Adventures in sloth... read on, it's kind of a pun...

Ooh have I been slack! Nearly a month here and but ONE measly entry?? We must rectify this, really, we must.

Ever so many things have happened, but then so has rather a lot of relaxing. Good I suppose in the wake of 6 years of study, but not helpful on the job finding front, really. I've slowly been getting through my teaching-english-as-a-second-language course, and slowly been putting my CV together, but other than that there has been rather a lot of sleeping - I can't seem to get the old sleeping patterns in order.

Have been back to quite a few of the old haunts, including, of course, Amepouh. It was lovely to see them all again! They were really, genuinely excited about the stuff I'd managed to bring with me for them, which was sweet. I was exclaimed over and squealed at, there was hugging, clapping, the whole shebang. It's easy to feel loved in a place like Amepouh, where the women are so strong and inspiring and so generous. Theirs is an organization worth backing, if ever there was one. I'll be doing my best to help them get what they need however I can. Indeed my first task will be to teach some English, which I need to get off my backside and do! Will keep youse posted on how that goes...

I've been back to Kirikou and done some Karaoke, drunk my fill of dodgy moonshine whiskey and actually started to take a liking to fried fish, believe it or not. Not much choice, given that it makes up something like 98% of the Ivoirian meat intake (a statistic that I'm 98% sure I just made up) but still, it has grown on me. I'm chomping at the bit to do some cooking for B, and I miss me some pasta, pizza and thai food, but other than that the eats finally seem to be agreeing with me of late. (Did have a week or so of my old friend, Monsieur Traveller's Diarrhea. But I think we're good now, touch wood...) One particular feeding experience did, however throw me.

Twas a bright Sunday afternoon, and I emerged to fossick for eatings, when B presented me with rice and stew. It seemed that this stew contained beef, which was a welcome change from fish (though I later found out there was fish in there, too!) so exclaimed with some joy "Ooh! Is that beef?"
"No, it's the best meat there is."
"Lamb?"
"No. Bush meat."
"Bush meat? Like, gazelle or something?"
"No, monkey."
"Hunh. Monkey. Good, good. carry on, I'll just have the rice..." but oh no. It had to be tasted. All I could think of was little Abu's face from Aladdin (I've gotta stop relating foodstuffs to Disney characters) so I declined anything but a bite. Tasted like... human. Not that I've ever actually eaten human. But what I would imagine human to taste like - that's what this tasted like.
And to make matters even more amusing (?) we then proceeded on to the Zoo, to see what we had just consumed. And, you know, lions and tigers and bears oh my.



In other news, I have now seen firsthand how bad malaria can get. I shan't reveal the person who had it, as I know not everyone appreciates having their health discussed by others in an international online forum, but all I can say is, while I was considering going off the preventative medication for a while there, (it's rather expensive) I'm pretty sure I'm gonna stick with it as long as I can. Malaria doesn't get nearly the attention that HIV does, and it kills more people daily than HIV does in a year. And it is not pretty. Sweating away in 30 degree heat whilst watching someone shiver with multiple blankets covering them brings home the gravity of the disease. And it's a tricky one. Because when it first hits, it's only off and on, so it's easy to dismiss it as not being a serious bout, or indeed as something other than malaria. But when it takes you down, you need to get the meds into you quick, smart and in a hurry... needless to say I'mma avoid that one long as I can!

Today I hit up the Abidjan Business Friends Club monthly lunch meeting, a lovely little Anglophonic getting-to-know-you which would hopefully yield some job prospects. At 17,500 CFA a head it’s pretty steep (I can get a decent bowl of spaghetti with bread and water for around 350 CFA) until you remember that that’s about $35, which, for a three course meal with booze included, ain’t too bad at all. It was great to get a bit of English in, and to make a few interesting contacts in various industries (although when I’m going to need to drill for oil or order 1000 bags of cement mix I’m not too certain...) and indeed perhaps somefink will come of it, we shall see. At the very least it was great to get out of the house, I’ve been a bit housebound and inactive for quite a while now. A bit of proactivity wouldn’t go astray – self-administering the appropriate kick up the posterior as we speak. Well, not literally.

Anywho, that’s probably it for this entry, will try to be a bit more regular (muahah traveller’s diarrhea pun!) from now on... keep me posted on home related gossipage!
Love to you all x

I'm baaaaaackk...

As I write I find myself back in good old Abidjan, hanging out in B's room in front of the fan. I guess the heat is just something one never gets used to. But other than that, it's very much a case of Hooray! I'm back!

Touch down in Afrique was a real mercy. I was once cool with aeroplane food... no more. And the second leg felt several million years longer than the first, though apparently it was shorter. First flight did have movies on demand though. On that note, watch Green Zone with Matt Damon (Maaaatt Daaamon) :) Worth it.

It was amazing to see B again. There would have been a slow motion running-towards-each-other-like-in-the-movies moment but for my trolly of many heavy baggages and the aforementioned heat. I was able to talk the airline into giving me an extra 10 kilos so I could take some toys and things back to Amepouh, which had been great in theory when I was at home in the cool and surrounded by helping hands, but felt less brilliant when faced with it as well as my 40-ish other kilos of luggage, and nary a helper-man to be found. (Last time I arrived in Abidjan I must have looked rather more pathetic, as considerably more menfolk were asking if I needed help back then, when I had a good deal less to carry).

We jumped on into a taxi and took off to Grand Bassam for a couple of days.

It was great to reconnect, but of course we were five minutes into sitting, eating Aloco (yay!) when my beacon-like skin started to attract various rather insistent vendors from the beach. One guy stayed for half an hour trying to sell us a beautiful carved wooden box. Eventually he succeeded, and was followed by an even more persistent purveyor of pretty much the same gear. He wasn't getting anywhere until he showed us a gorgeous checkers board, which really got B's attention (he's a super talented checkers player) and we had to have one of those too. We decided it was probably best to retreat inside before the hoards descended upon us completely.

Dinner was at a nearby restaurant which was, unfortunately, the open air kind. A stark reminder of the importance of aeroguard and malaria tablets. The mosquitos actually managed to bite through my clothes. Not impressed. The world cup final was on in the background but the jetlag had begun to hit me so it wasn't long before we quit mozzieland and headed back to the motel, whereupon we discovered, joy of joys, that the toilet was leaking like crazy. Ah Africa, I've missed you!

Next day we wandered into town for lunch, and came across a cute little hut with a good crossbreeze. We ordered chicken and rice and sat, chatting away. At least an hour went by and no food. I was beginning to think they must have had to slaughter the chicken when the guy came in and apologised for it taking so long, because... he'd had to slaughter the chicken. I couldn't help but notice that the chicken tasted a bit stressed. B ate the 'fois' (guts!) with a grin at how disgusted I clearly was. Good times.

We had dinner with an old friend of B's from back when he was living in a little town between Yamoussoukro and Abidjan. The guy studied criminology but hasn't been able to find a job, he worked for a while in a bar but was let go from that, now he's forced to beg. He's reed thin. The look on his face, of total desperation and a sense that he has no idea what he will do now actually made me cry. He's intelligent, educated - he even speaks English. And he has nothing. It was heartbreaking.

It's funny, the first time I was here I was in awe of everything. I was excited with a healthy level of nervous. This time I'm coming to grips more with the difficulties people face. We complain in Australia about our lot, and then refuse refuge to those who would willingly work, those who have suffered so much more than we could ever imagine. I promise I'll jump off my soapbox now, and indeed those who know me will know my stance on the subject, but this has just reinforced to me the need to seriously rethink our position on refugees, asylum seekers and immigration in general. It's not right that we who have so much should be allowed to deny those who have so little.

Ok, enough politicking... back to me :) Today we hit Adjame for some long overdue sheets, towels and pillows for B. It's so much fun to watch Ivoirians bargain with each other. Very dramatic, there's a kind of dance to it.

"No, this is ABSOLUTELY my final price, finished, no more."

"Eyyyyyyy" (disgruntled but simultaneously hilarious sound) "I could go up the road and get it for half that price!"

"But this is QUALITY, you're paying for the quality!" (I stifle a giggle as a thread on one of the towels unravels.)

"12,000 CFA"

"Come on, this is my job, I have to eat! 14,000 CFA, take it or leave it"

"Eyyyyyyyyyy - no, no, no. There's no way."

"13,000."

"Done."

Excellent entertainment. We went to a "charwarmwa" after that, where I had my first glimpse of the truly disturbing ivoirian version of a kebab. Charwarmwa is apparently the word for kebab, but instead of filling the pita with lettuce, tomato and other respectable items that accompany ye olde artery-solidifying kebab meat, you have a delicious choice of everything from mince meat to sheep's brains. I'm actually not kidding. And of course, B chose the brains specifically to freak me out. And apparently because they're delicious. You can also have chips on your kebab. And kidneys. I chose mince and chicken and chips. I think. Indeed, I hope. Needless to say, I'm not so sure I'll be repeating that experience (it's just as likely to repeat on me...) I'd rather have diarrhoea inducing Alloco any day...

