The retreat that wasn't

Despite my best intentions, I am not winning the life game balance of managing phd and, well, everything else. I finally turned in the last paper of the semester, marking two years complete in the program. Now that I have a moment to breathe, I can catch up on some emails, blog posts and writing of my own direction. 

The semesters seem to get more intense and meeting deadlines ever more difficult. I've had to ask for an extension twice, suffered through multiple bouts of self-doubt and battled thoughts of quitting. Thoughts of quitting don't really gain much ground, but I do spend time wondering why exactly I decided to do this and if the supposed pay-off is really worth the time and effort. I realize the pay off is the personal growth that occurs through the journey- always worth the time and effort right? The hardest experiences lead to the deepest change, or something like that. 

It was in the midst of crisis, deep avoidance and an outright inability to put word to page that I set out for a writer's retreat to Kisantu, home of the botanical gardens and sweet tales of a little village hosting quaint hotels with beautiful views. 

I'd done some web research and was seduced by this page, authored by teachers I used to work with during my round one phase of living in Congo. I figured I could take their word for it- coupled with a few other sites I browsed. I imagined passing one whole day sitting in the gardens, typing away, and evenings sipping strong coffee in dim lighting, writing, writing, writing. I may have romanced the possibility a bit, but that's necessary when trying to complete a doctoral preliminary literature review. I needed it to be romantic and intimate, focused and productive. All of the things it wasn't. 

The first mistake was thinking I had time to pass by an art show at the marché de liberté in Masina. The show itself was ok. There was some pretty impressive music by a group of school kids- marching band drums, soulful horns, cymbals on time. They were good. Dancers included a traditional group with raffia skirts, a fire dancer complete with flaming torch down the pants (what does it say about me that this is old news by now? I am marginally impressed by watching a guy thrust a flaming stick down the front of his skirt. I am always more worried the raffia will catch on fire and wonder what the trick is for avoiding that.) There was also a performance artist covered in slick oil turning his body midnight black. He found me in the crowd and came over for some intense eye contact while he mimicked my stance. All in great fun. 

Marionette dancing to drums

Participants and collectif members

I had a chance to meet the emcee, an enthusiastic woman who is known for covering traditional arts and who gave me a shout out goodbye over the mic when it was time to go. I also met a woman balafon player- which seems rare in itself, but especially so in Congo- who works with a center serving young kids. I am very interested in following through on that opportunity. The Minister of Culture made an appearance and I got a tour of the artwork, complete with symbolic analysis by the artist himself. It was a worthwhile experience. 

But it put me behind. By the time I found a mini-bus heading in the direction of the central station it was early afternoon. A man in a few seats in front of me turned and said, "Ntongo" which proved to be a prophetic warning. "One should really leave first thing in the morning if you're going to Kisantu."

When I arrived at the terminal, I found one bus full and a taxi with one passenger. This meant waiting for others to appear. The driver planned 4 in the back and 2 in the front. It could be hours. It was hours. As deadlines came and went, I decided that if we weren't on the road by 4pm I would just cancel my trip. Go home and write in my room. I'd already spent the entire day in transit of one form or another, in limbo, waiting, not writing. 

By 4 o'clock however, I'd already paid and getting my money back was impossible. The original taxi we'd been waiting in turned out to be 'en panne' and we had to switch over to another. (And just before leaving, we stopped, in the rain, to give the battery a boost...not sure if that was the only source of the breakdown. Things are always just slightly less than clear.)

We were finally on the road. The long, winding, mountainous road to Kisantu. Simply put, the ride was terrifying. The chauffeur drove way too fast for the wet, curvy roads. He passed other cars often, sending us into the oncoming lane, which is not unusual for Congo driving, but in the dark, around the turns- it was breath stopping. I do admit part of my terror stemmed from the fact that my eyesight is particularly bad at night and distance is hard to gauge. I was sitting in the front and cars appeared much closer than they actually were (maybe. I am sure some of the close calls were pretty darn close.) I also don't spend much time in the car over long distance. City traffic is slow and halting. I am now completely unaccustomed to high speeds and so motion sickness likely played a part as well. 

The driver made several pitstops along the way- once to collect money from a debt owed, once to buy bread, once for an unclear reason.  The bread scene, reminiscent of my very first bread scene, was even more hectic than the chauffeur's driving. Women were pushing and shoving each other, stuffing bread in the car, and calling out prices. One woman even threw a small bag at the young guy sitting next to me. The chauffeur had had enough by this time and was zooming off. The young man, who'd already bought his share of bread and hadn't really asked for the flying rolls, didn't know what to do. He threw 1000fc out the window, calling out, "Ehh, Mama..." The occupants exploded into laughter at the craziness of it all. 

