First World Plus

Bright lights, plastic toys, an escalator. It’s the escalator that impresses me most. That’s the way things are these days. I am impressed by a moving staircase. I’ve gone to the “mall” in search of a pump. Sococe is a collection of stores, restaurants and even a theater. It feels first world to me, although my perspective is probably somewhat skewed at this point. It reminds me of a time when I insisted a friend try some vegetarian bacon I had become enamored with. It tastes just like bacon, I assured her.  After a test, she laughed and assured me that I was too far from the real taste of bacon to make such a statement with any authority. While it may not have resembled bacon to her, there was just enough crispiness and flavor to give me the memory of bacon. Which was close enough. Sococe is the vegetarian bacon, just enough bright lights and an over abundance of material things to give it the feel of a Western mall.

Best of all, it boasts a baby store complete with 2 styles of breast pump, one of which appears similar to the Medela and might actually work.  Starting next week, the baby will have the privilege of dining on milk direct from an Italian expresser, at Italian expresser prices.  It may resemble Medela but the Italian label apparently merits double the cost.

Nothing in Africa happens without oddity however and this story is no exception. Unlike the other stores in the mall, the baby store opens at 2 o’clock on Sunday and Monday.  Of course, I was there on a Monday at noon. Considering the price of a taxi, the decision to wait was easy. Just across the parking lot was a collection of tables and umbrellas forming an outdoor eatery. We commenced the wait with a few drinks and a sample of attetike, the local starch du jour. Tastier than Kinshasa foufou and similar to couscous, I found it delicious with some fish and spicy pepper. Most surprising of all, it came with free water and a glass of passion fruit juice. Those two features, along with the 1OOO franc price tag kept me in awe as much as the taste. While I miss Kinshasa for reasons clear and unclear, what I realized is that my relationship resembles one of a mother and child. I want good things for her. Western amenities like free, drinkable water with a meal.  The glass of juice included? First world plus. 

Things I Can't Do

She is using my 100-dollar knife to tighten the top of the propane tank.  I force a laugh as I remind her of this. She nods her head, laughs back and says, “I know Madame.” Even as I am telling her that normally I would never own such a knife, it was a gift and I feel lucky to have it, I realize it is all falling on deaf ears. She needs something to tighten the tank so I can cook, which makes it essentially my need and at the moment, the 100-dollar knife is best tool we have for the job.  We want to eat, right? Hence the laughter. It is the futility of my situation, like wading out into a rainstorm wearing my best dress and trying not to get it muddy. 

Even as I regret the potential loss of my knife, I appreciate Christine. Inviting someone into my home has always been difficult for me.  Despite longing, at times, for help and company on the domestic front, I am, by nature and habit, a one-woman show. I like to be in control and I adore my privacy. However, a new baby means the undisputed need for a nanny- and having someone to help with the chores is a definite bonus.

As a child of the [American] international teaching circuit, I was given a house, a few amenities to fill it with and on call maintenance service.  As a free agent the house and amenities are easier to come by, or simply do without, than the on call maintenance.  When something goes wrong, I have to figure out how to fix it. When the propane runs out I need to do more than fill out a work order.  Luckily there is a refilling station not far from our house. Except I don’t think I could carry the tank even if the station was next door [well, ok, I probably would be able to manage some sort of turn and drag method to get it as far as next door.] Christine, on the other hand, is able to pick up the tank, deposit it on top of a cloth neatly circled on her head and mosey on down the two or so blocks to the store.  I spent a few weeks determining that the fact that I can’t do this doesn’t make me less of a woman.  [It doesn’t, right?]

There are a few other things I can’t do and Christine seems happy and, more importantly, capable of stepping in.  While I am busy trying to focus on the things I can do well, Christine is able to fill in the gaps where my skills fall short.  Like catching the mouse that has been making itself feel at home in our kitchen. In this case, I suffer from more than a physical deficit. I just don’t have the heart to hurt the little guy or gal, as much as I hate it in my house.  When I asked Christine if it bothered her to kill an innocent creature she flashed that same smile and said yes, but they’re bad, as witnessed by my frustration with their filth and filching of our food.