In spite of all this, it's great to be back. I realise I'm going to be up against it finding work here when the locals are struggling as much as they are, but I guess it's a case of nothing ventured, nothing gained. And other such pearls of wisdom.

Signing off for now, still happily ensconced in fan heaven. Miss you all, and believe it or not, the cold weather too! Love love! x

Le temps passe vite...

Welcome back, I hope you’re still reading. A little redundant as comments go if you are not, but meh...

Having rather a lot of trouble getting le Photos onto le Facebook... not entirely sure what can be done about this, unfortunately though I am using wireless internet, it isn’t terribly reliable/fast wireless 100% of the time... sorry about that... in any case here's the link to my latest album...

As I am now well and truly struggling to keep up even slightly, I’m thinking I may just have to try throwing down some random experiences as they come to me, rather than going for structure and ease of reading. But if you know me you’ll know that this is sort of how my mind and subsequent speech flow tends to manifest anyway, so you’re probably used to it. All good.

First of all, malaria tablets give you crazy dreams. Perhaps no more crazy than my usual dreams (which I often think border on lunacy anyway) but really very vivid. And never terribly pleasant. They’re not wake-up-in-a-cold-sweat nightmare material, but they are usually fairly anxiety-filled... better than getting malaria but still pretty tiring... last night I was battling bushfires with my dad, using handfuls of Attièkè (the couscous-like thing I mentioned early on in my trip)...

Second of all, I think I need to get a t-shirt made. Or possibly a conspicuous tattoo, perhaps on my forehead, saying something along the lines of “Yes, I’m white. No, I don’t need a taxi.” I can be walking along, minding my own business, and next thing I know I’m being tailed by 3 of them. It can be useful actually, in a crowded place when there aren’t many taxis I usually get one first. But there are other difficulties with taxis here; it seems no matter how many times I travel to certain parts of town (Yopougon, for work, or Angré, to visit Yves) people want different prices. Some days I can’t be bothered haggling with them and just pay the extra dollar equivalent, other days (when they try to charge me twice the normal rate) I am indignant. It is fairly standard for me to pay 2000 francs to get to Amepouh, it’s supposed to be the maximum I should pay, according to the women who work there. My strategy tends to be to say “1500” first, then they go “Ha! 2500”, and then I go “2000”, and if they agree, all good. Hopped into a taxi the other day, after a less uniform argument with the driver (moi: “1500 francs”; Him: “non, non, non – 2000”; moi, immediately: “Oui.”) but when I got there and gave him a 5000 cf note, he passed me 2000 in change. He then proceeded to argue vehemently that he had said 3000, not 2000, and though my French isn’t great, I know what I heard, and said so. He then told me that 3000 was standard to this area (no doubt assuming that I wouldn’t know), but I refused to get out of the taxi, saying I come here everyday, I pay 2000 MAXIMUM. At this point he appealed to a couple of guys standing nearby who seemed keen to get into the argument, who promptly informed him that 2000 was standard from Cocody to that part of town. Ha! I kept my nyah-nyah-ni-nyah-nyah to myself, but in the end the guys outside pointed out to me that it was pointless arguing with the guy, and after he grudgingly gave me an extra 200 francs in change I gave him my most sarcastic “merci” and slammed the door. In the scheme of things, it’s only an extra $2, but that extra $2 everyday on top of the standard $4, each way, does add up over time. I haven’t been to work in a Bacca since the last time one of the AIESECers took me, and interestingly, the head of the ASK program, Alex, actually got quite mad with me when he discovered that I had been taking taxis instead, saying it was too expensive (um, hello, not as though he’s actually paying for it) but my host family and the women at Amepouh agree that I’m too much of a target, especially carrying my laptop in Adjame. The Bacca guys don’t care where you’re going, they just want you to get in their Bacca. Once, when I was with an AIESECer, I asked one guy if his Bacca went to the Gendarmarie in Yopougon (Amepouh is just behind it), and he said yes, and started to lead me away, then the AIESECer grabbed me and asked him again, and he said it was going in an entirely different direction... so I tend to stick with taxis, in spite of their issues. Did manage to negotiate a Warruwarru on my own this afternoon, and was pretty proud of myself... they’re the taxis that have predetermined routes that you share with strangers. I even got him to stop in front of my building rather than driving me a little further to the real stop (though I don’t think the warruwarru has specific set-down, pick-up areas, like a bus). Yesterday I had a slightly better taxi experience, though it started off pretty badly... I hailed a cab, rather unfortunately, right in front of the gendamerie, the police barracks. The taxi stopped, the police guard on duty started freaking out (no-one, it seems, is allowed to stop their car outside the gendarmerie – I’m guessing they fear for ambushes or carbombs or something) and yelling for the taxi to move. The driver frantically told me to get in, and because red taxis are few and far between in this part of town, I did. Without negotiating the price first. This is a big no-no. Of course, he wanted 2500 and now I had very little choice, as I was already in the taxi. I was not impressed, and started yelling at him in English to stop the cab, especially when he put the meter on as a kind of bluff... and then he started yelling back in English, which kinda shocked me into silence. Then he started prattling about how I could afford it, I’m not from here and I don’t know how people struggle, he doesn’t even own this taxi, he’s just borrowed it from a friend to make some extra money but really he owns a little coffee stand on the other side of Yopougon, do I know of it,etc etc. I was pretty stony at this point, but I figured, as I only had a 2000 cf or 5000 cf note anyway, I’d just be giving him the 2000 cf and legging it as soon as he stopped. As the car trip progressed, however, and he wanted to give me his number for a “unique business opportunity”, I explained to him that I was not American, but Australian, and a student, interning in an NGO without pay, and he totally backed off, was terribly understanding, told me how he used to play in a Reggae band and that’s how he knows English... visiting Australia one day is his dream, etc... by the end of the trip we were good mates, and he accepted my 2000 cf, though I offered him the 5000 cf note, requesting 2500 change... win. Sometimes speaking English is an advantage here afterall...

Anyway, on to more pleasant things. The women with whom I work at Amepouh. I cannot stress enough how amazing they are. Warm, friendly and caring, these women have included me into their little family, and happily explain all kinds of different customs and traditions to me, as well as discussing (as far as possible with my limited French) all kinds of issues surrounding their work. I owe them much in terms of my French improvement, but also cultural advances – they delight in dressing me up in traditional clothing at any opportunity, and of course I have a number of photos of this. They first dressed me in robes from the south of the country, braided my hair and painted patterns on my face, neck and arms. They then tied a baby (belonging to Angi, the secretary of Amepouh, not just a random baby, fear not) to my back using a large piece of material and placed a giant load on my head, so I got the full West African look. They giggled a lot and exclaimed “Fifi!!! Jolieee!!!” – Fifi, beautiful! Especially Angi, who squealed with delight at my hair and the paint on my face... she’s gorgeous. They all are, really. Then a couple of days later they dressed me in clothing traditionally worn by the witness to a marriage (no idea why), which was tentlike and incredibly hot, but the fabric was gorgeous. Last Thursday they took me to the market at Adjame so that I might buy (for a bit cheaper) some jewellery which I had seen and greatly coveted on the weekend at Grand Bassam. The market was truly something else. I have rarely seen such a mass of humanity in one place, all shouting out their wares to passers-by. I developed a slight crick in my neck from looking around everytime I heard “la blanche!” – it seems things were easier when I was blissfully ignorant that I was being addressed, back when I could barely discern a word of French. Those where the days. Meanwhile though, we went to the couture area of the marketplace, which had materials of every colour and make, it was like two spotlight megastores had gone rogue and started an open air breeding colony. Anything you could ever possibly want in the way of clothes making articles is available here. Anything. And the most beautiful fabrics you’ve ever seen in your life! I bought a couple of pieces to take home – but as I have never been what you might call a top seamstress I’m not sure what I shall do with them after this... (flashback to year 8 D&T, and my teacher Mrs. Goode falling off her chair laughing at me when I proudly stood up to show off my sewing masterpiece, only to discover the patches I had been working on were now a stylish addition to my school uniform. It was while unpicking that very lump of calico from my kilt that my dream of one day working in haute couture slipped away to wherever it is dreams go to die. There it joined my short-lived notions of becoming a veterinarian, crushed by the realization that I would have to insert thermometers and such into various animal orifices, as well as any hope I ever had of becoming a world class sprinter, because, as my mother rather brutally pointed out to me at an early age, I run “like a girl.”)

