It's clear to see I've stopped writing. More fearful to me, I wonder if I have stopped seeing. I don't think so, but a morsel of doubt remains. Enough to make me double my efforts in observation.
My summer goal of taking up painting again set me out once more on an adventure in search of materials, more determined this time to learn the names that are constantly changing. Canvas in English, calico in Kinshasa, critonne in Abidjan. I've mastered Adjame, that overflowing ever bustling market city that used to intimidate me- and I use mastered loosely. My sense of direction still mostly consists of hoping to stumble upon whatever I am looking for- though I think I have the fabric district down fairly well. I use mastered mostly to suggest I have overcome my fear of walking the streets and getting lost. That is the adventure part after all, no?
I'm still in search of the local version of gesso, though I have a name and (yet another) lead. But somehow, hopping gbakas and woro-woros and finally succumbing to over priced orange taxis was less of an inspiration than I remember. In Kinshasa, I had a blog post or two filling my mind with all the sights and interactions. But today- a Friday- I noticed only how the Muslim beggars suddenly had more children sleeping near them on the plastic mats they place street side. I wanted to scoop those children up and get them someplace quiet, someplace clean. I wanted to admonish the surprisingly well dressed women for even bringing them out there. The hurt has always been there, but the anger? It's something new.
Our journey started out amiably enough. We accosted a painter in his outdoor studio and grilled him with questions about what and where we could find materials. He was friendly enough and helpful enough and even accepted my (rather rude?) self-invitation to come back and paint together. There was such a beautiful breeze and so much greeness surrounding him in the vacant lot. I am nearly desperate to find that artistic connection again. I may have been a little forward.
We followed his advice only to end up across town at exactly 12:00- siesta time apparently. The store, the only store that sells the one thing I need, is closed from 12-2. What to do? We sat for a bit, talking with workers strolling aimlessly about on their 2 hour break. I refused to believe it could be this difficult.
Eventually, they sent us off to (impossibly) another hardware store- we'd already spent the previous day in Adjame following false leads. I tried to be more positive and less doubtful, though it got harder with every short-cut turn the driver took, leading us deeper into side street villages tucked unsuspectingly behind city storefronts.
When the driver finally announced our arrival in front of an unremarkable corner quincaillerie much like all the other hardware stores we'd visited, I tried to hold out hope. There was a row of women (and a few men) sitting in chairs along one side of the opening. Ousmane remarked on their style of dress, guessing them to be Guineen. His plethora of West African languages often comes in handy when navigating shopping stalls, bargaining for fruit prices or even changing a dull taxi ride into one of brotherhood.
The people along the entrance didn't look friendly though. They looked regal. I'm not sure if it was Ramadan, or Friday, or Friday and Ramadan or just regular regal wear for them but they were definitely dressed in their best. And it's not that I didn't notice it, it's just the way I noticed it. Later. After I was inspecting paint cans and wondering what trap eau meant exactly. I did admire one man's cap, sitting at an angle on his head, and the embroidery that lends the royal air to so much of Guineen clothing design. But my admiration was buried under my frustration and hunger and disenchantment. I forgot to see the beauty first. I forgot to look with writer's eyes and find the story.
Too often lately I have been forgetting.
