Photo: Children play on a Sunday morning in a village outside Sikensi.
Escaping culture is not an easy feat. One can lock oneself away for days from the outside world, but culture will find its way in.
I miss writing. I realized that today in the shower while I listened to African music a couple houses away through an open window. I have already become accustomed to dealing with the nuances of everyday in Abidjan, so experiences here don’t seem “worth writing about.” But today I thought about my surroundings and my writing, and writing didn’t seem like a scary giant anymore. I realize that while I experience these things and they seem normal now, many back home have no idea what I’m talking about.
Most writers struggle with this. While we want our livelihood to depend on our words, writing can be a chore. Sometimes words don’t come, and if they do, are they good enough? A writer could be in the most amazing experience of his life — something not many others have experienced, and some would still ask themselves, “Do people want to read about this?”
So with these thoughts in mind, I was thinking about the culture I’m fully in now. I should say “cultures” — plural. Abidjan is a melting pot. Not only are there over 60 African ethnic groups here, there are also expatriates from every country in the world on every corner. And we all find ourselves under a French roof.
Some days these cultures are tiring — most days, actually. I want to be sitting in front of a bonfire in crisp Missouri autumn weather, making smores and listening to Chris Stapleton. And then I hear that African music through the window and it brings me back.
I can’t lie — I want to shut myself away sometimes. Let’s close all the curtains, turn on all our air conditioners and play an American show; we don’t have to be in Africa now.
But culture always creeps its way back in. I’ll shut the curtains on a Saturday and we’ll turn our phone volumes down. We’ll try to make the world go away for 12 hours while we attempt to make food from home and nestle in with Netflix.
But then, in the middle of making a recipe, I’ll notice the butter in my hand. It’s made by the French.
And then I’ll glance over at our fruits on the counter — there is African papaya laid out, waiting to be eaten.
I’ll avoid these facts and pour myself a Coke Zero and think of home. Instead, I might even pour a coffee and use some Great Value creamer we brought over on the plane. But a Youki drink, an Ivoirian-branded soda, will stare back at me, asking me why it’s not good enough.
I’ll leave the kitchen in a huff and run to my air-conditioned abode upstairs, protected by a steel door, when we hear the doorbell ring. A voice calls out in French, it must be the gardener.
I’ll open the door and look out. And African cloth will sway by, just some neighbors walking to the boutique up the road. I’ll see children playing in the street, shouting words I do not know. And the gardener will enter, tending to our elephant ears and green grass.
Some might think escaping culture is attainable, at least for a few hours, and that may be true. But from my experiences, even if a culture not your own is around, it will find its way to captivate you, exhaust you, and surprise you.
Some may think these thoughts are not appropriate for those who have chosen to live in a foreign country as missionaries. Two thoughts for you: one, we’re human and we’re proud of our American heritage. And two, I will always speak truth through my writing, objective writing or otherwise.