Despite the death defying feats and unexplained stops, our ride was punctuated by heated exchanges ending in laughter. Most of the time it was quiet, or the chauffeur went on and on about some tale or another. It became apparent he'd been drinking and was full of that over-confidence that comes with being in one's territory and feeling like a king. I closed my eyes, put my head down, and gave over control. There was nothing more to be done. I understood a lot about the sense of resignation that Congolese must feel on an everyday basis. I also understood a lot about bad decisions and how to avoid them in the future. 

I was torn at times between engaging the chauffeur in conversation and keeping quiet. I'd been stuffed into a carnival ride against my best interests and simply wanted it to be over. At one point, I glanced up to find he was shuffling through CDs, looking for the next great hit to play. He'd been alternating between singing and telling us about his life story- "I only have 3 kids, madame, like you Europeans. Can you believe that? It is not enough..." Keeping my mouth shut proved impossible and I asked if he could watch the road and not the music. This resulted in a huge monologue about his competence as a driver, his familiarity with the road, and his desire that I, a mundele, not be scared in his taxi. Exactly the reaction I'd wanted to avoid. The kind of response that leads to actually speeding up, just to show how competent he really is and swerving with even more zeal, just to show how in control of the car he is. I prayed a tire wouldn't give out. 

Nearing our destination, we stopped to let one of the women drop off a printer she'd been charged with delivering. It had caused her a lot of grief at departure, where they wanted to charge her more for transporting an obviously high cost, precious item. She spent a little too long (not longer than the bread stop, surely not longer than the 30 minute debt collection stop) and the taxi driver actually sped off without her. I was amazed even as the other ladies exploded into laughter. I have to assume she was close to her final destination. 

I got out on a dark street in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. A taxi moto pulled up and offered to take me somewhere. My stomach was racing with the anxiety of the trip and thoughts of having to go  through it all over again to get home. I asked the driver to take me directly to the hotel, which turned out to be a few kilometers up the road. 

And not exactly like website promised. Of course, my former colleagues had published their site a few years before and all information on the internet is subject to change. I felt like a gap-year backpacker walking up the steps to the hotel, pulling open the creaky iron gate and peeking around for hotel staff. Luckily, I found someone at the desk, though it seemed like a chance meeting. There was a room available, sparse but clean with mosquito net. No restaurant.

My dreams of sipping an endless cup of tea and typing away to the chatter of birds instantly evaporated. He offered to send someone to find some bread and sardines for me, if I wanted. I didn't. I had traveled with a few small items and enough water to get me to morning. I sat down to work, exhausted, stomach still rolling with anxiety. I fell asleep to the lull of big trucks barreling down the roadway and some drunken neighbors fighting. 

Beautiful grounds, beautiful exteriors: appeared to 
be mostly home to long term renters now with an
occasional room or apartment suite available

I needed a plan for the morning. I'd wasted nearly an entire day and the deadline remained. I woke early, wrote for about 2 hours and went in search of transportation. The hotel clerk was friendly, smiling and gracious. Excellent service. He hailed me a moto, negotiated the price and sent me on my way. The return car filled quickly in the morning hour, with merely a small dispute about price before we were on our way. 

The drive began with horn honking and trail blazing zeal. I was in the second row this time and ready to just close my eyes and will a positive outcome. Not long outside of the village center, we passed an overturned tractor truck. A crowd was gathered on the opposite side of the road around a motorcycle and rider. There was no ambulance on the way. That is really the stressful part of reckless riding. I had been able to give my destiny over to the universe, but I was still afraid of suffering. There is no rapid response team (or even a slow response team) to arrive on scene. The thought of being thrown out of a car and laying a ditch for hours or even days is downright disturbing. 

The chauffeur was smartly influenced by the scene and the rest of the ride passed calmly. I was able to gaze out the window at the passing countryside, enjoying the beauty of the green earth and blue sky. While my retreat was not one of the writing kind, it did offer the opportunity to see life in a new way.

My kitchen never seemed sweeter, my tea never tasted creamier, and my desk never felt cozier. Despite the retreat that wasn't, I met all my deadlines and am another year closer to PhinisheD. A preview of next semester tells me the most interesting part is yet to come.

Ambushed

Kinshasa continues to break my heart in a way that no one or nothing else will. Unfathomable. Things haven't changed much- or rather I should say, the things that have changed don't much matter and the things that matter haven't changed for the better. The problems seem all the more grand and insurmountable; the progress seems barely a drop in the ocean. 

