kmazz

Long ago, my family lived in the Ivory Coast in West Africa. It was a different time for Africa, relatively peaceful and free of the terrible violence that has come to characterize the entire continent for so many people. I’m not saying it was utopia; far from it, especially for Africans. But violence was fairly isolated. (In fact, I knew two sets of two American women who hitchhiked across Africa much later on, in the 1970s, and had the time of their lives and immediately upon returning home started planning their next trip.)

Anyway, we lived in a French, petit pain au chocolat colonial bubble. The house was modern and Le Corbusier-influenced. The school was French, and had only a few token African students, who walked from their villages when their parents could spare them, meaning hardly ever. There were two sisters in my class; they sat at the back of the class and laughed all day at our foibles. When the teacher went wild and smacked students over their heads with slates, or pulled down the underpants of another for a blistering spanking, or dragged someone by their hair or ear to the front of the class, the African girls could barely contain themselves. Often they were sent home, doubled over with laughter as they staggered out the door of our open air classroom. I liked them and wanted to get inside their heads.

We had servants and a couple of drivers. And of course, night watchmen who would often keep us awake with their laughter and chatting into the wee hours. The laughter: that is a main memory of Africans for me. That bubbling up, resonant, exploding, free of artifice laughter. Like their music. Years later when I went to Kenya I waited for that laughter and it was like a balm.

Inside this bubble, we had mostly French friends. There was no TV and no organized sports so most evenings after ecole you could find every child of a diplomat at the French Club pool. That was our social life. That and the British library where we’d take out as many books as possible to fill the long days.

But one day, my mother asked me if I wanted to drive out with her to visit a French woman who had defied convention and married a local man. She lived in “the African” part of Abidjan. The woman was beside herself with joy at the visit. Clearly she had been ostracized and needed companionship. I was struck by her small, plain apartment, but also by the degree of comfort she felt in her neighborhood. What did she see that the rest of us didn’t?

Now, her neighborhood was another world. It was color. It was sound. It was visual. It was vibrant. It was interesting. It had more bustle and street life than Rome, where we’d lived before moving to Abidjan. I wanted to stay and observe life from the window while the women talked, but my mother rushed us out after a perfunctory chat. I think she wanted to get home before anyone asked any questions. It was unforgettable.

On one of our last nights in Abidjan, our parents were at an embassy function, leaving the four children at home. Instructions were clear not to leave the house, mostly because of the bugs and snakes I believe but also because the night was an unknown entity.

But sometime after dark, we heard drumming. Then we heard the singing. Then we heard the music. In captivated us, literally. We clambered against the windows to hear more. We despaired to get closer. My younger brother and I made a go of it and ran past the servants into the pitch of the night down the street chasing the sound. We arrived at a wall enclosing a house and the music. We climbed it and peered in at the band and were in its thrall. The drumming became part of our bodies and we went wild dancing. It was unforgettable. I was nine years old.

I have forever since chased African music. They say drumming is primal. It has certainly been a fundamental experience for me. Maybe we respond to it in that part of every one of us that is African. (See: Lucy)

Last night, I went with my own family to a concert at the Portland Zoo of one of Africa’s great bands, Amadou & Miriam (www.amadou-mariam.com) from Mali. The heat, the hard French accent, the broad smiles and warmth, the race through the night to find the music before it was gone, were all there.

I missed this. Apparently Congress is going to make the penny defunct. The rationale is that it is such a worthless unit that it is not worth the taxpayers’ money to mint it. I guess Congress needs that extra cash for its members’ annual pay raises and we know how much they deserve it! Regardless, there is a national movement afoot to save this historic fixture of American life. See the great Virgin Mobile ad in the NYT today on the “Save the Penny Drive”. Buried in it amongst the patriotic and nostalgic mumbo jumbo is an offer to “penny text”. Even the font has a wee bit of ye olde Williamsburg look. Finally, an ad where the text is more powerful than the picture! How retro. How perfect.

Nothing much to say here other than summer has finally arrived, and not a minute too soon. Even the cacti and small fry are in bloom.

On another note, I wanted to call attention to the article in the New Yorker’s “Talk of the Town” from LAST week which I just received THIS week because the local distributor is behind the proverbial 8 ball, on the rebranding of Joe Bazooka. I was fascinated with this character when my family moved back to the U.S. after a few years in the southern hemisphere, pre-global culture. He seemed so brawny and carefree and American, like a less intimidating Paul Bunyan. It is worth a read to get a view into what the rebranders think a bubble gum poping American boy is looking like these days.

We are lucky to be living in Portland, Oregon.
There is no better place to be in the summer if you are living in a U.S. city, in my humble opinion. The disgusting summer weather and high saturation of seasonal allergens drove us out of Washington, D.C. and eliminated the east coast for consideration when when we were plotting a move to rebalance our lives, back in 1991. The sprawl in California (and fear of “the big one”) kept us from considering that state. Likewise Seattle. The high temperatures voided the Southwest and the months of lows did it for New England. OK, we have rain. But we don’t have to shovel it or trudge through it and it gives us all that lovely greenery. For those of you in less clement climes, can you imagine summer nights sitting outside with coolness on your skin, clear nasal passages, and no need for mosquito netting? And then there is the produce — sweet strawberries, succulent cherries, syrupy marionberries, juicy peaches and smooth tasting fruit of the vine for any occasion. They go so nicely with our organic local meats, cheeses and fish. We plan to enjoy much of what I have described in our outing to hear Amadou and Miriam at an outdoor picnic concert on the lawn at the Portland Zoo tomorrow night. We live in a cornucopia of delights.

It looks like a new crop of bumper stickers are in circulation, making driving interesting again. In the last couple of days I’ve noticed several along the lines of “I can’t wait for 2008” and “Is it 2008 yet?”. Today I saw one of a picture of Richard Nixon with his trademark outstretched arms over his head, fingers splayed in the “V” for victory sign, and the statement “George Bush makes me miss Richard Nixon.” Another one depicted a Caucasian Jesus, all light brown hair with blonde highlights, looking beatifically upon the visage of George Bush with the statement, “George, I need a word with you.” Not bad.

I still rather like my own, purchased at Ronald Reagan National Airport in Washington, D.C. in 2003.