But back to the market. After visiting the fabric section we moved inside to an indoor part, which had a smell of a kind completely indescribable. A huge warehouse, without a great deal in the way of ventilation, packed with people and an oppressive heat. There was just about every kind of food in here that you could imagine, including all kinds of meats, none of which appeared to be refrigerated. This explained the stench – I genuinely thought I was going to be sick at one point, and people kept thrusting slimy looking meat products under my nose, which certainly wasn’t helping matters. Before long we reached a set of stairs, and ascended to the top level of the market, which at least had windows, and for whatever reason didn’t smell as bad (possibly I was used to the smell by then... or possibly it’s only hot air, and not putrid foul and semi-toxic air, that rises...)

After much zigzagging through the labyrinth of stalls upstairs, we finally came upon the jewelry area, and caught the only guy left there just as he had begun packing up for the day, which was pretty lucky... after much comparison and trying things on, I settled on some gorgeous and fairly ostentatious gold and blue pieces, with matching earrings, which were originally the clip-on kind, but which the guy quickly and expertly turned into real earrings. Unfortunately, however, the wire he used was far from quality, and my ears did get a little infected after the first time I wore them... I was fairly happy with the day’s purchases, which were certainly many in number and cost... but of course comparatively not so much, in dollars, really... it was certainly an experience, and a lot of fun. I really want to help these women in any way that I can, so when Yves introduced me to a friend of his who works at the US Embassy, and who might well be key to my getting to talk to someone about PEPFAR and how it all works, I was fairly excited. They badly need funding and they are such generous people doing very important work – it’s both humbling and inspiring being in such company.

I’m feeling the time fly far too quickly, and I genuinely don’t want to leave. I don’t know how or when, but I have to come back and soon... and I plan on making my last couple of weeks truly count. Yves and I are going to the capital, Yamoussoukro, on the weekend, and hopefully to Ghana the following weekend (unfortunately Coumba can’t go, as she just landed herself a job... congrats and good news for her, but unlucky for me!) I shall, as my brother would say, keep on truckin’ (that’s a big 10-4 there)...

Love to you all and kiiiiiiiiiissessssss... xoxo

Encore un peu...

Ahhh so much to cover!! This last week has been intense to say the least... Straight to it again...

So I was talking about how I’m building a website for Amepouh. One of the delightful features that one can add to said website, is a google map showing where in the world is Carmen Santiago... or in this case, Amepouh. But inconveniently enough, large chunks of Abidjan are not really accounted for on ye olde map. This includes Yopougon, the suburb where Amepouh is located, so the first big challenge was to FIND the place, based on satellite images and a few landmarks which have been identified... After much confusion and gesticulating in French, the girls and I managed to locate the Amepouh building, mark it out, and quite literally put the place on the map! It was really exciting, there was much jumping up and down and giggling... work on the website continues, I will put up the link when eventually it is launched!

So moving on to Saturday, a massive day which I think I will remember for many years to come. I again rose well before any right minded person ever should on a Saturday morning, and grabbed a taxi on over to Amepouh. Twas the day of our excursion with the OEVs (the orphans and vulnerable children) to the beach, hoorah!

We left about 2 hours after I arrived (sigh... African time. I will miss it...) and drove the hour to Grand Bassam, amidst much drum beating, singing and chanting (the massive bongo thingy had to come with us, of course...) the kids were of all different ages, from about 6 or 7 right through to 17. The first stop was an old Colonial home-turned-museum which featured pictures and costumes from well before the arrival of Europeans through to today. At the gate we stopped a guy selling palm wine from a jerry can hanging off his bicycle (love it) and filled up a water bottle, while I was accosted by a toothy older man who delighted in speaking English with me and inviting me back to his place “to stay – and we will have a nice, sexy time”... ew. Managed to escape that one relatively unscathed (though my soul remains a little scarred) and piled into the magnificent old building that was the museum. We were led around, examining the exhibits, me shaking my head in shame at pictures of mostousched white men in pith helmets reclining on mobile beds being carried by African men, or of African women having their bare chests measured by leering colonial “scientists”. The opulence of the house spoke volumes about the time, though now its rooms are filled with mannequins wearing a variety of different traditional costumes as well as models of traditional housing. Outside was a fairly extensive shop with all kinds of beautiful carvings, jewellery, books, etc. There was also a guy weaving, with incredible speed, some kind of tapestry. I couldn’t resist a bit of shopping and was fairly relentlessly pursued by the craftsmen. I left the place with a small buoaké mask, a book in English on the dress and customs of the tribes of Côte d’Ivoire, and a beautiful little family of wooden elephants. Of course, to do your shopping here (as with everything else in Côte d’Ivoire), you need to have the right change, and of course I didn’t – thankfully the ladies of Amepouh had my back, and helped me with bargaining as well as change. I should mention there was an albino man working at the shop, with whom I unfortunately did not have a chance to speak. I really wanted to give him some of my sunscreen, as I know how expensive it is here, and I have quite a lot extra, but I only had one bottle on me, nothing to transfer it into (bottle/container wise) and needed it for the beach later on... maybe I’ll go back in the coming weeks, who knows...

The next stop was a centre for Artisans where we were able to watch the painting of tapestries and other beautiful bits and pieces. Aimée-Rachel (one of the Amepouh ladies) was able to haggle over a tapestry for me down from 6000 CF to 4500 CF... baaaaaaargain... about which I was suitably stoked. There was some pretty gorgeous stuff there, so much so that I may have to head back for some more purchasing... only problem is it’ll prolly all get taken from me at customs. I should probably just check what they will and won’t allow you to bring in, hey. *Checks internet, finds nothing, writes letter to railway... or indeed, customs* Hmmm, more on that when (if) I get a response.

Finally it was off to the beach for lunch and a swim. Lunch was massive, there was so much food! And all of it so pretty! Yeah there are photos... y’all know me... The kids were itching for a paddle after lunch, and kept edging away towards the little pool (complete with slide) glimmering in the sun. Eventually they were allowed in, despite my protests about the lack of life guardage... the real danger would be once we hit the ocean, and I was not disappointed to find a very strong undertow and rips galore. The kids were barely allowed in past their little waists (wise, in my opinion) however as soon as they found out I could swim, they got incredibly excited and wanted me to demonstrate, shouting “nagé! Nagé!” (Swim! Swim!) I haven’t felt that much love for my aquatic skills since the days of school swimming carnivals, in fourth division butterfly (or indeed, lower...) I tried my best to explain to them that it was far too dangerous for ANYONE to go swimming properly in that surf – I should know, my dad was a lifeguard and still does the arms-crossed-over-the-chest-with-thumbs-up-staring-pensively-out-to-the-horizon thing. By assuming this position, I too could see the dangers of the ocean, and warned the kids accordingly. We stayed put in the shallows, laughing and splashing and being dragged forcibly towards the ocean depths, only to fight (hard!) against its grasp. Several of the kids clung to me in hopes of not being dragged out, and though I’m so hard I can rip the yellow pages in half with my eyelids, it was a struggle – me against several dead-weights and the Atlantic...

We soon returned to the pool area where the women and I spent a great deal of time trying to get the kids out of the now murky waters. The pool was so small, the sand so dark and the kids so many that the water had turned from a sparkling aquamarine to a fungal gang-grene. The hilarious part was when the kids flat refused to leave the pool, and one of the Amepouh women produced a fearful looking cane and started wielding it in rather a menacing manner. Problem was, everytime she got close to whacking a kid with the cane, they moved quickly to the other side of the pool, out of reach. Bit of the old “Marco Polo”, but with a dangerous weapon. Eventually I grabbed the cane and waded into the pool myself, but I think the kids sensed that I couldn’t actually hit any of them with it. I’m in enough trouble with child services at home as it is... they did get out in the end, and we went about the task of dressing using the rather limited facilities in all their urine-y smelling glory. Mmm.

Exhausted but happy, we headed back to Abidjan, where I had hoped to crash in spite of my promise to Coumba that we would party that night. Boy am I glad I got my second wind – if I hadn’t, I might never have gone to karaoke that night, a night which looks to have transformed my life fairly dramatically...