Further proof, I guess, of how we need other people. I often wonder if it was something in my upbringing that made me so squeamish. City life perhaps. My parents may have harbored the idyllic dream of farm life, but we never made it there.  Maybe if we had I’d have developed some useful life skills but as it stands, I’ve only milked a cow once, and I can’t debone a fish or cut the heads and feet off chickens, the last of which would actually be a useful talent here in Ivory Coast.

You might be wondering what I need that 100-dollar knife for since I am not busy hacking up animal parts. It’s for tightening the propane tank, of course. 

Strangers

Elephant carved chairs

Carved giraffes on the base

Secret door on the base too!

We've hit the four month mark. Although we've been in our new spot for four months, its hard to tell if we're making progress. We haven't hung any pictures and we still don't have any hot water or furniture, though we did get this amazing table and chair set for free from a friend of a friend. Our lives have changed in ways we didn't anticipate and often in ways we can't control. Loss of control is something my former colleagues explore as they settle into their new spot(s) and is one of the things that makes moving so hard. Trying to figure out and fit into a new culture, a new country and, ultimately, a new life takes its toll.

We've become a microcosm. Our little family functioning in its own small world.  The boys haven't met any friends yet and I spend most of my time among strangers.This means a bit of remaking myself- often by default. Every new posting offers a chance to reinvent oneself. A chance to meet new people and offer bits and pieces of yourself one small revelation at a time. Sometimes it all comes together and sometimes it offers a surprising glimpse into parts of yourself that you hadn't really considered before. Mostly it's some configuration of the two.

The thing about being in a French school is that I am presenting myself in a second language. I can't possibly be the same person I would be in my native language- for the good and the bad. I remember someone once telling me how different (and cute? did she say cute? she used some adjective that I can't quite remember) I am when speaking French. What it comes down to is a lot of second guessing. Should I send this email to my director in my grammatically incorrect and probably misspelled French? In English, I wouldn't dream of such a thing but now, I haven't really much choice. What I'm left to ponder is whether or not he thinks less of me - professionally- for it.

On the street, people are happy to hear my poor French. They love to tag me as American. I presume due to my accent, I've been tagged in many taxis and stores. It's not much different than me tagging the Senegalese, prevalent in Ivory Coast and easily recognizable due to the lilt of their French. I find a secret delight in being able to distinguish between the Africans and it is due to my experiences with people from many West African countries. I also find I have developed a fierce pride in being able to identify the Congolese singers on the radio. Singing in Lingala? Yup, that's me. They're playing my song. I try to find a way to work into the conversation that I have just come from Kinshasa. I suppose it is similar to the many drivers who like to tag me as American and then get directions in English (a right, yes? and left, gauche, non? I was giddily inspired to teach one taxi driver 'hang a louie' American slang for left, n'est-ce pas?) But those interactions are a far cry from the formality of the work place.

I remember being in Kinshasa and hearing the response of some teachers and administration to broken English. Unfortunately it wasn't in the vein of "Hey, give him points for the old college try." In fact, I recently spent one lunch break reading research on bilingual classrooms and I realized how far removed from the American perspective I've become. Some research on bilingual education sounds dismally negative- like a thing to do until the child becomes fluent in English rather than a thing to celebrate and encourage. In my world, the bilingual classes are sought after and fill up quickly.

But that doesn't stop me from thinking twice before clicking the send button on my emails. And a conversation in which I posed several questions to a fellow teacher resulted in me saying, "I'm really not stupid," in French, of course. To give him credit, my fellow teacher responded, emphatically, "Terae, I wasn't thinking that," but I felt it. Because I am someone different in French. I admit, happily, that spending so much time with French French speakers is increasing my vocabulary, possibly fixing my grammar (as opposed to African French which is filled with grammatical loopholes that make understanding the Ivorians akin to learning a new language on it's own- just when I've learned to stop saying nonante and septante, Belgicisms found in Congo) and adding to my repertoire of facial expressions (French French is filled with interesting sound effects and facial expressions which seem just as important as the words.) Yes, I am advancing, but often I still feel like a five year old. Even the students at recess look at me with quizzical eyes - making me wonder if what I am saying is actually what I mean to be saying.

