Sylvia's Journal

Our second visit for the day was the local International Planned Parenthood Federation affiliate, AIBEF. I visited AIBEF exactly 20 years ago when it was not in a good place because of poor governance. The current AIBEF is blossoming, having realized a vision that was expressed all these years ago: aside from the usual family planning services, there are HIV/AIDS services (diagnosis and treatment plus outreach to young and old), there are pediatric services, ultrasound, and even a maternity plus training rooms and lodging. There is of course a new vision that includes an operating theatre.

We were warmly received and given a tour and loaded with brochures and T-shirts at the end. From the logistics managers we received the same orange/white T-shirt he wore. It had a message on the back that no one should be dying of an abortion gone wrong. Abortion is still illegal here except under a few tightly worded exceptions, but even then it requires multiple doctors to agree. It is still the doctor who decides, although the doctors are no longer male.

When asked whether there had been progress, everyone agreed they had come a long way. That long way was hardly interrupted by ‘la crise,’ as the time of warring presidents is commonly referred to. AIBEF came out OK, partially because of heroic behavior of its leadership and may be also because of its location and local support. I learned that the MSH office here was less fortunate and was reduced to its walls with everything stolen or broken. That, I believe, has nothing to do with politics but everything with unbridled rage, let loose by power plays of well-dressed gentlemen who claim to not be in control (or is it not like that?).

In the evening our host took us to a small maquis (inexpensive local no-frill restaurant) at the edge of the Laguna that separated us from the skyscrapers of Abidjan. To get to the maquis we first traversed the empty section of town where the embassies and big people had returned from a busy day at work for a quiet evening. Then we entered a vibrant quarter which consisted of bars, maquis and hair salons, with music everywhere. Here everyone was wide awake and ready for a busy night. We parked on an unpaved and potholed road, put a man in charge of the surveillance of our car and walked over to a place that we would never had suspected was a waterfront restaurant.

Although the Laguna is polluted, the smell I had expected, if it was there at all, wafted away on an outgoing wind which kept us cool and the mosquitoes away. We had carpe braisee, a local specialty with vinegary onions and pepper and some wicked hot sauces, french fries and aloko (fried plantain, a specialty in this part of Africa), while sipping a Flag beer. Across the Laguna we could see the traffic jam of cars trying to get home, as late at 8:30 PM it was one solid line of yellow car lights. Traffic here, as in nearly all capitals of developing countries, is intense as the middle classes are growing and buying cars; a sign of prosperity, that is creating new problems screaming for solutions.

It is very hot and humid and tonight at 6 PM humidity became 100% and the skies emptied over Abidjan. And then it went and soon the humidity was back where it was before. K, a colleague from Johns Hopkins and I had dinner served on the little front porch that belongs to her room (my front porch is the swimming pool). We chose not to eat in the dining room. A combination of bug repellent, mildew, perfumed room freshener and cigaret smoke would certainly have interfered with what was otherwise a nice meal.

We accomplished what we came here to do. We are laying the rails in front of the moving train and so far we appear to be on track, with enthusiastic counterparts, Johns Hopkins colleagues who are running an impressive program. Their office is festooned with HIV/AIDS awareness posters, pamphlets of every size and color for every possible target group. They employ some very good artists. A storyteller from South Africa came up to Ivory Coast to help them write stories for comic books. I started reading about Marcelline and Jojo and couldn’t put it away, wanting to know what happens next, and next. It’s a good story with great illustrations – so much more effective than direct exhortations. We each received two comic books cadeau – if I didn’t know about HIV and AIDS, these books would wake me up.

The office is small and so much of the work is done through local organizations, some small, some big. We will visit two organizations tomorrow, just to get a sense of the range of partners the project is working with.

We had the morning off while our counterparts were taking care of their affairs. I took advantage of the free time to visit with a former chief of an important coordinating body who had been part of a leadership program we ran here in 2006. Later in the day I also contacted a young colleague who I mentored as she gained confidence in facilitating leadership development. In the years since we were together she has actually consulted on leadership outside the country and taught her older male colleagues about leadership. This is so neat and proves again (I know this already) that people will rise to a challenge that is thrown in their lap. I have more stories like this and they make me intensely happy.

I am beginning to suspect that the ankle operation made no difference. Part of me keeps hoping, but so far the reality is that the talus bone still catches on the tibia bone or vice versa, despite the scraping that the doctor did on March 5. Someone asked me what next? And I realized I didn’t want to think about it too much as all three options are unpleasant prospects: fusion, ankle replacement or not being able to walk without pain.

West Africa smells different than East Africa. You can tell as soon as you emerge from the plane. They say that smells are powerful triggers for memories, and indeed, memories of Senegal presented themselves immediately upon entering Ivory Coast. The last time I was here was 7 years ago, and the first time was exactly 20 years ago. It is a different place now, with its combative ex-president awaiting trial in The Hague, and the winning president trying to figure out how to deal with high unemployment and restless followers of the former president. The Ivoirians have suffered much since my last visit but now the country is busy trying to regain its former status as the bedrock of economic and political stability in West Africa.

Although it was Saturday noon time when I arrived, there was a lot of traffic and it took forever to reach the little inn where I am put up. I killed the time by bombarding my driver Aristide with thousands of questions.

My new lodging for the week is a small inn tucked behind a main drag in the part of Abidjan that is called II Plateau. It has an eclectic collection of rooms, each with a different theme. I am trying to sort out the theme of my moss green and pink pastel room – it looks like a guestroom where all the picture discards went: frilly oval pictures of flowers, sad little children and some gold painted wooden flourishes nailed willy-nilly to the wall. The floor consists of white and black tiles, straight from a Vermeer picture, partially obscured by an olive drab (gray?) rag carpet reminiscent of the 70s, and a fleur de lis area rug leading into the bright blue bathroom.

I look out on a small pool with an eclectic assortment of sitting places, tiled, painted, metal, wood and plastic. I went for a swim before my siesta. As I was swimming in the little pool, dodging downy feathers from the birds hanging out above me, I realized that I could have arrived a day later and done my swimming in the Indian Ocean. What was I thinking, rushing off the island so fast?

On the other hand, the place does tend to invite to relax, and the prospect of having an entire Sunday to myself is appealing. It won’t be all relaxation though as work in Cambridge goes on and my corporate responsibilities don’t stop when I travel. I have a shopping list of tasks by my side that already counts 7 things that need my attention tomorrow, some of them rather large tasks.

My solitary dining experience was enhanced by memorizing the scene for my blog: enormous blue and red velvet-covered banquettes made for giants, set uncomfortably far from the table as if only fat-bellied people ate there. Red and gold frilly chairs and doilied low tables were set up in a space that was already full enough. Enormous cognac glasses on stilts with tea lights provided a soothing contrast to the bright and cold spiral everlast lights or the collection of colored lights hiding in every nook and cranny. For awhile I was mesmerized by a spotlight directed to a large print of the girl with the pearl earring, the colors changing along the rainbow, from yellow, to purple to blue, then red and green, casting a large oval colored ring on the picture.

Dinner was pricey, my ballon de vin rouge rounding it off to something with many zeros. I am not sure this is going to be my prefered place for dinner although the crabe farcie and the French french fries were great, so was the juicy papaya at the end. Unfortunately I am too early for mangoes.