So humid that when I walk outside, my shirt is instantly wet and I feel I need a changing. And, so I don't walk outside much. I don't understand French civilization in Africa, where folks have been trained to take siestas in the middle of the day. In the modern era, this entails walking out of a perfectly air-conditioned building into the prime heat of the day to sit in scorching traffic before going home to a sweltering house, just so that you can have a meal, have a quick nap and then get back into traffic to come back to the office. Why not just pick up a sandwich, work inside during the hot hours, go home when the sun is lower in the sky and let your company pick up the electrical bill? Nonsense.
But today was different. I decided to work from home, and was camped on my bed under the air-conditioner, listening to the crows or pidgeons that have their residence on the other side of the wall unit, when a plunking replaced the feather-whisks and claws... rain! It hasn't rained in Djibouti since March, and then since November before that. I quickly threw on some clothes and ran outside into it. My floormate was doing the same, and soon we were dripping and laughing, shouting Mashallah and Alhumdillahi into the sky. Our guard was doing the same, from just inside the dry porch, and laughing at our antics, bewildered as we danced. My neighbor went down into the rain with her waterproof camera. She took waterdrops and puddles, and then took pictures of my neighbors. They each begged her for a photo, one after another. Her resulting photos are something out of another era. In each, a man stands beside the road. He is rigid and stoic, as rain plunks delightfully on his head. In Djibouti, an arid country in so many ways, it has rained!
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
What is color...
Last night's egg dying party was a huge success. I bought 30 eggs, though 6 of them burst while boiling and are now destined for egg salad sandwiches. Two American colleagues came over so we could munch chips and popcorn and gin/tonics while carefully considering our color choices. Somehow, there wasn't a crayon in the house. We rooted around in drawers, and through experimentation and sacrifice we learnt that chapstick is more effective for drawing on eggs than eyeliner.
However, our adult egg-dying event devolved into much silliness when Solange, her older sister and 4th grade nephew showed up at the door an hour later. Suddenly, the eggs weren't just dyed, but practically batiked! Next time you want to win an egg dying contest, get a Congolese for your team. Egg-dying became a war of the boldest and blendiest of colors. They went home with some of the best, but the Malian kiddos that hunt these on Sunday will not be disappointed.
However, our adult egg-dying event devolved into much silliness when Solange, her older sister and 4th grade nephew showed up at the door an hour later. Suddenly, the eggs weren't just dyed, but practically batiked! Next time you want to win an egg dying contest, get a Congolese for your team. Egg-dying became a war of the boldest and blendiest of colors. They went home with some of the best, but the Malian kiddos that hunt these on Sunday will not be disappointed.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Here comes the Easter bunny!
It is Easter weekend in Djibouti. My last priority for the week was the acquisition of three dozen eggs. There are many grocery stores in Djibouti, because it is a port town and because nothing is produced locally. However, not all stores are alike. Some (like Casino) are French owned and sell fabulous chocolate, creme fraiche and fois gras. These are shiny, expensive stores. Some (like Al-Gamil) are Arab owned and sell unusual spices, bulk nuts and housewares. These are ramshackle, cut-rate stores. In both, the cashiers are surly hijabbed women who will rattle insults at you if you happen to come up short.
... And then there is Napoléon. Napoleon is Djiboutian-owned. AED's Walmart birthday cakes come from the bakery, in addition to fresh breads, pastries (which we order by the dozen for our workshops), and various delightful teacakes. The Djiboutian's son studied in France to be a great baker, so the revenue is homegrown. They sell bulk goods, including Costco cans of vegetarian ravioli, and flats of Djiboutian eggs (rare because of the lack of rain, though cheaper). All this aside, there are two things that really set them apart. Firstly, they are open 24/24. Absolutely incredible. And second, and even more important, they are nice!
So, I finished up my office projects and took a cab to Napoléon. The driver politely asked me if he might wait for me to come back out (a good idea for a cabbie on a Thursday afternoon, when traffic is slow and most people khat). It is the first time this option has ever been offered to me! Someone opened the store door, and another person smiled as I walked in. A third handed me a handbasket and a fourth pointed me in the direction I needed to go. Each a lovely local man in a trim white jacket.
