The man on the porch

 There's a man who sleeps in front of our door every night. We know him, sort of. His name is Pierre and he is our sentinelle, our guard. I wonder often if we need to have a guard, and everyone assures me we do. Living in Africa as a stranger means you need a guard outside your door. I have had a lot of experiences with sentinelles, from those who stay in a guard house near the gate of the property to those who are further away, guarding the entrance to campus. But this time, we live in a house, without a fence or a gate, and so I guess that is what merits this man sleeping just outside our door.

We have a porch with iron bars around the front. It would be a nice porch for sitting on at night and looking across into the sky. But Pierre's grass mat takes up most of the space. He usually begins by sitting on the ground in front of the porch. It's a comical image, this small thin man sitting on his large square mat with the pink house looming behind him. It doesn't seem possible he could be guarding any part of it. 

Most of the guards I have had experience with are often older men who appear somewhat frail. I am always perplexed about the criteria that has propelled them into the position of guard. Pierre came with the house. He is actually a very good guardian. I hear him getting up every few hours, circling the perimeter, shining his light in all the windows, and checking the doors to make sure they're locked. 

I am a very light sleeper and all of Pierre's movements wake me with the rhythm of a newborn. Every two hours the metal gate creaks. I hear his radio emissions, his coughing, and all of the other sounds of humans. I am sure he hears ours. Pierre never gets a day off. He sleeps outside in the rain and in the cool crisp air of the dry season. I have been wondering how to find a solution for this. Of course, it is to hire another guard so they can share hours. I wonder also about Pierre's family, who say goodbye to him every evening and his wife, who sleeps alone every night. 

We need another guard at work, so those sentinelles can also have a day off. I wanted to suggest Pierre switch over to that job. It pays better than I can pay. But then I would be left with the problem of finding someone to stay at my place, in much closer proximity than I am really comfortable with. 

I was pretty convinced for about two weeks that I didn't need a guard. We have metal bars on every window and metal doors with locks and bolts. I thought I could put a padlock on the gate around the porch and call it good. But then I passed a Twitter photo someone had posted after a break in. Their metal window frames had been ripped from the concrete and were hanging loosely like crepe paper after a Halloween raid. Concrete is nowhere near as solid and strong as I had been led to believe. The thing about having no guard is that, if a band of thieves did show up, there is no one to call. There is no emergency 911 or police response team. I would just be here on my own, waiting it out or worse. 

I'd been joking with a colleague about the problem of guards and she recalled a conversation she had with her guard- something about "if I have to kill someone..." to which she said, ooooh no, we're not going that far. But he had slashed someone's leg one time. An intruder trying to get at....whatever is there. Which is really the problem. There's nothing here to take, but no one would assume that. We'd all be getting hurt for nothing. 

Guards in Mali had the same preoccupation, only it was a bit more severe. Terrorist intrusion is a much more probable event in Bamako than I imagine it is here. Of course, you're only imagining until it is real. Suddenly, the unlikely is happening and either you're prepared or not. 

Here I have heard mostly stories of stealing goats or chickens. We don't have either of those. We do have some electronics, and I suppose those are appealing to a potential thief. I am not opposed to Pierre. I do wish he had a place a bit further than the door. On the rare occasion I have to go somewhere at night, he is quick to question me. Am I really explaining my agenda to a strange man on my porch? Yes, at my age, I must still justify why I would be going out in the dark. 

While Pierre seems prepared to tackle night invaders, I have noticed he doesn't consider children part of his duties. The boys often come peering at the windows, asking to be let in, or trying to convince Mbalia to come talk to them. Like everything in Gemena, sometimes it is easy to laugh off and sometimes it is just downright annoying. 

I've come to accept we will have a person sleeping on our porch every night, at least for now. We can aspire to a guard house, or a fence, or even a new house in an entirely new area with a yard and a wall and guards who keep their distance. But you can never really escape the experience of having people in your space, milling about, noticing things, needing things, shining lights randomly in the night. It's part of life in Africa as a stranger. Even after 15 years, I still fall into that category. Even here in the village, I am still not part of life. 

There is one place where we don't have a guard. One place that feels a bit like home. We miss it. Maybe we'll have a chance to get back there soon. For now, we're managing with the man on the porch. 

The Year of Work

Dear Reader,

Are you still there? It may seem I have abandonded you, but take heart, I have not. Each school year presents a theme and this year appears to be the year of work. I fear, at times, these Abidjan years may pass in this hunkering down state of seriousness, which is not at all fun, but I am holding out hope.

I have begun to realize a new relationship with Africa. Our long affair has morphed into a common law marriage. And while I cannot imagine being without her, I do find myself searching for the magic that caused me to fall in love in the first place. It is there, hidden amidst what has become our everyday intimacy.

A few months ago, when I realized how routine we'd gotten- Africa and I- I decided perhaps I should try to take one appealing photo everyday. You can see how that has worked out. I have fallen far short of one everyday, but I did manage to capture a few. Despite this year of work, I am still grateful for many things and occasionally the mundane becomes magical.

 

Sometimes - or really often times- my neighborhood takes on postcard quality.  I am surrounded by the beauty of groups of women in colorful cloth going about their daily chores of life. There is a sense of support and closeness among them that is the inspiration for all those 'carrying water on their heads' postcards and paintings. It's not the water or the feat but the relationship that inspires. (Although I have found myself practicing the head carry more and more, it's just plain convenient- when it's not spine crushing and neck breaking, of course.)

 I find my perspective as audience member for traditional dance shows does not usually match the joy and impression of other viewers. I am a bit more critical and see a lot more "behind the scenes" details that could be improved. I am trying to view this as a result of experience and therefore not a bad thing, but sometimes it would be nice to just be swept away in awe. Guinee....Congo...I am counting on you guys to still hold this power over me...

