Tag Archives: Libreville

Then There Were Three

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The morning after Christmas, I heard the comforting chatter of Brad and Ramsay in the kitchen. Seated on the living room sofa, the cold pressed in against the window panes. The thermometer outside of Mama’s dark green cottage registered 28 degrees. Sleepily, I watched plumes rise from the chimney at a neighbor’s house, silhouetted against the soft glow of dawn. A cardinal darted into a magnolia tree and the clock on the mantle piece rhythmically announced the seconds like a countdown: tick. tick. tick. One week until boarding school.

We celebrated New Year’s with friends. I chose a word for the year- intention-because of its definition, “stretching toward a new way of being.” Oh, yes, 2024 would bring plenty of challenges.

January 2nd, leaving Ramsay at school was downright heart wrenching, hugging our only child goodbye at age eleven: so young, so vulnerable. The dorm staff could not have been kinder or more supportive, but I could hardly breathe when Brad drove us off campus, like someone had taken my air away. I sobbed in long inhales and exhales like strange notes of an accordion. Brad talked me down several times that night from driving back to get Ramsay.

In the following days, our tight-knit family scattered like jacks on a map- Brad and our dog Biscuit back in Gabon, me living out of a suitcase stateside, yet hours from Rams. The school counselor assured us our anxiety and questioning our decision was common, so normal- we had to give the homesickness time. “Wait a month before visiting,” they suggested. With a leaden heart, I practiced yoga, took walks, leapt at a glass of wine at cocktail hour with my mother, and immersed myself in writing my fiction manuscript. The absence of Ramsay’s happy spirit was all encompassing and I impatiently waited for those 5-minute intervals when I got to speak to him on the phone, a fake smile pasted on my face. Be strong. Don’t cry til you hang up, I told myself each and every call- a pep talk that rarely worked those first few weeks.

Days passed without seeing his face, just the occasional text that gave me no sense of what life was like for him. Was he sleeping? Making friends? Doing okay in school? “Yes, he’s doing fine,” school staff encouraged, but I was lost, mothering from afar. Desperate to bring us all back under one roof, I day-dreamed of buying a house a few miles from the school. Maybe I could apply for a job there and beg Brad to quit the State Department. We’re serving our country, I told myself. The coup that led to this wasn’t our family’s fault. Count our blessings. We can bear anything for a year. Pretend it’s COVID again.

When I felt like crumbling under the weight of missing my child, I reminded myself it’s temporary, that Rams was getting an excellent education we could not otherwise afford him, and that this was an American experience he’d never had, having been raised overseas. I shifted perspective with positive affirmations- trust that this life is happening FOR us, not TO us, and, especially, I often whispered internally- he’s safe and in a caring place. My mommy guilt serves no one.

It was impossible to imagine that weeks later, we would have days without tears and Ramsay would be well-adjusted to dorm life and school abroad, but we all transitioned to a better place. I got to visit Rams after a month and although I was so choked up when I hugged him that I could only whisper, “Hey sugar, missed you,” I could tell he was settling in well. We gathered his sheets, bathrobe, uniforms and loads of clothes in his dorm room to take to the AirBnB rental. I threw out a stale, partially-eaten bread roll on his desk and poured out a murky cup of steeped-for-days tea.

Rams and I chatted incessantly and indulged in little celebrations- sparklers and hot chocolate, a mini-pinata to break open, and a snow-tubing trip. I was determined to live in the moment all weekend as the deadline of returning him to campus pushed in like a storm on the horizon. He asked for, and received, new tennis shoes, a basketball, and a haircut. We took long walks, watched funny videos together, and cooked his favorite meals. He enthusiastically shared his new knowledge of race cars and sports teams.

During a steak dinner out, I detected Ramsay’s slight new southern accent as we laughed and played cards. (Ramsay won, not because I let him, but because he is a card shark like his Gran). I took breaks from folding laundry that night to listen to his soft breathing as he slept. Our weekend together released me from the constant fretting. It was evident his boarding school community was providing a caring net to fall into. My heart swelled with pride for this courageous fellow who had surmounted this monumental life change much better than I. 