At the cooler, I selected my eggs. Normally, I am a rights advocate, an equal opportunity employer. However, eggs are a different matter. When you are recruiting Easter eggs, you really do have to give preference to a paler complexion. And, this is no easy feat outside the American grocery store. Easters in Africa have opened a whole new door for me into chicken husbandry. Call me sheltered, call me green, but I grew up in a world where an egg was an egg... and it was oval and white. The years in between have assured me that even brown eggs can grow up to be purple and orange someday so with nary a pause, I loaded 30 cappucino-colored eggs onto my flat.
When I got back outside, the taxi was waiting. Now, home I go -- to boil these babies for my basket!
... And then there is Napoléon. Napoleon is Djiboutian-owned. AED's Walmart birthday cakes come from the bakery, in addition to fresh breads, pastries (which we order by the dozen for our workshops), and various delightful teacakes. The Djiboutian's son studied in France to be a great baker, so the revenue is homegrown. They sell bulk goods, including Costco cans of vegetarian ravioli, and flats of Djiboutian eggs (rare because of the lack of rain, though cheaper). All this aside, there are two things that really set them apart. Firstly, they are open 24/24. Absolutely incredible. And second, and even more important, they are nice!
So, I finished up my office projects and took a cab to Napoléon. The driver politely asked me if he might wait for me to come back out (a good idea for a cabbie on a Thursday afternoon, when traffic is slow and most people khat). It is the first time this option has ever been offered to me! Someone opened the store door, and another person smiled as I walked in. A third handed me a handbasket and a fourth pointed me in the direction I needed to go. Each a lovely local man in a trim white jacket.
At the cooler, I selected my eggs. Normally, I am a rights advocate, an equal opportunity employer. However, eggs are a different matter. When you are recruiting Easter eggs, you really do have to give preference to a paler complexion. And, this is no easy feat outside the American grocery store. Easters in Africa have opened a whole new door for me into chicken husbandry. Call me sheltered, call me green, but I grew up in a world where an egg was an egg... and it was oval and white. The years in between have assured me that even brown eggs can grow up to be purple and orange someday so with nary a pause, I loaded 30 cappucino-colored eggs onto my flat.
When I got back outside, the taxi was waiting. Now, home I go -- to boil these babies for my basket!
Friday, April 1, 2011
Clean Sweep!
I walked from the office late again. Anywhere in the world, I get my best work done in the wee hours of the night. But, this is especially true here, where our colleagues gossip their way right through the work day. So, when I noticed 10:30 pm blinking out of my computer screen, I packed up and headed out. Day time in Djibouti is full of characters, but the evenings are a world of their own. Tonight, I encountered the street sweepers. This notion might harken for you images in the States: spritzing, swirling, apparently drone-operated machines, cruising loadly down the pavement, leaving a shining, darkened surface behind them. In Djibouti, however, street sweeping is a completely different matter. When I emerged from my building, I found the block lined on both sides with women. Like most gals from the Horn, their heads and faces were carefully covered in vibrant cloth. Below this, each wore an ankle-length labcoat - hot pink, with reflective ribbon in paler pink around the hipline. I have seem them dressed in tangerine on other occasions. Each carried a healthy length of dried-white palm fond, which served as an industrial size broom. Silent and steady in their plumes of dust, they swept out the nooks and corners along the Boulevard de Gaulle and on into downtown.
The concept of one's environment here is distorted. Djibouti is both preoccupied with order and weighted toward squallor. The street sweeping divas are the other side of garbage in Djibouti. One hand is represented by an image that exists only distantly in my own childish memories. Along the Boulevard, all day long, 4-wheel drive vehicles speed past. A water bottle or a token of wrapper lifts from the driver's side window and clatters or floats into the street. When I am present to see, I always glower at the vehicle occupants and bite back the curse that instinctively rises, and they look back with startled expressions. This behavior is the same one that enables 30 professionals to drop their cookie wrappers on the floor while on a training session coffee break. And the one that encourages our driver to politely collect our used juice cans, only to pitch them alongside the road. (Of course, before the campaigns of the 80s, Americans also never used the verb litter. Curiously, in the sense of "scattered oddments, disorderly debris" it was first attested in 1730, probably from the Middle English verb literen - "provide with bedding" (late 14c.) - with the notion of strewing straw). Lead by example, I suppose. When it is a country-wide predilection, I suppose that it is that all you can do.