I pass this sign frequently and usually feel this is exactly what I need. Abidjan has me a little lost at times and it would be so relieving to just call the right number and get a little 'soul adjustment.'

I almost hopped out of the taxi to get a better shot of this key dangling mysteriously from a billboard. I watched for another week or more from my taxi window on the way home each day. Eventually a heavy rain storm washed it away. I still can't help but wonder about the story of it's placement- where did it come from, who placed it there and why? Did they see it as a work of art in just the way I did?

I took this photo one morning because the afternoon before I'd seen a group of boys playing here. They stripped off their shirts and appeared ready to dive in. Really, they just splashed around laughing and having fun like any kids might when faced with what is essentially a giant puddle. I realized there were two eyes to see this with- boys playing in an oversized puddle or poor African kids swimming around in dirty water.  My African eyes almost snapped a picture of sweet joy after a strong rain, but then my Western eyes woke up and asked....how will people really look at that picture? So here is the puddle, sans enfants. Bring your own joy.

A view of the city from the third floor of a school gym where I used to work out on Saturday mronings. This window also overlooks the school pool and entranceway. I used to be so captivated by the luxuriousness of this place. And the reminder that Abidjan is vast. This view also made me a little homesick for Kinshasa, remembering the scene as you drive out of the city towards Bas Congo...vast, a little hazy and promising potential in the suggestion of wild greens ahead.

This photo is from a walk down a busy main road. I had some random time between tutoring jobs and was trying to walk slowly. I stopped here to clean out some phone messages and realized that, although these things are as common as squirrels in NY, they're not squirrrels, and I am not in NY.

My baby girl is growing up thoroughly African. She has a few bad habits, like sucking her teeth and looking at you out of the corner of her eye or throwing her wrappers on the ground- even if she is inside, she will walk to the door and throw it outside in the yard. I am really trying to turn this habit around. But she also has beautiful habits like carrying things on her head, helping wash whatever needs washing (and plenty of things that don't- she just loves water,) wearing babies on her back, laughing long and loud and giving that reassuring smile at just the right moment. She speaks words in at least three languages (four if we include the one none of the rest of us can't quite figure out- her own private language) and my favorite- she loves wrapping fabric around her in the exact perfect way you wrap a pagne, complete with knee bend and waist wiggle.

This one is just for fun. We still go to school together, usually on Sundays. She does something artistic like make a painting or string some beads and I try to catch up on random schoolwork. Or sometimes we just go down the slide. It may not be the beautiful jungles of TASOK, but we still manage to carve out a few moments of fun in this year of work.

african dreams

What's the scariest thing you've ever seen? As a mother some of my most terrifying images are not of things that have actually happened, but of those moments of potential. That breathtaking, heart stopping moment before something happens. As of yet, luck has held us in the potential, and events have turned in such a way that we have managed to avoid calamity. But even now, more than ten years removed from some of those incidents, the imagined vision of what might have been still holds the power to quicken my pulse and cause a sharp intake of breath.

I write "as a mother" but I could easily write "as a woman." Because women are in the unfortunate position of being witness to some of the scariest things. I write that with the idea of war in my mind. I know. Men are most often the ones who go to war, who witness killings and death up close and personal. But if you have lived in the scariest things part of the world, you know what's most often horrifying doesn't come with the chaos of battle. It comes in bright sunlight, when you are least expecting it. It creeps in stealthily with a slow motion that gives you  enough time to imagine the most frightening outcome and all the ways you are powerless to stop it. The scariest things freeze you in that dream state where screams are never voiced and moving with any sense of speed or control becomes a futile effort. The scariest things leave you lingering in that haze long after the day has dawned and dreams have been put to bed.

Sometimes the scariest thing you've seen hasn't really happened. You just wait in anticipation of it. Every moment rigid, every second tense, caught in a perpetual 'flight' mode. Because everyone knows you never escape the monsters in a dream. The only thing you can do is just wake up. And if you're already awake?

An African Fairy Tale

He was on the beach, a place he particularly liked to go in the evenings. Looking out over the ocean off to the horizon inspired a kind of hope in him. Somehow the vastness of the water seemed to bring the rest of the world closer. Anything was possible, and it was possible out there in the world. Somewhere where dreams come true.

It was here on the beach that he met her. Not the woman of his dreams, not his future wife or mother of his children but suitable. Interesting enough for the moment. They shared  laughter, a sunset and visions of their future. One of them reveling in vacation, the other struggling with the day to day.

When the inevitable time came for separation, they reached an agreement. He would meet her back in her country and she would find a place for him to stay. Had, in fact, a place in mind already. An old family hotel, abandoned after the time of Mobutu, raided by the new regime and left empty. The place had recently been returned to and was slowly in the stages of repair. It remained palatial and liveable.

He set up camp there, waiting patiently for a small cook stove and pots to prepare meals with, eating mangoes and bananas in the mean time, turned off of the bland foufou and wary of the unknown sauces simmering in streetside stalls. He told everyone he had arrived to work in the boating industry, having promised to keep his affair under wraps. She was the daughter of a general. A connected family, back in the time.  She's a widow with three grown children scattered around the globe. She has power and influence in this new Kinshasa and she's promised to help this young African man get a step up in life. 

Aside  from the room in the empty palace and living in secret,  their agreement includes the financing of his project- it really does involve a boat of some kind. He was in the fishing sector back home in Dakar. Maybe in a few years he will have enough to set off for Europe, search for a wife, find a small house and begin the next part of his African fairy tale.