Kin-revisited

I spent a quick week in Kinshasa, just to see. It's easy to romanticize the past and to exaggerate an affinity for something until it becomes an ideal. I am pretty happy to report that my obsession with Kinshasa is a reality. I loved every minute of my stay there. Ideally I could have gathered up the sounds and rhythms of life in a bottle, allowing me to breathe in the ambiance of the city whenever loneliness overtakes me.

As it were, I found it hard to even take photos. Capturing one small fraction of the greater picture seemed hardly likely to do justice. Even video, with its ability to move and record sound wouldn't be able to really express the essence that is Kinshasa. It wasn't until my last day, en route for the airport, that I began to snap random images and take pocket videos. I let the recorder run as the taxi moto flashed through the streets, leaving me with a traveling sensation of energy of Kin.

There were many moments I wanted to freeze. One evening, we were sitting and talking with a friend's family. The husband and wife chatting with the us, a few older girls sitting nearby, one playing with her mother's hair. The busyness of evening chores filled the air around us. I imagined trying to capture the moment and knew that the togetherness of family and the fullness of life would  be overshadowed by the dimness of our surroundings. It would become an image of absence, highlighting the lack ofs rather than the fullness I felt.

I did come away with a positive story to tell. I encountered the center, La Vie est Belle, a very cute little house on a sweet little street nestled magically in the middle of Victoire. One right hand turn is all it took to be transported from the bustling energy of the city center to an almost suburban ideal. The street was lined with trees and kids playing soccer, teens hanging on the edges listening to music and gathering in that way teens do.

 Beautiful street

The center is a small house with a yard large enough to host a little cafe in front, a few outbuildings and several rehearsal and making spaces in the back. On my first visit, the place was alive. A band, complete with guitarist and drummer playing a large plastic jerry can, a la mode de Kin,  was rehearsing in the back. Two dance groups were practicing their moves, one on the outside terrace and one inside.  Several guys were gathered under a tarp near a garage, painting butane canisters black in preparation for some street performance. And two other guys were busy washing plastic bracelets in a bucket and working with a homemade silkscreening device. There were preparing t-shirts and a performance for an artist who'd suddenly passed away- car accident on his way to the village.

This place was nearly the exact embodiment of my dream center. Talking with the manager, Peter, revealed we had a lot of vision in common. I told him I saw his mouth moving, but it was all my own words coming out. It didn't take long for us to devise a project together. I proposed presenting their work at an upcoming conference at UI&U and also creating a my own mini-series in response.

Entrance to office on the porch and small cafe to the right

The center has 4-5 rooms which are available for artists who write a project proposal. They can come and do a residency for free, meals provided. I jokingly suggested I'd be sending in my own proposal, and then wondered how much of a joke it had to be. Spending a month surrounded by such creative energy and support sounds like a paradise.

Art lined driveway to garage and making spaces 

Several work areas here in the back

I passed another evening or two engaged in great conversation with the artists. I learned about their work with the neighborhood children and they all seemed to express a sense of responsibility for providing a creative atmosphere for the kids to experience. They talked about wanting the children to have toys and a chance to play. They recognized the importance of being creative and building and inventing. Right now they might be working with cardboard, true, but maybe next it will be circuits and sockets and motors. The tinkerers of today could easily become the engineers of tomorrow.  I was impressed with their action and insistence. "If the government is not able or willing to step in, then we have to do it," they told me.

Artist working with and educating the neighborhood kids- 

Of course, for every story of courage, there is a story of despair.  A friend took me to Maluku to see the village, although officially still a part of Kinshasa. He's trying to put together a small organization to work with the children in area, actually taking care of a few and offering dance workshops for the many.

As we walked around the town, children ran everywhere. It was a Thursday afternoon but school was closed due to heavy rains the night before. Apparently attendance is sporadic at best for most kids anyway. Parents don't always see the value of school or they can't pay for the materials. Even though there is a new initiative for free education, there are always costs for books or uniforms or other things that make it difficult to get a child to school every day.