We didn’t get to karaoke till quite late, owing to a variety of issues, not the least of which being that Madina (Coumba’s karaoke-keen friend) was a tad tardy. Eventually she turned up, complete with a tall, incredibly built and gorgeous guy who politely opened the car door for me. Hmmm, thinks I. Interesting... Once we got to karaoke and had our respective drinks in hand, I discovered that the gentleman, Yves, is an Ivoirian law graduate who speaks, besides French obviously, English, Arabic and a bit of German, loves to sing and models part time. Oh, he’s also a keen reader, very intelligent and has a great sense of humor. It’s like I designed and ordered a boy, had him made to measure and shipped to me in a large karaoke-shaped box. We talked most of the night, laughed at the singing and song choices, he explaining to me what the French songs were about, me explaining the hirarious mistakes they had made in the translation of the English songs. I of course drank too much, he doesn’t really drink – possible design flaw there... ;) – but by the end of the night we were together, and have been since. I’m still completely blown away by the intensity of the relationship, but at the same time truly grateful that this amazing guy is in my life. Karaoke: 100 points, Universe (usually very much against me) : 0...

The following day involved a great deal of extra sleep, to make up for the fact that we got in at about 6am, but that evening was the quarter-final of the CAF, Algeria vs. Côte d’Ivoire, so there was no way we were staying in for that... but first Coumba and I had to make a couple of stops. The reason for our little excursion was, at first, only of vague interest to me. Something about a friend of Coumba’s having marital problems, and wanting Coumba to see someone about it for him. Coumba didn’t seem especially happy about her task, muttering something about this going against her religion, and once we got to our first stop, she told me it was best that I not ask too many questions. This puzzled me somewhat, but I followed her into a dingy apartment block and kept my mouth shut. An older lady ushered us into her one room apartment and pulled out a cane bowl and a string bag full of seashells. She shook the shells out into the bowl and began to sort of knead them, dropping and then picking them up over and again. Then every so often she would pause, tell Coumba something, which Coumba would write down, and then continue. A couple of times she looked up and smiled at me, and then told Coumba something, which would eventually be translated for me; apparently this woman was a Voyeur, a sort of African psychic/witch, and according to her, I am very beautiful (not really a prediction, more a reknowned fact... hehe) I will marry my boyfriend in Australia and our first baby will be a girl. I neglected to tell her that I actually don’t have a boyfriend in Australia, instead smiling politely and making small talk about how far away Australia is from Côte d’Ivoire (everyone’s go-to topic during awkward moments with me, of which there are many, because of my level of French.) Once outside we grabbed another taxi off to another mysterious location, this time a much nicer house, also in Marcory. Turns out when it comes to witch doctors it’s important to get a second opinion. I had to laugh at this, but was most keen to hear what witchy-poo number two had to say for herself, and indeed, moi. The second woman spoke French far more coherently, and was able to give me some more interesting information. First, she said I came here as one of three (true: I’m one of three Australians, and indeed three AIESEC UNSW students to come to Côte d’Ivoire), then she said that the many women with whom I work like me a lot (also true! Or so it seems anyway...) she suggested that I like to travel (possibly obvious by virtue of the fact that I am here in Côte d’Ivoire in the first place...) and that I would go to Ghana. Yipee! Should probably do something about organizing this of course... or should I simply leave it to fate and chance? Hmmmm...

We were a tad late for the game, stopping first at some friends of Coumba’s for dinner. The three year old of the family, who had just had her birthday was there, and was prone to giving everyone kisses. When my camera appeared she was delighted, clapping everytime the flash went off... the most hilarious part was when Coumba gave her a sip of beer, and she just kept drinking it... it didn’t take long before the barely 3 year old was completely maggoted. Mathematical formula for all you kids out there – drunk baby = hysterical. But please don’t try it at home – this activity should really be shared in some form of public arena...

Finally we headed to Acoustique to watch the game, which, sadly, Côte d’Ivoire lost (Coumba said it was god’s will cos he knows how many people would be killed in the streets if we won – we nearly ran over a bunch of people running around like headless chickens when Côte d’Ivoire scored early on, on our way to Acoustique...) The game was fairly intense, and it seemed as though we had it with a score of 2-1 and mere moments to go (I have footage of the spectators at Acoustique when goal number two was scored, I’ve never seen anything quite like it) but then, even while the celebrations where still going on, Algeria equalized and it was extra time anxiety all around. Eventually they scored again, lame, and it was all over red rover. Similar feeling to when Germany lost the final of the Euro cup in 2008, really, or Australia losing the Rugby World Cup because of Johnny-Bloody-Wilkinson in 2003 – always seems to happen when I watch the important matches... maybe it’s me causing this. I saw one middle-aged man openly weeping, being comforted by his mates – even Coumba thought that was a bit extreme, and she was not at all impressed with the game. C’est la Vie...

Ok that oughta do it for this update... I’m STILL ridiculously behind, but what can you do... Miss you all, but completely in love with the place still... xoxo!!

Un peu, Un peu...

Uh oh, I'm falling behind a little... will do my best to keep the updates coming, but there's been a hell of a lot going on!! So, right to it then...

On Saturday I was woken by the serene chirping of my mobile, signaling to me the end of sleep at the glorious hour of 5 (and a half...). If you know me at all you are probably having a schadenfreude-fuelled chuckle at the thought of Fifi awake before 9am, and what that would mean for my coherence, both then and later in the day, when the lack of sleep really began to catch up. Which it did, but that bit comes later... The reason for my being quite harshly denied my requisite 8-10 was so that we might get a jump start on the road to the day’s activity: The opening ceremony (yep another one) of the ASK Program in Dabou, a town just outside of Abidjan. Now, I arrived on campus at 6:45am, the time I was requested to arrive, but got dropped off a bit of a way away from where I was supposed to meet people, so had to hot-foot it to the office. I arrived by five to 7, bright red and covered in sweat. Of course, we then didn’t leave until at least 8am, but I did have the benefit of hanging out in the air-conditioned AIESEC office... eventually we hopped in a taxi and made our way to the bus station in Adjame, which is a suburb which is kinda half slum, half bustling market place. If you’re gonna get mugged, it’s most likely to be here, and I was told to hang onto my bag, even in the taxi, because apparently arms reach in through the window and nanoseconds later your stuff is long gone. I did try to explain to Franc and Alex that, as a ninja, there’s no way that would happen to me, because my lightening reflexes would result in the aforementioned arms getting a swift and well deserved chomp from my waiting Jaws of Death® (I’m a biter) but they seemed unconvinced. The craziest thing to happen on the taxi ride there though wasn’t me munging on the locals, but the locals literally climbing on the back of the taxi and hitching a ride for ten meters or so before hopping off again – and the taxi driver not batting an eyelid. (You have to go ridiculously slowly through the market at Adjame, because of traffic and indeed people wandering along the road)... 

We arrived at the station and hopped on arguably the most uncomfortable bus I’ve ever come across (this week at least). My legs were too long to fit in without bashing the seat in front of me, and the bus was packed to the teeth, so there was no sitting side-saddle. We got there eventually but it was pretty hairy. The ceremony went from about 11am to 3pm, with much sitting and waiting for it to begin, sitting and not comprehending what was going on during it, and sitting and waiting to leave again after the ceremony. It was very, very hot. And as a refreshment, I was offered ginger juice, which I assumed was cordial, and took an enormous gulp, burning the living daylights out of my poor esophagus. Fail. I’m sure the content of the ceremony would have been fantastic, but for the fact that it was all in French and still a bit much for me. There was, however, two rather entertaining dance competitions between the kids which took place early on in the day, some pictures of which are in amongst the shots of the day – I may try to put up a video as well...

After the ceremony we discovered, much to our dismay that there would be a bit of a wait for the next bus. I assumed this meant 20 mins. 2 and a half hours later was in fact when we eventually boarded the bus to go... but in the meantime we wandered around Dabou, taking loads of photos, including down by the lagoon, which was fun.

The bus-trip back was a bit crazy, the AIESECers started singing and clapping early on in the trip and didn’t stop for quite a while... the other passengers were not amused. When we finally got back, it was well past dark, but the fun was not over yet. Franc decided that it was my shout at a little outdoor pub place on campus which we visited when I first arrived and at which, upon receipt of a beer from Franc, I had vowed to one day return the favour. So I agreed to buy him and the guys a round. Now when he bought that first round, when I first arrived, it was me, Yadan, and him. This time, however, it was me, Yadan, him, and about 5 others, all of whom had beer and food... which was apparently part of my offer... still, the whole thing cost me about $10 so I can’t really complain, and it was nice to sit and relax for a while, in spite of my exhaustion. The next day I was far too knackered to go to the beach with the other interns, which I do kind of regret, but there was just no way I was getting out of bed at 8am...

The next couple of days saw a return of the sickness, though I still have no idea what it was I did to bring this on. By Tuesday evening I was more than fed up with being housebound, and finally starting to feel better, so I went out with Coumba and her mates, which was a lot of fun – and it turned into a big night out at a nightclub – not wise considering I had work the following morning...

