Impermanence

Houses can be made of anything from cow dung, which has multiple uses,   these chic houses made of mud, wood or concrete.  Apparently you can even 3D print a house (I have tried repeatedly to grasp the idea behind the 3D printer and have as yet been unsuccessful.)

Being a former NY girl, I am mostly familiar with wood construction. And drywall- the stuff between the wood that makes up the walls. You can easily put a nail in drywall. As opposed to concrete. You can put a nail in concrete, just not easily. Concrete seems to be the material of choice here in Abidjan (actually touted at this school- yes, a school for concrete- as "the most commonly used building material on the planet" of which "most of the infrastructure of modern civilization has been built with...")  Seeing the signs of construction all around has completely changed my idea of the material.

Previously, I'd considered concrete to be a strong, permament material. Solid. In Congo, there were often piles of rubble- results of police coming along to tear buildings down. I'd look at those piles of rubble and think only solidly of how destroyed that building was. Mostly because I'd had little chance to see the opposite side of things- the building up. Now I know that buildings go up as easily as they can come down- and that all kinds of changes can be made in the middle process. Modifications, additions. Nothing is ever really as permament as it seems.

The first clue that someone is planning a bit of home remodeling is the twin piles- sand and rock. Streets in my neighborhood are often crowded with piles such as these just outside the gates. I've come to understand that even those things which give the appearance of being indestructible and everlasting may be operating under a faux persona.  It's forced me to see with new eyes, noticing the impermanence  underlying even the most substanial of things.

A sand pile signifies construction

There had been twin piles here but the rock one is already gone

A major remodeling job- the gate is torn down.
They are getting a second story as well as interior work.

They had twin piles, gone now. Appear to be getting a second
 story over the garage. Work is halted, another common sight.

The remanents of a stone pile

Square doors, round windows

Bamboo supports, always bamboo supports

These bamboo supports look like a work of art

A finished apartment building next to an empty lot. Abidjan is
 filled withsights like this- open country pierced by one
 odd brand new building in the middle of it all

Scaffolding

Interior bamboo supports

An "older" building next to one in the process of going up

Rubble- this used to be a house in the process of "going up"
Several houses in this neighborhood of construction were marked.
The police showed up and knocked them all down for non payment of taxes.
It won't be long before they are cleared away and built back up again.

People who were already living here (or squatting, I can never
actually figure this out- early renters? or just hanging around
 until the real renters show up?) have to find a new place to live.
Some of their things can be seen amidst the rubble

Men Urinating.

Empty beaches?  Historic slave trade sites? Colorful marketplaces? What’s the most iconic symbol of West Africa? Tourist attractions aside, I am voting for the urinating man. Nothing says West Africa like a man peeing on the side of the road. 

I’ve spent a lot of time considering this problem. (Apparently I am not alone) It’s a common sight to see INTERDIT DE URINER scrawled across walls along the roadway.  It does little to deter the masses who persist. I’ve had the experience (more than once!) of having a taxi driver stop to pee, en route.  I guess he just couldn’t hold it in anymore. Sometimes I wonder if it is akin to small children who  want to use the restroom in any new building or restaurant they go in. Maybe there are certain walls or tree lined areas that emit a man-only detectable siren “Pee here! Pee here!”

Perhaps it has that collective quality. Seeing someone else pee suddenly awakens the urge and requires one to stop and urinate as well. Or maybe it’s more like a wolf marking its territory.

The question most on my mind, however, is what do all the women do? I take it as proof of man as the inferior species. Women are never spotted peeing on the side of the road. Somehow, we make it through our daily affairs without this ritual.   

A separate, but equally prevalent phenomenon, (though perhaps unique to Abidjan and not necessarily all of West Africa) are the signs for “Developpe Sex”- enlarging the penis is the translation I imagine. They are often placed next to signs for some elixir which is reported to help with premature ejaculation.  I haven’t quite arrived at the connection between this and frequent peeing, but I feel certain there is one.

