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!!