Weeks later, Brad flew to the U.S. and the three of us had a wonderful Spring Break with Ramsay. Rams had just taken his first unaccompanied flight to see his Godparents, whom he adores. “Were you scared?” I asked. “Mom, come on,” Rams replied. (This was a silly question for a kid who had been on 30 flights by age 5). “It was awesome- I got to see the cockpit and they gave me guac and tortilla chips.”

Hibachi night with Gran
In the Captain’s Seat
A Hockey Game in GA

A few days later, it was time for me to return to Gabon. It’s just the three of us now in Libreville- me, Brad, and Biscuit. The first couple of days home, at 3:45pm, my heart filled with anticipation, waiting for Ramsay to burst through the door after school like he used to. Biscuit, too, seemed to remember our old routine and sat by the entrance, tail wagging. We needed a new schedule. To push through that witching hour, I began afternoon beach walks with Biscuit in tow, repeating adapt, adjust, and keep looking ahead.

In our absence, cherished friends and family hosted Ramsay for visits, fueling him with love and food, for which we are deeply grateful. Rams made the baseball team, has played laser tag, and got a signed puck at a hockey game. He does his own laundry, irons his clothes, does chores at the dorm, and is soaking up learning without language barriers. He chipped a front tooth, took it in stride, and coordinated with the school nurse to have it repaired at the dentist. He continues to amaze us with his positivity, resourcefulness, and gumption.

Recently, Rams sent a quick voice message on text- further evidence that he was finding joy there. On his weekly grocery trip back from Wal-Mart, there was abundant laughter in the background from his dorm buddies. Classic rock played and Rams said he was eating a Subway sandwich on the bus, mentioning between bites that he liked this song, by the way, and could we hear it? And oh, yeah, we’d see a credit card transaction for LED lights for his room, and he hoped that was okay. He recounted that he’d seen Aquaman at a real movie theater and recently learned the concept of “family style” dishes. “Mom- have you heard of this, family style eating?  When the bowl is empty, they just refill it- it’s amazing!”

Ramsay’s enthusiasm was contagious and Brad and I laughed out loud, content that our family had shifted out of a place of heartache about boarding school into a place more flourishing. Soon, summer break arrives, and once again, we will be four.

With Love & Light,

–Tracy

A Peackock and an Elephant

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The rainy season arrived in Gabon with hypnotic, heavy drops that drummed on the tin roof. Downpours saturated the earth, forming reflecting pools in the garden. Leaves faced skyward, unfurling on their branches to catch the water like outstretched hands.

Afternoon clouds parted, so we walked to the beach behind our compound. The air smelled freshly washed. Kingfishers fanned their wings to dry.

“Elephants live over there,” I told Ramsay, pointing to the isthmus across the estuary.

“Really? Right there?” he gestured to the thin, blurry line of trees on the horizon.

I understood his confusion. Although the strip of land across the water looks fairly close, our house is nestled in a congested, urban area inhabited by a few bats and birds, but not by pachyderms.

“Yes, it’s Pongara National Park, accessible by boat. We’ll go there.”

I’d made the half-hour crossing across the Gabon Estuary only once before. It was a day trip with friends to the lovely Baie de Tortues resort, where a woman greeted us with a welcome drink and then gave us a tour of the property.

On the boardwalk, she stopped abruptly. “Une paonne,” she said, pointing. Rolling the word around in my mouth, whispering it slowly, pa-onne, I flipped through my mental Rolodex of French vocabulary and came up blank. Then I saw what she meant; a live peacock on the porch of a thatched-roof bungalow.

The vastly different landscape felt further away than the thirty-minute journey from home. Here, the sun danced across clean water that spilled onto unpolluted, powdery beaches. Palm fronds arched over the sand, casting long shadows like the arms of a ballerina.

We soaked in the salty sea until the scent of grilling meat and fish lured us to lunch.

Two months later, I crossed the estuary once more; this time with Brad and Ramsay. Cresting silvery-jade waves, our roofless motorboat rose and fell beneath an encroaching storm.

Maybe we should’ve wrapped our overnight satchels in a clean trash bag, I considered as I envisioned drenched clothes from the threatening skies hovering above. But the weather held, and minutes later, we sighed a breath of relief when the woolen wall receded.