Just as I feel certain there is a connection to the numerous posted advertisements for “Detective Privee.” Christian and I both remarked on this, having noticed the signs  in a variety of places throughout the city. Is there really such a need for private detectives?  It appears to be a lucrative business here. Of course, one might imagine if the population is busy enlarging their sex it might lead to certain indiscretions which require a private detective to sort out. 

In the end, I have no answers without real research. I have only my informal data to rely on- incessant observations of men urinating, here, there and everywhere.

Easter Wishes

Maybe it’s Easter, maybe it’s just one of those things but the last few days have found me ensconced in religious conversations with my neighbors. I have been the recipient of several surprise visits. Remember this post when I supposed that some European neighbors might have a better idea of how to initiate friendship than I myself had? Turns out that a few Ivorian neighbors have filled the bill. 

A few weeks ago, two women showed up at my door, laughing, a bit uncertain but seeking an invitation to come in and talk for a few minutes. They said they’d noticed me walking by and just wanted to make my acquaintance. In true African style I was filled with suspicion and intrigue all at the same time. I could hear Christian’s voice in my head telling me I should send them on their way.  However, when one of the women inquired with hesitance, “Can we come in or are you afraid?” I felt I had no choice but to accept. How else can you make a friendship except to be bold, I reasoned.

They came in and we sat on the porch trying to get over the awkwardness. I asked a lot of questions and listened to their stories. One, Leah or Leila, said she was married to a nurse and working in insurance. We talked a bit about the complexities of selling insurance in Africa. I half expected her to launch into a pitch but she refrained.  Instead, she told me about her family’s plan to immigrate to Canada. 

The other, Dianne, stays at home with her two girls. She seemed the most shy and aware of the strangeness of the situation. Dianne looked often to Leila for cues and when they finally left, she seemed relieved.  We promised to say hello if we saw each other in the neighborhood again and I vowed to try and remember their names.

I saw Leila in passing on my way home one day. I’d stopped at a corner boutique to pick up a few items and she was walking by. She stopped and offered a proper greeting. More surprising, however, was a visit from Dianne. She came with her youngest one evening to say hello and visit the baby. I learned more about her this time. Her husband is a doctor at the airport (plenty of questions here on my part) and he takes the lagoon route to work each day. We exchanged questions and answers- more this time from her. I felt a bit odd offering bits and pieces of my life. That uncertain suspicion ever lurking in the back of my mind. At one point she asked if I didn’t feel afraid, living here alone- and I wondered what prompted her to make such a statement. I added some strategy to my response, replying that we’d made friends of our neighbors and this helped us to feel secure. (In case she was part of a band of robbers who had designs on infiltrating our abode in the night. Making new friends is a joy- n’est pas?)  

 

Since then she’s come back once more- with both of her girls this time. They had fun watching Mbalia and trading shy smiles, though most of our questions had run out by then. Silences were filled in with remarks about the children.  I asked her about her Easter plans, which led to the first of what turned out to be several of my recent religious conversations. She seemed to invite me twice to her sister’s to celebrate- or just to eat food really- but I am not ready for such pressure on my conversational skills. I like her (guardedly) but I am just not sure what to say. It’s always been that way for me. 

I remember watching the women in my dance classes, in the changing room. I wondered what they had to talk about, how they managed it- knowing each other- and felt it was such a difficult thing. What do people talk about? Maybe that’s why the mundane holds such fascination for me at times.  Underneath it all we are just regular people, but what does regular look like? What is it that facilitates conversation in one group of people only to be hampered in the next?

Just this (Saturday) evening, my other neighbor stopped by, Assita. She is the writer who came to leave me the script so I can prepare for next Saturday. In my search to fill the silence, I asked her if she was celebrating Easter and had hoped merely to wish bonne fete. This innocent inquiry turned into a rather intense discussion of her conversion to Christianity – her soul searching and healing through Jesus Christ.

