18.08.08 Monday 8. 38 pm
Today was so many things all rolled into one. It was the first day of school and Mohamed was awake at 4:30, ready to go. The woman who was coming to watch Nabih was 15 minutes late and making me sweat. When she did arrive, it was only to tell me that she was no longer available to work for me and had brought her daughter-niece to stay with Nabih. I had to gulp back tears.
Nabih, ever the trooper, handled the situation much better than I. He sat down to his tea and cereal and went through the routine of kiss, hug, high- five with only minimal convincing. I saw him later in the day laughing his deep laugh and tearing through the lower campus with his usual gusto. Later I found out why.
My first day at school was wonderful. I had so much fun talking with students and getting them thinking. Once I stepped into the classroom my nervousness was gone and I knew just what to do. The children are really a delight and so interesting. One of our activities included picking a country and creating an outline map. They were then to decorate the map with their name, birth date and thoughts about themselves. I took a quick survey in the morning to see which countries they wanted to work with. Initially, I wanted them to choose the country they considered home but then opened the idea to include any country that they felt connected to. Surprisingly, there were four students that simply could not come up with a country. I felt a bit for them, thinking they were like lost children without a home. I offered them the world and they took it. Some others changed and decided to use the world as well. It was a very illuminating exercise.
Mohamed seemed to have a good time in first grade. I saw him several times throughout the day and he was always pleased. After school, he met up with his friends and they went to play soccer.
It turned out that while Mohamed and I were busy in school, Nabih was busy eating cake. I cannot seem to get the babysitters to insist on a proper lunch and he ends up eating bread all day. Well, the “cake” was banana cake-bread (from scratch- like flour and baking soda scratch, ahem) and Nabih had quite a slice, 2 slices actually. There was no way to repair it as we did not have any frosting so ……..after feeling incredibly frustrated and wanting to cry (where is Betty Crocker when you need her?!!?) …..
I sat with Nabih on the back porch to have tea and get down to the business of accepting the situation. “Look, she’s here.” Nabih announces all the visitors. Three times a week there is a woman that comes to our house selling vegetables. She is amazing and I always remark on the heavy load she carries as I help her lift her wares. There is a small gazebo in the middle of campus where she sits to sell but I always forget to go there. She must know this as she carries her tub down the hill to go house to house. Today, I saw 3 watermelons in there. (Has anyone carried one watermelon recently?!) She saved the day for me and I lightened her load by buying one “pastik.” I cut a piece to fit into the triangle left by Nabih’s snacking and sliced the rest.
Mohamed’s party was simple and sweet. Grown-ups had tea (the first affair in my house) and the boys had watermelon and cake-bread. We sang happy birthday in 2 languages. For us it was perfect, no pressure, no stress but a wonderful time by all.
I think the best thing about today was that Mohamed asked, just after dinner, if he could grow up here. I guess that’s a ‘yes’ for Congo.
19.8.08
Island of the Lost Boys
I think we all agree that being here is like being at summer camp for the boys. One of Mohamed’s friends is just as eager to get out and play as Mohamed is. His dad tells me he is often ready at 7:00 to go jetting off to gather the gang. He laughs as he tells me that he held him back for a half hour and then let him go.
Sometimes we will be having our breakfast on the back porch and catch a glimpse of him coming down the hill. Sometimes Mohamed is gone just as fast and just as early. It is wonderful that they meet up and go exploring about the campus. There are enough people working about that are willing to say something if need be. Many of the maintenance crew know both Mohamed and Nabih. They stop to tell me how much they enjoy the boys, they are polite (surely they mistake my guys for some others?) and how Nabih especially, always says hello. He has apparently picked out some favorites.
So Mohamed and his friends are free to roam in relative safety. They cannot escape “the wall.” I‘ve come to really think of it this way. It is imposing and comforting on 2 very different scales. I did hear Mohamed and his friend pondering what was on the other side one afternoon and idly discussing what they’d do if they got over.