The concept of one's environment here is distorted. Djibouti is both preoccupied with order and weighted toward squallor. The street sweeping divas are the other side of garbage in Djibouti. One hand is represented by an image that exists only distantly in my own childish memories. Along the Boulevard, all day long, 4-wheel drive vehicles speed past. A water bottle or a token of wrapper lifts from the driver's side window and clatters or floats into the street. When I am present to see, I always glower at the vehicle occupants and bite back the curse that instinctively rises, and they look back with startled expressions. This behavior is the same one that enables 30 professionals to drop their cookie wrappers on the floor while on a training session coffee break. And the one that encourages our driver to politely collect our used juice cans, only to pitch them alongside the road. (Of course, before the campaigns of the 80s, Americans also never used the verb litter. Curiously, in the sense of "scattered oddments, disorderly debris" it was first attested in 1730, probably from the Middle English verb literen - "provide with bedding" (late 14c.) - with the notion of strewing straw). Lead by example, I suppose. When it is a country-wide predilection, I suppose that it is that all you can do.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
How much?
When I got to the office, our acting financial officer recounted going to the bank for April salaries, only to find our account overdrawn. Then the explanation came.... The bank had recently charged us a 1,600 djf ($9) fee to close a subaccount. We had authorized this. However, what they really deducted was $1,600. Apparently, that little symbol means a lot. Our temp then spent several hours at the bank, where they let her move funds in and out of various accounts without even a document proving her affiliation with our organization. And thank goodness. Loaded with our cash, she came back to the office to helped me locate a copy of the fee withdrawal permission document (because the bank had lost the original). She and I then proceeded to read every document in the office, searching for the paper. We found a lot of holes in our filing system -- let's say it was an opportunity for an internal review. But, you know the end of the story: the authorization has completely vanished. Happy tax season, everybody!
Thursday, March 17, 2011
We are going on a field trip... Douda, Douda!
Every year, the CFPEN takes the 2nd year student teachers on a field trip. It is something fun to do as the school year is nearing the end, and frequently gives the pre-service learners a look at the workings of a real village classroom. This year, CFPEN picked Douda Primary School. And, in our first year at the CFPEN, our team was invited to go along too.
The small town of Douda is about 20 minutes from Downtown Djiboutiville. South past the airport and the barbed wire enclosure for the American military Camp Lemonier, throwing distance from Somalia, Douda School has two class buildings which house 6 classes of 206 students, including 112 girls. The director is a jovial man, positively unflappable while 50 student teachers and their 15 encadreurs reorganized the school day, entering classrooms for observation and feed-back sessions, and hosting games and contest for the kids. In the dim spacious classes, brightened by orange and yellow contruction paper signs noting grammar rules and etiquette, the students participated surprisingly well. They jumped up, snapping outstretched fingers, with a hopeful "Moi, Monsieur" in response to the teacher's questions. The lesson required them to differentiate between les animaux sauvages et domestiques.
After the class observations, the student teachers broke into four project groups. Our team divided up between the activities, which included: reading games, surveys and factfinding, arts-crafts and the environment. My group interviewed the school director, Said. He talked about expanding the school during his four years to include the American military-funded enclosure and the director's office, which was formerly an unused indoor kitchen. The school also boasts a spacious outdoor dining area that doubles as a gathering space, a community garden which supplements Ministry cantine rations, and colorful playground equipment from some un-named foreign benefactor.
It is the decharge that defines Douda. This community became the guardian of the landfill as the notorious Balbala ("burning") quartier across town continued to grow. Once, the garbage was buried. But, now that the hole is full, plastic bags, bottles, aluminum cans and the diverse objects available to this vibrant port community lie littered across the horizon. The teeming trash pile has become a lucrative recouperation source for those involved in scrap metal hunting, both locally and across borders. A regular line of vehicles haul garbage in and scraps out along the road that divides the primary school from a new health center construction. And, throughout the day, the steady breeze blows noxious black smoke across the school grounds from trash burning nearby. As we sat on the picnic benches discussing with the director, my group of interviewers began to feel our chests grow tight with asphyxiation. The director explained the battle that generations of leaders have engaged with the Ministries of the Environment and the Interior to move the landfill elsewhere. Together, we discussed the opportunity and challenges the government would face in treating and reclaiming the garbage instead. "The students grow resistant to the pollution over time," Said explained. Which really means that the community exhibits few symptoms and suffers gravely over the long run. Across campus, in another room, my colleague and CFPEN counterparts were establishing an environmental club that could continue to engage this issue.
