Turn, Turn, Turn

Tuesday, 18 May 2010, Nairobi, Kenya--

It’s Tuesday morning, 18 May 2010.  I’ve turned a page.  I am an engaged woman, less than six months away from my thirtieth birthday, and still pretty fit considering my vices.  My shoes are off, my hair is down, my watch is now set three hours ahead to reflect the correct time, and I am sitting in my guesthouse room in Nairobi, Kenya, sipping on a hot cup of Nescafe.  I’ve just flown in from Ghana, where I’ve lived for the past seven months.  I’ve moved here to work with refugees, which is what I want.  My fiancé is matchless, my friends are loyal and my family is fun love come to life.

Ugh—gag.  Next. 

If I were reading about my life in a novel, I’d be bored.  Blah blah blah.  Another one of those women who probably eats organic and lives expensively frugal; who wears L.L Bean cotton and looks at the stars from her place in the grass as she contemplates her place in the cosmos.  It also sounds like the kind of thing I’d hear amongst a cocktail hour circle for a non-profit benefit or something trendy that would make me pity the woman verbally vomiting on and on about herself.  You know, both situations being the whole “I have it all, I can live rough and have love, listen to me deliver my exceptionality,” kind of thing. 

Truthfully, I can’t stand what I’m saying sometimes.  My life.  What it must sound like to other people.  It all sounds so swollen and grand.  Arrogant.  As if the life path I am on is a better choice than planting a garden in my backyard, raising healthy children and treating them to homemade pie, or reading a book on my porch as the sun sets.    

Joke’s on me, I guess.  Despite how things in my life may sound, I am 100% more or less 90% mess and muddle.  I am a flipping disaster.  I have essentially no idea what I’m doing.  I can’t even tell you anything about myself without immediately releasing rivers of tears down my face. The man I love is in another country across a great, wide ocean.  There’s a bag of wet clothes in my suitcase, and I tried to pay for a phone chip this morning with the wrong currency.  Boarding passes and receipts and used, crusty Kleenexes litter my purse and pockets.  I am here doing what I have struggled to be here to do because I want to do it, and yet somehow I feel flicked through and unsteady. 

My life seems to be moving so fast.  Most people, upon reaching a certain age, would agree that’s true.  Life is something you breeze through.  Maybe, momentarily, such an account sounds fabulous--life moving fast.   But life moves FAST, whether you realize you’re on a journey or not.  What I have not prepared myself for are the deceptive, basically split-second decisions you have to make as life whips you forward.  Whether or not I am aware of it in the moment (yes and no), some of the paths I’ve conscientiously set foot on are paths I’ll ultimately have to choose between. 

Ugh—again.  I don’t want to have to stand it sometimes. 

I suppose, at the very least, the truthful shit I’ve just put out there makes for a better read than the first paragraph, if we were developing a character and plotline.  Sounds more interesting and dramatic, anyway.  Given all that I've just laid out, where would such a character go?  Africa, or what?  What will she feel when she goes there?  Where will her fiance go?  Will she be okay? 

I wish someone would turn the page for me so I could find out. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seeing the Finish Line

 Thursday, 22 April 2010, Last Week in Accra--

About ¾-mile away from my home in Accra yesterday, I got caught in a dark, heavy rain.  I had been wanting to go on this run for weeks (weeks!) and was not about to let the maddening may-teem-now/may-teem-later rainclouds keep me from reacquainting myself with the sanity and satisfaction yielded by a good, long run. 

So after work, I set off on my usual route: across busy Ring Road, through Labone neighborhood and into Cantonments, behind the blockish US Embassy, past Togo Circle where prostitutes will later prowl, and back through Labone.  According to my rough estimation, the loop is a bright 5.5 or so miles, which is a perfect post-work, pre-sunset length if conditions are favorable, but which can also feel like a leaden 15 if the weather is oppressive or the traffic is belching exhaust or you’ve had one too many Club beers the night before.  As with most things in Ghana, never assume you know what you’re getting yourself in to. 

That being said, I wasn’t at all surprised when the rain actually came, but I was surprised at how far I’d gotten.  Considering the distance I intended to cover, I made it pretty far before the sky went completely black and the rain twisted the roads and footways into assorted-sized pancakes of slick, reflective evil. 

I watched the rain fall steady and generous from underneath an awning.  I thought about how hard it would be for me to see my surroundings once I decided to make a move; how the darkness would totally compromise my vision and depth-perception.  But then I realized that—entirely exclusive of the weather and shocking in profundity—throughout the course of my seven months in Ghana I have gradually and amazingly become blind to the things around me. 

I haven’t “seen” a woman carrying anything on her head in months—and women carrying things on their heads are everywhere, everyday, all the time!  Everywhere!  I haven’t “seen” garishly decorated taxi cabs or tro tros, I haven’t “seen” Purewater satchets littering the streets, and I haven’t smelled the curdled, fetid, stagnant waste in the gutters.  I haven’t noticed chickens or goats at my feet as of late, and I can’t even tell you the last time I saw a stray dog.  I don’t hear taxi cab drivers when they honk in my direction anymore, nor do I acknowledge strangers who yell “hello” as I’m walking.   

What the heck?!  What is going on?  Am I “assimilated” or something?  Indifferent?  Is it really possible that all the differentness of Africa has become familiar? 

Desmond came to visit last week and it was so great watching him “see” and experience things for the first time—the goats, the women, the gutters.  I planned a million things for us to do and shared my ideas with my friends here in Accra.  One of them very wisely advised me to go slow and keep my enthusiasm in check so as not to overwhelm Desmond or freak him out.  Africa can be tough, and having to adapt to or accept the vastly different ways of doing things can be really intense. 

As weird as this recently realized lack of enthusiasm and response seems to be, it isn’t abnormal or regrettable—at least that’s what I’m telling myself.  On the contrary, I think its most people’s natural response to routine and everyday-ness.

For me, it’s kinda bittersweet.  I’m finally feeling somehow settled, just as I’m packing up moving to Kenya. But then again, maybe it’s time.  Maybe, among my travels and roadtrips and Club beers and dinners at friend’s houses, the mosquito bites and the rashes and the water shortages and sweat-drenched nights, I’ve seen all that there is for me to see in Ghana.  Maybe it's time for me to tap into my final reserve of energy, focus, and call it a good run.  

