I have been on Abidjan Cote d’Ivoire for almost two years now.  It is incredible the constant sense of paradox and contradiction that surrounds me.  I am living in a country that just came out of civil war not too long ago, and yet I feel safe.  From the news at home (and Facebook) I feel like the US is amidst a civil war, and yet people here consistently advise me to be careful. And I heed those warning. I have been very cautious in my travels here.  For this reason, I had not travelled up north until Easter, when I was invited to a Muslim wedding by one of my colleagues, Mr. Y. 

 

We would catch a bus, he said.  It will be an 8-hour ride, but will catch an air-conditioned bus.  My mind harkened back to my years in Zimbabwe living in remote Zhombe growth point.  I understood viscerally what an 8-hour bus ride could entail.  Was I ready?  Yes, I was.

 

As I prepared for the trip, I slowly began to appreciate how privileged my life in Abidjan is. I never have to worry about clean drinking water or AC. I have access to wifi and I am free to move around in my car.  As I prepared for this 4 day trip to Korhogo, I began to think instinctually of survival. Water, I would need water, and maybe a few pieces of bread and cheese in case I got hungry on the bus.  My bag suddenly began to expand with  “necessities” things to survive the trip away from the city.  I had to pause.  I was ready.

 

We caught the bus up to Korhogo.  I was actually surprised by how nice the bus was.  It cost only about 8000FCFA (16 dollars) and we got an Air Conditioned bus.  The driver was really good.  There was a travel plan which included music videos, two movies and a bunch of public service announcements which were performed orally mainly by a guy selling a miracle cure of ginseng.  Everyone had a seat.  Again, I harkened back to Zimbabwe. Of course, there are so many ways that it cannot be compared.  This time, I did not have my daughter, Asha, sitting on my lap for the entire trip. I am a seasoned traveller now. It is a completely different county, and yet, I was curious to find out how I would react to the hardships of village life, if I would be any more (or less) able to cope.  I surprised myself. 

 

I rode the bus with Mr. Y, his wife, their daughter and a cousin.  Like Asha, Mr. Y’s daughter she sat on our laps the whole trip up. She is only 7 and like Asha was, and similarly she did vomit on herself and all of us about half way through the trip- despite the favorable conditions, air-condition, no flat tires, everyone seated, videos and no animals on board.  This time I recollected how tough Asha was back then on all those bus rides- us the only “murungus” we saw for months, with so little Shona, and of course, she had to cope with my inexperience at everything including travel and motherhood. Also we were completely alone, or dependent on each other, however you look at it.

 

When we arrived in Korhogo, I was surprised by the heat and dust. I did not really believe it could get any hotter than Abidjan.  We found a cab, after some time, as most people ride on motorbikes.  Called motocabis.  The motos carried anyone from young children to chickens to old women in dresses with 2 or 3 bags.  We waited for a cab.  We stood out, now only because of me, but because of the color of our skin. Mr Y’s cousin is an Ivoirian woman who uses skin-lightening cream, so her skin is lighter than mine and it gets burned very easily. She reminded me a bit of Michael Jackson.  She constantly added this cream. At first it made me uncomfortable, I wondered how her family felt about her addiction to becoming white, but Mr. Y continuously remarked how beautiful and “Clear” (light) my skin was, and his family members even sang a song a bout my skin later on at the wedding, and it began to become “clear” to me why she persisted.

 

When we arrived at his home compound, something else became apparent to me. It happened slowly over the course of days, but I realized that although Mr. Y invited me to share his culture, making me the recipient of a gift, he also received something from my presence.  Mr. Y is Christian, but his family is Muslim.  In fact, he had been disinherited by his father -who had died 2 years previous. This was the first time since the funeral that he was going home.  This was the occasion of sister’s wedding (Muslim). He later shared that his stepmother's family did not like his Christian life and called.  They called his wife “white” , because of her light skin, she had almost refused to come. Thus my presence was “the buffer.”  No one can be rude when a guest has come as far as America, I realized.  Culturally, it was impossible for them to be rude to me, even if I was not Muslim.

 

When we finally arrived at the family compound, I realized I was in the Africa I had always dreamed of. In fact, this is the Africa most African American dream of. It was like a fantasy.  There were gourds (for making Kalimbas) hanging on trees, women were founding foo foo and making Shea Butter to sell at the market.  This was not a tourist attraction. This was just what people were actually doing. We walked around his old village and he lamented that most of the mud huts were abandoned or gone, because people were opting for brick houses and electricity.  Even though he himself speaks English, changed his faith, has a “white” wife and lives in Abidjan, he still was overwhelmed by the changes in his hometown. “The culture … I can’t believe they are all gone” he kept gesturing at the empty fields.  “But the magic forest he said dramatically, practically yelling. It is still there. Nobody will touch that.”  I thought of Achebe’s story of the Church being built in the dark forest and thus killing any remains of traditional beliefs.    And I thought of the H-3 in Hawaii built over the cemetery (Heiiau) of sacred remains. 

 

Also in his village, Neem trees grew for making Neem oil, the special herbal ointment used in Oakland by alternatives of a certain belief system. It was all there; I could touch it.

 

We ate dinner while listening to the call to prayer, under a mango tree.  Women in traditional wraps pulled water from a well. I did not say much. People spoke mostly in French and Mandingo.  I noticed that Mr. Y’s wife did not do any of the things a traditional daughter in law would do. She did not help prepare food, she did not greet people, she sat with the men and me.  People served us, we ate.  I was glad for her presence, but I bit confused, comparing with my last experience with Mrs. Khumalo so many years ago.  This was before I figured out that the family did not embrace her.  But picked up on a feeling similar to the one I felt so long ago in Zimbabwe when I wanted to help cook at the funeral and the women would not let me help.  While in one way, it is nice to be served, like a man, there is something about the camaraderie of women in a kitchen that is universal, and when one is excluded from it, there arises a feeling of desire unlike one I can accurately describe because it is primal.  A desire to prove one’s ability to stir a pot.

 

At one moment, as if unable to restrain herself, Mrs. Y got up and walked over to the fire where women were cooking, and taking the oversized spoon attempted to help a woman who was making placali for the wedding, but she soon returned, a bit defeated.  She did not offer to help again.

 

That night I was asked through Mr. Y, whether or not I would be comfortable to sleep in the same bed as his wife and daughter.  Or I would be more comfortable I could go to a hotel. He had brought up the hotel before, so I knew that I was walking a very fine line of politeness and rudeness.  Clearly the family wanted me to stay, but they were also getting ready for a wedding.  And while it was 2 days off, there were already about 20 guests and more would arrive the next day.  Implied in the communication was this… I believe… please stay one night because we don’t want to be rude, but if you come up with the idea yourself to go to a hotel and then insist on it, we would be happy to accept.

 

So I replied. Yes, I would be fine sharing a room/bed with Angela. But tomorrow maybe I can go to a hotel. 

 

I took a cold bucket shower, and the house had electricity – so I was able to read a bit before sleeping.  It was a wonderful first day. Before I slept I mused that I was able to so easily interpret so many of the subtleties without being hurt or feeling excluded. I regarded Mrs. Y and compassion for her struggle to be accepted by her husband’s family. Here she was, not even a foreigner, and probably feeling many of the things I had felt before.