Despite its dire location, the primary school environment was wonderfully upbeat. The school cantine, two ladies in an open air kitchen comprised of blackened marmites, prepared mountains of spaghetti bolognese (the national meal) and tuna salad baguette sandwiches for the entire crowd. Then, groups wandered off in various directions with our plastic mats to nap. At 3:30 pm, the student teachers formed a line at the water spigot for prayer ablutions and then loaded into the two buses to continue the adventure. Further along towards the Somali border, past a homescratched dirt golf course and makeshift communities, we unloaded at the Decan animal refuge - to see les animaux sauvages face to face.
The small town of Douda is about 20 minutes from Downtown Djiboutiville. South past the airport and the barbed wire enclosure for the American military Camp Lemonier, throwing distance from Somalia, Douda School has two class buildings which house 6 classes of 206 students, including 112 girls. The director is a jovial man, positively unflappable while 50 student teachers and their 15 encadreurs reorganized the school day, entering classrooms for observation and feed-back sessions, and hosting games and contest for the kids. In the dim spacious classes, brightened by orange and yellow contruction paper signs noting grammar rules and etiquette, the students participated surprisingly well. They jumped up, snapping outstretched fingers, with a hopeful "Moi, Monsieur" in response to the teacher's questions. The lesson required them to differentiate between les animaux sauvages et domestiques.
After the class observations, the student teachers broke into four project groups. Our team divided up between the activities, which included: reading games, surveys and factfinding, arts-crafts and the environment. My group interviewed the school director, Said. He talked about expanding the school during his four years to include the American military-funded enclosure and the director's office, which was formerly an unused indoor kitchen. The school also boasts a spacious outdoor dining area that doubles as a gathering space, a community garden which supplements Ministry cantine rations, and colorful playground equipment from some un-named foreign benefactor.
It is the decharge that defines Douda. This community became the guardian of the landfill as the notorious Balbala ("burning") quartier across town continued to grow. Once, the garbage was buried. But, now that the hole is full, plastic bags, bottles, aluminum cans and the diverse objects available to this vibrant port community lie littered across the horizon. The teeming trash pile has become a lucrative recouperation source for those involved in scrap metal hunting, both locally and across borders. A regular line of vehicles haul garbage in and scraps out along the road that divides the primary school from a new health center construction. And, throughout the day, the steady breeze blows noxious black smoke across the school grounds from trash burning nearby. As we sat on the picnic benches discussing with the director, my group of interviewers began to feel our chests grow tight with asphyxiation. The director explained the battle that generations of leaders have engaged with the Ministries of the Environment and the Interior to move the landfill elsewhere. Together, we discussed the opportunity and challenges the government would face in treating and reclaiming the garbage instead. "The students grow resistant to the pollution over time," Said explained. Which really means that the community exhibits few symptoms and suffers gravely over the long run. Across campus, in another room, my colleague and CFPEN counterparts were establishing an environmental club that could continue to engage this issue.
Despite its dire location, the primary school environment was wonderfully upbeat. The school cantine, two ladies in an open air kitchen comprised of blackened marmites, prepared mountains of spaghetti bolognese (the national meal) and tuna salad baguette sandwiches for the entire crowd. Then, groups wandered off in various directions with our plastic mats to nap. At 3:30 pm, the student teachers formed a line at the water spigot for prayer ablutions and then loaded into the two buses to continue the adventure. Further along towards the Somali border, past a homescratched dirt golf course and makeshift communities, we unloaded at the Decan animal refuge - to see les animaux sauvages face to face.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Art for Life... or at least for Literacy
Something like 75% of Djiboutian students have failing reading scores. I have been assigned to one of the lesser resourced schools to help with that. But, it has been hard to get there, and my schedule has been out of sync with the pedagogical advisors. Today, I had a breakthrough. Just before 4 pm, per the schedule I had made with the school director, I arrived at the school gates. Our idea was to time my 30-minute visit with " la recreation." But, when I arrived, there was pandemonium, with kids and more kids running around, eating snacks and kicking up courtyard dust. In Djibouti, they have schedule fluxuations every two weeks; this week, the younger students at Balbara have afternoon classes. I let my driver deal with the parking while I went in search of the director. He jumped when I entered and very accomodatingly asked, "Did you want to hold the meeting right now?" I reminded him that we were going to "take advantage of recess." So, he hustled some children off to find chairs and dust off the library table, and arranged the 6 first and 6 second grade teachers around them. The fans whirling above our heads made a nearly impenatrable din and the door left cracked open for surveillance let in the chaos from the courtyard.