Most days I realize that I am a mere shadow of the person I used to be. I can no longer have those stimulating give and take discussions about education, banter about the perfect word to use in creation of curriculum documents or other academic discourse. Not the way I used to. I am too busy learning the ropes and concentrating on comprehension. So I search for interaction in other ways.

These include passing remarks with strangers about catching a taxi - which resulted in a few days of fun early morning conversation with a woman who thought sharing a taxi would be good for both of us. Unfortunately we were heading in separate directions. Random conversations in the grocery store are another way to get my social fill. Yesterday I spoke with an older man who wanted to know how I prepare soya chunks. He was considering buying them on advice from a friend. When I grabbed a package he took the opportunity to ask how I make them. We kept running into each other in various aisles and the dialogue continued. Maybe he was as hungry for conversation as I.

Textured soy protein meat substitute
Tasty and a great conversation starter.

The businesses, stores and pharmacies in my neighborhood offer other chances for quick conversations. The people know me well enough to have a simple exchange. "Know me." My daily and weekly routines mean I pass the same people and we've begun to say hello. But I have no deeper an image of them than they have of me.

I often wonder how many times it takes for someone to remember me. Historically, I am not all that memorable. I have tried to infuse some humor into my casual interactions, lending to my memorabilia factor. I've noticed it can be as infrequent as one visit before someone recognizes and remembers me. The friendliness of Abidjan, perhaps.  Or the white factor. There are a few other Europeans in my neighborhood I am beginning to discover, but we are not many.

There is a white man, French I'm guessing, but since we haven't exchanged more than a passing hello, I cannot really know. I see him  many mornings in the neighborhood. We've begun to greet each other- for no other reason than we are both obviously strangers, I think. He seems more interesting as he is walking deeper into the cartier on his way to work while I am heading out. On a few occasions, I have seen him at the carrefour where taxis gather and I assume he is headed to the office. Most interesting would be a sit down and chat about what he is doing here and why. But I have no idea how to make this happen. Or if I even want to.

It's not much different in my workplace. Conversations occur in passing and often don't get much further than how are you? I'm not sure how to take it further and not yet convinced I want to. Slowly, slowly, or malembe, malembe as is said in Lingala. I've become known as the theater person at school and have even been approached by the director with an invitation to attend a professional development conference on the topic in February. I am excited to branch out in a new direction. Having an official paper documenting professional training in this area can only add to future opportunities.

For the moment, still taking it all in. Returning to my little microcosm after work and relishing my Sunday night dinners with a friend in English. Spending my weeks among strangers in French.

Stupi Tupi

Ok, this is completely NOT the post I was planning. Lately, it seems like all my plans get railroaded, but in the case of art following life, this is the post I need to vent write about.

Going back to work with a 2 month old baby has been bearable because....the boys have been home along with the nanny, giving me a sense that she is not alone. They are able to fill me in on all the important parts of her day (like sleeping and eating.) I also had a breast pump which allowed me to continue giving her the best milk on earth and be comfortable in my hours away from her. My working hours aren't all that long, and it is only twice a week or so that I have what I consider a full day. But they are hours away. And I do need my pump.

The French system requires teachers be with students pretty much for the entire working day. Gone are the 40 minute prep periods, but they do have a pretty serious coffee break for teachers who aren't on service. While I do have service twice a week, missing the ever precious 1/2 hour break, I am lucky enough to have some open periods after the recreation. (This is due to the fact that the bilingual program is new at this grade and so we have only one section. Next  year there will be 2 sections, meaning I would teach another class for the after break hours.)