And indeed the next day - which was really the same day by the time we got home - I was wrecked, but preceded along to work for the first time in a week. The ladies were so lovely to me, and that afternoon (after a snooze on a mattress they set up for me!) I went again to hang out with some of the local kids – I’ve since discovered that these kids are in fact what are called OEVs – Orphelins et Enfants Vulnérable – Orphans and Vulnerable Children, so classified because of one or more of their parents’ HIV status. It was a different school to the one from last week, and many more kids. At first I played a bit of Ludo with a couple of them, but then I got out my camera to take a few pics, and that’s when the crazy began. Everyone wanted to be directly in front of the camera, and no matter how many times I asked them to stay put while I moved backwards in order to get more than 3 of them in the picture, they were having none of it. The result of which was a considerable number of photos with a fine perspective up the kids’ schnozzes. I did manage to get a few gooduns, as well as a few I took the following day... (it was a big week for photos...)

On Thursday I hit Amepouh determined to figure out a plan of action for my time here. In the back of my mind was a vague thought about mentioning the need for a website, as I had had a great deal of difficulty finding any information on the place before I started working there. I still wasn’t 100% sure of exactly how they operated, funding-wise and function-wise. Upon my arrival, I sat myself down and waited for my supervisors to arrive (I was early, apparently!! Yeah y’all shuddup with your laughing...) and was busy taking advantage of the free wi-fi when a little boy shyly appeared by my side, playing with the spinny chair next to me and grinning broadly whenever I smiled at him. I decided to give him a push in the chair, spinning him around and around, much to his delight. By the time I left that afternoon, my computer was virtually off-limits to me; I had introduced my little 6 year old shadow (whose nickname is “A Pitchou”, which roughly translates to “little darling” or something of the sort, and whose real name seems to have escaped everyone) to my laptop, and while at first he was hesitant to go anywhere near it, a mere two hours later I was no longer allowed to touch it myself because I clearly didn’t know how to use it properly (the proper way is apparently to mash a bit at the keyboard and move the mouse around a lot, whilst muttering softly, before closing the lid down, unplugging it from the wall, and walking out of the room – only to come back in and repeat the entire process. Eventually I figured out that he was playing office.) The cutest moment was when he kissed the apple symbol on my laptop and covered it with a scarf in order to “put it to sleep”. Eventually I did have to put the computer away, at the risk of it malfunctioning due to heavy concentrations of melted tim-tam getting in amongst the keys. (I brought the Amepouh staff a packet to thank them for being so patient with me during my illness, and “A Pitchou” found the wrapper which naturally needed licking clean...) but all afternoon he would softly ask me about it again and again. His mum, I later discovered, is a member of Amepouh staying at the NGO – meaning she was HIV positive, and had nowhere else to go. She was also pregnant. Upon closer inspection of my little mate, I noticed that he was actually wearing a pair of very old, rather dirty Barbie pants that were too big for him, and a shirt that resembled a tent, on him at least. It is fairly heartbreaking to see such a sweet kid, so full of life, in such a precarious position. He continued to hang around me for the rest of the day, giving me hugs and kisses and sitting on my lap, playing with leggo. In the afternoon, we went to buy some afternoon tea together from a street stall. One of the perpetual problems I have here in Côte d’Ivoire is the currency situation. The bank gives you your money in 10 000 CFA notes, and when most places have issues with you giving them a 1000 CFA note, what hope have you of breaking a tenner? Anyway so we got to the street stall and naturally all I had was a 1000 CFA note, for sweets which cost 50 CFA each – of which I wanted 2. The women didn’t have any change, so she gave me 500 CFA and told me to come back later on that day, as she would give me the rest then. On the way back in I had to giggle, as the Amepouh staff asked him, in mock surprise, who this lady was that had bought him the sweets, he answered happily that “la blanche” (the white woman – ie me!) was his wife! Later that day, when I was chatting in earnest with one of the guys that works here (more on that in a bit), I failed to notice my little friend and another little girl go missing for about 10 minutes, only vaguely registering the sudden lack of noise. By and by they returned and deposited some sticky coins ceremoniously in front of me, and pressed half a lolly into my mouth, muttered “Merci!” and ran off to play... it would seem that my little friend had gone to collect my change from the street stall and taken a cut in commission for his trouble, helping himself to another treat...

On the flipside, the conversation that I mentioned earlier, with T, one of the guys (originally from Togo) who works for Amepouh was incredibly helpful, and I finally started to feel as though I was getting somewhere as far as establishing how best I could help out here. T is a staunch activist for people living with HIV/AIDS. He himself is a sufferer and works tirelessly to secure the best possible treatments, and to advocate for the rights of those with HIV – to break down stigma which is rife in the community (this is how Amepouh became necessary in the first place it would seem...) and to assist in prevention, without demonizing people living with HIV, amongst other things. He is an incredibly inspiring guy, whose English is excellent, and he was able to give me an excellent picture of the main issues facing Amepouh and other NGOs in Côte d’Ivoire and West Africa in general. It seems that there is a great deal of widespread difficulty getting the money past the middle-man. Funding provided by the US government, through the PEPFAR program (the President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS relief) often goes first to larger organizations, which, in turn, distribute funds down to the grassroots level – supposedly. It seems that often, these umbrella organizations do a bit of clever accounting and give figures back to the higher authorities that would suggest their money is making a difference, when in fact large cuts of it never get past this creative management stage. In the case of Amepouh, the money gets here, however the umbrella organization which receives and distributes the funds has it’s own agenda and objectives, and will only distribute money for use towards those goals, instead of assisting with activities that the organizations on the ground see as most necessary. For example, one of the organizations from which Amepouh receives funds places a lot of emphasis on HIV testing, and neglects to give funding towards things that Amepouh recognizes to be necessary for the treatment of those living with HIV. Good nutrition, for example, is vital for the ARV (Anti-retroviral treatment) to work at an optimal level, and is something sorely lacking at the NGO. It seems that there is cause for some kind of shadow report to the good people at PEPFAR, advising them of where the money actually goes – so I’m thinking I might do a little research into whether or not there is a reporting mechanism for the grassroots level and go from there. I’m also going to check out whether we can apply for direct funding from PEPFAR, in the same way that I was thinking AIESEC might be able to... I also mentioned that it might be an idea for the NGO to have a website, and they got incredibly excited about me building one... except of course a year and a half of media and communications does not a webwiz make... In spite of this I have spent the last week or so trying to remember how HTML works and fiddling with various google apps... but it’s nice to know that I’m being useful. A website can be a powerful advocacy tool, as well as a source of vital information. Plus I showed T the videos which Virginia gave me as well as showing him how to create a youtube account so that he could use them in his work... I’ll also be putting some of the videos up on the Amepouh website... It’s great to know that the media which can so often be a waste of time can also be used to help spread a worthwhile message and help those who badly need it...

I’d better leave off here, I’m still HEAPS behind (It’s Friday of the following week and I have a LOT to cover) but I’m sick of this entry now... :D

Love to you all and hope all is well!! xoxo

Maladie et moi....

Welcome back kids, for week 2 (in effect) of my bloggage. This week we’ll be visiting the Italian Embassy of Côte d’Ivoire, getting yelled at by a Bacca driver, catching CAF fever, meeting toffee Englishmen at opening ceremonies, dodging cringeworthy corny lines about our eyes, and finally sorting out internet issues – to name but a few of the ensuing adventures. Please, sit down, grab a (potable) jug of water and join me...

Ooh, which makes for an excellent place to begin. I found out for sure and for certain that yes, I have been drinking rebottled water, and yes, it is perfectly safe – as I am yet to get sick from it, and indeed everyone around me is fine too. In fact, the above mentioned Englishman told me that they did some sort of UN water testing study when there was a toxic leak into the supply in 2006, and they found that the water here is far superior to that of many European countries. I guess that should come as no real surprise, afterall we were warned not to go near the water in Italy and Greece on Contiki back in the day, and I reckon it tastes heaps more betterer than the crap they call water in Germany (no offence Deutsche readers... if ye do exist... )... plus Armidale water wouldn’t have a prayer in comparison...

But enough about ze water. A bit about the opening ceremony I mentioned, perhaps... The AIESEC Cocody club has recently had a much needed facelift, and now looks pretty spiffy, including new computers, fresh paint, desks and cabinets and such, and last but infinitely not least, an air-conditioning unit :D The refurbished digs is courtesy of some local businessfolk, possibly an NGO as well (the whole explanation I was given was in French, so there are holes), and significantly this French woman who has been here some 14 years was pretty involved (I had a quick chat to her and was surprised to find her a little patronizing – “I mean, zey could have done some scrubbing ‘ere and zere to make zeh place nicer, but zey just don’t think! I’m doing my best to teach zem...” out of politeness I neglected to suggest that perhaps they had more important things on their minds than scrubbing walls – like organizing projects to help those less fortunate...). This being Côte d’Ivoire there was a fairly lavish opening ceremony on Saturday morning, which, having been to another ceremony for a different but similar organization the night before, I was not terribly keen on. (Actually the one the night before featured some amazing dancing performance, as well as a parade of fantastic outfits, some of which I took pics, and will include here – it was just that it dragged on for the non-Francophiles in the audience. Which I’m pretty sure was just me.) This ceremony, however, was done pretty quick, and was good times. They did what they call a “rollcall” (another AIESEC thing) which I was invited/pushed to join, and which I assumed was going to be a bit of the old:

“FIONA?!”