MY TWO SENSE

7 Feb 2010—Krisan Ride, Accra—

For the past two weeks, I’ve been on an OPE circuit ride.  The term “circuit ride” is actually, in my experience, a euphemism for the term “bitch-slap.”  When you’re on a circuit ride, you work like a dog with precious, few personal minutes and hours of intense, detail-delicate, one-on-one, rather invasive interviews with refugees.  One casework interview, with an applicant (aka, refugee) on his own case, at the very minimum takes one hour.  However, in no way does case-size determine how long an interview will take.  Maybe this applicant has two brothers, or maybe he’s got 22 full- and half-siblings.  Maybe his persecution story is simple, or maybe it is complex.  Perhaps he came straight to Ghana from Liberia in a car, and he is sure about this.  Or, perhaps he arrived in Ghana three years after leaving Sudan, having transited through Chad, Niger, Cameroon, Nigeria, Benin, and Togo, first.  God forbid the interpreter sucks, but maybe he does.  In circumstances like those, my seemingly quick interview with one applicant can take f-o-r-e-v-e-r.  

Circuit rides usually occur in locations other than Accra (where OPE is located) because it is much, much easier to transport a small team of individuals with valid passports and expendable pocket change than handle travel and lodging logistics for x-number of applicants and their respective wives, children, grandchildren, uncles, brothers, sisters, etc.  However, it was decided by OPE’s Powers That Be that, for this particular ride, the refugees from nearby Krisan Refugee Camp in the Western Region of Ghana come to Accra instead of the other way around.  After a few initial hiccups (the applicants arrived to OPE three hours late the first day, for example), the ride more or less went pretty smooth, and my colleagues and I successfully processed 98 Sudanese applicants. Their cases are now getting checked, reviewed, organized and cleared for the next phase of immigration interviews. 

While circuit rides can suck the life out of you, there are moments of unexpected, unadulterated levity that, I’d wager, you’d be hard-pressed to enjoy in any other line of work. These moments tickle me to the core and I am filled with a sense of rightness about the work I do on this earth. 

Humor.  It’s everywhere.  Embrace the living daylights out of it. 

The workplace humor I’m mainly referring to, here, are the seemingly bizarre snippets of interviews—overheard as you pass by the interview-in-progress, or that you absentmindedly catch while wrapping up some paperwork—that, when taken out of context, seem like the most absurd, odd and amusing expressions EVER.  Some of these amusing conversation bits derive from misconstrued interpretations, and some of them come from exasperated caseworkers at the end of a long, stressful ride.  Others are details of stories told by applicants that come out of nowhere. In some instances, the degree of humor, for me, is contingent entirely on tone. 

Here are some gems from this and other circuit rides I’ve been privileged to appreciate:

• “Sir, let’s just forget about the camel.  I want you to forget about the camel…let’s leave the camel there for a second and focus on the horse.”
• “So…you’re telling me…that YOU can’t go back to your country because…let me get this straight…your father says you have a deep fear.  Is that why YOU can’t go back to your country?”
• “Where are the diamonds.  Where are the diamonds.  Where are the diamonds.” (this one cracked me up because the caseworker read it in monotone)

This next gem is my own.  Ultimately, it was just misinterpretation, and a particularly amusing one at that, but at the time I was getting frustrated:

ME: Sir, can you please tell me how you crossed the border into Chad?

INTERPRETER: interprets in Arabic

APPLICANT: replies in Arabic

INTERPRETER (to me): On a monkey.

ME: What?  Oh.  No.  My question is, how did you cross the border—you know, by foot, by car, how?

INTERPRETER: interprets in Arabic

APPLICANT: replies in Arabic

INTERPRETER (to me): On a monkey.

ME (looking straight at the applicant): I’m sorry.  So…you’re saying that the six of you crossed the border into Chad…on monkey?

INTERPRETER: interprets in Arabic

APPLICANT: replies in Arabic

INTERPRETER (to me): Yes, on a monkey.

(The applicant, meanwhile, is beginning to look a bit confused by the length and repetition of this exchange)

ME (clearing my throat, shaking my head): No, no, that’s not what I’m asking.  Maybe the monkey came with you, that’s fine.  But there’s no way all six of you could cross the border ON a monkey.  Sir, I need to know—how did you and your family cross the border into Chad.  By foot, by car, by canoe, by bus—how.   

INTERPRETER: interprets in Arabic

APPLICANT: replies in Arabic

INTERPRETER (to me): On a donkey.

ME: DONKEY!  A donkey?

INTERPRETER (to me): Yes, donkey.

ME: A donkey—is that what we were talking about? 

INTERPRETER (to me): Yes, a donkey.

ME: Okay, okay, a DONKEY.  So you crossed the border on a donkey.  That’s much better.  Moving on…

There are also moments so touching and so tender that your heart grows big with love and emotion, and no sense of rightness on this earth makes sense.  Some applicants affect me more than others, and I remember their stories, their eyes, their names.  For whatever reason, they make a lasting impression on me and I am more drawn to them than I am to others (a quick aside: I would like to mention that I do not, cannot play favorites.  The work that I do is not designed to foster favoritism.  Also, I have zero control or influence over who is and is not accepted for immigration to the United States.  Zero). 

Usually, it is not the depth or breadth of sorrowful or painful or traumatic experiences that attracts me to an applicant, although some of the people I interview have witnessed and endured such unbelievable, inhumane and degrading atrocities I am involuntarily moved to regard each of them with a unique level of respect never bestowed on anyone before.  No, what generally impresses me is industry.  Conscientious drive.  Hard work.  Ambition.  For me, these are fibrous, human characteristics that are natural, inbuilt, and inescapable.  EVERYONE has these traits embedded within, be they free or refugee.  It’s what a person DOES with those characteristics—with that gumption and courage—that impresses me.  I think this can be said of me in all facets of my life, not just relevant to the work I do at OPE.  The people I admire most have always been nervy, present-of-mind, dedicated and determined individuals.

I met one such individual on my first circuit ride in November 2009 in Cote d’Ivoire.  He struck me immediately as honest and tireless, yet fatigued.  He told me his story in earnest.  I could tell he was at his end, having tried and tried and tried again and again and again to build a solid life for his family.  At the end of our interview, this grown man with three children rested his forehead on the edge of my desk and silently sobbed. 

I followed his case with anticipated interest. 

I learned on Friday that his case was approved by immigration, and that he and his family will soon be settled in the United States. 

Embrace THAT!  