The hosts of Pongara welcomed us into their spacious lodge, decorated with carved animals and tribal masks. Looking like a watercolor painting, the open-air, wooden structure blended into a backdrop of savanna grass, forest, and sea.

We were offered a late breakfast of croissants, mango, passion fruit, and Gouda cheese. The coffee was good and strong. When I commented on this, the chef brought out the bag from the kitchen, proud to show me the beans were African, from Cameroon.

The boys played mancala, a strategic game not unlike backgammon, that involves taking your opponent’s seed pods.

At the nearby lagoon where we were told, “There are crocodiles, but they are small and not offensive,” we kept vigilant just in case, stepping gingerly through the shade.

Inside our bungalow, the air conditioning unit fogged the nearby window. Beads of evaporation made slow trickles, like veins on the glass. An optical illusion formed; one window reflected in another, creating a nature collage.

On the sunny porch, it was hot. Ants were plentiful- on the ground, on the wall, on the lounge chairs. I gently brushed them in another direction and focused on the lovely bird calls and rhythmic waves.

On a beach walk, the birds were elusive to photograph, so I focused the lens instead on patterns of bark, designs in the sand, and watery reflections.

Beneath an abandoned, overturned barge, water lapped and clanged eerily against the rusty metal.

On an afternoon hike, birds, locusts, frogs, and crickets chattered simultaneously, adding to the mystique of trekking deeper into the shadowy wilderness. I swatted away a thick swarm of mosquitoes, grateful for anti-malarial meds.

A bird in the forest made the exact two-tone squeak of a rusty swing, momentarily transporting me to childhood.

Movement in the bushes on the far side of a field caught our eye. A baby elephant! The guide, Abdul, explained it wasn’t young; rather, forest elephants are smaller than the ones that roam across East Africa.

Abdul paused to show us tree sap from an Okome tree. The sap is flammable and can be used in villages as a torch. Its smoke is a natural mosquito repellent.

“It has a soul,” he said, patting the tree. “It takes our carbon dioxide and turns it into the oxygen we breathe. Nature gives us much.”

A monkey flung itself from a branch, its mischievous face changing from intently curious into a comical grin. I got a blurry shot from the camera lens, steamy from humidity. Chimpanzees screamed to one another in a faraway canopy.

We stopped to examine an elephant print and Ramsay found an iridescent beetle exoskeleton in the leaves.

After lunch, we kayaked through the mangroves to the mouth of the river where it touches the sea. Gnarly brown roots bent like fingers and clawed at the brackish water, creating mirror-like reflections. As a “goliath” heron glided over the river, it’s silhouette chased behind.

The next day, toting binoculars and cameras, we clamored into an ATV for a safari. The small truck chugged through muddy trails and over rough terrain. A breath caught in my throat as our tires crossed a rickety, wooden-plank bridge over a rushing river. We ducked to avoid vines dangling like thick, twisted ropes.

A clearing appeared. In the bright green grasses of the savanna, buffaloes stood with birds on their backs. A vulture lorded over the field from a barren tree, keeping a watchful eye on a leaping antelope.

Our overnight adventure ended too soon. As an unexpected gift before leaving Pongara, Ramsay found a discarded pinwheel. Under fair skies, it spun wildly in the wind like a celebration.

Gabon: Our New Equatorial Home

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Our three-year assignment in Libreville began with a curious incident at the airport. With six rolling suitcases in tow, we exited the customs area, where a uniformed man was inspecting a styrofoam box. “Pangolin,” he said in a defeated French accent, shaking his head. A quick search later on my phone revealed that Pangolin, an ant-eater-looking animal, is poached in the Congo Basin for its scales. On a positive note, we’ve also learned that Jeff Bezos’ Earth Fund has pledged $35 million to Gabon for conservation efforts.

During our first two weeks, jetlag morphed into temporary overwhelm, discerning the perils and promises ahead. Even now, commencing week three, my alligator brain craves creature comforts and familiarity. I miss having a car, but also the absence of seemingly insignificant things such as my own comfy pillow and bath mats. Air thick with humidity leaves a thin, damp sheen on the chilly tile inside our home, which seems ironic; cold feet in a tropical climate. Moisture clings to the dust I bring home after walking Biscuit outside, creating a trail of black footprints like a Sherlock Holmes cartoon across the white floor.