“PRESENT!”

But indeed I was mistaken. It was, in fact, a dance, which naturally I had never seen before but joined in as best I could and was duly complimented on thereafter. It wasn’t a super complicated dance to be fair, a bit akin to the good old fresher dances of college, and fun in spite of the heat. As soon as the ceremony wrapped up and we grabbed “cocktails”, it started to cack down rain, and we were stuck under the marquees until it stopped again. (It seems “cocktails” is something which has been a bit lost in translation – I was excited at the prospect of actual, delicious, tropical cocktails, and my mouth watered for their sweet, refreshing, alcoholic release. Alas, here, “cocktails” means food and soft-drink, generally taken after some form of ceremony-related torture. I guess it’s a bit akin to the cocktail dress. The intent to indulge in cocktails is not actually a prerequisite for wearing the aforementioned dress... but the sentiment is there, or something. If a tree falls in the forest... birds of a feather and stuff... What am I saying, the simply fact is I was tricked!! I was promised cocktails dammit...) Anyway during the deluge I had a bit of chat with a chap who had come up to me earlier, when I was “inspecting the new room” (ie loitering in the air-conditioned comfort) and said, in his most wonderful Lord-Chiddingfold-of-Moorstone’s-Manor-esque accent: “I don’t suppose this lot are having a great deal of success understanding your rough Aussie way of speaking?!” Presenting: Craig Hitchcock, ex-RAF, ex-pat, jack-of –all-trades and champion of Anglophonic activities in Côte d’Ivoire. Really a lovely guy, he gave me some great advice on everything from malaria (“I’ve had it 4 times in 10 years! Not bad eh?”) to his love of Africa (“You know, there’s a saying, one that’s been around since well before the times of air transport and such, and that is that there’s an invisible insect that bites you when you first visit Africa, and you react in one of two ways. Either you react badly to the bite, detest the place completely and leave as soon as you can, or you catch a sort of fever, fall in love with it and never leave. I’m the latter!”) He gave me one of his ump-teen business cards and assured me he’d be happy to help me in any way he could. And with a finger in every pie (including the UN, the local media, business, NGOs, etc) I just might have to take him up on that one!

Speaking of bites, diseases, etc, I should probably at this point mention one of the more feared illnesses one can catch here – one that I was vaguely aware of before arriving, but never thought of as something to which I’d be susceptible. CAF fever – perhaps not your conventional tropical disease – spreads like wildfire amongst young and old around this time of year, and certainly reaches epidemic levels in Côte d’Ivoire when les Éléphantes come out to play. The Ivoirian strain, a result of infection from the pachyderm-borne parasite specific to Côte d’Ivoire, is highly mobile, making the illness severely contagious, and no amount of opposition supporter gear (in the case of the first match, that of Burkina Faso) can quash the mania that ensues once the illness sets in...

Yes in my round-about way I’m talking about soccer, specifically the African cup, and the associated malady that accompanies the onset of such an event. It is a bit exciting actually. Everyone’s pretty psyched. The first game was apparently a shocka for the Ivoirians, tying nil all with Burkina Faso – most peeps were a bit devo. See I don’t consider that to be so bad in terms of a result, but it does reinforce what I’ve been saying about soccer for a number of years now, and that is: it’s designed to frustrate. 90 minutes where it’s possible that NOBODY scores? (plus injury time – but at the very least, this competition doesn’t feature the Italian national side, so there’s probably a bit less injury time) Seriously, why don’t you just invent a game where you pound your head against a brick wall 12 times, pause for a half time hotdog and then repeat?? Then when you’re so giddy from loss of brain cells and angry at the pain you’ve been put through, go roll a few cars and set fire to your local police station/pub/homeless guy? This end result (and, arguably, the loss of brain cells in the interim) is pretty similar to how things end up for frustrated soccer hooligans world wide – and at least this way you can shorten the time for which you suffer...

I’m just saying...

Ok ok for what it’s worth I don’t entirely hate soccer – after 12 months in Germany during which the European Cup was played (and for which Germany got to the final), watching endless soccer matches under duress, I have seen games which were more exciting, and maybe even worth half a warm beer. The fever is bubbling away somewhere in me I’m sure – it’s just a matter of time before I get my hands on some orange supporter gear and the disease rears it’s ugly head once again... (hey, I like dressing up. And orange is the new black, I hear...)

Meanwhile, while we’re on the topic of embarrassing tropical maladies, it seems the secret to avoiding biblically epic diarrhea episodes kids, is to ensure you do not eat on campus or buy anything from a street stall. Ok perhaps not but as yet, the points tally is as follows: incidences of gastro from Fatou’s cooking: 0; from street stalls: 3... On the brightside, I am now officially a victim of traveller’s diarrhea, and hereby declare myself a medical-tourism statistic – hooray! One more thing to cross off the list...

To the menfolk. Now, I like being complimented as much as the next girl, and tend to respond entirely appropriately (blushes scarlet, mumbles a quick thankyou and runs for the hills) and as sweet as it is I’m a bit confronted here by the pushy boys and their penchant for blue eyes. When I’m not blushing and quietly freaking out, I’m laughing out loud, literally, at their comments, and then apologizing for being so callous. But you try being told by a guy with a thick French accent that he’s “drrrowning in your byewdiful blue eyees” and keep a straight face... I mean, really?? I was having real trouble with one guy who keeps talking about getting me a gift, and asking rather pointedly what I’m going to give him in return – he then started eyeing off my phone and decided that we would be swapping mobile phones when I went home (mine is a pretty recent model Motorola, his is a crappy old nokia) and if I did so, each time I used my phone it would remind me of Côte d’Ivoire. How sweet, thinks I – yes, each time I look at my phone I’ll remember Côte d’Ivoire, and then heave said phone at the wall, recollecting just how much I miss my old phone. He also likes my perfume, and wants it too, to remind him of “this beautiful gift I was given when I first met you and smelt your perfume – for me this experience was a gift”. And I’m thinking keep the experience, you can’t have the perfume mate... and then the hand holding began, him trying to interlace his fingers in mine... and that’s when I urgently had to go see a guy who was passing by at that very moment how convenient. Unfortunately, this potential rescuer of mine seems also to have taken an interest and started asking some pretty personal questions about what he calls my “sentimental life” – which apparently refers to my “love life” (a term I positively detest) – rounding out the day by asking me, when I put a pair of sunglasses on, “why you want to coverr up your byewdiful blue eyes?” Sigh. It was fun on the plane, less fun the first couple of times... getting awkward now... Perhaps I’m just an ungrateful wench and I’m sure I’ll appreciate all this once I get back to Oz, where the nearest thing to a compliment from a guy is “jeez you can crack open a tinny Sheila” (yeah, I went there. But I refuse to use the term cobba. That’s just silly.) but for now it’s difficult, especially when I’m supposed to be working closely with these guys on a day to day basis. I guess this is what Zoolander was talking about when he pointed out that there is more to life than being really, really, really, really, ridiculously goodlooking. (And blue steel: annnnd fade out.)

Hmm, what else did I mention in the intro which I’ve yet to include here... oh yeah, I got yelled at by a Bacca driver first time I took one on my own. That’s actually the whole story. Not so exciting, but thought I’d throw it in to keep you guessing. As for the internet, I now have wireless which is actually the greatest invention ever for my mind, forget sliced bread, I’m ok with tearing chunks off it anyway...