Nonetheless, the meeting was a huge success. I introduced our idea of art-assisted literacy to the teachers. They exposed several major obstacles to offering the 2 hours of art per week that is described in the national program. 1) Most teachers have no idea what do during those EMT hours, 2) There is really less than one hour available in the program for art, 3) there are no materials to use for art class, 4) holy rollers, there are 60 students in their first grade classes!
So we made some major progress. I offered to develop 4 lesson plans each month for each of the two grade levels. I will create an example (or 6) and train the teachers in the use of the lesson plan on the week preceding its use. And I will visit the school during art hour to ciculate through the classes, giving them a hand and letting them go out to visit one another's efforts. For their part, they are rearranging their class schedules so that every 1st grade and every 2nd grade hold art simultaneously. They are trusting me to put together lesson plans that integrate phonetics with available and recycled craft materials for 360 students each week.
Obviously, I need help. Primary school and enrichment teachers -- please send me your lesson plans for "manipulating" early reader content.
Nonetheless, the meeting was a huge success. I introduced our idea of art-assisted literacy to the teachers. They exposed several major obstacles to offering the 2 hours of art per week that is described in the national program. 1) Most teachers have no idea what do during those EMT hours, 2) There is really less than one hour available in the program for art, 3) there are no materials to use for art class, 4) holy rollers, there are 60 students in their first grade classes!
So we made some major progress. I offered to develop 4 lesson plans each month for each of the two grade levels. I will create an example (or 6) and train the teachers in the use of the lesson plan on the week preceding its use. And I will visit the school during art hour to ciculate through the classes, giving them a hand and letting them go out to visit one another's efforts. For their part, they are rearranging their class schedules so that every 1st grade and every 2nd grade hold art simultaneously. They are trusting me to put together lesson plans that integrate phonetics with available and recycled craft materials for 360 students each week.
Obviously, I need help. Primary school and enrichment teachers -- please send me your lesson plans for "manipulating" early reader content.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Student protests...
So I missed the commotion over the peaceful protests at the Palais du Peuple on Feb 1 until someone posted the YouTube clip on my Facebook page, and my neighbor mentioned the same video later that night. Frankly, news doesn't really travel in Djibouti, despite how small both the country and the city are. Yes, everything effects you, however you don't immediately know why.
Yesterday, students were throwing rocks in the commercial district. The high school faces the university, which faces... yes, me. I got a phone call from a colleague indicating that there had been some violence I should avoid. A couple hours later, my neighbor related seeing a mob running past her near the house, and away from the rock throwing incident that I had been warned about.
Today, the students are at it again and the Embassy warden is keeping us posted, so my news is a little more timely. The story I've heard is that the exams results just came out. Of the thousands who took those exams, only a handful of students got passing marks. So, the students attacked the university President, who is fortunately in good health. Then, they stormed out into the streets where they began throwing rocks. This, I have discovered, is how Djboutians express distress. They are a stone-throwing nation.
Often enough, this rock-throwing disrupts local traffic. Children lop rocks at one another; street youth pitch stones at passing cars. Our 4-wheel agency vehicles cleverly flip U-turns at the first sign of danger, and turn back the opposite way. This morning, my colleague unconsciously headed to the bank, and had that exact unexpected experience.
As for me, I will stay off the streets. Although the disturbance is occuring in my neighborhood, I live and work in close proximity. But, the four-day English Teacher Training which I was busily preparing has been postponed until the student strikes calm. Quite logically, the Ministry would like to restrict the number of idle high school students in this area.
Yesterday, students were throwing rocks in the commercial district. The high school faces the university, which faces... yes, me. I got a phone call from a colleague indicating that there had been some violence I should avoid. A couple hours later, my neighbor related seeing a mob running past her near the house, and away from the rock throwing incident that I had been warned about.
