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!

Assoundé Yoga Retreat

Plagued by the knowledge that I never went to Tabarka in Tunisia, or Sipi Falls in Uganda, I am determined to embrace every single adventure that presents itself in the Ivory Coast. An opportunity arose, just two weeks into 2015 with a yoga retreat being held at the beach resort of Assoundé in South East Côte d'Ivoire.

Assoundé is about 90 minutes by road from Abidjan, and the village is much smaller and humbler than it's touristy neighbour Assine-Mafia. To reach the place in which we stayed, you had to drive off-road through coconut groves for about 5km, then abandon your vehicle completely and take a canoe the last part of the journey.

The yoga class was taught by a fellow ex-patriate, and although it was my first time practicing with her, I instantly felt calm and relaxed and enjoyed her teaching and her passion for life in the Ivory Coast. I still haven't managed to do a handstand, but I feel like if anyone can help me achieve this dream, it will be this lady!

The weekend was well structured with several classes per day, but I never felt like it was too much and really just enjoyed the whole experience, even down to the fully vegetarian menu, which was specially designed for the retreat.

The beauty and simplicity of the place reminded me of Kalangala in Uganda. Small farms and homesteads, alongside miles and miles of stunning beaches.

I cannot wait to return.

 

And just like that... another year whizzed by...

It has been a whole year since I wrote here. A whole year just flashed by. I would like to say that I don't know where the time went but honestly, it was probably one of the busiest and most productive years of my life and so my only sadness is that I missed the opportunity to blog it all here.

I took a great many trips around Tunisia, visiting Djerba, Douz, Madhia and Monastir again. I took work trips is Istanbul, Dakar and Washington D.C. and I took holidays in Ibiza and in my lovely UK. I attended three weddings, at two of which I was a bridesmaid and three hen parties. I fasted just one day of Ramadan but ate about 10 iftars. I was awarded one Post-Graduate Certificate... with a distinction, and I passed one international French exam. I knitted six hats, three cardigans, two mittens and one incredible Mickey Mouse jumper. I ran three half marathons, and one 5km fun run, and I had one horrible cold which lasted for 8 weeks.

And I have moved again. I now live in the Abidjan, Ivory Coast. The Ivory Coast is the world's most secular country, according to a recent survey and it's the biggest exported of cocoa in the world. But more about that later...

So I'm going to be thirty in 2 months. I would not say that I have failed on my task list of 30 before 30 items, but I have maybe underachieved a bit. But in truth I am still proud of the things that I have done in it and I'll write about them in due course.

But for now, I'm here, and I'm planning to write some things. You fancy a story?

Eid al-Adha (the other Eid, the one with the sheep)

There are two Eids. There's the first one, at the end of Ramadan, the Great Breaking of the fast, and then a couple of months later, there's another Eid, Eid al-Adha. The one with the Sheep.

The second Eid is to commemorate a story known to Christians, Jews and Muslims alike. The one where God calls Abraham (Ibrahim) to sacrifice his first and only son in an act of obedience, but right at the last moment, when he's just about to go through with it, God intervenes and provides a lamb for sacrifice instead. The God, he's such a messer!

In Muslim countries, this means we get two days off, and families buy a sheep to slaughter at home. To us Infidels, it's incredible. All through the night for the whole week before, all you can hear is the sad little sheep, bleating in your neighbours' gardens, preparing themselves for the big goodbye.

The supermarkets go crazy to get in on the act. Sheep are sold in huge tents in the car park, and families go along to pick them out like Christmas Trees. And they are expensive, the big ones are anywhere upwards of 600DTN, which is about £250. From the supermarket, you can also buy the food and a bit of hay for the poor little fella to sleep on.

Traditionally, the slaughtered meat is divided into three parts. The family keep one third, another third is given to friends and relatives (this is where I really seemed to profit!) and the last third is given to the poor or needy.

Personally, I enjoy the brutality of it. This gigantic slaughter of animals seems so barbaric and old-fashioned in this day and age, and adds to the wonder and spectacle of the festival. On the day of the slaughter, my sister and her fiance were here (more on those adventures later) and we drove through some of the biggest cities in Tunisia, and they looked like complete ghost towns, besides the odd group of men barbecuing a sheep's head at the roadside.

