I spent the month of January immersed in mystery novels from the 1800's- escaping my woes or preparing for the debut of my own novel, depending on which lens you prefer to view things. I have mentioned already that I did try to read with a 'writer's eye' in order to add some viable worth to all those hours I spent tucked away with my kindle.
In the end, I felt as though all I picked up was some out-of-date slang and an insatiable urge to go to a diner. Around this time, a Facebook friend, one of those fabled we-were-friends-in-high-school-let's-be-friends-again-now-that-we're-grown started posting about how much she missed the diners in NY. Diners we had grown up around and passed all of our childhood milestones in. Celebrating football wins, sharing gossip, cutting school, enjoying a midnight snack and devouring a 3 am breakfast.
Diners were for getting warm on winter nights and nursing a cup of $1.00 coffee for hours while pondering the big ideas about life. They were places to meet people and avoid people. I could be just as likely to be found sitting alone in a booth with a sketch pad as surrounded by a group of friends. A fine place to be anonymous, catch snippets of other peoples' conversations and imagine what life would be like if.....
Coincidentally, I recently ran across this article in the BBC about American diners. It's not the first time they have written about diners and American life. Apparently the subject is popular enough to warrant a second run. While searching for that first article I came across this one from 2011. The two are quite similar but I remembered the line about a diner being a great place to bring two characters together- mentioned in the 2015 article and not in the 2011.
Turns out my nostalgia for not only the food but the mood of a US diner stems from a storyteller's cheap trick. It's not just the American in me but the writer in me. I can wrap this up by saying, finally, I might have proof that those hours were not wasted. Words for a smaller book have been flowing through my mind and this soccer holiday (yes, jours fériés, for winning the cup) might be the perfect chance to put them to type.
9.2.15
7.2.15
Kinshasa-esque
Its been a long time since I had a good traffic story. The roads just don't run that way here in Abidjan, and maybe I spend a bit less time in a car as well. The roads are so well organized here that I have even caught myself telling a taxi driver to be more cautious (or whatever he interprets from my impassioned- "S'il vous plait!")
Today however I have a bona fide traffic story to share. We were on our way to see Mohamed, who has been in the hospital with a nasty case of malaria that won't seem to go away. The clinic is downtown and costs a billion dollars to get to. The commute, which might be short in my own car, feels long in a cab.
Our driver was swiftly speeding there when a cop on a motorcycle turned his bike to place it in front of us, thereby blocking our path. He got off the bike, came to the window, grabbed the drivers license and then sped off. The taxi followed suit and pulled over where indicated. The driver got out of the vehicle and went to meet the officer. (On our way home a different taxi driver was listening to a series on the radio that was presenting satire on this very arrangement. I hadn't ever really considered the difference between here and Europe or the US, where the police approach the vehicle. Here, you must approach the cop. mal garée ou quoi.)
Some exchange took place and before long we were speeding off again. But then, events took a different turn. The same cop passed us and the driver sped up honking his horn as he passed the police officer. A few seconds later, he pulled off the side of the road and turned to go back to where the officer had stopped.
I should mention, at this point, that we were on a four lane thruway - the type with a concrete divider down the middle, very American, very unable to make a U-turn and be on the right side of the road. When I say he turned around, I mean he turned around into oncoming traffic and sped towards the police officer on the wrong side of the road- with 3 lanes of traffic coming at us. Just like Kinshasa except not really because Kinshasa doesn't even have 4 lane highways (that small stretch on the way to the airport perhaps.) The most you could see coming at you directly is one car in the wrong lane,with maybe a line behind it, but not usually. Usually it's one or two rogue drivers.
In this case, we were the rogue driver and there was a whole battalion of cars coming our way. The story doesn't end there, naturally. We pulled up alongside the cop and the driver got out. He paid 2000franc, received a receipt with official looking stamp and his permit.
I asked him what the infraction was and he said the police officer informed him he should have turned with the light, back at the intersection, and not whatever shortcut he apparently took.
"But it's ok you drove the wrong way down the road just now? He didn't say anything about that?"
"Oh, no," he laughed. "That's nothing, but he, he is a voleur. He wanted 2000 for my permit . Voleur." And he shook his head while I marveled at the logic of it all.