I relish their ability to have such an idyllic childhood here, though I myself feel like a child of Hamlin at times. I can hear the music at all hours. In the morning, I am reminded of Pocahontas and the “drums of war” – really it is the military cadences. But there is other music too and I am never sure where it is coming from or why it is there. I catch myself being drawn to it and fantasize marching right out of the wall and down the street, around the corner if need be, blind and drawn like a child following the Piper.
There is a dance class starting on Sunday and hopefully this will take care of my need to hear and feel the music. It is beautiful beyond words. It threatens to overwhelm me which is the only way I’ve managed to restrain. Well, that and the fact that I can’t be dragging my 2 children out into the streets of Kinshasa on foot. Not yet anyway.
For now I think we must enjoy the island and have patience and faith that the gates will open and the wall will become merely a physical factor and less an imposing presence.
Sometimes we will be having our breakfast on the back porch and catch a glimpse of him coming down the hill. Sometimes Mohamed is gone just as fast and just as early. It is wonderful that they meet up and go exploring about the campus. There are enough people working about that are willing to say something if need be. Many of the maintenance crew know both Mohamed and Nabih. They stop to tell me how much they enjoy the boys, they are polite (surely they mistake my guys for some others?) and how Nabih especially, always says hello. He has apparently picked out some favorites.
So Mohamed and his friends are free to roam in relative safety. They cannot escape “the wall.” I‘ve come to really think of it this way. It is imposing and comforting on 2 very different scales. I did hear Mohamed and his friend pondering what was on the other side one afternoon and idly discussing what they’d do if they got over.
I relish their ability to have such an idyllic childhood here, though I myself feel like a child of Hamlin at times. I can hear the music at all hours. In the morning, I am reminded of Pocahontas and the “drums of war” – really it is the military cadences. But there is other music too and I am never sure where it is coming from or why it is there. I catch myself being drawn to it and fantasize marching right out of the wall and down the street, around the corner if need be, blind and drawn like a child following the Piper.
There is a dance class starting on Sunday and hopefully this will take care of my need to hear and feel the music. It is beautiful beyond words. It threatens to overwhelm me which is the only way I’ve managed to restrain. Well, that and the fact that I can’t be dragging my 2 children out into the streets of Kinshasa on foot. Not yet anyway.
For now I think we must enjoy the island and have patience and faith that the gates will open and the wall will become merely a physical factor and less an imposing presence.
14.8.08
The Quest for Light... Revisited
14.08.08
7.21 pm
The lights have been going out at least once a day since we arrived (except perhaps for the first 2 days, a false enticement of reliability.) It seems to have gotten progressively worse. At first, it was only an hour or two….then three or four. Today the lights went out around 1:00. They just came on as I sat down to write, 6 ½ hours later.
The lights have been going out at least once a day since we arrived (except perhaps for the first 2 days, a false enticement of reliability.) It seems to have gotten progressively worse. At first, it was only an hour or two….then three or four. Today the lights went out around 1:00. They just came on as I sat down to write, 6 ½ hours later.
As you can imagine, I am rethinking my dilemma in front of the flashlight selection. What will we be trying to do without the lights? Apparently everything. There has been a pattern of power failure in the early afternoon… so we will be teaching in the dark (it seems there used to be a generator for the school but it has passed on into the land of decrepit and outdated machinery. Another is in the works we are told…)
We are fortunate to be supplied with a propane cooker and so can prepare meals in the dark. This is very convenient. However, being blessed with 2 small children, anything by candlelight becomes a hyper vigilant affair. The revised list would include wall mounted candle holders, FAT candles, a box of lighters and matches, and a hammer. With these few items, one could continue a fairly normal evening without electricity.
Of course, I miss internet and the sense of connection with the outside world. As it is, I’ve yet to get any news (how is Barack holding up anyway?!?!) and had barely any time to leisurely browse. Most likely this is due to the task of preparing my class and my mind for 25 students. It will be a bit more than any I’ve had before. I fluxuate between feeling completely up to it and panicking. Pre-school jitters, even teachers get them.
