Despite my best efforts, I can't help but suspect I am experiencing the fluffed up version of Abidjan. I try to remember I have only been here for about 8 months, and a fairly sheltered 8 months at that. I haven't gotten too far beyond my boundaries of daily life which makes me certain there is another Abidjan waiting to be discovered.
Ever in search of dance, I found myself at the national school of arts hoping to connect with a teacher. It was truly an electric place, that school of arts. The sound of djembe music overflowed from a classroom window and engulfed the campus. I could imagine a room full of drummers practicing, playing, learning. I wanted a glimpse of that room. I wanted 15 minutes in there to fill up my soul before continuing on with the ordinariness of my day.
I settled for the registrar's office instead. I was trying to explain myself in rational terms and ignore the reality of how it looked. One 40-ish dread headed white woman with a baby in a wrap looking for dance classes. Desperately. One of the women at the desk recognized me (which actually seems to happen to me a lot despite living in a city where I hardly know anyone.) Turns out she is the mom of one of Mohamed's good friends. We've never met but Mohamed and I look sufficiently enough alike that she took a guess.
In addition to hearing that the boys look like twins (which I can understand) Mohamed and I hear a lot that he is my exact copy (which neither of us really get) but there's the proof. This woman was able to recognize me just because she knows my son. Fun. But I still hadn't secured a dance class.
I was handed off to a random guy who took me across campus, up some stairs and into another office. The office of dance and theater it appeared. I talked briefly with a woman, who took my name and number and promised to call. Apparently they are in the process of setting up a class. Only a few interested students so far.
What I assume is that these are other ex-pat women living in Abidjan. I kind of want to know how to get into the school. I want to study in a high energy class full of Ivorians. I want to learn how they learn. The real deal.
The woman also mentioned an on going salsa class if I want, but there are only 2 people enrolled at the moment. It might be worth checking out. My current class is depressingly unsatisfying. One female instructor who dances the role of the male while the four or five of us just kind of hang out waiting for our turn. I do a lot of solo dancing in there, which would be ok but everyone else is just standing limply while they wait. One week there was a couple in attendance and by default the guy took turns swinging us each around the floor but he was pretty novice himself and the whole thing just felt.....lame. Abidjan light.
It was the same story with my capoeira class. Lacking in intensity and focus. The only sweating I'd done there was due to the heat and not to real physical exertion. I'm trying to go back, just to keep up the practice but it doesn't call me.
I keep thinking how different Africa is without the benefit of a family of artists. Despite feeling lost and lonely, I know it is here. I just have to keep searching. There are secrets to be uncovered.
The arts aren't the only place holding out on me however. Nabih and I went on (yet another) school uniform search. We end up going far and wide paying almost as much in taxi fares as we do for the uniforms themselves. Too much.
I'd gone across town to one of the few stores I know selling uniforms. "Jacques Prevert?" the woman asked, naming a prominent French school in the area. I told her no three times but she kept insisting we were looking for uniforms for that exclusive school. They didn't have any, or didn't have any in Nabih's size and she called their other store (located back on the other side of town, closer to our house, of course.) She let them know I would be coming. "You have a 14 for Jaques Prevert? OK, she's coming. One white woman."
I kind of fumed about my descriptor. I could be so many more things. A woman with 2 kids, woman with an adorable baby, short woman, tall woman, woman in green, woman with large head wrap, but no. I was reduced to the basics. White woman. I wondered if I would be the only white woman in the store. Really? Abidjan is full of etrangers.
Arriving at the mall provided some clarity. It was tucked behind a row of store fronts and completely unrecognizable as a mall from outside. I'd ridden past it a million times and never dreamed there were two stories of boutiques hidden within. Apparently I wasn't alone because several of the stores had 'for sale' signs in the windows.
The mall was nearly deserted and so I figured I would, in fact, be the only white woman to enter Les Cherubins that day. I'd probably be the only person to enter it that week, in fact. The two saleswomen were overjoyed to see us and set about finding several varieties and shades of khaki colored uniforms for Nabih to try on. But what I really wanted to know.....where does everyone else at his school buy their uniforms? Surely they weren't all trekking out to Les Cherubins and paying a whopping 17,000 francs. I know there is fabric to be had and tailors to be sewing but where?where?where? The women didn't answer. They just smiled and shook their heads saying this is where all the students got their uniforms. They then went on to name a bunch of the French schools in the area. None of which I can actually afford. I probably overstepped the line when I said, "But that is for the people with money.I know the people in my neighborhood are not buying their uniforms here." What I really needed to do was ask the people in my neighborhood. The women in the store remained unconvinced that I would be in need of a local solution (to be fair, it was also their job to sell me the clothes.)
What I do know: Adjame is the market where one can find fabric and lower priced goods of any nature. But it's bigger than a market- it's more like a market city. I know I have to go there and wander around one day to find the school fabric and canvas fabric and all the other small things we need but I am overwhelmed at the vastness of the place. I could easily get lost in the maze of streets and vendors and, well, more streets. Just the idea of Adjame is exhausting.
If I ever want to get past Abidjan light and move into Abidjan real than I guess I need to brave it. After all, where is my sense of adventure? Just get dropped off in some random part of the city and start to make sense of it, right? What's so hard about that?
But I am still trying to read Abidjan. It doesn't have the overt sense of class and privilege separation that is prevalent in Kinshasa, but it's here (it's everywhere isn't it?) Just when I am getting comfortable and feeling good in my skin, something subtle happens to wake me up again.
One great example occurred at the marie, the offices for legal papers and documents. I was waiting for them to reopen after lunch and had checked in with a woman to make sure I was in the right place for the papers I needed. She said I was, told me I would need to wait about 15 minutes or so and started off to some office in the back. I made my way out to sit on the sidewalk with the other people.
A few minutes later she was calling me to come down and meet her. I followed her in what is becoming my natural state of confusion. I never know exactly what is going on but hope slowly, eventually things will become clear. She ushered me inside a large air conditioned room and suggested I could wait in here. Aaah. I thanked her and said I preferred to wait outside, no problem.
I pondered this subtle communication of privilege, in exchange for white skin I presume, and wondered what that said about her? I also realized that for a moment I had thought she'd found a clerk returned early and was going to get my paper stamped right away. Though I had rejected the offer to wait in the air conditioned room, I would have easily accepted a stamp on my paper by-passing the line and expediting my wait. So what did that say about me?
In the end all I really know is I am still trying to delve through the layers and figure this city out. And myself. Abidjan is akin to NYC in more than just lay out. The city is alive with people from countries across Africa and Europe. There are plenty of multicultural couples and families, plenty of musicians and artists. I don't know any of them. In my desperation I almost ran after one of those small taxi buses because there was someone in there holding a djembe and beating out a rhythm. It reminded me of the seductive call of the Kinshasa taxi singers, luring me into a random journey based on the beauty of the song.
I didn't run after the taxi, and I haven't yet wandered deep into my cartier at 11 pm when I hear the drums calling. But if I don't find a teacher soon.....I just might. In the meantime, I'll continue looking for the wormhole leading from Abidjan light into Abidjan real.