Today however I have a bona fide traffic story to share. We were on our way to see Mohamed, who has been in the hospital with a nasty case of malaria that won't seem to go away. The clinic is downtown and costs a billion dollars to get to. The commute, which might be short in my own car, feels long in a cab.
Our driver was swiftly speeding there when a cop on a motorcycle turned his bike to place it in front of us, thereby blocking our path. He got off the bike, came to the window, grabbed the drivers license and then sped off. The taxi followed suit and pulled over where indicated. The driver got out of the vehicle and went to meet the officer. (On our way home a different taxi driver was listening to a series on the radio that was presenting satire on this very arrangement. I hadn't ever really considered the difference between here and Europe or the US, where the police approach the vehicle. Here, you must approach the cop. mal garée ou quoi.)
Some exchange took place and before long we were speeding off again. But then, events took a different turn. The same cop passed us and the driver sped up honking his horn as he passed the police officer. A few seconds later, he pulled off the side of the road and turned to go back to where the officer had stopped.
I should mention, at this point, that we were on a four lane thruway - the type with a concrete divider down the middle, very American, very unable to make a U-turn and be on the right side of the road. When I say he turned around, I mean he turned around into oncoming traffic and sped towards the police officer on the wrong side of the road- with 3 lanes of traffic coming at us. Just like Kinshasa except not really because Kinshasa doesn't even have 4 lane highways (that small stretch on the way to the airport perhaps.) The most you could see coming at you directly is one car in the wrong lane,with maybe a line behind it, but not usually. Usually it's one or two rogue drivers.
In this case, we were the rogue driver and there was a whole battalion of cars coming our way. The story doesn't end there, naturally. We pulled up alongside the cop and the driver got out. He paid 2000franc, received a receipt with official looking stamp and his permit.
I asked him what the infraction was and he said the police officer informed him he should have turned with the light, back at the intersection, and not whatever shortcut he apparently took.
"But it's ok you drove the wrong way down the road just now? He didn't say anything about that?"
"Oh, no," he laughed. "That's nothing, but he, he is a voleur. He wanted 2000 for my permit . Voleur." And he shook his head while I marveled at the logic of it all.
5.2.15
Garbage Grove
I've traded in my morning walk through the jungle for a jaunt down noisy city streets. There are people everywhere making their morning commute- walking, biking, riding in cars. There are roosters crowing and cows lowing. Motorcycles whizz by and taxis honk intermittenly.
It's not the serene quietness of the botanical garden I used to live in, but it can emit its own pleasure at times. There are a few spots where my nose is assaulted by horrific odors from the sewage and my vision is besieged by piles of garbage along the roadside, just as there are a few spots where the palm tress sway with grace and the skyline hosts a red rose sun. If I turn my gaze to the left at just the right moment I can see the sandy beach leading up to the water of the lagoon. From my distance it is as beckoning as the ocean.
Trees have always held a special allure for me and I spend quite a bit of time examining the palms and their fruits. I keep track (loosely) of the banana bunches and wonder who will ultimately pick them and whether they will be for sale or if someone will have the immediate pleasure of snacking on the sweet fruit.
It was with shock then, and sadness, that as I passed one day I noticed the trees had all been chopped down. The bananas hadn't merely been harvested, the small groove had been dessicated. The palm leaves appeared to have been chewed up and spit out. The trunks hacked into and left bare and exposed to the sun.
I took it as a metaphor for how my new year has been progressing. I am my own worst enemy here in Abidjan, and I am a formidable foe. I have battled my thoughts, been stunned by my emotional reactions and become paralyzed in my physical expression. No part of the normal me escaped the supervillan me unscathed. Not this January. It was a heck of a month. So it seemed fitting, just perfect, exactly like my world to walk by one day and see one small bright spot in my morning destroyed.
Except a few days ago I was walking by, lost in my thoughts when I looked up suddenly to a surprising sight. The banana stumps had all sprouted beautiful, bright green shoots. I stopped in my tracks and just watched them, unfurling with new life in the hazy morning light. I was breathless. I wondered how and when the new shoots had blossemed and gotten so tall. Maybe it happened over the weekend? But really, where was I and how could I miss something so grand?