It was interesting to share our completely opposite journeys of conversion. I let her express her passion while keeping mine in check a bit- I wasn’t ready for an all out debate about the truth of the Qu’ran--- or the Bible for that matter. What I did share, and what I continue to believe is essential- is that God calls us all to the path in different ways. The most important factor being belief in God and adherence to spiritual kindness for our neighbors. We didn’t exactly agree here, but managed to keep the conversation from getting to that point of outright disagreement.  (The main difference in the two religions comes down to whether or not Jesus is the son of God and God himself or whether he is a miracle of God, a prophet and holy being but not divine.)

We each had stories to tell of being moved (by songs of praise in her case, by the call to prayer in my case) and of searching for a truth that spoke to our souls. I appreciated again the ability of Christians and Muslims to live and pray side by side in Ivory Coast- without one dominance and without coercion. She agreed with this.  True believers do not follow the path of violence. 

In the end she said she would pray for me and I accepted. Her experiences of being saved and being healed- physically and spiritually- were true for her. I wasn’t about to dispute them, and certainly not refuse the well- intended wishes of another through prayer. Islam acknowledges Christians and recognizes intention as more important- or equally important- as action. 

So, I’ve met my Christian neighbors (who would like me to return to the faith) and my Muslim taxi drivers (who believe my husband should be converted) and we’ve conversed well this Easter on all accounts. Bonne Pacques to those who celebrate. 

Important things

I spent my Saturday with Mbalia. She practiced blubbering on my leg, feeding herself carrots, and sticking her tongue out. She spent some time inspecting the small black dot that is the eye of her cute orange duck. She sucked on the tag of a stuffed ladybug, made that cute wrinkled nose face I love and shouted momomomomom and mb mb in a surprisingly firm voice.

She crawled fast and rolled over slow. She laid down calmly by my side while we rested and hit me in the face with excitement when it was time to get up. She slobbered and gurgled and laughed. She tried to eat the camera whenever I wanted to take her picture.

We spoke Lingala and French and English and even made up some words that exist in a language we haven't heard of yet. She made beep beep sounds while banging on her steering wheel. She tapped containers on the wall and the floor so that they would sound just so. She hit the table tops at just the right angle to make her bracelets clink.

And these were all important things. 

Ten random things covering white strangers, burned children, taxi tricks and TV appearances…

It’s no use talking about my internet connection and/or computer issues. You may as well just assume prolonged absence equals one or both of the above.  In the meantime, I’ve been collecting ideas. Here are 10 random observations/experiences from life in Abidjan (trying to get back my “stranger’s eyes” to present things that might be different- or yet the same- about life in Africa.)

• ·         I leave my house at 6:50 every morning. What I notice most are the women sweeping. As I make my way through the neighborhood, they are everywhere- in front of every house with their small bundle of sticks tied together to form that traditional broom, sweeping up the garbage left by passersby from the night before. Lately I have been seeing an older man walking with a hand crutch. He is getting faster and I can tell he is trying to recover movement from some injury or illness. He is faithful in his routine and determined in his stride.  Noticing his perseverance is enough to inspire gratefulness in me. I walk easily and quickly to my destination. Something to be thankful for.

• ·      When I return the sweepers have morphed into sellers and they sit at their tables under umbrellas offering fruit, attieke, alloco (fried plantains) and soups or sauces they have prepared. I might pass any number of men praying outside their storefronts and it reminds me that Abidjan is (currently) a mix of peaceful religions. It’s something I like, all the churches and mosques which seem in equal abundance.