Today, the students are at it again and the Embassy warden is keeping us posted, so my news is a little more timely. The story I've heard is that the exams results just came out. Of the thousands who took those exams, only a handful of students got passing marks. So, the students attacked the university President, who is fortunately in good health. Then, they stormed out into the streets where they began throwing rocks. This, I have discovered, is how Djboutians express distress. They are a stone-throwing nation.
Often enough, this rock-throwing disrupts local traffic. Children lop rocks at one another; street youth pitch stones at passing cars. Our 4-wheel agency vehicles cleverly flip U-turns at the first sign of danger, and turn back the opposite way. This morning, my colleague unconsciously headed to the bank, and had that exact unexpected experience.
As for me, I will stay off the streets. Although the disturbance is occuring in my neighborhood, I live and work in close proximity. But, the four-day English Teacher Training which I was busily preparing has been postponed until the student strikes calm. Quite logically, the Ministry would like to restrict the number of idle high school students in this area.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Dating in Djibouti...
It is 9 pm -- I have stayed late at the office in the empty calm, to mull over lesson plans and fidget with markers and glue -- I think these chemicals must run in my veins. I created my first poster tonight, which must be an omen of change! The time, it doesn't really matter: I work four buildings down the Boulevard from home. Nonethless, night is night and I begin to put away my tools. I switch off the A/C and then the light, and sort my keys for the various doors. The CFPEN guard is in the courtyard, dressed in an Indonesian skirt, mulling over the garden he has planted. His wife has hung vibrant sheets, actually dresses and veils, over the long clothesline above our heads. Good night, he mutters to me over his back, as he picks at something in the dirt.
On the street outside, white minibuses pass. I recognize the names stenciled in dayglow oranges and greens: "Legacy" and "Virtue." Fare collectors hanging askew through the doors by one arm, hissing and clinking the coins in their palms. In the quaint, disused busstops, boys in shorts camp out on the back of the benches, their naked legs danging just within view. My eyes dart carefully inside as I pass, better than to be caught by these vultures unaware. Further along the street, other folks are out walking. There is the woman I see here most nights after dusk. She has latticed a complicated load of bottles and boxes into a bulky rectangle pack across her shoulders. I have guessed she is a vendor somewhere, and I only hope she doesn't have far to go. Several soldiers sit at the street kiosk near the Armed Forces. They sport camouflage pants with hiphop sneakers and smoke cigarettes into the night. I spot a snack on the shelves behind the counter as I pass and slip through the tables to the back. As I approach, the cashier jumps across the chest-high countertop to stand behind it facing me, and then we discuss the available variations of long-conserve milk in stock. He bags my purchases and I continue my way, down the tree-lined boulevard in the middle of town.
And, that is where I begin to spot them. In shadowy places where trees block the street-lamps, a boy and a girl roost on the planters, their backs to the street. The two sit side-by-side in silence. Or if there is more, on this noisy street, you might never notice. If it weren't for the triangular shape of a silhouetted veil, in their stillness, you might never know they were there. I see a few, then a third, and another. Soon, it's apparent that the entire living street is spotted with secretive young couples, in the many darkened corners, including the stairwell onto my street. I smile at this Middle Eastern rendition of the 1950s lovestory. Boulevard de la Republique, a.k.a Lover's Lane.
On the street outside, white minibuses pass. I recognize the names stenciled in dayglow oranges and greens: "Legacy" and "Virtue." Fare collectors hanging askew through the doors by one arm, hissing and clinking the coins in their palms. In the quaint, disused busstops, boys in shorts camp out on the back of the benches, their naked legs danging just within view. My eyes dart carefully inside as I pass, better than to be caught by these vultures unaware. Further along the street, other folks are out walking. There is the woman I see here most nights after dusk. She has latticed a complicated load of bottles and boxes into a bulky rectangle pack across her shoulders. I have guessed she is a vendor somewhere, and I only hope she doesn't have far to go. Several soldiers sit at the street kiosk near the Armed Forces. They sport camouflage pants with hiphop sneakers and smoke cigarettes into the night. I spot a snack on the shelves behind the counter as I pass and slip through the tables to the back. As I approach, the cashier jumps across the chest-high countertop to stand behind it facing me, and then we discuss the available variations of long-conserve milk in stock. He bags my purchases and I continue my way, down the tree-lined boulevard in the middle of town.
