A Grand Adventure: Two Different Worlds

Have you seen the movie “Night and Day”? The past week of my life has felt a little like that. Except, instead of sedatives, I’ve had doses of Paris, huge metropolitan supermarkets, plane travel, airport security, lack of sleep, and an all night veille in an Ivorian village. Is your head spinning yet?

Last Monday morning, I was wondering around Paris. I went to an art gallery for the first time in a year - l’Orangerie, to see Monet’s water lilies. That night, I babysat 3 adorable, bi-lingual boys whose parents (Jonathan and Karen Finley) are missionaries with WorldVenture in Lognes, just outside of Paris. Tuesday morning, I went to a huge supermarket (like a super walmart) with Karen. It was a holiday and full of people. We turned a corner and found a traffic jam of bright red shopping carts. As I followed her, weaving through moving buggies, she asked if it was a little like the market in Bouaké. Suddenly, in my mind, the carts turned to motorcycles, cows, sheep and Djoula women selling vegetables, soap, snails, pagnes, sugar, and plantains. I laughed, realizing it was a lot like the Koko market that I often walked through on my way home from church. Only much less dusty and with a lot more choices. That night, I went to H&M, one of my favorite stores in the US. All I wanted were a few t-shirts, but somehow it took me an hour to pick them out. It was pretty overwhelming.

Two days later, I was in Dabakala, a small town Northeast of Bouake, at an all-night funeral for one of the first pastors in the Baptist church of Cote d’Ivoire. Suddenly, I found myself trying to convince a little boy, who most likely didn’t speak French or English, to keep his shoes and pants on, in the middle of a dusty village, with people dressed in pagnes and bright white dresses rushing around to prepare for the burial. I later walked past to see his pants and shoes on the ground. He either didn’t take my advice or didn’t understand my French. Around 8 am on the 2^nd day, after a few hours of sleep and no coffee, I found myself sitting on a little wooden stool, washing spoons and plates in large basins of water, in the middle of a chaotic village courtyard. Women who only spoke Djimeni were passing me rinsed plates, and I washed them with a fish net sponge and a large, round cake of soap. The funny thing is, this setting is more normal to me now than the supermarkets and shopping malls in France. For lunch, we were invited to the mayor’s house to eat. There I was, sitting under a canopy of trees in front of a mansion, eating salad. Their bathroom had toilet paper and a bathtub. Had I somehow woken up back in France again?

In Bouaké, yesterday morning (Sunday), I walked into the church courtyard to see the monitors and kids standing in a circle, singing and dancing. Everyone greeted me with “bon arrive!” as I joined them. In the afternoon, I biked across town to visit my host family. I hadn’t seen my host mom and little brother in over a month. I remember the smile on my host dad’s face when I walked in the door - huge and welcoming, happy that I was home again. It was Tabaski, a major Muslim holiday. I visited my Muslim neighbor, Coulibaly, to say “bon fête” and they tried to get me to stay longer to eat some grilled lamb. When I saw my friend Mami there, she attacked me with a huge hug and kiss on the cheek. Finally, I stopped feeling like I was in some sort of hazy dream state. I biked home thinking, “this is why I am here.”

Here are some pictures to better describe this culture shock:

Paris