• ·         One morning as I was walking along lost in thought, 3 white people came around the corner. I was surprised by the sight of them- found them foreign actually and wondered what they were doing there. It took me a few minutes to realize that I probably look just like them. I spend my time looking out from behind my eyes and rarely at my own skin that I forget my otherness. It reminded me of a time when I was in Guinea and saw some Peace Corps workers coming up off the beach. They looked pale and ghostly, even ill to my eyes which had grown accustomed to rich brown skin with its dark, healthy sheen. There is a poem about that- about us being trapped within ourselves and only looking out. I remember it from 5^th grade, something about someone with an ugly face that didn’t really bother him or her because they could never actually see it. It used this word ‘ajar’ which I’ve never forgotten, though I haven’t been able to find the poem again.  (I think I’ve written of this before. After 7 years of blogging, it might be inevitable that I begin to repeat myself. Forgive me, or rather, indulge me.)

• ·         When I arrive at the corner, I search for a yellow taxi to take me up the hill. This past week they have been waiting, empty or half- filled and I have only to hop in. Other weeks, they are hard to come by and lines of people push and shove to get a space. I can’t find any rhythm to the lack or abundance, except it seems one week of scarcity is usually followed by a week of abundance.  The week before last I actually ended up walking all the way to school which made me 20 minutes late and left me drenched in sweat.

• ·         I used to think of the yellow taxis as a kind of cavalry arriving to gallantly bring the masses to their duties.  I had patience in waiting for them to come swooping down the hill, sometimes in twos or threes- just the perfect number to accommodate everyone at once. A few experiences since then have changed my analogy. The first- that long, hot walk to work. The second – the negotiations. Because it is morning and demand is high, some of the drivers only accept 150 to go up the hill, when the usual price is 100. Most never have change and so people who are looking for monnae are out of luck. There is a bit of a monopoly on transportation and so we passengers have no choice but to find the extra 50 franc and come with exact change. One orange taxi driver tried to raise the price because I didn’t have exact change. “Change costs money in Abidjan,” he told me. “But only the Christians do that, non?” I threw the religion card because in Islam-maybe all religions?- usury (using money to make money such as interest in repaying debts) is forbidden. For good reason I think. He had no response and we agreed on the regular price, my lack of change no longer a problem.

• ·         I have noticed, on those busy weeks when taxis are short and crowds are full, a sneak attack. It looks like this: The taxi pulls up and the jostling begins as people surge forward. Some lean in to talk to the driver (a sure way to lose a spot. While you are discussing destination or change, someone leaps in and takes your spot. But that is not the sneak attack.) While everyone is trying to get in the door, some clever (or devious) person will run around to the other side (or sometimes even come from across the street, recklessly launching himself into traffic in hopes of securing a seat.) They open the door and squeeze into the left hand side (safety generally assumes right side entry and exit.) This sneak attack works just as often as it doesn’t. Sometimes the people who had assumed they had the three spots in back angrily push back and the sneak attacker is forced back out the way he had come. Other times, the person is able to hop in and securely claim their space. It’s a little bit of action adventure (and sometimes comedy) entertainment in my morning.

• ·         While I am at school I observe the children running around at recess. I love to watch their made up games, their devilish smiles and the intense concentration they put into sports. I’ve come to recognize most of the kids who play in my area since they seem to choose the same games and stick to something of a routine. There are quite a few kids with body burns and large scars. One boy in particular has noticeable head wounds, healed but no hair will grow there. Several have arm burns. I don’t know the story behind any of them or why there seems to be an abundance of this, but I notice it. I wonder if the other kids make fun of them- I’ve never seen or heard it in my short half hour outside with them.  What I see, however, with my mother’s eyes, are children that are graced to be here. Their struggle with death is evident and I imagine the family- the mother, the father, the aunts and uncles- who are feeling grateful to have their child still among the living. When I see these children running and playing happily, I look at them and think of how they must be loved.