All that just to say, I have time to pump. I spent my pumping sessions marveling at the basic principles of design that allows me to provide nutritious (and cost effective!) 'meals' for my little one. I have the Medela Harmony pump which basically looks like this:

It is an amazing device with a deceptively simple design. Pushing the handle creates a suction which mimics a baby nursing. I can easily fill at least one 8 ounce bottle while I am at work, sometimes two. Additionally, if I get home and find the little princess lost in slumber land, I can pump anytime I need to relieve discomfort and keep the magic juices flowing. The pump itself breaks down into 6 main parts (excluding the bottle itself.) The Achilles heel here is one thin little flap called the membrane. You can see it in this diagram, which has the parts to the pump itself on the left. 

If that fragile looking flap breaks, the whole system loses power and shuts down. By now you can probably guess that is exactly what happened to me, despite sending out waves of gratefulness for 30 minutes each day and washing this piece ever carefully. Normally, one could easily order a replacement pack of 6 to be delivered in a jiff. Unless you live in Africa with spotty mail service- I'm told it will work IF I have a PO Box (actually, another perk of the job is I can get things delivered to the school- though I am not sure a membrane for my breast pump is the kind of thing they were thinking when they instituted that policy) IF I can convince the company to send international mail,  and IF I can wait however many weeks it will surely take to arrive.

I need milk now. So in desperation and panic I planned to comb the streets of Abidjan in search of salvation. It is considered a progressive, modern city, I figured, surely they have something out there. My nanny suggested looking in pharmacies and so that's where I began. And I found this:

Mine did not come with whatever that thing is on the side (an extra tube with breast shield?) I just got the glass tube and the rubber ball. It came with a huge dose of doubt despite the pharmacy technicians assuring me it would work. (Our conversation deserves a blog post of it's own. Seriously.)

The pump, supposedly from France- a dubious website makes me wonder, is completely stupid. I argued with pharmacy staff (through a smile, always a smile) about whether the design would actually function and if it could be adequately sterilized. They laughed, assured me it would work and brought up my past health concerns as a way of validating their prior success in serving me. (I would have been more impressed with their collective memory if they weren't also using it as a way to introduce me to one of the staff who had been out on my previous visits. "Oh yes, we know her. She came in when she was pregnant, And then for malaria medicine," one woman says to another. "And she came for iron pills," a man pipes up. So much for the privacy act...)

After establishing my medicinal history for any and all in the pharmacy, they proceeded to show me how the pump works. I wanted to see how the rubber bulb would come off. She resisted at first and seemed to be saying it would be too hard get back on, which was kind of my point. Aside from that, I couldn't really see where the milk would go. That little glass reservoir on the side wouldn't hold very much at all. The fact that the whole thing was glass hadn't even registered yet. I was a desperate mom on the edge of despair at the thought that I wouldn't be able to continue breast feeding. So I bought the pump.

I managed to get it to work slightly. It was completely inefficient and messy. The bulb never really expanded again after contracting it with the first squeeze and the small reservoir meant continuously removing the pump in order to empty the milk into a bottle. Just when I thought I might figure it out, get a rhythm going, it would need to be emptied. I fiddled with it for about 15 minutes before cursing its futility and took both pumps apart to clean and sterilize (hoping some miracle would occur to with the Harmony pump in the cleaning process rendering it workable again.)

Instead of a miracle, I found I couldn't put the Tupi pump back together. No matter how hard I have tried, I cannot get that bulb to go back on the end of the glass pump. All the time I am trying I keep thinking about how the pump is glass and if I apply too much pressure in my zealous effort to get the bulb back on, it will shatter and probably slice my hand open. Oh, the glories of motherhood.

Unfortunately, there is no happy ending- yet. School is out for 2 weeks starting tomorrow, so at least I will be able to stay with the baby all day and night. I have 2 weeks to figure this out. I have written the company requesting they mail me a small package of membranes internationally. And I think I saw some pumps in Kinshasa, where Christian happens to be. Hopefully he is coming back next week (one week before school starts again) and will be bringing some kind of alternate, workable pump. 

Turns out sometimes design can be too simple and simple is not always better. I am rooting for Abidjan, however, and so I suggest these 2 goals- replace the Tupi with the Harmony (with plenty of extra spare parts) and get some solar phone boxes- a super smart idea from London.   