My Me Mine

Monday, 18 January 2010, my new digs in Accra--

Every weekday, I call Desmond at noon or just about after.  It’s 7am, then, for him, and his alarm is—without fail—going off every five minutes until it’s 8 o’clock, when he has to be at work.  I wish him a pert good morning, as I’ve already been awake and moving for about six hours, and chirp on about how my sleep was and what I dreamt about, and how my day has been thus far or how hot it is—you know, basically all the simple, routine topics that aren’t really that important because I know he has yet to take a piss or brush his teeth or probably even open his eyes, meaning he isn’t really awake…which means it’s possible that nothing I’m saying is being registered…which means I should keep the conversation small and light. 

The point for me is that I get to wake him up.  It’s a part of my daily routine that I take unconditional delight in because it’s sweet and it’s comforting and it’s mine. 

I don’t know what time it is where you are—perhaps you’re just awaking or perhaps you’ve been data inputting for a few hours—but did you hear what I just said there?  Did you hear the key word in that last sentence?  Routine!  BAM.  I somehow have a routine these days!  As in, things that I do on a regular basis…favorite spots that I frequent for dinner or drinks…familiar roads that I travel, and people I pass.  I know what time to expect hundreds of bats to leave the trees near 37 Military Hospital and take to the dusky sky, and I watch them return to their branches every morning on my way to work.  It’s as if, you could say, I’ve settled in.  Adjusted.  Finally taken the clothes out of my suitcase, separated them accordingly and put them in actual, functioning drawers.  It’s a good feeling, comforting and mine. 

I made my official “move” to Accra this past Sunday, renting a room in a breezy, third-floor apartment in Nyaniba Estates.  I was told—and given pitiable expressions when being told—that finding decent, affordable housing in Accra would be difficult, especially considering I’ll only be employed, and therefore living, in Accra through June.  Apparently most landlords in Accra insist that you pay, at minimum, one year’s rent upfront—a popularly rigid, ludicrous prerequisite for many and, for me specifically, absolutely incompatible with my timeframe. 

It was serendipitous, then, that I met Ryan at a bar in Osu as I was returning to my table after having gone to find the toilet (side note: NEVER go into a bar or anywhere else in Ghana for that matter with a preconceived idea as to what the bathroom facilities will be like).  Ryan, a former Peace Corps volunteer in Guinea, had just moved into a new place with his girlfriend, Asha, and their dog, Cleo, and they were looking for a temporary roommate to help defray the cost of furniture, water, digital satellite (sweeeet; American football!), etc.  

Enter me.  Excited me. 

Ryan and Asha’s place is a dream of an offer for someone in my position: new to the city, late-twenties (notice I did not say “young”), flexible, semi-transient, possessing NO furniture, cutlery, dishware or awkward artwork, etc.  Available to me in this apartment is an actual bed, a bookshelf, a set of drawers, a WASHING MACHINE, two leftover crates of beer from a Christmas party, a pet, and—I’ve been told it’s coming soon—the Internet.

What’s more, Ryan and Asha are awesome.  Ryan’s been living in West Africa for the past six years and gave me a tour of my new neighborhood on his motorcycle…a ride that was exhilarating, yes, and utterly unnerving.  Almost unbelievably, a conversation we had about his PC stint in Guinea revealed that we have a friend in common: a fellow intern of mine at the State Department was a fellow PC Guinea volunteer with him.  Small, crazy world J Asha is beautiful and cheery and chill.  She’s from the Central Region in Ghana, which means her family is nearby and I hope to meet everyone sometime before I leave.

I’d also like to meet my crazy neighbor and strangle him.  The first few nights I spent in my new bed were miserable, as some man was chanting himself into a feverish frenzy about God and Jesus going on two hours straight, from about 1am-3am.  Truly, I’ve never wanted to choke someone as much as I wanted to choke this man and stop him from wailing.  He’d start low and even, speaking gibberish or in tongues or in a language that doesn’t sound real, then his wails and chants would get louder and faster until he was “PAAAAA  PAAAA PAAAPAAAPAAAPAAAPAAA”-ing nonstop and THEN he’d launch into English ravings about God and Jesus and thank you this and thank you that. 

It was beyond maddening.  It was infuriating.  It was horrible.  It was sleep-depriving and hate-inducing.  I’m not kidding, I wanted to march down to wherever that man was and tell him where to go and how to get there, and please, don’t mind these 4 cedi I’m shoving down your throat, sir, it’s for the taxi fare, so go keep someone else up for hours on end with your lunacy. 

Believe me, the pleasure would have been alllllll mine.  

Testing, Testing...

Thursday, 7 january 2010, Alone in Accra--

A cold Star beer, hot white rice dressed up in bright red Sriracha, one smoked-and-dried, bought-off-the-street-side fish, a quiet house and an excellent day: that’s what’s for dinner.

I had a good day today.  One of those days that everyone has every once in awhile, when you feel good about the decisions you’ve made that have lead you where you are. 

I love Africa.  I love Africa!  I love that I’m here and that I can say that I’m here.  Despite its intensity, I love what I do here.  A friend of mine who works with the International Red Cross described Africa as a place that is “so violent, and yet so fragile,” and her portrayal couldn’t be more accurate.  You see stuff here that you just don’t see anywhere else—which is crazy to say because there’s stuff exactly like this going on everywhere in the world, every day, all the time. 

But Africa is different.  It’s always different.  I’ve developed various, unoriginal theories as to why this is so—the insidious impacts of colonization, riotous corruption at every level of subsistence, relentless and protracted ethnic warring, the fact that Africa’s the place where AIDS came from which makes it kinda okay to not give much of a humanitarian shit, plus they’re black people anyway, etc. 

Ultimately, though: what the hell you gonna do about it?  ANY of it?  What am I gonna do about it?  Why does anyone even really care?  What—on Earth—can possibly be done to fix the intricate and innumerable problems that obstruct the growth, development, education, health, democracy, racial equality, and on and on and on, in Africa?

For starters, I can eat this dinner, drink this beer, say nothing.  Perhaps that sounds callous and base, but I mean it.  Sometimes, that’s the only thing I can do here that feels right enough to me, because, really, who the f*ck do I think I am, living here, somehow enjoying myself? 

I don’t have an answer.  But I have a theory…

"Trophy" Wife

Tuesday, 5 January 2010, Just Woke Up:

First off, welcome and warm birthday wishes to Parker Ryan Melin, who turns celebrates his first birthday today, and to Lauren Strickland Akesson, who’s age shall not be revealed as I have not been given verbal or written permission to do so.  We are, however, the same age now, so use what you know of me and figure it out yerself.