• ·         My neighbor, the screenwriter, has visited me and invited me to the casting of her script next Saturday. She’s assured me she will give me a preview of the lines I am to read and tell me a bit about what to expect there (beaucoup de gens, is what she said. Exactly what I am afraid of. ) I’ve been trying to determine if I am trying out for my role or if it is assured. I get the sense it is assured, being that it is a small part and requires a white woman. But surely, Abidjan is plein des etrangers and I am not the only white woman here.  She’s also looking for a biracial 17 year old, if you know anyone. She had her eye on Mohamed for a minute but he is too young.  It turns out the TV series might not be my debut on Ivorian TV as my class was filmed last Friday for a documentary-like presentation on French schools in Africa and the use of technology. I prepared a SMARTBoard lesson and we suffered through it while they filmed us. To be certain, the kids were quiet and deathly calm, not at all like their usually lively selves. The film crew visited three classes at our school and in the end will compile a 2 minute clip of us- so we may or may not make the montage. But as a trial run, being in front of the camera was not too disturbing. I could make a career out of it yet.

• ·         I’ve come to realize that teaching English, or teaching in English, is not so much about the learning but the unlearning. I hadn’t before fully grasped that the biggest challenge is undoing the bad habits my students have picked up and helping them form new ones.  I know I struggle with this in my own language learning- and certainly just in the name of habits in general. Breaking bad habits is no easy task, establishing new ones always a challenge. Another of those teacher talents we must develop in order to achieve success.

• ·          The happiest news is that I have finally found a dance class- live drums, students of all ages and races and a price I can afford.  Surely there will be a full length post about dance in Ivory Coast once I get a few classes under my belt. I am so excited about this possibility. Dance was one of those strong motivating factors for coming here and it has been hard having patience these last eight months.

So there it is, 10 random things that have been filling my mind these past few weeks. I’m off to snap some photos of the building methods- fascinating and eye pleasing feats of architecture rampant around town. Stay tuned…….

the price of a good conversation

I leaned down into the window and started the ritual of negotiating for a taxi. After I gave my address, the driver smiled and shook his head. "I know it well." He smiled. "But get in quick because the police are all around and they will ticket me for stopping here to pick up passengers."

I hopped in the cab, knowing it wasn't the greatest idea. Negotiating once in motion is always harder for me. I had taken Mbalia to get her vaccinations (super impressed by the National Institue of Hygiene- fast, efficient, free vaccine program for all children.) It was a bit rainy and there was a lot of weekday bustle- specifically a few large trucks unloading right near the entrance. Traffic was barely moving and it seemed like a good idea to walk down to the corner and flag down a taxi there. Only the corner wasn't really a corner, it was more of a traffic circle intended to keep the cars moving at a brisk pace. I could see how stopping taxis would throw a wrench into the whole concept.

I wanted to continue negotiating right away before either of us got too comfortable. Time of day and traffic patterns can play havoc with the rates and I wasn't up for spending a small fortune. The driver wanted to keep telling me how he had risked a 10,000 fine to stop and pick me up- a clear sign his idea of a just fare would be vastly different than mine. I cut him off on the third round of "oh the police..." and simply named my price.

He turned around in shock. He clucked his tongue, shook his head and put a hand to his chin. "But we're in Treichville," he began. In trying to make the whole thing less painful for us both I added 500 to my offer and thought it would be settled. But no. He clucked and shook and petted his chin. I wasn't sure he could really see the road with all his clamoring. I half heartedly tried to convince him that I knew it was a more than fair price, that I'd made this exact trip several times and that I had come for even less. (Why the trip out is always less than the trip home is something of a mystery to me, but I've found it to be true no matter our destination.)

Finally I asked to him to find a good spot up ahead where he could let me out and then I would just find another taxi, no big deal. I wasn't angry or put out at all but peacefully resolute. I had a budget to follow. Of course, this was completely unacceptable. He remarked the rain, the baby- "Just let you out here? Oh no, not in Abidjan. I will see you to your door. I will." OK, a valiant driver if not exactly honest about the cost of a ride. "If you choose to do something for me then that is good, and if not, well, I will see you home." So there it was. We'd each put our guilt out there for the other to pick up and assume if so desired.