A Glee Epiphany and other realizations

Back when I still considered myself on summer vacation and was busy trying to fill the days I got caught up in Glee. Mohamed and I found some pleasure in watching this TV series about a group of high school students and their experiences in the singing club. A friend had given us the first 4 seasons on a flash drive and so we were free to watch at our leisure. We got so caught up in it that- to my horror- Mohamed announced his goal of 'watching all of season 4 in one day.'

While I silently revolted at his plan for spending a beautiful day glued to the screen, I understood his double need of entertaining himself and escaping from our boring (read lonely) first days here in Abidjan. We watched together, got to know the characters together and enjoyed the music. As an adult, however, I think the similarities ended there. I watched with an eye on my past- ever regretful- while he probably watched with an eye to his future (I'll never act like that.)

High school, I think, tends to bring up a lot of past baggage for many people. (Hail to the high school teachers who navigate this world everyday.) While I have long grappled with my past, watching the main characters struggling through the highs and lows of teenage-dom brought my own experiences ever more in focus. If only, if only, if only......

Thoughts of my past still bring up resentment, regret and wishes that it all had been different. If only I  had known.....if only I had had parents who..... and on and on. In the end, I am left with just one question to ponder. Why is that the most formative years of our lives are those when we are dependent upon others?

Most of the time I wonder why I am still plagued by the events of my youth. At this age I would have expected to have long moved on from those tumultuous years full of mistakes upon mistakes. All my training in therapy suggests that people can get over the impact of parents and friends and errant ways of our childhood. All my experiences in life suggest that we never really do.

If we map out our lives on a timeline, the youthful period takes up a significantly smaller portion of our lives than the grown-up years, and yet, if we're not careful, we can spend an enormous portion of those grown up years looking back, reminiscing, regretting, wishing we could revise what happened long ago. Long ago when we were at the mercy of others.

I think about it in terms of infancy as well. Newborns are completely dependent upon their parents and errors in those early months and years can have disastrous effects on how we develop physically and psychologically. Our self esteem, curiosity, motivation and the general way we approach the world is shaped at a time when have absolutely no control over what happens to us. It seems inherently unfair that our well being is based upon the decisions and actions of others.

Until it struck me that that is precisely the point of it all. No matter which 'good book' you check, they all refer to humans looking out for humans. It may seem elementary, but I finally got the hugeness of this while washing dishes and reflecting on my reactions to spending every night lost in 45 minute episodes of a high school ecosystem. It was a Glee epiphany. We need each other when we're most vulnerable.

Previously I'd always interpreted the 'do good to others' rule as helping our neighbors. I thought I'd covered it by volunteering and offering what little I could to those I saw in need around me. But for some reason it's taken me until now to realize this need for perfecting human interdependence extends to smaller systems- the family systems. Service must begin at home. (I guess you can imagine how that played out in my family if it's taken me some 40 years to figure this out.)

While most of me resents this idea since I seem to have gotten a raw deal on the parent end of things, I realize it is the ultimate vision of a harmonious humanity.  Peace in the world can begin to truly develop when we take care of our children, who are then confident and service minded enough to go out and take care of others. And by feeling a true love for our family, our neighbors and so called strangers (in this version of humanity, we know we are all brothers and sisters) we can truly develop. As a race. Or grow closer to God, if religion is the path you're on. Grow closer to nirvana, if spiritualism is the path you're on. Balance out the universe, if space and energy is the path you're on.

I've spent many of my adult years trying to determine, label and name the path I am on. Islam came pretty close. But these days, I can see the labels are less important than the ideas. It's this concept of humans needing humans that rings the most true. Not just needing, but being obligated to be in service to each other. Getting a raw deal in our own youth doesn't exonerate us from providing for others in our future.

It's easy to think this is right when we consider orphans and hungry children. Women sometimes get our sympathy as well, being the main caregivers for children. But distance is easy to come by. People who are too different, or seen as potentially able to care for themselves or people who are too dangerous to care for fall outside our radar of obligations. Some cultures foster more of a sense of interdependence while others focus on independence. All cultures eventually face a limit.