My mountain climbing gear....I didn't know

                                                    
                                                                     

Cozy little spot for rent- about $30- you'll need to run your 
own electricity lines. Likewise on your own to figure out 
water, cooking, and toilet structure.

View of the city and across the way Brazza

Some girls with nothing to do but pose for photos

The first place we actually stopped was to visit the family. My friend wanted to introduce me to his mom and also to see a little boy he'd decided to take care of. The story isn't really clear- stories are never really clear- but it sounded like he'd come across this baby, who was said to be 2 years old although he couldn't walk and I don't think he talks. The mom was young and didn't really pay much attention to the kid. Apparently there a lot of young moms here in the city-village. Young like 12 or 13. Too young to be moms.

The houses in Maluku are small, wooden- framed with little windows and cement floors. I pushed aside the curtain in the doorway and squinted to see in the dark interior. There were a few plastic chairs, one soft stuffed chair and a table. Flyers from an annual dance festival in Kinshasa lined the walls.

I didn't notice the baby on the floor. I greeted the young girl, my friend's sister or cousin or some member of the family who was around to help. She was eating and it was only later that I saw the baby, sitting in the shadows, impossibly quiet, eating foufou. He looked to be about 6 months old. His eyes were too big, his legs too small and it was apparent he had a serious lack of nutrients and energy.

My friend, earnest in his desire to help, lacks experience. He's young, has no children of his own and has only ventured into the bigger world outside of Kinshasa few times. He said he'd bought a baby walker, trying to encourage the boy to use his legs but he just didn't have the strength. He asked me if I knew of some medicine that could help- as if the answer would be found in a bottle or a few sips of liquid.

"The child needs a doctor," I told him. "There is no medicine that can help him. He needs nutrients, possibly therapy, and I am not sure if there is something else the doctors can do." It is a dire situation, this child, sitting in a small dark room in a quiet village town an hour and a half away from anyone who might have an idea of what was wrong. There was no urgency about it.

I am sure he is not the only child in need of care and food and attention. Too many children in Kinshasa and Congo in general, lack the basic needs. There is a very real danger of a lost generation. It's one of the hard parts of Congo- the potential to be overwhelmed by the need. But in the end, I realized that just getting back and creating a simple life, doing my small part, it's the best I can do.

I left a little cash and strict instructions to take the child to Kinshasa, to a reputable doctor and to call me with a diagnosis. We'll see what the next steps are- maybe there is something that can be done, or maybe the damage is long lasting. In which case, the child is lucky to have fallen into the hands of my friend, who has a big heart and sincere intentions. He's willing to foster him, take care of him and provide the basics.

I don't know how it happens- how he can imagine and then actually proceed to take in children. It's part of my creative response, an idea I have been grappling with for the last few years. It deserves a post of it's own perhaps, but I wonder how the people live with no money. My friend is an artists, a dancer. He's struggling himself and yet, somehow there is room to take in this baby, and a few others, try to keep them fed and clothed. It's the great mystery to me- how it all happens on less than a dollar a day, as they say.

Road back to Kin

Lagos 2.0

Lagos is a bustling, modern, contemporary city- or at least the small slice of it I inhabit, which is likely not representative of what the majority of Nigerians, or Lagoasians. I am in a bubble. A very strange, very uncomfortable, very Hunger-Games like bubble with a nearly impenetrable force field surrounding me.

In this VI bubble, using Bolt (Taxify) or Uber to command a ride is the way things are done. For me, this creates several issues. Ethically, after reading Winners Take All by Anand Giridharadas, I am conflicted about the services. While many turn to these companies in order to feel safer about their transportation options, few seem to consider the hazards involved for the drivers. They grapple with everything from unwanted romantic advances to theft and even physical harm or, in extreme cases, murder.

Not only does driving pose risks, there is the uncertainty and inequality of the pay. As a frequent Taxify- now Bolt- user, I have often been awarded discounts and rewards for trips, reducing a 700N trip to 300N, an equivalent of about $2 being reduced to about $1. For a taxi ride. That is completely unheard of anywhere in the world. And because these companies require the cars to be up to certain standards, we are talking about a trip in a clean working car with air conditioning. Very comfortable. Very smooth. For less than a $1. The driver cannot be making any profit on this. I generally tip all my trips, and the surprise of the drivers suggests this is not a common occurrence.