Hacking up a whole pineapple for breakfast with a dull blade, I long for my sharp kitchen knives. “Mom, I didn’t know pineapple came in octagonal shapes,” Ramsay teases. I practice yoga breathing and concentrate on finding the beauty and counting our blessings: we are safe, our condo has a screen porch, we live near the ocean, people are kind, and I’m able to converse with the locals in French. In the evenings, lovely pastel colors bleed into the sky as we watch a fiery orb slip rapidly behind the horizon.

Having grown up in the U.S. on the east coast, it seems odd to view the Atlantic from the west. Below swaying palms, corpulent trunks of driftwood lay strewn across Libreville’s beaches, their chalky branches reaching toward the ocean with knarled, thirsty fingers. Tangles of roots like wild, messy hair add to the untamed seascape. The scenery is gorgeous, but the water near our house isn’t swimmable due to sewage, old shoes, plastic bottles, and shards of the forgotten. Perhaps Ramsay and I can participate in beach clean-ups and join the Sea Turtle Patrol we’ve heard about.

There have been surprises, good and bad. After accepting an impromptu invitation for a glass of wine on the beach to bid an embassy friend farewell whom we’d only just met, my mouth hung open slightly when bats appeared with the wingspans of crows and heads nearly as big as kittens. (not kidding). But the next morning, also taking flight, were uplifting lemon-yellow weaver birds, turquoise-tinged Kingfishers, and a grey and red parrot; the yin and yang of living in an exotic locale.

Parts of the city resemble the Caribbean, full of tropical vibes, dance music, and riotous color: the brightly painted houses, cheerful Hibiscus, lizards with orange tails, and exotic flora and fauna. As in many developing nations, the stunning beauty here is juxtaposed with dilapidation and brokenness behind the scenes, especially the trash on the shores.

In contrast, further afield, on the outskirts of Libreville, (via a forty-minute 4×4 drive over bumpy dirt roads through the edge of the Congo forest), lies a stunning, rugged coastline where sea and sky meld into a nickel-colored light of other-worldliness.

 

Along with its rich biodiversity, Gabon hosts malaria and other infectious diseases. Week One, Ramsay broke out in bright red hives from an allergic reaction. My Mama-brain went into overdrive for days as I sterilized sheets, towels, and surfaces. Should we treat it as something fungal or bacterial? Did it come from the ocean? the pool? new sunscreen? sand fleas? new plants, fruit juice, insects… or maybe from the laundry detergent? The Malaria Meds? ( I stalk mosquitoes in the house with my hands open in attack position as if they are tiny armed robbers). Alas, the source of the outbreak is still unknown, but we are enormously grateful Ramsay is on the mend.

The local food we’ve tried so far is good. Oil-rich Gabon imports 90% of its food, much of it from France. Commonly offered are grilled kabobs “brochette” of gambas, fish, or chicken served with rice, fries, or potatoes au gratin. The French influence is apparent in the grocery stores and boulangeries. To my delight, there are abundant cheeses, macarons, fresh baguettes, and good quality tea. And Mohammed at the unmarked Lebanese place near the airport makes very tasty Shawarma. We sit on his patio overlooking the main road (one of the few that are paved), where traffic is occasionally blocked by President Bongo’s siren-happy motorcade.

In an artisan market, I was informed that many handicrafts here are imported, too. However, I did find local bird collages made with butterfly wings (and I’m hoping this art was not created from illicit trade because I love this creation).

Awaiting our air and sea shipments to make our house feel more like home, I clean the screens and windows and re-arrange the furniture to claim this new space as ours. We engage with our new community of friends and begin to develop rituals, like having coffee on the beach, going outside to watch the sunsets, and sometimes indulging in local ice cream before lunch just for fun.

As we create wish lists of places to see, we remind ourselves on the difficult days to anticipate the magic that always comes with exploring a new land.

Bonne Journee,  Tracy