Turf and Surf

Last week I bought a car. 

It's not an incredibly fancy purchase: when I asked my friend's husband, who is very car savvy, if it was a good deal, he described the car as "an affordable model designed for the Eastern Asian market". This can be directly interpreted as "a cheap car that wouldn't stand a hope in hell of passing European Safety regulations". None the less, I am smitten. Having gone over three years with no car, at the mercy of ruthless taxi drivers, who either over charge me, or try to set me up on dates with their sons, or friends, to whom I am eternally grateful, even when then insist on listening to their Snoop Dogg Mixtape, on repeat, for days, proclaiming, "Michelle, I never had a childhood... This is my mis-spent youth, reloaded".

Despite the car not being fancy, or necessarily very high quality, or safe, it's the most expensive thing I have every bought (without a mortgage) and I love it. I love the freedom it represents, it reminds me of when I was 18 and I had just passed my driving test, and I believed, even living on an island, that I could really drive anywhere. Daydreams of Yamoussoukro, and Accra, and Ouagadougou are creeping in. Cruising down the Ivory Coast, the Cape Coast, the Gold Coast...

For her maiden voyage, we took her just up the road to Assinie-Mafia, for some surf and tropical storms.

I do promise to try to write about more than just beaches, but after almost a month in the UK over Christmas, my skin has been missing the vitamin D, my toes have been missing the exfoliation that only the softest sand can manage, and I am certain that the salty air is good for your soul.

Falling instantly into my Canadian friend's humility hustle, I agreed to a weekend of surfing... not realising that she was actually pretty fantastic. I paddled about, struggled, worried about jelly fish, worried about sharks, worried about the rip-tide, worried about the safety harness getting caught around my ankles, causing me to drown, then I caught one wave, squealed with delight, fell of the board and decided to call it a day. 

Standard.

The beach was spectacular, but there was a storm a-brewing.

Tropical storms are wonderful, and this one didn't disappoint. It went on all night long, the lightning causing the power to go out, and the rain drumming on our tin roof, unrelentingly.

In the morning, the beach was bright again, and we sat quietly, reading our kindles and savouring the last moments of beach time before returning to the muggy city. I asked her what she was reading, and an interesting revelation overcame us.

She was reading "Things Fall Apart" by Chinua Achebe ("But I can't seem to figure out when it is set...") and I was reading "Americanah" by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie ("I'm have to read it for my book club, I'm delighted at how much I'm enjoying it..."). On the way in the car we had listed to a mix CD of Davido, Flava, D'Banji and the Somi Album "The Lagos Music Salon". Was it just us? or was this unconscious preference for Nigerian literature and music a real statement about our new lives in West Africa? This remains to be seen, but right now, I feel the happiest that I can ever remember.

I arrived in Abidjan with four suitcases, and so have been working with a local carpenter to build a few bits of furniture and picking bits up here and there when I see them. On the way home from the beach, I bought this amazing chair. Between the car and this chair, I really am becoming materialistic!