Aside from the ethical issues, there remains the practical issue of needing to have a charged, internet connected phone on you at all times. For me, this is more of a challenge than perhaps it should be. I have never kept roaming internet on my phone, preferring only to use any wi-fi I might have at home and leaving all that connectivity at the doorway. Not so now.

Apparently being connected uses a lot of battery power. And with my somewhat "ancient" phone, the battery depletes quickly. I travel with charger in case it is ever possible to stop and plug in somewhere but this strategy is not fool proof. Yesterday, I had to make a pit stop at home to charge up for about an hour before continuing my errands. I am working on getting a portable battery pack, but being tethered to all of this technology goes against everything I want to be- unconnected, present in my moments and free.

Of course there are local, off line options. The one trip I took during a phone outage resulted in driving around the city and never actually reaching my destination only to be told my fare was five times the normal rate. I had to talk hard to reduce that ridiculous number and even then I only managed to get it down to slightly half, still double the normal amount.

The driver was an older man who insisted that he knew the school I was trying to go to. Of course, there were warning signs. When I said French school, and he said which one, there are so many? I should have recognized that he clearly didn't know where we were going. I told him there was only one, but he drove us out to the British school and attempted to drive further out to another school with an international sounding name before I got him to turn around. I knew it wasn't that far. But without my phone, I couldn't call, couldn't check a map and had no idea where I was going.

Before all this internet stuff, I would have done my homework well, written down directions in advance, and been prepared. I guess it was just as much my fault as his.

The other transportation option is the small three-wheeled Keke, which seems innocent enough, but in the case of an accident, maiming or death is likely. I am still trying to decide how big the risks are, much like the motos of Bamako, I imagine. I toy with the idea that for small distances, it might be ok. On back roads or just around the corner type of rides, perhaps. In the meantime, I don't mind supporting the Taxify drivers, sometimes even paying even double what the app suggests.

Taxi on command might be the only thing you can still pay cash for in Lagos. Since 2012, the country has pushing to move towards cash-less banking. Everything done here involving money seems complicated, and the cash-less system is no exception. Perhaps I am still in the learning curve. I was able to process my first transfer for a service yesterday, after several failed attempts. Electronic transfers require steady internet service. Maybe that was the cause. No one could really explain why it wasn't working, but luckily everyone had patience to wait for me to figure out a solution (the company in question was actually willing to accept cash, a rarity for certain.)

Everyone from fitness trainers to dance instructors to housekeepers have their account numbers ready for you to transfer money into. Food delivery, shopping and restaurants all prefer card over cash. After our first foray into the world, back during our teacher orientation week when we were ridiculously counting out 50-80 thousand bill nairas, it is easy to see why. Cash is just not practical for big purchases.

Another dilemma involves the whole USD to naira conversion. I have just opened a USD account, since they are not mixable. Naira only into the naira account and USD only into the USD account. So I wire myself some USD from my US account, withdraw it from the bank (now for a fee) and have a reputable money changer meet me at the bank (for a better rate.)

Always the "black market" money changers offer a better rate. I remember my first experience with this in Guinea, we changed our money right outside the bank and I had a sense of trying to be clandestine. Fast forward 11 years and hop a few countries to the east and the school accountant is advising me to meet the money changer inside the bank (for safety) to directly transfer the naira to my naira account (hopefully no fee here, since it would be an electronic transfer.) The other option is to somehow bring all of the USD I will need for the year, in cash, when I come back after summer. Apparently some people can actually do this.

