Out of Africa

My first week in Côte d'Ivoire!

“I’ve been wandering early and late. From the New York City to the Golden Gate. And it don’t look like, I’ll ever stop my wandering.” - James Taylor, Wandering

Dear Reader,

“I have a layover in Casablanca,” might be the most romantic sentence I’ve ever uttered to another human being.

The clock struck midnight as my plane touched down at the Casablanca airport, and I couldn’t help but think, “Here’s looking at you kid,” as I walked out of the plane and into an empty airport to get my bags scanned for my next flight.

Only, in this case, I was flying to northern Africa from Lisbon, the opposite of when Humphrey Bogart’s character in the movie Casablanca helps his former lover and her husband escape to Lisbon during World War II, when Portugal was neutral.

“We’ll always have Paris,” I muttered another line from the movie, thinking about my recent trip to the Olympics.

Flying in the middle of the night to the west African country of the Ivory Coast was a lonely, but quiet experience, interrupted only by a meal box of yogurt and two sweets.

After disembarking, I was the last person to get through customs because I misunderstood the instructions to pick up my visa before seeing an immigration officer.

But once I understood the miming and someone escorted me to the right office, I was able to collect my bags and meet my friend in front of Burger King at the airport.

Côte d'Ivoire is a French speaking country, and I don’t speak French.

After months of learning some Portuguese, I tend to still respond in Portuguese, which is actually not that far apart in some instances.

For instance, “Bon appetite,” in French is “bom apetite” in Portuguese.

But mostly I stare blankly and hope for some possibilities of understanding and repeat, “merci” and “bonjour” a lot.

Interestingly, my experience in Abidjan, a city of 5 million people, has felt like a blend of America and Africa.

Just a few hours after touching down I was exercising with a group of active Americans on embassy property, running laps and doing crunches to Whitney Houston.

”I’m proud to be an American,” I told my friend who is hosting me here and who took me to the workout.

And it is true.

After 8 months of mostly cross-cultural experiences in Portugal, it was nice to feel “at home” again in a group of my own fellow countrymen and women.

After our workout at the American Embassy Annex in Abidjan

People who talked about Target and Amazon Prime and “the Election” and Theraflu without feeling any need to explain what those things meant to each other.

Marines, and diplomats, and spouses, and people representing their country in another country are around me here.

It was good to sweat together.

Afterwards I met my first African tortoise, which looked (and probably is) ancient.

We’ve had parrots fly through the backyard and I’ve watched as beautiful lizards climbed the fence, but I’m in a city crowded with traffic, not elephants.

I got my haircut today and the hairdresser, who lived for 12 years in Saskatchewan, Canada, asked me how I liked being here.

“I love it,” I said, and meant it.

It’s an African city that has a lot of surprises behind closed doors.

On the outside you might see cement barricades and plenty of guards, but walk inside and you can find gorgeous tropical gardens with the most delicious food you’ve ever eaten.

It’s like worlds within worlds here.

A collision of first world commerce and third world poverty on every street.

Women balancing impossible loads of goods on their heads as they run through traffic.

Small boys selling windshield wipers at stops, and city traffic that seems to run on few rules. Malls with brands I recognize and grocery stores with mountains of gorgeous French pastries.

“I always love seeing a country through fresh eyes,” my friend said, and I agreed. I tried not to bring too many misconceptions about Africa with me.

When I was a kid, I loved the movie Out of Africa, the story of a Danish woman’s move to Africa to a Nairobi coffee farm.

It satisfied all of my romantic desires (and as the great granddaughter of a Danish woman, a sense of belonging).

The beauty of the scenery, the adventure of the main character, the hard decisions she had to make, the lovers she took, the tragedy of life that seemed inescapable, were all in that movie.

But this is not that Africa.

This is also not the Africa of my favorite memoir, West with the Night by Beryl Markham, who published it in 1942, and was a bush pilot and the first woman to fly across the Atlantic east to west nonstop.

This is modern Africa, where traffic is as intense as any other city, where people are working to make a living in whatever ways they can, and where guards and gates and barbed wire and security is also a way of life.

I feel like my life has some of these pieces going on right now.

A lot of my future is up in the air. A lot of the present is nailed down.

I’m in a safe place with people who are good to me and love me like family, and I have work, probably too much work at the moment, but work nonetheless, which feels good.

Africa is teaching me many things.

Love,

Janelle

P.S. Lots more to come! Stay tuned! Thank you for your support!