I am sure I would have noticed the armed guard even if Mohamed hadn't said, on the way out of the gate, "You see? Noah's security men have guns." Guns? Weapons was a more accurate word from my perspective. A gun is something small that you can fit in your hand or the waistband of your pants. This was slung over the guard's shoulder and at least as long as his arm, from shoulder to fingertips- unlikely to be hidden in a waistband or anywhere else. The purpose of this machine was to be seen and carried with presence.
I wondered what position his father held that warranted armed security at the gate. And as I drove out, I thought for a moment of the family that lived within the walls and the implications of having such high level protection. Nothing to envy. I went home to record that, while my face painting adventure had been aside the wealthy and important, I was happy to be counted among the peasants.
I had responded to a request from a parent to facepaint at her daughter's birthday. Apparently she had seen my work at the annual welcome picnic for school and gotten my number from the organizers. For unknown reasons, I agreed. In some ways, it sounded fun and in other ways, I simply have a hard time saying no. I agreed to transform a bunch of 5-9 year olds into fairy princesses and wall climbing superheroes in exchange for bringing the boys to the party (which I had heard would be a pool party with swimming, good snacks and fun.) I was completely unprepared for what I walked in to.
The house was a short drive down a very small, country type lane. Typically, the houses were all surrounded by large perimeter walls giving nothing away except a number. This particular house was at the complete end of the road. We were graciously welcomed into the drive by friendly security and my breath was immediately taken away.
I have, in my position as teacher and an American, found myself in some relatively high class homes (the American Ambassador has a lovely home, the president of the Board of Education has an equally luxurious and picturesque abode) but this house instantly transported me from Congo to deep in the middle of a romanticized landscape painting. Bordering the drive was a lush, green lawn that sloped and curved down to the house. There were several small, cottage like buildings on the grounds decorated with minature trees and flourishing shrubs. Just to the left, a view of the backyard unfolded and beyond, a scene reminiscent of a traditional village. Women walked down a dusty road as children ran after a rolling tire. The distant muted tones contrasted sharply with the vibrant greens and warm hues of the yard and house. The doorway was arched and lent a Spanish appeal to the entranceway. African masks hung above the door and beveled glass framed each side. I wanted to wander the gardens, snapping photos and reveling in the beauty. It was at once charming and a bit disarming.
I was welcomed into the house by a beautiful, intensely dark African woman (so many of the families here are breathtakingly beautiful.) We had never met and she introduced herself. I complimented her house as unease began to creep up. I was clearly out of my element. We stepped into a stone tiled dining area where several guests were seated, enjoying drinks and snacks. Most of the conversation was in French and I did not recognize anyone, not even the children. Dashed were my images of painting faces amidst running, jumping children and joking with those I might know from school. I was crushed in a massive, nearly painful grip as she introduced her husband, a bald and serious German.
Children being children, the boys were easily swept off to play with one acquaintance from school. I was left to sit alone, unsure how to join in the conversation and wishing only to hide behind my own mask of painted faces. A butler (?!) offered drinks, which I could only decline. The birthday girl appeared, a delicate, golden child framed with luxuriant curly hair and beset with calm, determined eyes. She placed a chair in front of me and sat down expectantly. I took this as a grateful sign to begin and moved her into a more comfortable placement by the stunning, ceiling to floor glass wall. This put some distance between me and the other adults, relieving the pressure and anxiety of my social phobia. I felt distinctly outclassed.
The boys had no trouble relating, however, and made themselves quite at home playing and eating. Mohamed took advantage of the pool which boasted a marble fountain of an African princess holding a calabash. Everywhere I turned, I was confronted with glass French doors, polished tile floors or winding steps leading to small landings equipped with ornate metal benches and chairs. I remained in a state of shock and silence as long I could before making what I hoped was a not too hasty exit.
In searching for the hostess to offer my thanks and farewells, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen. It was a kitchen with a solid, hinged door. The kind that hides a trio of cooks and cleaners. The kind that is not welcoming to strangers or houseguests. It was not a kitchen of warm laughter shared over hot beverages, but one of hushed whispers and silent smiles of service. As full of fairy tale potential the house seemed to be, I, cynically perhaps, sensed a falseness to it all. Perhaps my vision was tainted by the veils of injustice. I felt slightly off balance because I could not quite reconcile how something this exquisite could exist in the middle of such disheartening poverty.
Vero lives up the road about 5 minutes. I am completely aware that at her house there is frequently no water for weeks at a time. She shares a two room flat with 3 other adults and 5 children. Her elderly aunt has moved to an area around the back of the house and sleeps with the rabbits and pigeons she raises. I simply couldn't put the two worlds together and felt ill at the prospect of trying. Oddly enough, I have passed hours at Vero's, reluctant to go home. Yet here, surrounded by oppulence, I couldn't stand another second.
As we passed the armed guards, I thought of the privileged life the three dazzling children and their equally gorgeous parents would continue to lead. I could envision their daily joys and successes and simply wondered why life couldn't be as golden for everyone.