All of the complexities surrounding money and transfers and accounts (I have four or five already and I have only been here for less than a month. I have my savings, which I use for naira, the USD account, a "shadow account" which is only used to transfer my USD salary to my US account. Apparently only the bank can access this account, but it has my name attached to it. And there is one  more mystery account which shows in my mobile banking but never has any money in it- it might be the shadow account, although I am told the money passes through there- first naira, which must then be used to buy USD at a good price. I understand that the school foots the bill for the cost of buying USD. )

Money on top of money. One message that's been reinforced and exemplified in my short time here in Lagos, in this small suffocating bubble of VI and surrounding islands, is that nothing good comes from money. Most of the "good books" caution against usury and other ills associated with money. Aside from being downright complicated, all of the rules and regulations meant to safeguard one against fraud seem to simply make it harder to access your own money and potentially easier for others to do so. It is always the thieves who benefit from all the entanglements.

I am dreaming of the days when I can escape the on-line, interconnected nature of life and business in the simulated city. I tell myself all situations are temporary and eventually I will be untethered. And quickly so, as climate change is bearing down and this collection of islands surely hasn't a very secure future.

African threads

While it is starting to seem like every time I arrive in a new country, something dramatic happens, I am going with the notion that dramatic things are always happening, I'm just not always in the periphery.

There were the elections in Congo, the mutiny in Cote d'Ivoire, the kidnapping alert in Mali and now here, the recent tension, violence and killings in South Africa which have had major effects in Nigeria and Congo (RDC is popping up wherever I go- there always seems to be some kind of connection.)

Attacks in South Africa inspired reprisals, business closures and embassy shutdowns. An overview of events found here outlines some of the major responses, including an offer by Air Peace to fly Nigerians living in South Africa back home, if they wish. Surely this is a much more complicated issue and Nigerians speak about their decisions here. As is becoming typical of our times, social media has done much to inflame the issue, with wide sharing of mis-identified video clips or photos. Protests in Nigeria and Congo have been linked to more damage, injuries and death.

While taking attendance in class the other day, I queried about a student, only to be told he'd flown back to South Africa. His dad worked for MTN and with the embassy shutting down, getting out of country was the safe decision. His classmates took a light hearted tone, suggesting he'd gone off to hiding, and implying he'd return eventually. As if they'd gone through this, or something similar, before- which they likely have. Other classes were also abuzz with news, often citing the viral videos with misinformation. I took some small time to suggest deeper investigation before believing everything you see, all the while wondering why 10-year-olds had access to news about people being burned alive. The conversations among international school students never ceases to surprise and amaze.

In other quiet news, the border between Benin and Nigeria has been closed- with my carefully packed and much missed baggage on the other side. Apparently there are concerns about rice smuggling, which is a term I'd never heard of before arriving here.

And if all of that weren't enough of a convoluted connection, the Nigerian embassy in Congo suffered some bad media play when Congolese officials were videoed throwing out furniture and other belongings. Officials from both countries have reported they've resolved the situation, which occurred over a misunderstanding about paperwork.

My own attempts to get back to Kinshasa are currently being thwarted by an inability to contact the embassy here. None of the numbers for the office in Abuja work, and email is silent. Luckily, if you're Lost in Lagos, there's Nothing to Do.

Choosing Peace

I knew names in Nigeria would be much different than what I'd experienced before. People names are notorious for the length and difficulty. They're often shortened to a nickname of one sort or another, which may or may not retain the beauty and elegance of the full title. The name really does serve as a title, often having some grand meaning- a whole entire sentence, even, like "God has given me someone to care for" (Olufunke) or "I am rejoicing at God's grace" (Moyosoreoluwa.) 

Names of stores that retain sentence structure are often fodder for comedy routines. "God's Good Grace and Ultimate Blessings Hair Salon." There are business name guidelines, however. And this post isn't really about those long names. I've been thinking more about the shorter, more direct names that have crossed my path in the last few weeks.

Searching for a nanny is always a bit traumatic. I remember Nabih went through 4 nannies before finally finding someone who could keep up with him. Our Bamako nanny search led to the ridiculous situation of having a series of nannies quit on me. Luckily, I think we've found someone on only the second go around.

The people I'd been introduced to (for potentially offering a reference) and list of names I was given as potential job candidates included Joy, Blessing, Peace, and Happiness, along with one Juliana Lawson. Just as I wondered if the universe was trying to tell me something, I walked into the restroom at school and noticed the clipboard the attendant signs to indicate regular cleaning. Comfort.