Now to a definite highlight of the week – visiting the Italian Embassy. The ambassador, Giancarlo Izzo, happens to be married to an Australian and a friend of the family, Virginia Ryan – an extremely gifted artist. After years living in Ghana, Virginia has done extensive work involving all kinds of African themes, and as I understand it, started a program for female artists, though I’m unsure of the details. She and Giancarlo have a son and daughter, whom I vaguely remember from many years ago. I was welcomed into their new home (they’ve only been in Côte d’Ivoire for a couple of months) for lunch, and spent a really lovely afternoon in one of the most beautiful residences I’ve ever seen. The place is filled with artwork and beautiful artifacts from their travels all over the world, and it was so nice to have an afternoon of conversation with fellow English speakers! I hadn’t realized how much I missed stimulating conversation, but alas it is something of which I’m just not capable at this point in my French speaking career! ;) It was also nice to relax and watch a film (again, not in French!) – we watched Sweeney Todd, which, in spite of it’s gore, was very entertaining, and Virginia gave me this fantastic DVD set for use in the schools, a series of short films on HIV/AIDS related scenarios based on ideas of young Africans and directed by acclaimed African directors – plus, it’s in multiple languages, and isn’t even copyright protected, as the films are designed to educate. It couldn’t be more perfect for the program I’m doing, and the best part is, it’s so much more relevant to the kids than a bunch of statistics on AIDS in the US – or even just on AIDS in Africa. Stats are so dry, and on their own they don’t always have a great effect... so I’m really looking forward to starting the school visits and using these valuable films to boost the program and engage the kids’ interests. I know I always love my lecturers more when they break things up with a video... anyway, I’m looking forward to visiting Virginia and family again, she has already invited me to a gallery opening but unfortunately I was at work when it was on, and in any case she has said she’s happy to help me should the need arise... it’s great to know I have even more people here for support!

So finally, a bit about work. I eventually started at the NGO, after a number of hiccups (Monday there was communication issues about where and when I was to meet people and go; Tuesday I had the abovementioned gastro issues...) yesterday I finally made it, only to get sick today (not gastro this time, but a lovely throat infection, it seems – my glands are like tennis balls!) which I have a feeling was actually brought on by my first day. A bit of background first though. Intially I was going to be working at “Le Soutien”, an organization for orphans and vulnerable children, but apparently there’s some sort of problem (no-one will say what it is...) and so I’m at “Amepouh “now. At first I was pretty annoyed, as I signed on in large part to work with these kids, and not to do “marketing”, as was apparently my focus at Amepouh. But after some wheeling and dealing (and a very patronizing speech from one of the guys – I mean really, he doesn’t think I can see through that?) it was determined that I would “get to work with my kids”, and they would make sure marketing wasn’t the focus, though I will still have to do a little. It seems that on my CV, they read “Certificate of Speech Communication Australia” to mean “She can do marketing and communications”... I tried to explain that it’s really more of a qualification for public speaking and performance, but I do seem to be having rather a lot of trouble making myself understood this week... anyway, it looks like Amepouh, which is an NGO helping women effected by HIV/AIDS, often runs activities for kids, which is great, and I should be able to do some work on women’s empowerment as well, so it may have turned out even better. And when I arrived yesterday (after well over an hour’s ride in various Baccas – that will probably be the most challenging part I’d suspect!) I got my wish to work with the kids. It was a lot of fun, but exhausting – I spent a lot of time laughing when, after their initial shyness, the kids became bold enough to see if my pasty skin was real by pressing on it – and discovering that it changes color from pink to white then back to pink again when you do this – a source of joy for generations of folks back home too, I have found. After that though, it was on for young and old, and I was being poked and prodded by a thousand little hands all over, to a chorus of giggles. They seem to have managed a slightly more permanent colour change on the surface of my skin today – a nice shade of purple bruising. I’m not entirely sure of the kid’s situation – they didn’t actually come to the centre, we went to a catholic school to play games and draw pictures, etc. and they all turned up. The area in general is in noticeably worse condition than in Cocody – it’s in another suburb altogether, called Yopougon, and many of the children were dressed in borderline rags. There was a sort of attendance taken so I assume their mothers might be involved in Amepouh somehow, but the women at the office don’t speak much English, so it was hard to tell. A few of the kids had shocking coughs, and that, coupled with the sub-zero setting at which they keep the aircon in the office, and my coming in and out, covered in sweat, from freezing to hot, and doing a lot of walking seems to have weakened my defenses to their current state of non-existance... also on most days there’s no hot water, which at first didn’t bother me at all, but apparently I have started to acclimatize to the heat a bit, as the cold showers aren’t as nice as they once were... On the bright side though, it seems you can buy antibiotics over the counter here, so hopefully I’ll be back fighting fit soon – indeed, I have yet another opening ceremony to attend on Saturday (for the ASK project in the town of Dabou, outside of Abidjan) so I want to be ready.

Hahah and here I thought I could keep the blog entry a bit shorter this time... my apologies again, and thanks for sticking with it as far as you have, assuming you’re still here! (If you’re not, then you’re not reading this. Or this. Or even this...)

Hope all is well with you and yours!!

Love Fifi x

C'est très chaud...

Ok.

I am writing from under the comforting wing of my new love, the fan. The fan and I are planning to elope, so don’t try and stop us, our love can transcend traditional marital conventions, such as both parties possessing some form of heartbeat.

Having established that, I suppose the first thing I can say about Côte d’Ivoire is perhaps now somewhat obvious – it’s HOT. I think I’ve only ever been this consistently sweaty once in my life, and that was when I visited Cairns in December.
In fact it’s probably no hotter than Sydney in terms of degrees, but at ridiculous levels of humidity, my first and most important phrase of French that my amazing new family has taught me is “c’est très chaud” – It’s very hot.
No arguments here.

But it might be worth starting back from where I left off – at the airport in Dubai. Without going into too many details, the ride from Dubai to Accra was similarly lengthy and I had my suspicions it would never end. The entertainment system on the A380 was crazy, there were literally hundreds of things to watch. I opted for “High School Musical 3”, the remake of “Fame”, and “District 9”, with mixed results – see ‘District 9’, it was awesome... “High School Musical”, however... ... ah who am I kidding, I loved it. Possibly not so relevant, but threw that one in for all those fans of “the Castle” – “What movies did they show on the plane Trace??”. Ahem.
On the second, smaller plane, t’was not quite as luxurious, and by then I was just keen to get there already. Sat in the plane on the tarmac when eventually we did make it to Accra, (kept myself amused by poking my tongue out at the ADD kid being restrained by his parents, and giggling when he responded in kind) and finally after the shortest international flight I’ve ever taken, we arrived. (literally the flight was less than an hour, and you should have seen the Emirates attendants screaming around trying to feed us in that time... hilarious. Side note: Emirates have the finest male flight attendants in the world (as Jeremy Clarkson would say.) One of them told me I had pretty eyes, and that he had mates in Chatswood. Gotta start going to those more northerly suburbs more often...)

Anywho... where was I? Yeah so we landed in Abidjan, had our yellow fever vaccination cards checked by medically masked officials, and then began the business of warding off ‘helpful’ folk. One guy, dressed well but conspicuous by his lack of ID tag was hell bent on helping me, but I insisted that I had people waiting outside for me, and that I’m more than capable of carrying several tons of luggage by myself, thanks. He wasn’t real impressed, but left me alone eventually, and when I finally got through the gate, I was assailed by a myriad more incessant helper folk, wanting to sell me SIM cards and take me to hotels, etc. I wandered around for a bit, trying to look as though I knew what I was doing and looking for some sign of Franc the AIESEC guy. Eventually he and a guy called Yadan showed up and were like “we were wondering if it was you – we watched you walk around for a while.” Cheers guys.
Really though they are both incredibly friendly and helpful, and I’m so glad to have their support!

The second we stepped out of the terminal the heat hit me like a slap in the face with a boiled fish. Seriously, it was hot, wet, and less than pleasant smelling... ok a little dramatic but it was a bit confronting, in spite of extensive mental preparation. We wandered up the road for a bit, and I was pretty shocked to see right away, the very images of African poverty which are on our TV screens in the docos, right there in the flesh. Rubbish everywhere, shacks on the side of the road, skinny naked children sitting in the mess, mangy street dogs and chickens roaming free in the streets...

This was my first impression. My initial moments of blindness, where all I saw was poverty and misfortune. But quickly, very quickly, I began to see more to it than that. People here are resilient, so much more resilient than that for which they’re given credit. It may only be early days as far as my experience goes, but the hopelessness that people so often associate with this kind of poverty is, to some extent, manufactured. At least that’s how it seems to me. People are so entrepreneurial here! Everyone is selling something, from peeled oranges to computers, and often right there on the street. The streets themselves are total chaos, with cars all over the place, horns bleating incessantly, and people walking practically amongst the traffic. It’s incredibly vibrant and alive. The craziest thing is how public transport operates here. There’s buses, which are literally packed, an utter sea of humanity, with more and more people trying to get on, shoving their way in. There’s no way the doors are gonna close, so then more and even more people get on and they’re hanging off each other and out the door... it really has to be seen to be believed. Next time I do I’ll have to take a picture... then there’s the Bacca, which is like a mini bus, it has a specific route and stops, and is the cheapest option for transport (with the possible exception of the bus – but I doubt I’ll be catching it any time soon, I like my lungs to at least partially function when I take public transport). Most of the Baccas (and for that matter all the other vehicles) have seen far, far better days – they’re battered and old, and it’s often a battle to get in and out. The conductor, for want of a better word (dude who takes the money and yells at people on the street is perhaps more appropriate) is in and out all the time, and as the Bacca leaves a stop, he will literally run along side it, grab onto the open door, and ride along on it, door wide open. Unbelievable!