Ebola in the news seems one curse on this world designed to drive the wedge between us humans even deeper. Its not just Africans who are ostracizing their children and neighbors. Spain is having a hard time dealing with an outbreak there. The numbers of confirmed cases remain in the single digits and observed cases in the double digits. It's not a far stretch to understand how countries in Africa, whose numbers have hit the thousands, are having trouble coping.

Ebola is tearing apart the fragile seams that hold families and communities together- especially in places where resources needed for daily living are already scarce. Most of what I read or see on the news is capable of bringing me to tears. (New mama hormones are an excellent strategy for increasing empathy-maybe it should be added to the water supplies.)   I try not to pass judgement but am lost in wonder when confronted with images of children suffering or dying alone.  Perhaps they are orphans, but thoughts of anyone spending their last days and hours in a haze of pain and loneliness is enough to  make me doubt the future of humanity.  If we could all be as heroic as this woman, than my faith might be restored. But we can never really know how we will respond to crisis in our family or in our community.  Maybe Ebola is more of a test of our humanity rather than a curse.  

Aside from our emotional reactions and spiritual safety, Ebola presents a real danger to pregnant women and medical caregivers- those charged with the physical future of humanity. I remain divided between the joy of my epiphany- we need other people when we are at our most vulnerable- and utter dismay- you mean we need other people when we are at our most vulnerable? I'm committed to being the other person.....now I just have to work at accepting help when I am most vulnerable. Which TV series is going to teach me how to do that?

Must be the monnaie

Numbers and I have always had a precarious relationship.  I like the number 12 (a direct result of this animation, which I recall perfectly from my youth. I recently had the good pleasure of singing this to a friend who joined right in. I am not alone.)

I mostly enjoyed algebra class- when everything fit like pieces of a puzzle. (It was just later when I got home and tried to replicate the things we learned in class that I got stuck and frustrated.)  I am a math person, as long as it's in the middle school/elementary range. Or maybe it's about topic. No matter how I have pushed myself, researched and tried to educate myself, it's finances that remain murky. I can balance a checkbook. At least I get the concept of deposits and withdrawals. But I have never been able to fully grasp the nuances of  money systems or how to compare them. (Not to be confused with converting them- I've actually gotten better at that. I can think in two-or even three!- money systems at the same time. )

While I can't discuss what it means that 1,000 Congolese franc equals about 1 US dollar and 1,000XOF (franc cfa) equals about 2 US dollars (oh how it puzzles me, what does this mean?) I can share my observations of money.

In Kinshasa, ATM's spit out 100 dollar bills as if they were singles. There, I was up on all the latest changes in American money. The most recent version downright resembles Monopoly money. In fact, shortly after a machine spewed these out at me,  I found myself at the Embassy paying for extra pages in my passport. A man at the window next to me leaned over in curiosity and asked if that was the new 100, the way you might inquire about the new iPhone or the latest Mercurials (up to version Vapor 8 apparently.) The point is in America my life was never graced with so many Benjamins. In fact, in some parts, walking around with too many of these is suspicious behavior. In Kinshasa, there's not much choice. Luckily, changing your bill into more manageable quantities is no problem. Money changers line the roads ready to convert your $100 into any combination of Congolese francs and US dollars.

Not my hands, or my money, though when I first got one
of these I felt an overwhelming urge to take a photo.
It appeared so completely fake. 

Here in Abidjan, $100's are nowhere to be found. The currency of choice is the Franc CFA and changing US dollars requires searching high and low and long and far. The airport and the Golf Hotel are probably your best bets. The money changers so common to Kin may also be found in Abidjan, but not in my neighborhood. (Back in December when we were visiting, we couldn't really find them in any neighborhood.) So, I'm learning to think in Franc CFA and it's quite deceiving. I have to remember not to equate it with the Congolese franc; its actually about double the amount.