That being said, despite how well you think you know me (uh, most of both sides of my family and lots of my friends), let’s see how well you do on this pop quiz:

1. Where am I in the world right now?
2. Do I have a boyfriend?
3. What is his name?
4. Have I recently become engaged to said possible boyfriend, and if so, how in the crap did THAT happen?

The answer to the first question is: Africa.  It’s hot-ass noon on Tuesday in Accra and I have just woken up from what seems like a long, strange-with-dream winter’s nap.  Only a few days ago, I was in snowy Amsterdam, visiting beautiful bout-to-burst Birgit and the-man-who-dutifully-puts-on-her-shoes Manu, enjoying a midmorning snack of eel and drinking multiple REAL coffees.  Less than a day after that (and without my dadgum camera, which I had left in the dadgum Netherlands), I was back in America…in Tallahassee…in the arms of my boyfriend, Rev. Desmond Ares D’Angelo (Leisa was there, too!), who was waiting to pick me up at Tallahassee Regional Airport in a green tuxedo…with a ring nearby which he very soon intended to put on my finger, and which I would very soon agree to wearing.

Huh, I guess that whole paragraph pretty much answered most of those pop quiz questions save: how in the crap did all this happen.

Desmond accomplished the unthinkable, in my opinion, when he sold enough stuff on eBay to buy me a ticket home for the holidays.  I had sincere reservation concerning his ability to:

a) make enough money, as round-trip tickets from Accra to Tallahassee were running $1700 at the cheapest

2) make that amount of money in time

d) understand exactly what sort of feat he was undertaking

On the other hand, I never doubted his resolve or determination to get me home, as he’s a stubborn sonofabitch of tireless, albeit occasionally belligerent and aggressive effort, if he wants to be.  And, as it turns out, I should have given more consideration to his degree of Absolute and Unapologetic Nerdiness, as Desmond has unofficially mastered the field.  Someone give the man a diploma!  Or better yet, a trophy!  Apparently, my fiance has more nerdy, of-demand, packrat bullshit—er, I mean, Prince CDs, a ridiculous variety of Muppet collectables, Jay and Silent Bob figurines and other bizarre paraphernalia (such as molar extractors)—stowed away in boxes and closets throughout his house than I could have ever imagined.  I was positively f*cking amazed to learn that all the crap—again, sorry, I mean, the beloved stuff he’s collected for years and years and years and years—he posted for sale on eBay fetched way more than the necessary $1700, and to this day, he’s STILL cashing in. 

So, anyway, long story short, he bought my plane ticket (in fair exchange: I’ll buy him a ticket to come visit me in Africa sometime later this year), picked me up at the airport late on Christmas Eve, took me home and popped the question.  I said yes, and there you have it: betrothed people J  Check out our pictures on facebook.  We’re colorful, and, in some, a bit tipsy.  Fair warning.   

I could go into the romantics of it all, but there really weren’t many cliché moments in either our courtship or his proposal.  He proposed to me with a plastic Green Lantern ring (look it up.  Green Lantern.  It’s a comic book thing), which I accepted out of sheer love and appreciation for it’s distinction.  It also nicely offsets my huge knuckles, so that was a bonus.  I, uh, er, also kinda had an idea what type of ring to expect, but that’s a whole other story…

He didn’t get down on one knee—at first—but stood in the doorway of his kitchen and took the box out of the fleece he had brought to the airport for me to wear if it was chilly (which it wasn’t; ah, weird Tallahassee weather, how you often and impenitently thwart) and presented me with the offer.  Later, when I was on the phone with my relatives in Kansas on Christmas Day, Grandad Leis asked if Desmond had gotten down on one knee.  Desmond was within earshot when I answered, no, Grandad, he hadn’t—at which Desmond promptly got down on his knee, pointed directly at me, and winked.  

Award-winning move. 

Also, come to find out, the Green Lantern ring was just a decoy and my actual engagement ring is an untraditional stunner that used to belong to his grandmother: filigreed platinum band with a rectangular face that flips sides, from either a pearly cameo to a setting of onyx and diamond.

Success!  You win!  Take your place among the family, Desmond.  

An Un-White Christmas

Saturday, 19 December 2009, Accra:

 Where have all the obrunis gone? 

I didn’t really notice it at first, but there are hardly ANY of us white folks here in Accra anymore these days.  My guess—and I’m probably right—is that most are traveling away for the holidays.  What could also be contributing to the seemingly fewer number of white faces ‘round these parts are the rapidly increasing number of Africans traveling IN to Accra for Christmas and New Years. 

Whatever the case, Accra is chiefly obruni-less.  

What immediately tipped me off to Accra’s whitelessness was the eeriness of Osu.  Osu is a part of Accra that primarily caters to whites, tourists and better-off Ghanaians.  There’s a gelato-and-espresso place, if that gives you some sort of an idea what I’m talking about, and a rather upscale restaurant that sells pricy yet decent sushi—until, that is, when it’s turns into the hot spot rooftop watering hole for ex-pats who want to get piss-drunk and bitch about things they love about Africa.

The main road that runs through Osu is Oxford Street, and both sides are bunged to the brim with tourist-trap-type vendors and kiosks.  Ghanaian football jerseys, DVDs, African masks, sunglasses, shoes, jewelry, “original” art, pineapples, fruits, vegetables—and number of vendors is out the wazoo.  I’m staying: vendors out the MOFO waZOO!

The vendors, typically male and nauseatingly complimentary about your “beauty” until you walk away, are everywhere on Oxford Street and they are, to be as mild as possible, maddening. 

“Oh, my beautiful friend, come look at my jewelry.” (he grabs my wrist)

“Oh, beautiful lady, I have some beautiful artwork.”  (he grabs my wrist)

“My sistah, my sistah, come, come and take a look.”  (he grabs my wrist and gives it a tug)

This is not to say that all the vendors who clog Oxford Street are disingenuous or rude, but in general, the vendors/money-chasers in Osu are on you like white on rice.  And it’s unfortunate for you if you happen to be just the color of rice they’re most actively pursuing. 

So, when I was walking through Osu earlier today, I was stunned, nay, flabbergasted by the lack of attention I was getting.  NO ONE seemed to notice I was there!  I mean, I may be relatively tan and seem of curious ethnicity, but I’ve got obruni branded on my face, clothing, gait—absolutely everything about me screams obruni.  And yet not one man, one vendor, not one single person hassled me or uninvitingly introduced him or herself into my personal space as I walked down Oxford Street. 

It was a strange phenomenon, to be sure, and I briefly wondered if my malaria meds were doing something extra weird to my mind and vision or if, truly, I was walking in a winter weird, African land.  

