Ousmane and I spent many a Kinshasa night laughing over words. We had a similar lexicon and it was something of a relief to me to hear he was often as perplexed as I about the way certain words were used. One of my most vivid memories involves l'histoires- a word we knew to mean stories or history. In Kinshasa, this word is also used to describe someone's things. A collection of belongings. As in, I forgot my things at your house or, the real life example, My brother went through all of my l'histoires and stole my identity card.
When I stop to think about it, I see a bit of poetry. (Life always turns poetic after reflecting long enough.) Because don't our belongings, our choice of clothes and books and random assortment of material things, don't these items tell a story about who we are? I am tickled by imagining leaving my 'stories' at your house and running back to get them, scooping up my favorite purple and white striped sweater and my worn out dance pagne and wondering what secrets they'd revealed about me as a person.
Moving to Abidjan has come with a similar need to relearn words for things I thought I already knew. Despite my frustration, I can see how this is building my vocabulary. I now know that when we stand in line waiting for the worro-worros it is called a rang. I'd initially heard this word as rond and I spent days conjuring up all the metaphors I could think of that might explain why we were callling a line a circle. Before useless thoughts of the circuitous routes of taximen and images of commuters as mice in hamster balls dutifully running the circular routines of life got the best of me, I decided there was a more direct logic in play. A little research revealed rang, a word meaning rank or standing, position. A fine and simple explanation for trying to secure the fastest route home. (I really appreciate the organized lines that obliterate the need for pushing and shoving and actually allow the possibility of small talk or sharing an umbrella with a fellow commuter. People don't jump the queue and if you're daydreaming, they'll even offer a friendly reminder that it is your turn as they point you in the right direction.)
So, vocabulary is up, friendliness is up and organization is a plus. What's the problem, right? Well, all this relearning takes time. And involves lots of confusion while it's getting sorted out. And just a hint of frustration. Or maybe more than a hint. Because while I know we are both talking about the store on the corner, I say Orca Deco and the taxi man wants to bring me to Oh'Kah De'Kah. It's like living in Boston.
The major difference being if I need something in Boston there is probably a brick and mortor to supply it. A real live store with a name and an address. While there are plenty of real live stores in Abidjan, addresses end up being a bit less certain. They involve vague references to landmarks or businesses that you may or may not have heard of. Sometimes the directions include an honest admission of brutual truth. "It's complicated to get there. I just have to show you."
I've been looking for gesso, known in Kinsahsa as veneer blanc, and some paints- acrylic preferably, gouache possibly or in reality-anything except oil. I might even consider oil if I could find cleaning material as well. I know it is all here. I know it is not shelved in the brightly lit hardware stores people keep directing me to. These stores are big and beautiful and are the dream link to the missing Home Depot ache I have been nurturing for the past 8 years. But they are not my hometown art store stocked with Reeves, Daler-Rowney or Liquitex. They have everything I need to turn my off-yellow living room walls into a cozy forest green or maybe a deep burgandy, but they do not have what I need to toughen up a piece of fabric and spill my soul in an explosion of color.
The one and only solution is to find a painter and get him or her to reveal their secrets of supply. I do actually know one painter, but I have spent months building up boundaries and setting limits to stave off his more than friendly interest. Asking him to take me to his favorite paint store will surely undo all my efforts at rebuffing him and is likely to send a confusing message.
I am frustrated that simple things need to be uncovered, that my American accent prevents me from adequately expressing myself and that my unique needs (only unique if you're not a painter) require words that keep changing. I want a bucket of gesso, some canvas and a palette of acrylics to choose from. Pictures could help but in my mind I see neat little tubes of paint, and I suspect in reality I will end up in some small, crowded magasin with barely enough room to stand inside and browse through dirty tin cans full of remixed liquids, hints of color overflowing down the sides.
In the meantime, I spend stolen moments in my back alley staring at a large concrete wall trying not to be seduced by the call of spray paint cans sitting patiently on those brightly lit and easy to get to shelves I now know are just a short taxi ride away.