Among my better qualities is a strong sense of justice. If I had been willing to accept the ruined banana grove as a metaphor for my life, then I was obliged, by default, to accept the baby shoots springing forth out of the garbage as a sign of something too. And it is February. Things are definitely looking better this month. I'm not going to go too much farther ahead than that.
It's not the serene quietness of the botanical garden I used to live in, but it can emit its own pleasure at times. There are a few spots where my nose is assaulted by horrific odors from the sewage and my vision is besieged by piles of garbage along the roadside, just as there are a few spots where the palm tress sway with grace and the skyline hosts a red rose sun. If I turn my gaze to the left at just the right moment I can see the sandy beach leading up to the water of the lagoon. From my distance it is as beckoning as the ocean.
Trees have always held a special allure for me and I spend quite a bit of time examining the palms and their fruits. I keep track (loosely) of the banana bunches and wonder who will ultimately pick them and whether they will be for sale or if someone will have the immediate pleasure of snacking on the sweet fruit.
It was with shock then, and sadness, that as I passed one day I noticed the trees had all been chopped down. The bananas hadn't merely been harvested, the small groove had been dessicated. The palm leaves appeared to have been chewed up and spit out. The trunks hacked into and left bare and exposed to the sun.
I took it as a metaphor for how my new year has been progressing. I am my own worst enemy here in Abidjan, and I am a formidable foe. I have battled my thoughts, been stunned by my emotional reactions and become paralyzed in my physical expression. No part of the normal me escaped the supervillan me unscathed. Not this January. It was a heck of a month. So it seemed fitting, just perfect, exactly like my world to walk by one day and see one small bright spot in my morning destroyed.
Except a few days ago I was walking by, lost in my thoughts when I looked up suddenly to a surprising sight. The banana stumps had all sprouted beautiful, bright green shoots. I stopped in my tracks and just watched them, unfurling with new life in the hazy morning light. I was breathless. I wondered how and when the new shoots had blossemed and gotten so tall. Maybe it happened over the weekend? But really, where was I and how could I miss something so grand?
Among my better qualities is a strong sense of justice. If I had been willing to accept the ruined banana grove as a metaphor for my life, then I was obliged, by default, to accept the baby shoots springing forth out of the garbage as a sign of something too. And it is February. Things are definitely looking better this month. I'm not going to go too much farther ahead than that.
 |
| One lovely, banana leaf unfurling |
 |
| Banana grove surrounded by garbage and remnants of the trees that used to be |
Full Credit
The student sat down next to my desk; a cheerful girl still struggling at times with English. I asked her if she was ready for the comprehension questions part of the evaluation. She'd had some time to review the book and said she was ready. I asked the first question twice because she wasn't quite clear and I knew the answer could be found directly in the book. I'd wanted to make sure she understood what was being asked. When I got to the second question, she answered that one wrong as well. The third question,"What do plants need to survive?" she answered, "Water, sun and.....love?"
It hadn't mentioned those words exactly in the book but, could I really mark her wrong? It was almost an answer plus! The teacher part of me that is rooting for the students' success often grapples with questions like these. It didn't say it directly, but it is true...so, can't that count for something? Unfortunately, as a textbased question, it really can't. I turned to her, still feeling the delight of her response but exasperated at her lack of correct answers. "Are you sure you read the book carefully? All of it?" I asked.
"Yes, I read my book, Living Together." Ha! I'd been asking the questions for the wrong book. She never pointed this out, just did her best to come up with the right answers. And she really did. Full credit- water, sun and love. That's all I need to survive too.
It hadn't mentioned those words exactly in the book but, could I really mark her wrong? It was almost an answer plus! The teacher part of me that is rooting for the students' success often grapples with questions like these. It didn't say it directly, but it is true...so, can't that count for something? Unfortunately, as a textbased question, it really can't. I turned to her, still feeling the delight of her response but exasperated at her lack of correct answers. "Are you sure you read the book carefully? All of it?" I asked.
"Yes, I read my book, Living Together." Ha! I'd been asking the questions for the wrong book. She never pointed this out, just did her best to come up with the right answers. And she really did. Full credit- water, sun and love. That's all I need to survive too.