Everywhere I turned I was being inundated with positive cheer. In the end, I went with Peace. She has a wonderful disposition and gets along well with Mbalia. As a business major, she doesn't do much in the way of chopping carrots or whipping up a grilled cheese, but she's willing to try. And the idea of working to save money to go back to school is something I am happy to support. 

Africa in English & other differences

There was never going to be anything easy about moving to a new country and starting a new job while trying to maintain my PhD studies with a kindergartner in tow. I knew that. Throw in the fact that we are staying in temporary housing and our comfort things from Bamako still haven't arrived and the story gets trickier.

There were some major differences in our welcome here, which added to the strangeness. Moving is simply a challenge- some like to call it an adventure but adventures are challenges too. The girl is holding up fabulously, making friends with anyone in sight and embracing the newness (except the food. If it was possible to become pickier or eat even less, she's managed to do it. All her favorites are no longer her favorites, and they haven't been replaced.)

I keep hoping for some magic window of time to appear so I can step inside and get things done. There is reading and writing for class, daily lesson planning, long term curriculum sorting out to be done, thought sharing, and the purely creative stuff. There's no time for it all. I can barely keep my eyes open half the time.

Africa in English always takes a minute for me. My first tendency is to resort to French when I am off campus. And I do miss it. But English has morphed with culture and so the sounds on the street can be just as foreign at times. And the African languages are present in force, always music to my ears.

Lagos is big city, big city. Everywhere I look there are buildings. And apps. I am not crazy about the 2.0 version of getting around. Taxify, Uber- no more just hailing a cab. I need to be connected and charged and have the phone on hand. I feel tethered.

I've also landed in a bubble. It's quite large and I haven't yet found the edges. Ex-pat everything. I knew I would be feeling lost on this island of luxury, wondering how to find my people, the artists. There is a hustle here, there is a strong British influence and some surprising results. I am not ready to write about it yet, still trying to wrap my mind around it, but soon perhaps.

I've taken no pictures, and very little has endeared me.  I don't quite feel as though I have arrived anywhere. Still in transit. Some place that is neither good nor bad, helpful nor harmful, familiar nor strange.


Quick and easy things I could be writing about if I weren't in such a fugue state:

• Money transactions- as expected all things related to money systems are complicated. The potential for fraud and scams have led to development of complex rituals around money. I sent Western Union yesterday, which took an hour and involved putting money in one account, only for it to be taken out and put into another. There were fingerprints and photographs. I moved from counter service to a small booth and back to counter service again. It was comedic fodder for sure.  But everyone was pleasant and welcoming and nice so I laughed my way through the absurdities. 

• Money bundles- one thousand naira is the highest denomination of bill. My on-the-run conversion method is to multiply by three. Three dollars for every 1,000 naira. It adds up quickly until you are walking around with massive piles of bills. I've taken to keeping them wrapped up in a hat. There is no wallet big enough. A trip to the grocery store could be about 30,000 naira, all counted out in 1,000 notes. The bundles are not amusing or convenient.  Every cashier has one of those money counting machines, calculating the total with a crisp whir and efficient spin. Before finally working out a method for keeping track of the cash, I spent time counting money. Lots of time. Counting and recounting, trying to keep the 5 and 6 digit numbers in my head. Only Guinea can be worse, with their millions. It feels so miserly to be adding up such sums. 

• Keke's- these cute little bugs are three wheeled transportation devices- and yellow. They zoom in and out of traffic and don't seem to recognize pedestrians at all. They are everywhere, ready to offer a quick ride to your destination or crush you flat in your spot. The constant beeping to attract customers and alert cars of their presence prompted Mbalia to wish for her own portable horn so she could join in the melee.  Possibly worth a photo, if I get my head on right.