Peas in a Pod

Friday, 18 December 2009, Accra:

Something I saw today on the tro-tro ride from work gave me pause.  Many things do, multiple times a day, but there are always some things that, in their own distinctive way, throw a heavier punch to the mind. 

From the window of the tro-tro, I saw a man cross in front of our bus.  I immediately thought him odd. His hair was thickly caked with mud and he was walking with a bizarre, disobedient determination.  As he made his way through the rush hour crowd of people and automobiles, people averted him with their eyes and their bodies.  I watched him swing his broad shoulders through the market to make a path.  When I finally got a glance at his face, I saw it was etched with madness, both emotional and mental, and the whites of his eyes were syrupy-red.  It was then I changed my mind from him being odd, to him being ME.

I came down with a 101-degree fever earlier this week, the first fever I’ve had since I can’t remember when.  It’s rare that I get so sick I admit I have a problem and that I need to see a doctor.  Usually, it’s just “I don’t feel good.”

But this time, I was most definitely sick.  My body was processing something violently foreign.  My head throbbed.  My all of the muscles in back and neck ached.  I was shitting watery waste uncontrollably, unable to keep anything in my system for more than 10 minutes, no matter how bland or simple.  My vision and thoughts were blurry; I couldn’t answer or do or focus on anything.  The worst of it all, though, was the fever, which gave me alternating symptoms of chills and slimy sweats, and made my face so damned hot I wanted to somehow wrap Pure Water cachets on my cheeks and forehead.  Where the hell is a frozen bag of peas when you need one…

Sounds great, doesn’t it.  I cried.  I’ll admit to that.  I felt like such crud that I cried.  I whimpered, even, whenever I changed position on my bed, and I hate the word whimper.  Brings feebleness to mind. But that is in fact what I did—whimper.  It actually hurt to sleep and I moaned every time I moved.  To be sure, this fever was one of my weaker, er, feebler moments. 

I thought about all this and how my condition had significantly improved after being put on medication and getting plenty of rest and lots of water when I saw the man with the syrupy-red eyes.  It is common to see physical signs of malnourishment among many people in Africa, so this was not the first time I’d seen anyone with reddened eyes.  It was, however, my first real dose of disparity I’ve had since arriving in Ghana this time around.  It was clear from his sickly eyes that he has known bad health and suffering his entire life and unlike anything I’ve ever known or could imagine. 

In Africa, I have seen people bathing in putrid, blue-gray run-off waters in trash-filled gutters because they have no money or access to clean water.  I have seen pregnant women begging on the streets.  I’ve heard stories from refugees that would make you understand the true meaning of “horror.”  In the United States, I’ve seen homeless, disregarded veterans crunched and sleeping in the tiny, fenced squares of earth protecting trees that line the streets of our nation’s capital.  Being from the South, I’ve seen plenty of poor white trash and disenfranchised blacks.  Want one more example of social imbalance I’ve witnessed: Hurricane Katrina.  Bam. 

My point is that I’m no tenderfoot when it comes to inequality or injustice.  What I am not used to, and what I was not prepared for when I saw the man with the syrupy eyes—and what is absolutely shocking to me, because what I dawned on me at that moment in particular is The Central Pillar upon which I have chosen to build my life—the sameness of everything under the sun of mankind, despite all the disparities and differences. 

That man made me think of so many things.  His scarlet eyes could be mine.  His pain could be my pain.  My health could be his to enjoy.  As human beings, we are all connected because we share the exact same things: joy, pain, embarrassment, excitement, love, anguish, success, greed, humility, hunger, thirst, intelligence, endless etc.  I felt foolish for being so full of self-pity when I was with fever, even though my discomfort was legitimate.  If I know what it feels like to be ill, he knows what it is like to be ill.  It never ceases to shake me to the core when I realize that I have sometimes forgotten the sameness of humanity. 

 

A "Thing" of Christmas Tinsel

Thursday, 17 December 2009, Accra:

I feel cheery, brighter than I have been of late.  Somehow festively satisfied.

I put up one “thing” of Christmas décor at the house today, and despite the garland’s pitiable condition—and most definitely to my utter surprise—my disposition has since been decked with a sense of seasonal, social AND residential accomplishment.  Congratulations, Katie.  You’re getting settled in.  You bought decorative bullshit.  Now all you need to do is buy hangers, a proper thermometer, more Nescafe, move into your own place, put up those curtains you’ve been gabbing about, and start thinking about what you’re gonna do for Valentine’s Day decorations, cause February is gonna be here before you can say “Red Rider BB-Gun” and Ghanaians go BONKERS for Valentine’s Day, my darling sweethearts. 

You really should see this garland I’m talking about, though.  It’s totally pathetic, yet so awesome.  I think I’ll post a picture on facebook.  I love facebook.  The garland that’s strangely changed my mood is a loopy strand of magenta and silver, uh, loops, the length of which fits perfectly over the front door and side windows.  I had to clip then ends with clothes pins to make the thing stay put, but at least there’s a little bit of a dip between each pin and the nail that supports the garland in the middle, which, in my opinion, gives off the “she tried…at least kind of” effect.  

Mangoes and Mosquitoes: an Ode and a Loathe

Wednesday, 16 December 2009, Accra:

Oh, Pablo Neruda, how I wish I were you.  I am in love with the mango the way you were in love with onions, lemons, salt, wine, women, breasts, and—I might be mistaken on this next one, but then again maybe not, cause the guy wrote odes to every damned thing under the moon (which he also wrote of in matchless verse)—nougat.  Oh, Pablo Neruda, how I wish to sing of the mango’s majesty the way you poetically polished the plain potato.

You know, sometimes I wonder if it’s that, indeed, Neruda truly was more gifted at poetry than me, or if instead he just had more time on his hands, and barrels upon barrels upon barrels of good wine….

Except that’s not the kind of nonsense I normally find myself thinking about.  Normally, I think about stuff like where to find a can of cat food in a country that doesn’t feed it’s animals “animal food,” and whether or not a cheap can of tuna saturated in oil won’t make the cat-that-came-with-the-house, Mischa, puke all over the place.  Cause I really don’t to have to deal with THAT…and I wonder if her upchuck would attract those tiny, damned ants I keep seeing everywhere. 

So, anyway, I was getting my usual workday lunchtime fruit from the woman across the street yesterday when I saw a peeling I hadn’t ever seen since becoming addicted to this woman’s papaya and pineapple.

