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.
Friday, April 22, 2011
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.
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