2.2.15
Moringa
Despite my tremendous impression with the organization of most public sector services in Abidjan, banking fails to make the grade. It is a serious exercise in patience, perseverance and human will power. Withdrawing cash can take anywhere from one to two hours. I try to be prepared for the wait but my mind deceives me every time, planting a hopeful seed that this time, it won't be so long. My only surprise is that its even longer than it was last time.
The bank officially closes at 2:30 but it was nearly 3:30 before I left there, as one of the last customers. I won't even mention what time I arrived. School gets out at 1:00 however, so there's a fine clue. There are only 12 seats in the small reception room and they get shuffled around as people rotate from standing to sitting trying to escape the boredom and the overly chilly air conditioning, an obvious necessity to keep tempers from rising.
I spend my time trying to figure out exactly what takes so long. Upon entering the bank you must fill out your deposit or withdrawal slip and submit your ID. After that you look for a cozy place and catch up on any text messages or try to beat your high score on whatever games you have installed on your phone. Or just gaze around at the other people who come in. Or watch the security guard respond to the endless buzzing of the double door theft prevention system. Up to 20 people can be waiting and no one is moving. There's no line, there's no noise and there's no way to gauge how much closer you are to being served. It's maddening. Every so often a deep sigh from a fellow waiter lets me know I am not alone in my frustration. Eventually the clerk comes back and starts calling names, asking for the triple signatures needed and dispersing money. By the time I walk back out into the heat and sunshine of the day, I feel as if I have jumped time. I am no longer sure which day it actually is or what errands I had intended to do afterward. I'm slightly dizzy and spend a few minutes reminding myself what my name is and what's my function in life.
The electric company, on the other hand, has quite an efficient and entertaining system of managing it's lines. It starts with the entrance. The front of the building is orange. Bright, neon, day-glow orange. There is a black poster highlighting the name and service of the company but all I can see when I glance at is the cinema. It appears more like I am about to go to the movies and I am slightly surprised not to find a snack counter offering salty popcorn and cold drinks when I enter.
The first waiting is room is huge and rectangular. There are a billion chairs in there (kind of like a movie theater only not as cushy.) The people are seated in organized rows in order of appearance. As small groups are admitted to the second waiting room, everyone gets up and moves to the now empty seats in front of them. In a very orderly fashion. Mob control at its finest. An oversize a/c at the front of the room blasts us with arctic air.
And what do we do while we are waiting? Stare around mindlessly? Play games on our phones? Surely not! The fine folks at CIE provide some educational entertainment- a live infomercial, in fact. The man who is keeping all of us so organized in our chairs and making sure we move up in just the right order is also providing a basic service. On my most recent visit he was selling moringa products. Moringa is all the rage - as well it should be. I first came across this amazing tree in Congo when I was told about its ability to clean water and provide much needed nutrients for the malnourished. At the time I wondered why everyone didn't know about this natural cure all.
Apparently in Ivory Coast, the word is out. Moringa products are everywhere. Powders, lotions, soaps and oils. And the guy at CIE was ready to tell us about all of them. Not only did he provide background information on all of the benefits ( everything from making your hair grow, cleaning your skin, adding vitamins to your diet and quick healing in times of sickness,) he also had the goods for sale. Right there in the waiting room. He started off with soap for 500 franc and moved on to a small bottle of oil for 1000. He cleverly worked into his spiel a bit about moringa giving you patience and helping you feel refreshed, both of which we, as a trapped audience, were sorely in need of. He whipped out small candies for 100 franc and that's when people started rummaging through their pockets in search of loose change. Brilliant.
It didn't end there however. He also had other remedies for sale, medicines to fight tapeworm- which he introduced by giving us the scientific process of how the tapeworm lives, replicates and successfully poisons our systems. He tossed out symptoms- which we were all starting to feel right about then, naturally- and magically produced a few bottles from his black bag.
By that time I had nearly advanced to the front of the room, mere steps away from the second waiting room. There are no chairs in stage 2. One is greeted again with Ivory Coast orange- bright, brilliant and covering every square inch of visible space (ok, so maybe the floor is not orange but the walls are so overwhelming you can hardly be bothered to notice what color the floor is.) I grabbed onto a green iron handrail for support. Its like being at the fun house.