This woman and her fruits are insanely popular with the Ghanaians.  She only comes at lunchtime and there’s always a line of customers and I’m always the only obruni there.  I’m not sure why that is, exactly, cause this fruit—ideally paired, by the way, with a small bag of groundnuts—is the best mealtime option around! 

While we’re all waiting in line for her attention, I regularly exchange some small-small chat with the folks in line.  However, since I don’t speak Twe, I usually fall quickly out of the conversation and indolently bide my time watching the free-ranging chickens peck and pluck around our feet for whatever it is chickens in Africa eat.  And a note on that while we’re on it: when they say “free-range” in America, they have NO idea what they’re talking about.  Free-range here means exactly that: roadsides, brush, gutters, street corners.  Really, pardon me for saying so, but chickens rule the roost.  

The new peeling—back to that—intrigued me.  It wasn’t from a papaya, that much I knew.  The color of the fruit within wasn’t pinky-orange.  For as long as I live, I will never forget what color the fruit of a papaya is.  I was in Costa Rica once, and this woman was taking my sisters and me to the beach.  She was here-and-there pointing out some of the sights when she suddenly said, “See that papaya-colored house down there?”  I looked towards where she was pointing and realized I had absolutely no idea where to focus because I had absolutely no idea what color a papaya was.  Not to appear stupid, I said I saw the house and, after she had dropped us of, went straight on a mission to find out what the hell kind of fruity-color loop I had been left out of.   

No, no, this peeling was not papaya. There was a slivering of ripe golden-yellow—shall I say, essence—attached to the green peeling. Yet again, not wanting to appear stupid, I ordered papaya from the woman, knowing full well it was available and that I’d spare myself some embarrassment—my decision itself smacking of stupidity AND cowardice.  I realize that.  Trust me.  But in my defense, yet again, not to be left out of the fruit-loop, as she handed me my papaya, I straightforwardly asked her if she was having any mango. 

Oh, and how she was having mango!

YAYayayayayayay!  I snatched a whole one, bought it along with my papaya and groundnuts, took the beautiful sucker home, nearly completely butchered it because mangoes are superhard to cut into cubes if you’re not skilled (please see prior Blah Log Blog entry “A Trifle About Food, a Crumb About Me” for plenty clarification) and then popped the sweet, dripping messes of pulp one by one into my mouth and realized that, for me, there ain’t nothin’ much in Ghana that compares to the gilded heart of a mango. 

EXCEPT—and I was just reminded of this—smacking the living shit out of a mosquito.  Like, slapping them dead between my bare hands. 

Oh, MAN, I hate mosquitoes and I lovelovelovelove killing them.

My Thanksgiving in Ghana

Tuesday, 1 dec 2009, Ada and Accra:

So I haven’t gone into any detail about Thanksgiving 2009, but that’s really not my fault at all.  I mean, it was my fault I broke my sunglasses and therefore completely abandoned my initial intent to Blah Log Blog about my Thanksgiving experience in Ada, Ghana, but overall, it’s really not my fault that I’ve been remiss in writing about Thanksgiving. 

I get so tired here, and so quickly, too.  My job can be utterly exhausting and the heat in Accra can be overwhelming.  If you’ve been to Accra, or maybe even Africa in general, perhaps you understand me.  If not, then perhaps you think I’m just being lazy.  But I’m not kidding.  I get tired.  Ask Desmond.  He specifically asked me to please NOT go to sleep at 3:30pm (his time) because I had begun to develop a regular pattern of passing out at 8:30pm (my time), which meant we hadn’t been able to talk for a few days, which has to happen after he’s done with work (5:00pm his time, 10:00pm my time). 

My point—I apologize.  Sorry for not Blah Log Blogging about Thanksgiving, because, really, it was quite an experience, the most amazing experience of which wasn’t the beautiful beach, the simple lifestyle of living in a reed hut, or the coolness of swimming in the Volta River.  The most amazing part was meeting Larry, a 49-year-old Ghanaian man, who bigheartedly and unquestionably invited me to spend the night with his family at their family compound upon learning of my financial woes. 

 

Thing was, I’d done two things wrong: not brought enough money, and not been shrewd enough to avoid paying out the ass for things that are supposed to be dirt cheap—like, for instance, a canoe ride from the mainland to the strip of beach on the estuary, where I was staying. Let me tell you, I was pissed when I found out how much I’d paid compared to what I SHOULD have paid.  At any rate, after spending only one night in my reed hut at the estuary beach (where the Volta River and the Atlantic Ocean meet), I wound up with less money than I’d planned and determined that the best plan of action would be to end my Thanksgiving getaway/holiday a day earlier than scheduled, and spend to Friday night at a cheap hotel on the mainland in Ada, or just take a tro-tro straight back to Accra and call it a wrap.

Anyway, so I met Larry at a spot in town, and somehow started rambling about my issues (can you just imagine: me, yapping on to a stranger about personal circumstances?  I mean really…hard to imagine).  Yaddayaddayadda, I wound up sharing multiple Club beers with him at his brother’s place overlooking the handsome, rich blue Volta River, then accepting his invitation to stay the night at his family compound with his three sisters, twin brother, skinny kittens, one goat and some random cousins. 

It was a fabulous turn of events for me.  Most awesome.

His sister, Mathilda, grilled me a fresh, meaty tilapia with rice and pepe, at Larry’s insistence and my hesitant request.  We all ate together in the courtyard, sharing cold beers and listening to Bob Marley, a common interest Larry and I discovered about each other earlier in the afternoon. 

His family gave me a room of my own, with a rotating fan.  They let me use their bucket shower, which was absolutely divine. 

In the morning, his cousin, Bruno, bought me two sticks of fried clams from a lady he saw passing by, which I ate with curiosity and relish.  Clams on a stick, huh?  Never tried that before.  But then again, I’ve never randomly gone to spend the night at a Ghanaian household either.  So, in my mind, I figured what the hell.  Eat the clams.  If I wound up having a runny stomach later in the day while on the tro-tro ride back to Accra, at least I’d have a smile on my face from the generosity and pleasantness of my new friend, Larry, and his family. 

Happy Thanksgiving for sure.  

My Sunglasses Are Finished-O

Monday, 30 nov 2009:

Okay, so I just flipping broke my sunglasses.  Just broke off a whole stem, dangit.  DANGIT!  DANGIT, DANGIT, DANGIT!