In the last few weeks I have continued to be welcomed into the community. I have basked in the friendly open smiles that greet me, the waves and greetings from a distance, the sound of my name from faces I mostly remember- though they have taken the time to remember my name, my children and to ask after each of them. 

I try to nurture these relationships, to stop and say hello. Inquire about family. Make some small talk about livelihoods and future prospects. It is not my strong point. Several times, I have been ambushed. It's usually on a Monday.

The leading question is innocent enough. How was your weekend? The fact that the answers come long, honest, and full of a reality I don't quite know what to do with, suggests just how far things have deteriorated. People are not even able to put up pretenses. They are tired. Beyond tired. Sick and tired. Or just plain sick. There is no more "au rhythm du pays" which served as a kind of code for, I'm doing as best I can, considering the state of the country. 

Now I am assaulted with stories of weekends spent searching for water, searching for cooking gas, searching for school fees. Weekends spent sitting inside and outside hospitals while children suffer from nameless maladies or burns that aren't being healed properly. This last one, the story of today, lingers heavily. "It's like they don't know how to treat her. They are not doing a good job." He's told me the story of his daughter who was cooking and spilled the pot, burning her toes. She's been in the hospital for a week. He's lost confidence in the doctors but doesn't have much choice in her placement. I remember that he and his wife had lost a little boy,  a one year old succumbed to malaria before he'd even had a chance to get home and whisk him off to the hospital. I don't know what to do with his latest story. I hold it, paralyzed. My mind is the only thing capable of movement. It races towards answers that don't exist. I force out a feeble response. Something about prayers and keeping your family in my thoughts. 

It's not the first story to throw a gray cloud over what had been an afternoon of sunshine and warmth, and I know it won't be the last. I do admit I've caught myself wondering if I should even ask. A little voice suggests I just keep walking, a breezy ça va? or maybe even a boni? and continue on my way. I don't listen to that voice.  I stop. I pause. I hear the stories, even if all I can do for now is to hold them, awkwardly juggling the raw humanity. Its sacred, this sharing, and as much as I don't know exactly what to do with it, I feel obliged to push aside my discomfort and be present.  

There will be a place to put these stories one day soon. A place to lay them out in the sunshine and invite the world to see. A place to organize and analyze and problem solve. A place to paint life into each numbing circumstance. I hope by then it will be a place of healing. 

For all the anguish Kinshasa inspires, I desperately want to see something take hold and transform her into a power capable of reaching the fullest potential. I feel as though we are once again standing on the edge of something big. If I could will it into being...

Fancy dance moves

 We are finally back, finally free of quarantine and venturing into the world that is. Our little corner of Kinshasa is already offering up tales. The girl is super impressed with all of the trees and the forest walks. It's hard not to be impressed. 

We've begun our nanny search and I was remembering how it took 3 tries for Nabih. I was also remembering how conversations go, how topics get approached and opinions traded. I had a feeling that nanny number one wouldn't work out. She couldn't get to campus on time because she lives a bit too far away and the traffic...always the traffic. 

We spent the first day talking about the essentials, and I told to her to take some time to think about whether it would fit her schedule or not. Oddly, we have a "match-maker" who is supposed to be vetting someone for the position. He asked me what I needed in terms of help- hours, days, duties- and called me saying he'd "found a match." I guess it is always a match. Except when it isn't. This whole thing sounds easy enough to fix- oooh, you need someone on Saturday? No, no I am not available on Saturday. You need someone early in the morning? No, no I can't come in early. Fine enough, thanks for your interest. 

Except the conversation could never really go that way in Congo. The conversation starts like this...

"I have been doing this job for many years. Twenty years, you could say. I have worked for many people. First the Germans, then the Americans. To care for a child requires sacrifice. A lot of sacrifice. You must make sure the child is happy and the family is happy....." And it went on in this way. About sacrifice and duty and experience.  A long speech full of grand concepts about motherhood and giving and working, and sacrifice. Lots of sacrifice. 

No, no I don't want to be part of that, I thought. I am just looking for someone to care for the girl, maybe play with her a bit, maybe clean a bit. She won't always be happy, so need to stress over that. But I do need someone to come on time. It took about 15 minutes and a digression about whether the school year started in August or September this year, before we got around to the point of time. And even then she never said I can't. Because in Congo, you always can. 

Rather she said, perhaps there is one of these mamas who live closer to campus. And they can come. She's completely right and I knew it would come to this the night before. I just forgot how it would come to this. Not simply or directly. But full of flowers and perfume and fancy dance moves. 

Happily, luckily, she said she had planned to come for the next few days until I can find someone else. Because the answer really is always yes in Congo, even when it isn't. 