Lines in the second waiting room move rapidly. Everyone is cheerful and polite. By the time I step out into the heat and the sunshine I feel invigorated and ready to tackle whatever errands are left in my program. What's that? All I have to do is go home? Its fairly disappointing to realize this as I am ready to go dancing. There are always a small group of vendors in the parking lot outside, selling everything from socks to belts to maps. I am giddy enough to look too long and become tempted to buy something. We always need socks at my house.
In the end, I grab a taxi and head home, wondering if they hadn't added a little moringa powder to the a/c unit blowing out cold air in that first waiting room. I vow to start eating the leaves from the two trees in my little yard and ponder the business opportunities as my orange taxi makes its way down busy city streets.
Telema!
While I am busy collecting notes on my neighbors and words of wisdom from my growing boys, their is one voice that's missing. My favorite poet. Since Congo has lost all ability to send and receive texts messages, my conversations with Christian have waned. Feeling so far apart and unconnected, coupled with my other woes, has sent me spiraling into despair on more than one occasion.
As a result, I have thought more frequently of those who live in a constant state of isolation (North Koreans) and of those whose contact with the greater world is intermittent (villagers, third world dwellers, poverty stricken humans.) Even here in the capital, phone service can be reduced at times to nothing more than a frustrating (albeit somewhat sexy) French voice letting you know your call just can't go through right now. I have spent a sick day or two feeling trapped in my home, unable to call a friend for help- only getting through after hours of repeated dialing and sending the boys out to the phone cabin where reception is possibly .5% better.
But I wasn't dying (or, at least, I didn't die) and for folks in Kinshasa the situation is surely more serious. Aside from the fact that there isn't a local emergency number to begin with, communication with friends and family is severely limited. And receiving news from outside the country? Hard, hard and harder.
Its not just about finding out what is going on out there in the wide world, or letting those you love know you're ok (or not ok, as the case may be,) but it is more about making sure the world is aware of what's going on inside. Witnesses. There is nothing comparable to the feeling that no one can see you and no one cares. Or even KNOWS what your reality is.
Telema is a website launched in response to the recent events in the country. It is a continuation of the efforts to educate the masses, educate the youth, mobilize the people. While "the Congolese issue is an African issue" and ultimately a world issue, the real power to change things starts and stops with the Congolese themselves.
Its hard to be so far away and still feel like I am lending my full support. But there it is, using my art to spread the word. One small thing I can do right now- hoping to find more small things leading to an avalanche in the future. Its all coming, slowly, slowly. |Sure would be a lot easier if I had the words of my poet to sustain me.
As a result, I have thought more frequently of those who live in a constant state of isolation (North Koreans) and of those whose contact with the greater world is intermittent (villagers, third world dwellers, poverty stricken humans.) Even here in the capital, phone service can be reduced at times to nothing more than a frustrating (albeit somewhat sexy) French voice letting you know your call just can't go through right now. I have spent a sick day or two feeling trapped in my home, unable to call a friend for help- only getting through after hours of repeated dialing and sending the boys out to the phone cabin where reception is possibly .5% better.
But I wasn't dying (or, at least, I didn't die) and for folks in Kinshasa the situation is surely more serious. Aside from the fact that there isn't a local emergency number to begin with, communication with friends and family is severely limited. And receiving news from outside the country? Hard, hard and harder.
Its not just about finding out what is going on out there in the wide world, or letting those you love know you're ok (or not ok, as the case may be,) but it is more about making sure the world is aware of what's going on inside. Witnesses. There is nothing comparable to the feeling that no one can see you and no one cares. Or even KNOWS what your reality is.
Telema is a website launched in response to the recent events in the country. It is a continuation of the efforts to educate the masses, educate the youth, mobilize the people. While "the Congolese issue is an African issue" and ultimately a world issue, the real power to change things starts and stops with the Congolese themselves.
Its hard to be so far away and still feel like I am lending my full support. But there it is, using my art to spread the word. One small thing I can do right now- hoping to find more small things leading to an avalanche in the future. Its all coming, slowly, slowly. |Sure would be a lot easier if I had the words of my poet to sustain me.
1.2.15
Snippets
All advice for aspiring writers includes carrying a notebook around to record bits and pieces of conversations and random observations of daily life. Supposedly these things will come in handy for character development and make for richer scene settings.