I was going to start off this whole Blah Log Blog entry by mentioning that, if I were in the States at this very moment in time, Jeopardy! would be on, and that I would more than likely be watching—undeniably, fortuitously kicking ass in the “How One Breaks Sunglasses” category—with a dirty Ketel One martini in hand and a plate of Manchego cheese and hummus nearby, HOWEVER, as it is now, I’m really reallyreallyreally extraordinarily very much irritated by the fact that I just broke the only sunglasses I’ve ever actually liked since the awesome, funky electric-baby blue ones I had in 10^th grade.

The collapse of my sunglasses was entirely not the intended point of this entry, but an indisputable frustration, nonetheless.  

I Got Yer African Plenty

Tuesday, 24 nov 2009, Accra:

Perhaps you saw my facebook photo album showcasing my recent-and-first trip to Cote d’Ivoire?  There was a picture I took at the Cathedral in Abidjan featuring beautiful stained-glass scenes of “African plenty”—elephants, gazelles, lush plants, welcoming fruits, and blahblahblah. 

NOT the “African plenty” I know. 

I shall take this moment to describe to you an image that I, Kathryn Gerber, aka Wildly Acclaimed and Fabulous Artist, would create in stained glass if I were to depict my understanding—and appreciation, mind you—of “African plenty”:

 

• 5 o’clock traffic in Accra is an involved experience unlike anything in this world.  You automatically (yes, of course, pun intended) get a gold star if you come out of the crush alive (and by the way, that gold Star comes in the form of a Star beer, which means you deserve a Star EVERY DAY).  The only way I can describe the traffic in Accra during morning and night rush hours is this: if traffic in Accra were a daycare, it would be a run-down, understaffed nursery full of ill-tempered, self-righteous crack-babies-hooked-on-diesel, ALL contemptuously demanding attention at the same time.  Everyone in front of you is wanting to turn left, everyone to the right of you wants to stop, everyone behind you is trying to get around—I am telling you, Madame, it is a royal mess.

Anyway, so it’s a Clusterf*ck of the Highest Order, but wouldn’t you know it, there are countless helmet-less nuts on bicycles, all ridin’ around in such traffic, doin’ their thing, seemingly unawares of the dangerous environment around them—or, from a different perspective, the boldest sonsabitches I’ve seen in awhile.  I’m not saying that seeing bicyclists in a developing country surprises me.  It doesn’t surprise me as an independent individual, as a member of a family who loves me, as a hugger of the environment, as a mere mortal, what have you.  No, what I’m straight-up saying is that this surprises me as a bicyclist!  The conditions aren’t even AUTO friendly in Accra!  What are you doing, for the love of Pete, on a bicycle?!

Which brings me to my Scene of African Plenty:  while being shown various apartments and houses by Daniel, a broker, I was also being shown new parts and sights of Accra that I had never seen before—INCLUDING a man on a bicycle in the middle of rush hour, balancing two long, wooden beams/planks on his head.  My guess is that they were wider than 2x4s, and, by that determination, heavier.  I was bluntly stunned.  My jaw dropped. Truly.  It was my first “Wow” moment I’ve had since returning to Africa, and having previously borne witness to a multitude of unbelievable sights.  But this!  The balance!  The necessary focus!  The nerve!  The off-the-charts level of “Africa-ness!”

Memorialize shit like THAT in stained-glass, is what I’m sayin.     

You Think You Have a Loud Neighbor?

Sunday, 22 nov 2009, balcony, Accra:

This weekend in Accra has been fabulous.  As I am writing this—just to give you an idea—I’m sitting on my balcony, still covered in grime from today, but immeasurably enjoying the cool pre-sunset temperature, and very much hoping everyone else in Ghana is doing the same.  I’ll bet you 50 Ghanaian cedi the kids across the way are.  From what I can tell, there are about 10 or 15 energetic young boys running around playing football at an empty school field.  They’d no doubt be playing football even if the weather weren’t as pleasant as it is—but I’ll bet you at the very least the small breeze and relative coolness of the evening isn’t entirely unnoticed by them. 

It’s about 5:12 on a Sunday night.  My balcony faces west, so I have a nice view (if you’d call it that.  Having been brought up in North Florida, on the Gulf of Mexico and in southeast Kansas, I consider myself a mite particular when it comes to “nice” horizons) of the round African sun setting over tin roofs and laundry lines, and into a smudge of pink pollution (note: more on environmental issues at another time).

My neighbor, The Mosque With The Loudspeaker (the loudness being no distinction from any other mosque, by the way; all the mosques have loudspeakers, just providing some background for you, more gentle readers), is also somehow westerly of me, though I can’t be sure of its exact location.  What I can tell you, though, is that

• I do not speak Arabic, the language that is blasted over the loudspeaker five times a day.  I don’t mind the mosque being so close to my apartment, but it would really, really, really be nice if someone would turn down the volume on that frickin’ loudspeaker when it is time to pray at, oh, you know, DAWN. 
• I don’t mind the fact that there are Muslims in my neighborhood, and very many in all of Africa combined—much, probably, to the dismay of my more conservative and fearful American friends and family.  In my opinion, God is love and Allah is God, so isn’t it all really the same?
• Religious differences are not my jam.  Refugee rights—that’s my passion.  End scene.  Again, I don’t care what religion my neighbors are, or that it is part of their tradition to pray five times a day over a loudspeaker.  I do, however, wish that I knew what they were saying.  If I did, perhaps maybe I’d be able to engage somehow in a conversation about particular ideas.
• Sometimes, especially at, you know, DAWN, I pretend I know what’s being chanted over the loudspeaker, just so at the very least I can ENJOY the interruption, instead of resent it.  I pretend the Arabic from the loudspeaker translates into, “Hello, hello, hello sleeping girl.  I am making you coffeeeeee.  Hello, I am making you coffeeeeeeeeee.  Sleeeeeeeeeeep while I put the pancakes onnnnnnnnn.  Sleeeeeeeeeep while I put honnnnnnnnneyyyyyy on the pancaaaaaaaaakesssssssss and sllllllllllllippers onnnnnnnnnnnnnn your feeeeeeeeeeeeet.”

Anyway, so that’s the mosque across the street.  

Le Bathroom Humor

Saturday, 21 nov 2009, Accra:

Wanna know what I find absolutely, perfectly fitting? 

Tracy has a proper toilet in her apartment.  You know the kind: white, porcelain, silver flush handle on the side, water, actual flushing capability…

Anyway, so with this proper toilet comes a proper facility for toilet paper.  Again, you know the kind of feature I’m talking about:  two white porcelain arms jutting out from the wall, set just-so apart, with holes in each to compliantly secure a shit-ticket roll and just to the left of the throne (if, upon which, you happen to be s(h)itting).  