Both countries use similar denominations. That is, the 500 bill is considered a small bill and pretty common. Next is the 1,000- also often in use (though I do remember my initial skepticism and avoidance when it first came out in Kinshasa. All new money looks like play money.) They both also have the 5,000. Ivory Coast continues the trend with a 10,000. It is purple and gold and has a fancy security feature that involves hidden numbers shown only in black light.

Abidjan has a coin system in place whereas Kinshasa does not. Even when the smaller numbers (100's, 50's, 10's) were more popular and in use, they were in paper form. Abidjan, however, offers coins in 500, 200, 100, 50, 25, 10 and 5 - though the last 3 aren't good for much more than adding up to 50. You can buy a lollipop or other piece of candy for 50XOF. There's even the 250 coin, which reminds me of the half dollar or a two dollar bill. I always feel kind of lucky when I get one, as if they are rare (not sure there is any merit at all to this sentiment.) It's nice to have change again. Change has a way of feeling like extra money (rather than left over money.) Its small status somehow escapes the real money radar and anything purchased with accumulated change takes on a bonus status. It makes money fun again (though in dire budget planning this can be a deadly perspective to hold onto.)

It's possible-and fun- to have a pocket full of change again.
100XOF can get you a taxi ride in a yellow cab
(and if that  sounds like a carnival ride, its probably not too far off the mark)

Oddly- and frustratingly- enough, change is the thing both countries seem to lack. Not coins but small bills in return for large ones. Although ATM's in Kin seem to deal exclusively in large bills, many stores don't have the smaller bills to accommodate a purchase with a 100 dollar bill. The way to handle this in Kin is to get yourself- or send a younger gopher- to a streetside money man or woman.

In Abidjan the problem is the same- lack of change- but the symptoms are different.  There aren't money stalls banking their business on your inability to change the dollar. The dollar doesn't rule here- only the Franc CFA talks (and that's good for Cote d'Ivoire, right? I really want to understand the financial intricacies here.) But finding change for the bigger bills like the 10,000 (about $20) is a challenge. 

One of the most perplexing situations to me is the taxi. If you're not carrying exact change, it's standard procedure to announce how much you have and verify the driver has 'monnaie'- French for change. Even though I know this now, I still find myself in situations where I only have a large bill which I forgot to announce, or sometimes even a not so large bill, and the taxi man has nothing. Nothing? Really? If taxi driving was my business I think I would realize my need to carry some change. For my customers. Who might have large bills. 

Just now as I am writing this, it's finally all coming together. On those occasions when I have forgotten to announce my large bill the driver responds in one of three ways when this happens: 

1. Nods his head and pulls out the proper change.

2. Gets mad, sighs and starts searching around for some change- or I send one of the boys off in search if they're with me

3. Gets mad, sighs, says he doesn't have change and then magically produces change from some hidden compartment

In one case, I went in to buy some bread in order to get change and - due to the slow line I waited in- the driver came in after me impatient and yelling about how I should have change (me? I'm the consumer. Isn't providing change part of the seller's service?) Meanwhile I was busy thinking about how I didn't even really need the bread..... but just now I am understanding some obvious reasons why taxi drivers might not carry a lot of change on them. 

In one particularly friendly mood I inquired about the lack of a radio and whether or not the silence all day was a bother. He told me he'd recently been robbed, strapped to his seat while they stole all of his money, the radio and even the taxi meter. I guess in that situation it might be better to have less cash on you. So that explains the cab drivers not having change. 

But it doesn't help in understanding why the stores never have any. I've left purchases on the counter and walked out empty handed because the cashier could not provide change for a 10,000 bill. I can't unravel the implications that the equivalent of 20 dollars seems so extravagant and at the same time doesn't buy very much. 

I've been trying to determine which city is more expensive- another mind puzzle I can't quite work through. In the end, I relent that there is no real comparing them- they're just different. Some things I want to snatch up by the dozens (carrots, for example, which seem incredibly affordable here, not to mention appetizing, after Kin's limp, skinny, high priced carrots.) Other things are expensive, plain and simple. And the lack of a Goma cheese substitute has driven me to research cheese making methods (more on that in an upcoming post on home schooling.) But when times get tough, we can always splurge on a lollipop- passion fruit flavor- for a mere 50franc. 

