No Ebola Here!

It’s difficult to put into words why I like West Africa. It truthfully is ramshackle and decrepit, but I have fondness in my heart when I think of these cities and especially the people with whom I spent time. The local staff I worked with was enthusiastic and appreciative, and it makes me sad to have such small windows to get to know them. The ex-pat community, which I mentioned previously, was also a joy. In this single four week trip, I hung out with people from France, Lebanon, Egypt, Jordon, Israel, and England, all a little bit crazy and a lot of interesting for ending up in places like these. One of my favorites was a crusty old Brit, a character straight out of an Indian Jones adventure, who regaled us with stories of the Ivorian civil wars while we drank large mugs of Castel late into the night in a sand-floored Abidjan tiki bar.

Lome, Togo must be an archetypal West African experience. Colorfully swathed women patrol the roads, hawking the entire produce section of a grocery store delicately balanced on top their heads. And ah, the steamy, sultry African nights… where the air clings to your skin like a damp blanket and the erratic city lights twinkle in the humidity. Lome’s unpretentious rooftop bars, which overlook nothing of particular interest, condone conversations spilling out over glasses of beer and wine with people who not so long before had been strangers. The sort of gypsy life of the Foreign Service Officer and others passing through on a semi-temporary basis creates an impulse to throw connections down quickly and passionately.

There’s so much beauty in Africa, interspersed with stunning poverty. Lome houses a swanky new beach day-resort/party spot called Pure Plage, and to get there you have to drive past shanty-towns which look like they would collapse like a house of cards in a storm. I lounged on a red cushioned recliner beneath a tiki umbrella, sipping a Corona while gazing across the Gulf of Guinea, so close yet so removed from the woes of the world. It’s a bit surreal, as is much that happens on these trips.

Abidjan, Cote d’Ivoire, served as quite a contrast after spending several weeks in less-developed Togo and Benin. Looking out across the city from the hotel balcony, it dawned on me that I was looking at a cityscape, with skyscrapers… In the 1970s, apparently Abidjan was the place to be in Africa. Then two civil wars and instability happened. It’s a nice city, but clearly still trying to recapture its former glory. I call the hotel we stayed at my “Grand Budapest” experience (watch this movie!). The enormous wading pool and grassy lounge area was pervaded with a sense of faded grandeur. Perhaps it was because the oversized, bright orange sofas and pillows actually were stained and fading.

The other analogy the Americans I worked with drew for Abidjan was “Lost” (the TV show). As in it never entirely made sense why things were happening the way they were. I went on a run outside the hotel, and soon was confronted with a man smiling and clapping for me, saying something that sounded encouraging in French. Then it happened again. Then again, and again. For a moment I thought I must be finishing the grandest race of my life, instead of slowly slogging through the heat and humidity, trying to keep from dying.

These are not places people go for vacation, but that’s a big part of what motivates me to do what I do. I’m intoxicated with a desire to see and feel and experience parts of the world I barely knew existed.