are full and Ivorian authors prominent...though some titles elicit smiles rather than curiosity. 'I'm leaving my wife for the maid,' or 'I'm in love with house-boy.' The bookstore in Cap-Nord, one of the smaller shopping centers in Riviera III, hosts an author book signing nearly every weekend. Success seems possible.
 |
| Customer service problem? Just point to the sign |
 |
| These I-statements are so appealing to me |
Abidjan is home to Africa has incredible talent, a show that I happened to watch a few times and then got hooked after I stumbled across 2 groups I know personally. I had to stay tuned for their appearances and 1 of the groups made it to the finals. It was fun to cheer them on---and in the process I have developed a terrible crush on Fally. Silliness.
Aside from interesting TV, Abidjan works in many other ways that are appealing to foreigners. There are lines and systems, people listen to the police and drive (mostly) on the right side of the road. There are emergency numbers to call, and while I have criticized them in the past, I now recognize that they do respond and they do try to serve the population.They have a facebook page and admit there are challenges to overcome, even as they train new recruits.
The difficulty in addresses is something I won't miss, or rather, will probably experience in a completely new way. The most puzzling thing about Abidjan is that there are actually street signs- so many streets are labeled with a mysterious number system that no one ever uses. E678 is at crossroads with E544. I like to imagine how effective it all might be if they were labeled with actual street names, and then I try to imagine what those names would be. It leaves me feeling just slightly nostalgic for the street signs of America. I remember with fondness the names of streets I haunted, streets I avoided and streets that hold memories of more than one kind.
 |
| These signs are everywhere... but no one knows what they mean |
I won't miss the stink of the lagoon just after crossing the bridge (which does have a name.) There is a project to clean it up, but it's been going on for the 3 years I've been here and I haven't noticed much improvement. I wonder if it is actually possible to clean up a body of water- though all the perimeter signs announce a grand partnership and a grand plan for a new vision and a new lagoon. I see what they do in my neighborhood, on the other side of the lagoon and I think there are a million 'sides' to the lagoon. No one is monitoring them all and people continue to be people.
A lot of Abidjan brings me face to face with how people are ruining our planet. I envision us as little parasites running amok, creating disease and bringing damage to our host. The constant building and prevalence of cement are particular soul killers to me.
A friend in Mali has been sending me pictures of the earth there, 'just 15 min. from the school,' he writes. I interpret a pleading desperation to his messages. His words hold a life sustaining quality, as if he is saying, 'just hang in and once you get here you can breathe.' Sometimes he will even count down the weeks for me. I didn't know I needed this.
Oh, but I miss my Kinshasa jungle. I realize that is what made all the difference. There was plenty of building in Kin, plenty of construction and tree chopping. Plenty of garbage strewn streets and trash filled waterways, but being able to retreat to the tranquility of the jungle patch every evening, my eyes drinking in the green, my ears soaking up the sounds of bird calls and night noises, my skin absorbing the rich air....yeah, I can't get that back. An oasis in the middle of the city.
There isn't much that disturbs me about Abidjan. Not the way my frustration and anger rose up at times in Kin- where officials of one rank or another often seemed overly profuse in their stubbornness, eager to create an issue where none really existed for the mere entertainment value (though I always suspected much of this was due to the sheer powerlessness and poverty that people endure, requiring them to seek some small salvation and sense of dignity in whatever exchange they can. As if the manifested power struggle affirmed existence. I influence you, and therefore my presence holds value.)
I think the biggest thing I will not miss is the sense of lethargy and mediocrity that I feel. It is probably important to say that this is potentially a highly personal interpretation of things. But it has been a constant source of frustration. People are satisfied with 'just enough' and I rarely find that push for more, for excellence. I am speaking mostly in terms of the art world and it is fair to say my experience has been limited- although this appears directly linked to the fact that I have not been able to find a situation that meets my stringent criteria.
A neutral observation that doesn't really fit into either category is the prevalence of strikes. There is surely a post to come about this phenomenon, but the power of striking is something the Abidjanais know well. It was one of the first conversations I'd had with the taxi drivers, and it continues to be a presence. Abidjanais have learned how to organize and collectively make their voices heard. They recognize the value and power in this. The numerous strikes haven't yet affected me on a personal level, not much more than an occasional nuisance, which I mentioned once to a taxi driver who immediately admonished me. "The strike is not easy for them, either. But it is important." An obvious reflection I somehow missed. The truth is, sometimes I don't understand how the strikes help, or who they help. Or if they are even effective. But there is no doubt they've become woven into the fabric of the city, a city I don't anticipate missing much as I embark on the next leg of my journey.
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