Snapshot

Here, they call passion fruit maracuya.

There are three different colours of bougainvillea on the walk to the pool alone.

Right now it is raining so hard it sounds like the ocean is outside my window. Tomorrow the air will feel fresher, slightly, and there will be pothole puddles of unknown depths on the drive to work. 

Hot pink, emerald green, Easter weekend

They send me photos of daffodils poking up through snowy ground, tell me they have the heating on still. I send them pictures of hibiscus, tell them about eating papaya for breakfast.

The lovely Dancing Beastie (also featuring photographs of daffodils and snow) commented on the last post (describing 'frangipani blossoms like heady sunsets', which I just love) and asks if I can tell you where I am. To which the answer is yes, absolutely. I'm in Kinshasa. Congo, Democratic Republic of. 

Six weeks tomorrow and I'm still finding it hard to believe that I am here, that this is my home for the next three years. This country is vast, and complex, and there is so much to learn. 

Happy Easter weekend to you all, even if mine will be slightly less typical than usual, featuring mosquito repellent and pineapples instead of hot cross buns and spring bulbs.

***

(More pictures of the amazing flora here - flowers which look like sea anemones and are so hot pink as to be almost unbelievable, palm fronds, orchids growing outside (!), oleander cuttings which E brings me from the garden)

Sunday at the sandbanks

We make for the river early Sunday morning, take a couple of boats, a picnic, swimwear, head out to the sandbanks. Eat perfectly ripe papaya, drink juice from the cool box. Listen to the radio. Try to rouse ourselves to a game of frisbee, fail in the heat. Sit in the shallows of the fast flowing water to cool down, far too fast to swim against. Walk the circumference of our little sandbank kingdom, watching the birds, the fishermen with their big nets. Water hyacinths, chlorophyll rich, purple flowered. The river is vast, the water copper coloured. Tiny, translucent fish dart erratically away from bare feet. Watch clouds gather dark on the horizon, above the city, back where we cam from, ominous, the storm never materialising.

I am pink from the sun by the time we leave, and feel like I have been on holiday, sand in my hair, between my toes.

So far

The heat, which hits you when you step out of buildings, out of cars, from the air-conditioned cool, hits you like walking into a sauna, water just thrown onto the coals, the air warm and woody. 

Butterflies as big as small birds, birds as small as butterflies.

Swimming in the pool, flame tree above, red flowers, green leaves. Dragonflies which dip and hover. Long legged white birds flying overhead, in formation. Must buy a bird book. 

Must buy a flower book too, because for the first time in my life, my mother's daughter, I no longer know the plants instinctively, can no longer say, snowdrop, lily-of-the-valley, pansy, ranunculus. I can say with conviction hibiscus, oleander, tentatively frangipani, but then there are the giant, star-like almost jasmine, and the bright yellow flowers which look like a child's drawing, cartoonish in quality, the pom poms of red and orange outside my front door, the creeping feathery vine that closes its leaves upon touch, and I am lost in the unfamiliar.

Lizards which dart from light to shade, and then are still, watching. 

Papaya and pineapple, stacked for sale on the roadside, bunches of blackening bananas. New types of fruit, the mangosteen, reddish purple, a new taste, but close to lychee. 

Arrival

I arrived a week ago yesterday. Left a cold, bright London, flew through the night. Arrived to the heat and the sunshine, the dust, the mirages on tarmac.

I already feel like I have been here far longer than a week. I am reminded of the Maura Dooley poem, History, and its opening: It's only a week but already you are slipping... London and her cold February days seeming a long way away. The missing of people, places, is there, yes, but also the relief, after the months of preparation, to be here, finally. 

To have arrived. 

For H

You're flying to New York tomorrow, to a new job, a new life.

I'll miss you. We've had such fun in London, you and I.

Saying goodbye, yesterday evening in Kings Cross tube station, saying I'll see you....and then tailing off because this time the usual 'soon' isn't there, was hard.

Mid-hug, into your ear, I say

You're going to have an A-MAZING time. 

And I mean it, truly, picturing you drooling over these flowers, reading (and loving as much as I do) this blog, buying this soap, making these recipes (complete with sticks of butter and cups of flour, cilantro not coriander, arugula instead of rocket, eggplant to replace aubergine).

Drinking cocktails in this cocktail bar, which I still dream about. Walking the High Line in all seasons.

I want you to do all of the cliches, slices of pizza off paper plates, getting lost in the Met, the breathtaking views from Empire State and Rockefeller. And then go beyond the cliches, walking and breathing and discovering the city in a way that is only possible by fully living in it.

You're going to have an amazing time too you whisper back.

***

Yes...but there sure as hell won't be as many Reese's peanut butter cups where I'm going.

Conversations from a move

Mum: I've laid out some kitchen stuff, just take anything you think you might want.
Me: Okay, great, thanks.
[later]
Mum: You haven't taken the corn skewers!
Me: Um, not sure I'll need them where I'm going?
Mum: But you might have corn on the cob!
Me: Yes, but I can just use my hands, like I do normally.
Mum: How about this?
[holds up unidentifiable utensil, a wooden handle with a wire loop on the end]
Me: What is it?
Mum: I'm not sure. Possibly for cutting the tops off eggs....or, yes, this is it, it's for lifting boiled eggs out of the pan. Might be useful.
Me: What's wrong with a spoon!?