And, that is where I begin to spot them. In shadowy places where trees block the street-lamps, a boy and a girl roost on the planters, their backs to the street. The two sit side-by-side in silence. Or if there is more, on this noisy street, you might never notice. If it weren't for the triangular shape of a silhouetted veil, in their stillness, you might never know they were there. I see a few, then a third, and another. Soon, it's apparent that the entire living street is spotted with secretive young couples, in the many darkened corners, including the stairwell onto my street. I smile at this Middle Eastern rendition of the 1950s lovestory. Boulevard de la Republique, a.k.a Lover's Lane.
Monday, January 24, 2011
We are the champions...
I had a couple bad instances in West Africa, when my pale legs invited unwelcome attention. So, I have been hesitant to venture out and be athletic here, in this Arab-influenced corner of Africa. I missed the dirt and sweat and latex of the soccer field. I missed the taste of salt thickened on my skin. I felt like a lump, drifting between offices and home and offices. And, then, my answer arrived. This perception that I might not be welcomed was confirmed. When I heard a colleague chatting about an upcoming hike, and asked to come along, I was initially encouraged to join in. So, I readied myself at 5 am as the muezzin called the faithful to pre-sunrise prayer, and made a quick check-in call before heading off to the meet-up. My 'host' responded that he had not been able to inform the others about my participation, and "you understand, there are some real mysogynists among them." I wondered then if it is he that reacts to my participation or he that prevents my participation who is my greatest threat.
So, I took action. Firstly, my housemate and I are now running. Beat down by the exhaustion of working in multiple languages, trying to understand the new, and meeting unfamiliar obstacles, it is easy to slunk home at night. This is true anywhere, and even moreso, here. So, we splashed water on our faces, slipped on our running shoes, and tucked out the gate into the night. The guard pantomimed running and laughed at us as we went. He couldn't believe we were really going out there like that. Did we show him! We dashed across the street between minibuses and white Landcruisers, past the post office and the telecom building, to the Palais du Peuple, where a singular spot of light indicated that the Iranian Fair was packing up for the night. I am beginning to know this route well, from my school visits to and from the Quartiers. I lead my neighbor past the statue of Moussa, who stands with a shield and blade in the middle of the Place, under rows of palm trees, and around the curve of the bay. A breeze brew across the water, which sparkled dark and light under the waning moon. We passed couples walking along the Corniche and gatherings of men moving from one location to another. Several smiled and waved, "Bon courage!" The evening Mercado - a strip of shwarma stands that faces into the ocean - wafted heady with fried-food smells. Groups sat at plastic tables chatting in the cooling night. Past the Presidency, where the guard warned us not to approach his gate, we circled the Rond Point and headed back the way we came. On this side of the street, rows and rows of chairs had been set out like the "other side of the tracks." And, here instead of shwarma stalls, the vendors sold Cokes and Fanta to their clients directly from their coolers on wheels. Another shouted of encouragement, which I rejoined with "Come along!" So, looking appropriately foreign, with other women, I can run. And, I will. For the joy of the night air and the ambience as much as for the sweat and the strain.
Secondly, will be the realisation of a dream. I am working to promote a step-dance class in a colleague's home a couple nights a week. If she can build our Jazzercise into her busy lifestyle, we could mingle with other ladies beyond the hijab and sweat in a way that is rarely seen on the Djibouti streets.
So, I took action. Firstly, my housemate and I are now running. Beat down by the exhaustion of working in multiple languages, trying to understand the new, and meeting unfamiliar obstacles, it is easy to slunk home at night. This is true anywhere, and even moreso, here. So, we splashed water on our faces, slipped on our running shoes, and tucked out the gate into the night. The guard pantomimed running and laughed at us as we went. He couldn't believe we were really going out there like that. Did we show him! We dashed across the street between minibuses and white Landcruisers, past the post office and the telecom building, to the Palais du Peuple, where a singular spot of light indicated that the Iranian Fair was packing up for the night. I am beginning to know this route well, from my school visits to and from the Quartiers. I lead my neighbor past the statue of Moussa, who stands with a shield and blade in the middle of the Place, under rows of palm trees, and around the curve of the bay. A breeze brew across the water, which sparkled dark and light under the waning moon. We passed couples walking along the Corniche and gatherings of men moving from one location to another. Several smiled and waved, "Bon courage!" The evening Mercado - a strip of shwarma stands that faces into the ocean - wafted heady with fried-food smells. Groups sat at plastic tables chatting in the cooling night. Past the Presidency, where the guard warned us not to approach his gate, we circled the Rond Point and headed back the way we came. On this side of the street, rows and rows of chairs had been set out like the "other side of the tracks." And, here instead of shwarma stalls, the vendors sold Cokes and Fanta to their clients directly from their coolers on wheels. Another shouted of encouragement, which I rejoined with "Come along!" So, looking appropriately foreign, with other women, I can run. And, I will. For the joy of the night air and the ambience as much as for the sweat and the strain.