Since my kids were just learning to talk I have maintained a penchant for recording their cutisms. I wrote down a conversation between Mohamed and a tea bag and another discussion he had with his macaroni and cheese and veggie dog about where they were allowed, exactly, to sit on his plate. I recorded all the fun non words that we understood as substitutions for real words and a ton of Sussu words he preferred over the English for at least the first three years of life. It makes for some of our favorite reading.
Happily, the boys continue to delight me with snippets of their conversations. I'll include a few of those here before I share a longer conversation between two random callers at my gate. Ivorian snippets, I guess we could call them. But first, the boys:
Advice about the baby is hugely popular in my house right now. I often feel as if she has several fathers looking out for her well being and the boys aren't shy at all about sharing their opinions on baby care best practices. My favorite is overhearing their conversations between each other, one of them inevitably speaking as an "expert" to the other. To be fair, the advice is often pretty decent. Mbalia is a pretty good sleeper and usually sleeps through our morning routine. Occasionally she wakes up before we leave though, giving us a chance to sneak in some baby kisses before school. One morning we heard baby sounds coming from the bedroom and Nabih went off to investigate. "Make her laugh before you pick her up." Mohamed called this piece of sweet advice out to Nabih and it seems like such good logic. Shouldn't we all enjoy a little laugh before rising to meet our day?
Taxi rides home from our weekly visit to a friend are another great place to pick up snippets. One Sunday evening, Mohamed was telling us about a girl in his class. "Yeah, she's like my older sister. This girl in 4eme who is always buying me snacks." At which point Nabih interrupts and asks the ultimate test question. "Do you let her touch your hair?" Apparently their hair is all the rage at school and both boys and girls alike suffer the urge to ruffle their curls. It drives both of them mad. Mohamed has already given his younger brother the good advice to "never let them know how much it bothers you," even as he was boasting that his close friends will jump on anyone who comes too close with that certain gleam in their eye. "Don't touch his hair man. Seriously."
Our house is pretty quiet. We have few visitors and even fewer unexpected visitors. Occasionally, however, there comes a knock at our door and a chance for some impromptu conversation. On this particular evening it was the garbage collector looking for the monthly payment. There was a little confusion about the bill from last month and so I started asking some questions. At this moment, the landlord happened to be passing by and inserted himself into the discussion. I know he had the best intentions, but what followed was a circular conversation that began with the monthly price (currently 2000 franc, which, according to him, should be a mere 1000 franc) and then moved on to his opinion of the NGO's, who give the material (such as the motos and tractors for picking up the garbage) which resulted in the youth- who were the intended recipients of such "gifts" meant to create jobs for them- actually getting pushed out of the business by others who sold the materials. And that's theft, he concluded.
He then steered the conversation into a debate about who was at fault for the state of the country - the Ivoriennes themselves and not the Europeans, according to his calculations. And me? I am listening from my doorway, trying to insert all the proper "ehs," agreeable head nods and little laughs trying to figure out how this conversation will (ever) end. The young garbage collector however, he knows exactly what to say. After initially trying a logical response to the questions of the monthly fees and agreeing partially about what is good for the country he lapsed into interactive listening, much as I had. During a brief lull he responded, "Merci Papa, vous avez raison," essentially deferring to the logic of the elder.
By this time, the conversation had expanded to include the practice of allowing huge trucks to pass through during the day and laws that (should? already do but aren't enforced?) require road work to be done at night so as to avoid long traffic backups in the middle of the day. This clearly connects to the tax on cigarettes and alcohol, vices not necessary to life and therefore the government has decreed the taxes from those behaviors should go to pay for other needed social service, like garbage pick up. And voila, raison pour laquelle the price should be 1000 franc and not 2000.
A few more Merci Papas and the landlord was on his way, although not before informing us all that he only stopped by because he knows I am here alone without family. What he actually said was, "if she calls, I come running to help her because she has no parents to call on and you never know when my children might be 'over there'- < referring to Europe or the US>- and in need of some neighborly help." A fine idea.
He went on his way and I continued trying to understand my receipts up to the current. After answering my questions mostly to my satisfaction I couldn't resist trying for that discount that started it all. "How about that 1000 franc, eh?" This time the conversation was easy enough to end with a laugh from both of us.