• The seedy side- honestly, I wasn't aware of this for some reason. Kinshasa and Lagos have a lot in common, from snazzy dressers, to popular music, to an infatuation with the big life. I have come to see them as cousins in this way. They also have a seedy side. From the art market to street sellers, I've seen a genre of painting that I haven't yet witnessed in African art. More investigation into the background might be illuminating, or deeply depressing. I have a sense of where the roots stem. Sensual images in bold colors on black backgrounds- velvet? glitter? neon? My search for a massage/spa turned up options for couples massage, erotic massage and sensual massage, among the more traditional office stress reliever and Swedish and deep tissue options. And my search for dance schools has led to everything from the very formal and clearly British influenced to Latin salsa and kizomba to pole dancing. There are quite a number of pole dancing schools in Lagos. I had no idea.

• Excess- being in this bubble has me surrounded by excess and waste to such a degree my head is spinning. I had to take a day or two to try and recenter myself. I'm still working on that. This kind of copious spending is hard to witness. It is cutting and painful. It is not something I can or want to come to terms with, but somehow must manage to live in. I don't want it to touch me and yet, by virtue of being here, I am implicated. While I had anticipated a clash of ethics to assault me, I hadn't been fully prepared for how often or how deeply wounding it would be. My studies are only compounding the matter. Perhaps I am ironically well placed to contemplate ethical and moral leadership from here in the nethers. 

• School population- my surprise was complete and total on the second or third day when I realized what was missing- the African students. I hadn't thought to ask too many questions about the student body make-up, because my own preparations getting here were so traumatic (I never seem to do anything simply, hey? More story material. So much material.) But also because I'd made assumptions based on the other international schools I'd worked at or been to in Africa- a majority of African students. Although I have been told Nigerians are the second highest demographic, I don't see it. Granted, I am only teaching art and so a fraction of students pass through my class, but my attendance list is filled with Middle Eastern names- Saeed, Aditya, Nour, Hadar. There are American names- David, Mathew, Max and Northern European names- Regardt, Aida, Celine. My classes are filled with hues of cream and khaki.  The number of students who tell me they don't speak a second language is shocking. 

We are still settling in, still processing. Since we won't be moving to our regular apartment for another few months, it's bound to a long transition process. Hopefully I will find a sweet spot and get back to doing the things that brought me here in the first place. 

Conversions

As I planned for the summer trip to the US, and the required road tour that involved gathering the kids in New York, attending a soccer tournament in Chicago and returning back to my aunt's house in Michigan, I remarked on the obvious. "Driving in America, where everyone stays in their own lane,  and follows the rules, driving without the cows, motorcycles, taxis, horse drawn carts and Xingda tricycles? No problem," I thought.

It was a friend with long time international experience that pointed out it wouldn't be the rule following I'd have to get used to- it would be the speed. In many African capitals, traffic doesn't move much above 25mph. My days of 70 on the interstate were far in the past. I under-estimated just how far.

The speed, coupled with our first leg which happened at night, spurred a chain reaction of anxiety and nervousness. The journey was filled with the reflective orange cones and barrels signaling construction and roadwork. The highways narrowed and constricted with cement barriers, playing optical illusions. If I'd already broken my vow not to drive at night, I reaffirmed my commitment. This would be the last time. I couldn't keep horrific images of rolling hood over undercarriage across the roadway, or being nicked by an 18-wheeler as it barreled past us. Like any good panic attack, the images intensified my fears. The fact that I couldn't stop imagining it seemed all the more likely to make it happen. It was a harrowing 15 hours that took forever to end.

Once in Chicago, it turned out the hotel we were staying at was a solid 45 minutes away from the tournament field. Forty-five minutes down a major expressway. By that time, I was longing for the stalled traffic jams and cow crossings I'd left behind. I kept a constant eye out for a stray motorcycle sneaking up on the right. But the most unexpected thing to get used to was the toll booths.

Pulling up to pay a fare requires a left handed exchange. I am required to turn in a ticket, some money, possibly receive change. All conducted with the left hand, which evoked a feeling of awkwardness. The first few times it happened, I hesitated and tried to reach across and pass the money with my right hand. I couldn't quite make the connection, and I definitely couldn't grab the change. I was surprised by the impulse to resist and the subtle sense of something not quite right every time I had to acquiesce. I did manage to stop myself from apologizing and just tried to observe my feelings, which had become first nature.

