Beads of water have formed along my upper lip. Rivulets of perspiration run beneath my clothing. I'm sweating and it's not yet 7:30 in the morning. I'm not surprised as I arrive at work most mornings in a healthy state of exertion.
In fact, I often think what I will remember most about my time in Abidjan is the heat. Logically, I can't seem to work it out. Checking online weather stations doesn't help. Both Kin and Abidjan have similar temperatures. They've each been consistently around 30°. There doesn't seem to be a scientific explanation as to why it feels so much hotter here or why I spend most of my time drenched in sweat.
More time walking outside, brand new baby hormones, no leafy jungle trees to shelter me. Chalk it up to any one of those or numerous other possibilities, I suppose. In the end all I know is what I feel. And I feel hot. It's still raining in Abidjan, but it seems to do little to keep things cool.
The rain here comes with force. Often I can hear it before it falls. The sound of the rain somehow precedes it. Another one of those things that defies logic. In Kinshasa the heat would build to such a degree you knew the rain was inevitable. The pressure was tangible, visible even. After the rain came a sense of relief, of release. Everything was immediately cooler.
In Abidjan the heat builds, but it is a scorching kind of heat. It feels like the desert to me. The rains last longer, fall harder. The cooling feels damp. Some days it is downright cold, relatively, I guess. But I could reach for a wrap or a sweater. They don't come together, the heat and the rain. They seem to each take different days, staying apart from one another. More of a competition rather than the tandem rhythm felt in Kin.
Being that it feels so much hotter here, I wonder why everyone seems so much more laid back about the water bottle situation. Of course, it could just be the French school I am at. The French are pretty much laid back about everything, even drowning babies apparently. In Kinshasa, there seemed to be an entire culture around water. Water bottles made every class supply list. There were big garbage cans filled with water in every building and the same reserve supplies outside our houses. Kids took their bottles to every class, to recess and lunch, necessary companions to all activities.
Which isn't to say the students here don't have water bottles. They do, though I couldn't tell you which ones have and which ones don't. The bottles remain on the periphery. What's missing are the elaborate routines associated with 'making' water, storing water, and simply getting a drink of water. While the water has gone out occasionally since I have been here, it elicits more of an indignant inquiry. "Did you have water this morning??" in stark contrast to the weary resignation of Congo. The question more, "Have you gotten water yet?" or "Are you still without water?" Even worse but nonetheless common, "How long have you been without water?"
A quick search shows Ivory Coast is not without her water problems. But they do have a functioning water company with a pretty impressive website. For the most part, it works. Drinkable water flows from the tap. I've tried to find out if it is really drinkable, but...nothing reliable has turned up. Brochures in the office and on the website claim it is true. I've heard varying degrees of belief in this. We drink it. While we haven't gotten sick, I do sometimes wonder if we aren't being slowly poisoned.
As with many things in Abidjan, there is enough of a middle class to make it happen for most of the people. Rural areas and poorer neighborhoods continue to struggle, but there is a sense of vision, of marching forward in the right direction.