Secondly, will be the realisation of a dream. I am working to promote a step-dance class in a colleague's home a couple nights a week. If she can build our Jazzercise into her busy lifestyle, we could mingle with other ladies beyond the hijab and sweat in a way that is rarely seen on the Djibouti streets.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
It's no trouble at all...
I will be working in Balbara this term, linked to an application school in one of the greatest need districts. My counterpart is a dynamic Yemeni-Djiboutian dressed in a brilliant purple veil, a black gown applique-d with glittering flowers at the wrists, and glossy pink heels. She is small in stature and vibrant in bearing. I climb in her tiny white vehicle and we head off, past the Palais du Peuple, past the Port, past the camel farm and out to the Quartiers. It is a long drive, by Djiboutian standards, but in our first two working days, I have seen my colleague make the trip four times.
This morning, we went out to watch a model class demonstrated by one first-grade teacher for the others. When we arrived at 9 am, the gates of the campus were locked, and a gaggle of food vendors sitting in front informed us that the guard had wandered away. Meanwhile, I looked over their wares. Perched on disabled propane stoves and upset buckets, the mamas were as brightly-wrapped as the items they were selling. Each sat before several large platters, arrayed with small cookie packs and hard candies. Nearly each was also selling a platter of pommes sauvages (wild apples) which blossomed with flies. I remember my replusion with these hard, reddish, misshapen fruits from my years in Benin: their smell so sickly-sweet that the insects could not be kept at bay, their tangy bitterness lingering long on my tongue. I was surprised to see that the fruit is popular at all, but especially here, so far across the continent. From within, the guard appeared, and all of the ladies began to disassemble their stands to let the vehicle pass, shifting cartons and buckets, and platters and food items out of the driveway. We entered and the gates swung shut. Then, one by one, they rebuilt their stoops, and arrayed their goods to block the gates again.
We dropped in to see the school director. Oh no, his face told us immediately. He related that the model class had been shifted to the afternoon. There would be no one to watch the other first graders while all the teachers were at the in-service if the training had gone through this morning as planned. So, through clever organizing, the director had determined today that the morning teachers would come back in the afternoon, along with the model class' students. My colleague and I, we too would come back in the afternoon to participate. So, she and I loaded back into the little white car, smiled at one another while the ladies diassembled their stands, and headed back out toward Djibouti City.
This morning, we went out to watch a model class demonstrated by one first-grade teacher for the others. When we arrived at 9 am, the gates of the campus were locked, and a gaggle of food vendors sitting in front informed us that the guard had wandered away. Meanwhile, I looked over their wares. Perched on disabled propane stoves and upset buckets, the mamas were as brightly-wrapped as the items they were selling. Each sat before several large platters, arrayed with small cookie packs and hard candies. Nearly each was also selling a platter of pommes sauvages (wild apples) which blossomed with flies. I remember my replusion with these hard, reddish, misshapen fruits from my years in Benin: their smell so sickly-sweet that the insects could not be kept at bay, their tangy bitterness lingering long on my tongue. I was surprised to see that the fruit is popular at all, but especially here, so far across the continent. From within, the guard appeared, and all of the ladies began to disassemble their stands to let the vehicle pass, shifting cartons and buckets, and platters and food items out of the driveway. We entered and the gates swung shut. Then, one by one, they rebuilt their stoops, and arrayed their goods to block the gates again.
We dropped in to see the school director. Oh no, his face told us immediately. He related that the model class had been shifted to the afternoon. There would be no one to watch the other first graders while all the teachers were at the in-service if the training had gone through this morning as planned. So, through clever organizing, the director had determined today that the morning teachers would come back in the afternoon, along with the model class' students. My colleague and I, we too would come back in the afternoon to participate. So, she and I loaded back into the little white car, smiled at one another while the ladies diassembled their stands, and headed back out toward Djibouti City.
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