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
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