By the time we headed over to Michigan, I was feeling mostly myself again. While not completely at ease with the speed, I managed to quell the kaleidoscope of butterflies and make the drive in a reasonable time. Once we left Illinois, we also left the toll roads behind.

At my aunt's house, we were able to settle into creating some routines. We are a family that loves the gym and it took us only one day to get signed up at a nearby workout spot. They were offering a teen summer challenge program that made the family membership extremely economical. It was a refreshing sight to take a quick tour and see all my favorite machines.

Nabih and I were both tickled at our adjustment from kilograms to pounds. We had to do a bit of trial and error to find the sweet spot. One thing immersion leads to is the ability to live and think in a language, measurement system or currency. That doesn't necessarily mean the ability to translate. We experienced something of a learning curve as we figured out the new weights. It was so much more impressive to be crunching 100 pounds (a nice round figure) as opposed to 45 kilograms.

Overall, the conversions are easy to get used to. Fun little examples of how much living outside the US for ten years really changes the inner habits and thoughts.

A different kind of season

It's packing and moving season- again. For the first time ever, I am ahead of the game. I made a timeline and stuck to it this year. All of our boxes are packed, the paintings are wrapped. Only the suitcases left to go.

A colleague at work who is also moving mentioned she might have a "practice pack" to see how heavy the suitcases actually are. I gave it some thought, but so far I have only managed to throw all the clothes inside an open bag. It's close. A lot closer than this post from 2014.

I still relied on a painter friend to come and help with the artwork. He said it all goes easier in company and he is right. While packing my last two boxes this weekend I had virtual company from 3 friends in the US and my brother in Guinea. It wasn't planned, but it was a nice addition to my packing routine.

Wrapping and taping

Piles again, but so much more organized

the final collection: 9 boxes, 1 bag,
 1 sculpture-in-baskets and 2 steps tools

Baskets and drums, yes we want them

Paintings- on frames! 

I still have many of the same considerations that seem to accompany every move. Despite making a detailed list of all the items in these boxes, I am not really sure what they're filled with. Nostalgia. Books. Some toys. Masks and statues. Kitchenware. Just stuff to make us feel like we are still at home when we arrive to a new shell. The pieces of our environment that feel cozy and have recorded our adventures around Africa.

What I don't have cemented is a shipper. Ironically, now that I am all organized, I am still searching for a way to get it across 4 countries and into Nigeria. The only thing left to do is be positive. There are several leads and a few friends have offered to host my things if necessary until I can find an affordable solution, or afford a findable solution.

I am still intrigued by the notion of cutting down. I had begun to prepare for that, in case a shipping solution didn't come through. I think it is very possible. And it would feel good. The problem with packing is that once you start to bring one thing, you figure why not bring it all? I always need a blender, right? And the spice containers? If I am shipping anyway, I might as well bring those. You can see how it snowballs.

In this new age, there is also the dilemma of electronic cleaning and transfer. My computer is all cleaned out (another miracle, really.) All files have been handed over or downloaded and passed along or saved to USB. We're ready.

Mbalia keeps asking if today is the day we are going to fly away from here. I think the gradual packing and giving away of things has been good for her as well. The adoption ceremony for our best turtle Shallah, was very positive. She's been an awesome pet to have, really like part of the family. Turtles are smart. And friendly.

The signing- a serious affair

Little Mohamed signed after agreeing to all
of the requirements, even singing

Our final dance show and art expo was super sweet with a guest appearance by Djeneba Seck. That beautiful singing again. And I did manage to get up and sway along when they invited me. No smashing solo, but I am slowly making progress.

As often happens in the time of goodbyes, friendships get made and experiences seem all the more tender. I am hoping to hold onto the revelations and upsurges in courage so that in our new home, we don't wait so long to create these bonds.

Tis the season for adventure and we are ready to embrace it.

With all the toys packed, the only thing
left to do is make art

Bye bye Bamako!