One of Mohamed's favorite treats-
sold a mere 150 paces or so from our front door

The beauty of play

8OO kids in a group is probably not something most people can imagine, unless you happen to be a primary school teacher. My last school had a mere 3OO students and that included kindergarten through high school.  Though the elementary alone only had about 13O kids, we spent a good deal of time discussing recess.  Recess duty, recess rules, recess routines.

My initiation into recess in Kinshasa was shocking. I was fresh from the US with rigid rules and safeguards in place. The playground I encountered seemed to be a haven of hazardous behavior and children run amok. Over the years we worked to create regulations that were clear and consistent and contributed to the safety of students. There were challenges in getting children to understand and comply with the guidelines and getting adults to follow through with consistency. It seemed to be a constant work in process.  

In the French system duty is called service, aptly so, and thus far happily involves a lot less discussion. My first day at school here, the director outlined a few new protocols he wanted to try and we’ve been off and running ever since.  The kids are allowed to choose the area they want to play in. Apparently last year students were assigned areas on a rotating basis.  Supervision is handled by teachers and the ‘surveillance team.’  I really love this concept and they do an incredible job.  

Every Tuesday and Thursday I find myself on the covered basketball court watching an obscene number of children roam wild. We have 3 main areas for recess and so the entire population of students is somewhat spread out. It still works out to a swarm of children such as I have never seen in my life. I was in awe the first day. Actually, I’m in awe every Tuesday and Thursday.

My post is the basketball court, but I also keep an eye out on the soccer field and track surrounding it, the grassy area next to the court and the picnic tables. The court hosts 4 basketball games and something that resembles soccer, except they get to use their hands and throw the ball to make a goal.  In addition to all these games going on simultaneously, there are the random groups of kids just racing through and the ones having their snacks on the sidelines.

Over on the soccer field it appears to be equal mayhem. The running track that surrounds the field turns into a scooter derby as children race laps despite the games of tag, soccer offshoots and groups of giggling girls meandering by.

There is pushing and tugging, screaming and laughing. Kids fall down and friends offer a hand to pick them up.  They argue about who had the ball, who gets the ball, who is out and who is in and, most often, they resolve their dilemmas on their own. Rarely is an adult called on to intervene. The few times I had to talk to a group about rough play, they dispersed back into the crowd, disbanding and forming new groups, new games and new disputes. 

It’s beautiful play. Children being children. They are allowed the space to discover, explore, create, discuss, argue and problem solve.  They organize their time, some choosing to sit and eat before playing, some choosing to munch while they wander. They touch and tug, fall down and get back up. They win and lose. They share and refuse.  And they keep an eye out for us adults. 

I generally enjoy recess duty. I like the chance to be outside, to walk around and to see the games children play.  What I’ve noticed most about having so many kids out there playing together is that my presence is needed less. I still check in occasionally and there are a few that like to hang around and talk to me but usually only for a minute. It often seems that by the time I arrive on the scene, I’m no longer needed. Today I saw a boy lingering by the basketball hoop. He looked as though he might be feeling left out or trying to figure out how to join in. Just as I decided to go and talk with him, one of the kids from the basketball game swooped by, wrapped his arms around the boy and invited him to join in.  The boy refused, preferring to stay where he was by the post, but now I knew he wasn’t lonely or left out.

It feels good, this not being needed. It feels right. I’m there for safety only, for the serious stuff they can’t work out, and only after they’ve already tried.  It leaves me feeling a bit like an anthropologist.  Surrounded by masses of little people, I wander amongst them observing and discerning….what are they doing? I saw a group of boys today playing a game that looked similar to Mother May I? except they were striking poses and the ‘mother’ appeared to be doing everything in his power to make the others laugh or break pose. Turns out this game is called 1,2,3 Sun and that’s the most I could gather.  They seemed a bit suspicious of my questioning. I continued my observations from a distance and left them to go back to their beautiful play.