 

It was a great Eid... and an unexpected but glorious by-product of the festival? The wool shops are now very well stocked.

Beyond Walls 2013

Tunis, like all great cities with a swelling population of disenchanted, creative youths, loves a bit of graffiti. The wall just outside my house, proudly displays a number of tags and a dis-proportioned head smoking, hardly artistic, but certainly making some kind of statement - something like, "I never learn to draw".

But the Beyond Walls 2013 murals are different. They are a series of beautiful, carefully designed and executioned paintings of hope, unity, freedom, friendship and comradery  that are in downtown Tunis, very close to my office. They were painted over the summer and I had been wanting to photograph them for ages.

Designed by a group of Tunisian students, working together with international artists, the murals hope to begin a context for cross-cultural sharing and dialogue.

Personally, they just make me smile.

This is my favourite. Tolerance is written in English from left to right in red and in Arabic in black from right to left > تسامح

"Tolerance" is a word discussed a great deal when considering cross-cultural relationships. Many people don't like it as it implies a deep down resentment or lack of acceptance for the acts, beliefs or nature of others and the idea of having to "tolerate" them is seen as an insufficient level of acceptance. In an idea world, I agree. But real cultural clashes are difficult to rationalise, especially if the causes lay deep-seated in religion or histories of fractions, or pride. In this case, even tolerance can seem like an achievement. We can hope in the future for respect and acceptance and love, but let's keep tolerance as a good place to start.

Plus, I think it looks cool.

"Hi, are you busy? Will you come to a circumcision BBQ with me?"

This was the text message that I received from my friend Lucy, on a warm Saturday Afternoon in October. It was a difficult offer to resist. The party was to celebrate the circumcision of the two-year old son of her landlord and would be catered by the chef from our favourite brunch place.

But circumcision holds a history of trauma in my brain, having notoriously passed out in a Religious Studies class at school at the tender age of eleven, when watching a circumcision video in a lesson on Judaism, and having been subsequently reminded of this for the rest of my secondary school life

"Will there be any circumcision done at the BBQ?"

"God, I hope not"

I was sold.

In Islamic culture, unlike Judaism, there is no set time limit on this magical rite of passage. Apparently there are no direct laws regarding it at all in the Qur'an, although the practice is widely and routinely carried out. Kindness and parental guilt seems to dictate that it is done in Tunisia while the child is still a toddler, but in some Eastern Islamic cultures, it is done as an adolescent rite o passage, similar to some Bantu tribes in Africa.

Being British, I come from a culture where circumcision is quite rare, and the idea of having a party to celebrate it seemed a bit bizarre. But, of course, I was happy to celebrate along with little Hedi, who had already has to op' and was prancing around is a little sparkly suit, happy to have all the attention. And, he had a lovely cake, which was, almost certainly, taller than him.

Hey Shelly, Where you been?

Did you miss me?

Oh my. It all got too too much. The India trip and then that marathon. Summer was ending and I just didn't take my foot off the peddle. I got headhunted for a new postion at work, not a proper promotion (yet) but it was very flattering to be moved into this new team, and has involved an increased number of hours, committment and dedication.

And just sometimes, I don't have words. Sometimes, I feel like I have lots to say and I want to tell you all about it. Then there are other times, when I feel like a sponge, just absorbing and enjoying and experiencing everything, but I don't have the words or the energy to tell you all about it.

But don't worry, I have stored the past couple of months up in my brain and I'm planning to explode all over here, every day of advent and tell you all the stories of all the things I have been up to, like more Tunisian weddings, circumcision parties, my sister and her fiance's visit where we went right off the tourist trail, another half marathon, holidays back to the UK, fireworks, more weddings, concerts, hammams and I'm FINALLY going to write about sexual harassment here, because something just happened in the street and I can't smile away and say "Tunisia's lovely..." anymore, because sometimes it's just not (so standby for that one).

Sit tight peeps. It all begins tomorrow, on the first day of Advent.

Oh, how I missed you.