Not wasting a wish

I lost the month of August in between the cushions of the couch. It nestled in among the lost hair ties and cracker crumbs. It took refuge in what-ifs and maybes and some-days. September is threatening to do the same. 

It's been over a month since we were first supposed to leave. Our original flight was scheduled back in July. The suitcases were packed and the apartment cleaned. Of course, over the course of August, things have gradually found a way out from behind the zippers and emerged into our daily life again. The clean apartment has reverted to it's lived in, cluttered appearance.

I keep remembering these articles about how and why time distorts when we are not making active new memories. Life in lockdown looks pretty much the same every day. I have been starting to get the sense that other people are having a lot more liveliness than we are, but after closer conversations I learn it is mostly not true. And after closer reflection, I remember all the events we have experienced, albeit through our computer screen. (Graduation in the palm of a hand, phd residency #4, Mexico through my daughter's eyes...) 

The anticipation of finally reaching our destination is tempered a bit by the realization that upon arrival we will be isolated again. No community welcome. No exploring the grounds or checking out the classroom. Just more staying home. It's not terrible most of the time. My studies keep me too busy to focus on much else anyway. But it's become downright awkward to still be on the campus of a school I no longer work at. 

We're still here. Still waiting. Trying to manage the complex unification of airline schedules, covid testing turn around time and figuring out how to pay for it all in a country that eschews cash. 

In the meantime, the girl has lost her first tooth. After reading Throw Your Tooth on the Roof: Tooth Traditions from Around the World, she has decided to go for the wish. We wanted to throw the tooth on a roof, but all the roofs are too high. I suggested we throw it off the 7th floor balcony, which has been the site of many long afternoons building, creating and storytelling. She vetoed that idea. 

In the end, we decided to bury the tooth by a coconut palm near the swings. What place could be more magical than the swings? 

                

First wish

I am sure she didn't waste her wish on getting out of Lagos. That would be a mom thing to do. We'll get out of here eventually. It just requires more patience. Lessons of 2020.

Identity tree- a found poem from an academic essay

The search for personal identity is an ever evolving 
   life long journey. 
Like trees, we develop rings of growth that respond 
  and reflect our environmental conditions, 
reaching and bending to the direction of the sun 
shedding and conserving in times of drought 
expanding and sheltering 
producing fruit in times of plenty. 
The inner personal identity cannot be separated
  from the community
even in exclusion or exile or abandonment; 
the inner identity develops according to absence 
  or lack 
or prolific abundance. 

Travel Advisory- a found poem

I found this poem in my inbox

which is filling up with notices.

Email after email on the state of the world
Crime, civil unrest, kidnapping
All the countries that I love
filling up with what seems like unusual levels of
armed robbery, roadblocks, military checkpoints,
demonstrations that turn violent
heavy-handed police tactics
resulting in civilian casualties or death-
but the breathing kind of death
that comes from being shot in a crowd of angry masses
hurling rocks and threatening to overthrow the government.
Not the death that comes from buying candy, or an evening jog
Not the death that comes from selling cigarettes or CDs
Or walking in the rain, talking on the phone
Or sleeping in your very own bed.

My inbox is filling up with notices
Suggesting actions you should take:
Appoint someone to talk to hostage-takers,
media, government agencies, and members of Congress
should you be kidnapped or detained
Establish proof of life protocol
and leave DNA samples with your medical provider
for ease of access in case your family needs it
Most of all, if asked to stop by police,
Stop only in well-lit areas or where many officers are present

I wonder who is sending out the advisory on the US?
Canada, Europe, and the beautiful places.

But even these advisories do not say

the things that need to be said. 

Rainbows in the sink and fun other stuff

This is lame. It's a lame post with the same old excuse. I am once again feeling like there simply isn't time for writing here. There isn't the same set of inspirations. After twelve years, my environments don't seem so new anymore. In fact, it is often with an eye toward America that I find the unusual and perplexing.

I don't want to give up. I am not quite ready to do that and figure if I can somehow keep small threads hanging together,  I will eventually return with something bigger and better. For now, most of my better thinking gets directed towards my studies. I am required to have such an abundance of ideas and connections between ideas that trying to write something simple yet interesting here feels challenging.

I am taking another creative writing class this term, a memoir and identity class. I find a lot of my writing resembles the writing I used to do here, only with slightly different subject matter. And I miss it- coming here to ramble on about a personal observation that can be neatly tied up in a few paragraphs, complete with a photo or two, occasionally alluding to a more universal truth. I feel certain that returning Congo might restore my ability to write here, not just write, but write well. Nothing compares to Congo.