Finally, there’s taxis. The local Taxi is the Warru Warru, it’s usually yellow, very old, spews black exhaust everywhere and only goes around the suburb you’re in (in my case, Cocody). The coolest thing about taxis here though, is that there are thousands of them, and you pay for the distance, not the time (except in the red ones, which I’m getting to...) so one person might be in the Warru Warru, and someone on the street can signal to the driver (by making this loud kissing noise) and they get in too, complete strangers, sharing taxis, getting in and out all over the place. How the cars actually even run is completely beyond me, most of them are old Corollas and Peugeots, in far worse condition than Mr. Bib, my lovely old Camry, ever was (may he rest in piece – they haven’t chopped him for parts yet I’m assuming...). The red taxis are more like at home, and are more expensive, but still next to nothing, really. To put it all into perspective, US$1 is about the equivalent of 500 CF. A ride from “Carre four la vie” the “junction of life”, which is near me house, to the Cocody campus, is 100 CF. With a Warru Warru, I think it’s around 200 CF, and with a red taxi, about 800 CF. So it’s still less than $2 for a 10-15 minute ride in the most expensive form of transportation. I heart Africa...

So, onto food. And if I thought I might lose me some weight on my trip, I do believe I was mistaken. Apart from the fact that the food is thoroughly awesome, my family keeps making me eat more and more! The first night I arrived was a little scary, there was an entire fish cut into 4 pieces lying on the table... face, tail, spinal chord and all. (there’s no messing around with cuts of meat in Côte d’Ivoire it seems – Fatou, (spelling?) the girl who works as housekeeper and cook for my host family, was taking apart an entire chicken earlier... I walked in and was intrigued to find myself staring at some rather intimate parts of the chook formally known as lucky – ie, her kidneys... and a shiny pair of chicken feet to boot... Mum you’d be proud, not even a gag!) but where was I? Oh yeah, entire fish. So poor Nemo had been fried to within an inch of his life – actually probably more, really – and next to him was what is fast becoming my favourite Ivoirian dish – Aloco, or fried banana. It’s awesome. They put a tomato condiment of some sort with it, and something ultra spicy which I didn’t dare touch, but it’s delicious on its own anyway! Finally there was this cous-cous type of stuff, made from Cassava, called Attièkè, also yummy. I actually did have a little nibble on Nemo, and although I’m not a seafood girl, and indeed although it was chock full of bones (apparently the edible kind...) I actually didn’t mind it. I think I’d have to work up to it again though... The other night we had fresh sugar cane to mung on, it was the coolest thing! You literally chew it and all the sugary juice comes out, then you spit out the fibrous cane part. Awesome...

Other than that, the other afternoon the AIESECers grabbed me some very late lunch in the form of these deep fried cakes with more Nemo inside (less pleasant than the initial serve was – this time Nemo was curried). Not sure what it was called but will find out. It would be far nicer if it weren’t so fishy methinks... wondering if it comes with anything else in the centre... these are the things that plague me...

I should probably mention a bit about AIESEC itself while I’m here. It seems that AIESEC has a bit of a culture all it’s own, which became fairly obvious to me when, at the welcome party, people would start their introductions with “Hey AIESEC!” to which the crowd would respond “Wassup?!”; then they’d go again, “Hey AIESEC!”
Crowd: “Wassup?!”
Speaker: “Hey AIESEC!”
Crowd: “Wassup?!”
Speaker: “How do you feel?”
Crowd: “Excellent!”
Apparently one of a series of chants which people do throughout the course of meetings, often to get the crowd’s wandering attention. At the welcome meeting there were 5 Nigerians and myself being introduced, and they seemed to know the ropes a bit better than I, although they’re a bit disgruntled about having to pay for all their transport everywhere – apparently they paid an awful lot to get here by land, (crossing borders is expensive in Africa, you generally have to pay) on the understanding that they would have most things taken care of once they got here. They were positively mutinous the first day I met them, and where talking about going home because they’re completely broke. The welcome ceremony too was interesting; some of the local AIESECers used the opportunity to attack Nigerians in general, with questions like “how come you Nigerians only ever stick to yourselves, how come you are so defensive of your women at AIESEC conferences”... etc. One guy even asked about the bungled Christmas day terrorist attack by the young Nigerian guy whose name now escapes me... I thought the Nigerians handled it pretty well, explaining that not all Nigerians were like that, and just because he was from their country originally (he didn’t actually grow up there at all) was no reflection on them and their views and practices. I threw in that the guy was at uni in Australia for a semester, in an attempt to help stave off the attack... interesting that such ignorance exists everywhere.
Anywho, so I told them a bit about myself, about Australia, what I study, etc... dunno how much sunk in, apparently I speak very quickly in English... never been accused of that one before...

Before the opening ceremony, however, we took a ride across town to a place called Marcory, where we met with a guy from an NGO who was to train us up for our presentations. The NGO works on FGM (Female Genital Mutilation) as well as HIV/AIDS prevention, and I was incredibly relieved to find that much of his presentation, which focused on the latter, was fairly easy to follow despite it’s being in french, partly because the bigger more medical-y words are similar to English or easily figured out, and partly because I’ve done a bit of research into this recently. I did have to stop him to ask what he meant by “putting moral values back into the community” in fighting against HIV/AIDS... I later found out that this operation is funded by PEPFAR, the President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief, an initiative of the former Bush Administration... certainly that explained the “moral values” clause... and the heavy emphasis on abstinence... but I digress...

I had a chat with Franc later, and mentioned that the ARV drugs (antiretroviral) used to fight HIV are free because the program is funded by PEPFAR, and he got all excited and decided that my task, should I choose to accept it (and by the way I have no choice!) is to see if a grant from PEPFAR is possible for the AIESEC Cocody club, and or any other grant I can find. He went on to make it sound terribly heroic if I could manage it, a legacy if you will... and I have a week in which to secure it. I was like, um, sure. I’ll do my best... now with a rather uncooperative internet connection, I’m not too sure that’s gonna work, but I’m actually working on that too... we shall see...

One other thing I should mention before I sign off (as I think I’ve taken up more than enough of your time...) is how amazing my host family are. They are incredibly obliging, and hell bent on making my stay comfortable and enjoyable. My Papa doesn’t speak English, but is so enthusiastic and sweet, and Mama speaks a little. Mama apparently does makeup for film and television here in Abidjan, which is pretty cool – she just got back from the set of a new film a day after I arrived. Papa is retired, but I think he used to work in a bank. Ismael (spelling?) is the eldest, and their only son; he and a mate, Loic took me to this tiny bar in Cocody this afternoon, where he and his boys were dancing, laughing, drinking and smoking (not a big fan of the smoking...) it was awesome. Loic is forcing me to speak French, and every time I try something in English, he looks at me blankly, all “Je ne comprends pas”... though he speaks it pretty well from what I can tell... the family have a constant stream of visitors, people popping in and out all the time. Friends, family, etc – it’s nice. The younger sister, Rokia (spelling...?), speaks a bit of English, and was home for a few days before going back to Ghana to study (she had the good computer and unfortunately it went with her... so now it’s back to ice-age speeds with the family’s old Compaq.) So that’s the family, bar Coumba, whom I still haven’t met in the flesh - I’m looking forward to her arriving back, if her family is any indication, I think she’ll be awesome company too...
Oh yeah, As I mentioned before, the family has hired help, Fatou, who is very sweet but very quiet – I was amazed to find how she has to carry out the cleaning – there’s no washing machine so everything is done by hand, she cooks everything pretty much from scratch (note the chicken episode above) and washes the floor, walls, everything with a washcloth and tub! There is an amazing fusion of cultures here, it’s fascinating – old methods and new are all around. Everyone, and I mean everyone has a mobile, and they sell credit on the streets (that’s how you break bigger notes if you want to take a Warru Warru or something, cos they don’t take the big cash) but babies are still tied to women’s backs with cloth, and huge bundles of heavy cargo are simultaneously perched high on the mothers’ heads... it’s pretty cool.

Ok, I’d best be closing this incredibly lengthy entry... I’ll try to make future ones a little less intense! At least it’s reflective of the whole, thus far overwhelming but very exciting experience...

Please do keep in touch kids, and stay tuned for round 2...

Love Fifi x