There also happens to be a shelf atop this particular bun-fodder receptacle, and it also just so happens that my red, plastic-bound Webster’s French Beginners Dictionary fits absolutely and perfectly on said shelf.  It’s as if my French dictionary was made exclusively for this spot.  In the bathroom.  Near the toilet. 

I’m sorry…I’m really sorry.  Really. 

But…it just makes me smile every time (EVERY TIME!) I see it, my red French dictionary—such an above-board contrast, hehehe.  Honestly, I’ve never once flipped through it whilst using the bathroom, but I loooooook at it every single time (EVERY SINGLE TIME!) I’m there.  And every single time, I smile.  

A Trifle About Food, a Crumb About Me.

Friday, 20 nov 2009, Accra:

Today, surprisingly, is the first day since my arrival in Africa I’ve wanted to spend time writing something about anything—about the people I’ve met, the things that I’ve done, the food that I’ve eaten, or the food I don’t know how to cook. 

At various points in my life, I’ve either publicly proclaimed or silently avowed to learn how to cook; how to treat spices like the fine epicurean accessories they truly are.  I have triumphantly failed, however, every single damned time, to learn anything about cooking, save how to improve my delegation skills in the kitchen.

For example:  give Jacob a fish and it will be zesty, delightful, remarkable and downright scrumptious.  Desmond, despite having grown up on grilled cheese sandwiches and leftover swigs of beer from cans of Coors, knows what quinoa is and how to make a mean taco (examples unrelated).  He is also an inexorable seasoner—diner AND dinner beware.  That man will shake on black pepper till his hand hurts, until you’re unable to distinguish between green and red peppers, onions and potatoes.  I delegate thusly: if you’d like a bite from his plate, take one before he goes nuts with the pepper.  

Further example (I’m having fun with this, in case you can’t tell):  It is an utter waste of time to give Amber a recipe.  Just give her an idea.  Anneliese, though small enough in stature to brush off as a fussy eater, is in fact a huge fan of hamburgers.  And Mom, well, she can pull together absolutely any sort of dish; you just have to convince her to try and, on occasion, purchase the proper serving piece.   

You get my point.

Upon meeting Tracy, moving into her spare bedroom and spending the following two days with her, I was pleased to learn that she’s a wiz in the kitchen.  YAY for me, cause like I said, I’m about as clueless and lazy as they come.  If it were up to me, I’d eat white rice and pineapple for breakfast because I don’t know how to make French toast—which is exactly what I did one of my first mornings in Accra. 

Unfortunately, the time Tracy and I’ve spent together thus far has been two days.  I left for Cote d’Ivoire the Sunday after the Friday I arrived in Accra, and when I returned, she was in the middle of a trip to Sierra Leone.  The one and only meal we shared before our departures was—are you ready for this—rice and lentils.  However, she’s promised to teach me how to do all sorts of things in the kitchen, with a shared bottle of cheap red wine as a necessary part of our lesson plan.  YAY again for me!  Learning is AWESOME!  

Abidjan: the Paris of Africa (17 Nov 2009)

And so today we are off. We are scheduled to fly back to Accra later this afternoon via the amazingly luxe Emirates airline. Emirates is based out of Dubai, and their whole image/set-up/customer service thing is beyond compare, at least from my experience. I remember when Delta used to give out little bags of peanuts on short flights from Tallahassee to Atlanta. Emirates, on the other hand, whips out an entire snack/meal in the course of 45 minutes which includes a hot towel, TWO sandwiches, a cup of "fresh" fruit, and a juice box.

Abidjan has been an incredible experience, both professionally and personally. Professionally, I have survived my first circuit ride without any major screw-ups or melt-downs. I've met some strong, determined refugees who I feel are deserving of some sort of a break for Pete's sake, as well as some who could use a crash course in honesty. The refugees I've interviewed have been from Liberia, Rwanda, and Congo. OPE is scheduled to make another circuit ride in early December to Dakar, Senegal. As most of my co-workers will be off on holiday at that time, I've been told that I am most definitely slated to go on that ride, so we'll see how time in the office in Accra improves my interviewing and processing skills, and my overall understanding of how OPE operates.

Personally, I feel I've taken as much advantage of the sights, foods and culture Abidjan has to offer as possible. Our heavy work loads and long hours--and my bad French--prevented me from doing a whole heck of a bunch, but again, I think I did okay in getting to know the place. I've eaten plenty of attieke, which is the typical Ivorian fare. It's basically grated cassava that has a texture and consistency like cous cous, served with chicken, fish or beef (goat? I don't know. I just had the fish and chicken). It also comes with a heaping of pimon, or pepe, or pepper, which is flipping delicious and can clear out the most oppressive of sinus stop-ups.

(shout-out to Seester: I hear you are suffering from sinus problems! Come visit!)

I've been to the artisan and local markets, as well as the beach. The beach was super nice, although the vendors were a bit annoying. Alexis (a co-worker) and I managed to find a local spot where all the Ivorians were hanging out, and we settled ourselves there for a few good hours and enjoyed a few good Flag--a West African beer. The more Flag we had, the bolder we were in practicing our awful French. It amused some people there, and they bought us more Flag in appreciation for the entertainment.

I'll have to close here because I need to pack up my stuff. Before we leave today, some co-workers and I are going to take the water taxi around the lagoon that pushes in and around downtown Abidjan. We're also going to hopefully get a peek at the Cathedral St. Paul, designed by some Italian dude and boasting a huge, strange, blocky stylized figure of "St. Paul" in the front of the place. I always thought the figure looked like an abstract elephant, but whatever.

More later! LOVE YOU!

Voyager C'est Vivre (16 Nov 2009)

Bienvenue a Cote d'Ivoire!

Whew, what a week this has been for me. Having never spent a day in a French-speaking country, I've spent a significant amount of time over the course of my 9-day stint here in Abidjan trying to learn some useful phrases. So you have an idea what I'm talking about, here are some choice jems from my self-created course of study:

• As-tu des bon-bons (do you have any candy)?
• J'ai le fou rire (I have the giggles).
• Je suis ananas (I am a pineapple).
• Amusons-nous comme des fous (Let's have fun like idiots).

Unfortunately, I wasn't able to squeeze any of them into ANY conversation I've had. Not with taxi drivers, street food vendors, beachgoers, etc. Perhaps I should have taken better care to learn how to say stuff like:

• Extra pepper, please.
• No, I would really only like half of that half of a chicken.
• What on earth gives you the idea I'm American?