Since my kids were just learning to talk I have maintained a penchant for recording their cutisms. I wrote down a conversation between Mohamed and a tea bag and another discussion he had with his macaroni and cheese and veggie dog about where they were allowed, exactly, to sit on his plate. I recorded all the fun non words that we understood as substitutions for real words and a ton of Sussu words he preferred over the English for at least the first three years of life. It makes for some of our favorite reading.
Happily, the boys continue to delight me with snippets of their conversations. I'll include a few of those here before I share a longer conversation between two random callers at my gate. Ivorian snippets, I guess we could call them. But first, the boys:
Advice about the baby is hugely popular in my house right now. I often feel as if she has several fathers looking out for her well being and the boys aren't shy at all about sharing their opinions on baby care best practices. My favorite is overhearing their conversations between each other, one of them inevitably speaking as an "expert" to the other. To be fair, the advice is often pretty decent. Mbalia is a pretty good sleeper and usually sleeps through our morning routine. Occasionally she wakes up before we leave though, giving us a chance to sneak in some baby kisses before school. One morning we heard baby sounds coming from the bedroom and Nabih went off to investigate. "Make her laugh before you pick her up." Mohamed called this piece of sweet advice out to Nabih and it seems like such good logic. Shouldn't we all enjoy a little laugh before rising to meet our day?
Taxi rides home from our weekly visit to a friend are another great place to pick up snippets. One Sunday evening, Mohamed was telling us about a girl in his class. "Yeah, she's like my older sister. This girl in 4eme who is always buying me snacks." At which point Nabih interrupts and asks the ultimate test question. "Do you let her touch your hair?" Apparently their hair is all the rage at school and both boys and girls alike suffer the urge to ruffle their curls. It drives both of them mad. Mohamed has already given his younger brother the good advice to "never let them know how much it bothers you," even as he was boasting that his close friends will jump on anyone who comes too close with that certain gleam in their eye. "Don't touch his hair man. Seriously."
Our house is pretty quiet. We have few visitors and even fewer unexpected visitors. Occasionally, however, there comes a knock at our door and a chance for some impromptu conversation. On this particular evening it was the garbage collector looking for the monthly payment. There was a little confusion about the bill from last month and so I started asking some questions. At this moment, the landlord happened to be passing by and inserted himself into the discussion. I know he had the best intentions, but what followed was a circular conversation that began with the monthly price (currently 2000 franc, which, according to him, should be a mere 1000 franc) and then moved on to his opinion of the NGO's, who give the material (such as the motos and tractors for picking up the garbage) which resulted in the youth- who were the intended recipients of such "gifts" meant to create jobs for them- actually getting pushed out of the business by others who sold the materials. And that's theft, he concluded.
He then steered the conversation into a debate about who was at fault for the state of the country - the Ivoriennes themselves and not the Europeans, according to his calculations. And me? I am listening from my doorway, trying to insert all the proper "ehs," agreeable head nods and little laughs trying to figure out how this conversation will (ever) end. The young garbage collector however, he knows exactly what to say. After initially trying a logical response to the questions of the monthly fees and agreeing partially about what is good for the country he lapsed into interactive listening, much as I had. During a brief lull he responded, "Merci Papa, vous avez raison," essentially deferring to the logic of the elder.
By this time, the conversation had expanded to include the practice of allowing huge trucks to pass through during the day and laws that (should? already do but aren't enforced?) require road work to be done at night so as to avoid long traffic backups in the middle of the day. This clearly connects to the tax on cigarettes and alcohol, vices not necessary to life and therefore the government has decreed the taxes from those behaviors should go to pay for other needed social service, like garbage pick up. And voila, raison pour laquelle the price should be 1000 franc and not 2000.
A few more Merci Papas and the landlord was on his way, although not before informing us all that he only stopped by because he knows I am here alone without family. What he actually said was, "if she calls, I come running to help her because she has no parents to call on and you never know when my children might be 'over there'- < referring to Europe or the US>- and in need of some neighborly help." A fine idea.
He went on his way and I continued trying to understand my receipts up to the current. After answering my questions mostly to my satisfaction I couldn't resist trying for that discount that started it all. "How about that 1000 franc, eh?" This time the conversation was easy enough to end with a laugh from both of us.
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