But we're still stuck in Lagos. We've had tickets booked, cancelled, rebooked, recancelled. We have no visas yet, after more than a month of waiting. There is timing to stress over as covid test results need to be less then 72 hours before flying. Airports are not open here, but opening there.  It's all an exercise in patience and calm. I cannot rage against an invisible virus.

I do think about the adjustment. We've been isolated on campus here for almost 6 months and that means we've settled into some routines. We've gotten to know our apartment well. I will not miss it a bit, I often think as I dream of the sunlight streaming through the jungle. And then, occasionally, I recognize that some things here are just a bit luxurious. And maybe I am not taking proper time to really appreciate them.

Here's a list of the random things around my home that are perplexing, unusual or obnoxiously plush.

The dryer falls under all three categories. It took awhile to figure out. Some of the single teachers have a washer/dryer- as in a combo machine that does both. I am not referring to a stacked model, where one sits on top of the other and each have their own doors and clothes space. No, I mean one machine, one door, one turning cylinder to hold the clothes. And yet somehow, it manages to spit water or hot air through the pipes. We don't have that one, which would also fit all three categories.

We have two separate machines, though I rarely use the dryer- preferring the clothes to hang dry. When we do use the dryer, we need to empty the lint trap as well as the water well. I've never seen such a dryer before, and honestly, hadn't even considered the science behind it all.

Super long drawer

Collects water from the clothes

The second item on my list is not really unusual, but it is freakishly convenient. Our oversize stove has both gas burners and electric options. It's genius for those who cook indoors. I prefer the gas burners, and when the electric is out, it's the obvious choice. However, for those times when the propane runs out- always in the deep evening while dinner is cooking, the propane never seems to run out in the middle of the day for some reason- it is easy to switch to the electric burner. Overloaded convenience (except of course if you are cooking pizza, in which case, you're completely out of luck.) I have been reminded more than once of the sagas filling the propane tank in Abidjan. There are absolutely zero worries about that here. I do not need to lug my tank to the corner store. I do not need to struggle with a valve that's been turned too tight. No calling the neighborhood kids to find me a tool or help with the refilling.

On the other hand, when I am cooking pizza, which I often am when the gas runs out, there are no options for quick refilling. Like instantaneously quick. I remember moments in Bamako when, if needed,  I could throw the empty tank into the back of my car and head out for an immediate exchange. The security guard on duty was always willing to lend a hand bringing it in, or wrestle with a stubborn valve. But I was able to resolve my issue within 15 minutes and get my dinner cooking again.

Here, there are no pretenses to independence. We are small children. We are not allowed to touch the gas. Some colleagues even balked at having gas. "Isn't it dangerous?" they wondered. "What if someone blows us all up?" they queried. And I wondered exactly what kind of people I'd surrounded myself with. My concerns grew deeper when, during the first months of school our generator went out for good and required a major repair. We lost electricity for a solid week. One of the first few days I showed up at school with a mug of hot tea only to have a fellow teacher light up with joy thinking the electricity was back. When I sadly shook my head, she wondered how I had gotten hot water. I had no idea what she was talking about. With my stove, of course. Apparently she didn't know it could be lit with a match. You don't need the electric clicking feature to light the stove. Manual works just fine.

I remembered my Bamako days with no electric clicker. Lighting the stove is no problem but lighting the oven can be trickier. I had perfected the paper roll, not too tight, not too loose, wound just enough to catch the flame and burn slow and long, reaching into the well for a controlled woosh, pop, flame. Inside cooking is a breeze. Charcoal lighting...that's the real challenge.

Gas-electric combo with 6! burners

I have continued to be amazed at how many of the people here have little knowledge of Africa. Many don't even know the border countries. When I talk about places I have lived, they're not sure if those are even in Africa. I am stunned, disappointed, perplexed. How can you be living somewhere and not take the time to know where you are exactly? 

It's the money. The money allows people to barely be here. To flit in and out, collecting their cash inside and spending it outside the country.  I believe the influence of money deserves a blog post of it's own, and maybe it will one day.  What I think I have learned most from my time on VI is that money really is at the root of evil. This idea feels tangible here, a visible image conjured in the very air. Everywhere I look, things are sharp and clear, surreal, hyperreal, tainted through the filter of money. 

Luckily, we have a rainbow in our sink. I see it every morning and night- and several times in between. But the morning is when I really concentrate on it. I am thankful to start each day with a rainbow. It feels innocent, hopeful, positive. Spiritual even. 

Every day starts with magic
 (or science, which is sometimes like magic)