A few minutes later he turned around to ask me what nationality I was and why I spoke French- the ever present conversation opener in the taxi. I shared the minimal about my travels in Africa. When he made a phone call, I tagged him as either Senegalese or Peuhl- sometimes the two accents sound similar. After he mentioned being from Guinea, it was obvious. I asked if he was Peuhl and that opened a whole other conversation. Well, if listening to him go on about his ideas of life and love and finding a foreign woman to marry count as a conversation (And the fact that Guinea would be the most developed country in Africa if they had a good president like Ouattara.) Politics and personal philosophies- two of the most popular cab-ride subjects. He started getting pretty picky about his imaginary future wife- or so I thought- and I decided to chide him a little. I brought up the third most popular subject. Religion.

"Ah but age, appearance and ethnicity have little to do with real beauty," I said. "Besides, you know Mohamed had 15 years between himself and his wife." I was hoping that would slow him down a bit.

It did add some spice. He quizzed me on my knowledge of Islam- much as he had previously quizzed me on my understanding of Sousou. I passed both tests fairly well. And then he went on to talk about the responsibilities of muslims (prayer and zakat and being honest with money) and asked about my husband. Oh the trickiness of my life. And conversations with taxi drivers.

I relented that he was not, in fact, muslim. (I decided to skip focusing on semantics. There's a limit to public knowledge.)  Although he believes in a higher power and a divine force, he is not Christian in the sense of going to church and accepting Christ. We get along fine in mingling our religious beliefs (not to mention I have only just re emerged from my struggle in faith.) I didn't explain all of this to the taxi driver. In fact, I said very little but simply sat receiving his blessings, listening to his ideas (I should go to an Imam and let him know I need to convert my husband to Islam and he will tell me exactly what steps to take.)

This solution was presented only after several repeats of the Qu'ranic rule that Muslim women canot marry Christian men. I replied that I thought this was in effect to ensure the children and wife would not be converted to Christianity and thereby safeguard the Islamic beliefs. Since I am in no danger of being coerced out of my religion by a man- and as the main educator of my children- I figured it was a safe bet.

Happily we were nearing my neighborhood and the conversation, while not unpleasant, would face a natural end. I handed him my cash and he shook his head. "Oh, no," he said as he took it. I think he was trying to undo his earlier sentiment that I should add a little extra. "I am very happy and I encourage you and wish you well." We'd come so far from the just-drop-me-off-here-and-I'll-find-another-taxi. It's amazing how a brief conversation can completely change the price of a ride.   

Bach en afrique

Hamlet is on tour to reach every country in the world. They hit Cote d'Ivoire on March 19th. I may have missed that show but tonight I made up for it by heading out to see Bach- performed on balafon at the Institute of Arts. Even though the flyer mentioned Bach, somehow it didn't really register. The show included classical, jazz (straight out of New Orleans) and modern. They played the Cote d'Ivoire Natoinal Anthem, Amazing Grace and a ten minute solo piece in a techno- mix style.  Basically, it gave me a brand new perspective of the balafon.

The balafons on stage pre-concert

The students in the back are concentrating on the challenging piece

Previously I'd only known it as an instrument of traditional music- the sounds of Guinee sweet in my memory. I didn't hear the traditional rhythms, the singing or see the 'wrap'- the strap that lets a balafon player wear his instrument so he can move around. (Here is an example of what I thought I'd see.) The lead musicians also played in a style I hadn't seen before- holding two sticks in each hand, somehow getting all four to tap away the rhythms. There were four women present, one of whom came out to the front to sing a piece I can only describe as opera. She was earnest and sincere, nervous perhaps but definitely capable. (I distinctly got the feel this was a student showcase.)

I had envisioned a completely different kind of concert but was pleased nonetheless. A night of music and artistic talent to soothe all wounds, quiet all worries and even offer a bit of inspiration.