I will not be alone, however, there is an assistant to witness my incompetencies. We had an interesting exercise that illuminated the differences in our training. It is something I have been aware of but today, it seemed especially poignant.
We were completing three questions during a presentation on critical thinking.
The purpose of education…..the major problems encountered…and the implications of a successful education. I was unique in that my 2 group members were assistants, both Congolese trained teachers. We were discussing the purpose of education and came up with some beautiful, though strikingly different, suggestions. One replied most eloquently,” To build the human capacity for participating in the community properly as useful citizens.” Initially, it sounded very good to me. Of course, we all must learn to function within society and to feel a contributing member. I had to add, “and for improving it [the community and its systems].” As we shared answers around the room, I became struck by the many (mostly American) varieties on independence and self-interest. Theese included becoming life-long learners and ‘guiding students to develop to their greatest potential.’ And there it was so clear….
A focus on being part of the whole, versus a focus on developing oneself (presumably to then concentrate on the whole but often this seems to get left to the self-sacrificing few who are then labeled for thier uniqueness as altruistic or do-gooders.)
It gets into one of those sticky situations here, as I can see the value of each belief. It is important for us to develop as individuals and to achieve autonomy and independence. Equally so to be allowed a measure of choice in our futures. However, it cannot be denied that an obligation to family, community, or some system outside of ourselves is necessary to sustain human development and progression. Frequently it is this obligation that is allowed to warp into self-serving desires.
It is not my intention to try
and sort out the beginnings and endings of this (here) but it was quite amazing
to sit there in the room and see it so plainly put…..our desire to develop
individuals able to satisfy themselves and their desire to develop individuals
able to satisfy the community. I couldn’t really pick a “side” of the room but
felt quite comfortable in my position, surrounded by Congolese on the inner
circle, Americans on the outer with a bridge occurring.
International education…..by candlelight.
11.8.08
Hericot Verte
09.08.08 9:29 pm
The bus ran its usual Saturday morning shopping circuit. My 31,000 FC groceries had run out and so I decided to brave the stores with Mohamed and Nabih. We went to typical grocery store type markets and they were actually pretty well behaved (one melt down at the third and final store. It is more difficult traveling in a group like this because you must wait for everyone to finish their shopping and frequently complete an obscene number of errands. I suppose it will settle as the school year gets under way.)
The first store was stocked with such reasonably priced juices and canned goods, I began to think I could actually live and eat in Congo. The fruit and vegetable selections inside the stores, however, was dismal. The items floating by the bus windows on vendors’ heads looked amazingly appetizing. I am eager to shop at some outdoor stands for yellow bananas (as opposed to the furry gray ones being offered at City Market today) and oranges under $12.
Of course, we boarded the bus first, as I was quick to find my supplies and get the kids out. We enjoyed watching the street vendors come up and offer us things. Mohamed got very good at playing the role of middleman. He would point out interesting items to those of us on the bus and if we declined he would shake his head at the vendor and shrug his shoulders, saying “Nope, she said no.” As if he had really tried to make the sale.
So a man selling green beans walked by and tried valiantly to sell his ware. Someone on the bus was interested and so was Mohamed. So I made the sale. But I pushed for a lower price, figuring this is what I was supposed to do. We did get 2 bags, 500 FC less than he suggested. But here it is 9:30 at night and I am still thinking about it. I didn’t really know what was a good price and after paying $10 for 5 oranges, could I really argue about $2.50 for a large bag of good looking green beans? I don’t feel good about this.
Because I hate to be taken advantage of (should I mention the babysitter who asked for, and got- I suppose that’s the point-[at the school’s expense] $20 for one night’s worth of child care!!?? Ps- the going rate is $5 per day, maybe $10 if they stay the night…) and because I want to do what is right I try to haggle. I’m not great at it which gives me a rude, insistent style. And in the end I feel worse than if I had just paid what they were asking (although I put my foot down at $20. I would not have paid that.)
It is hard to feel we are all getting a fair deal when things start out so inherently unfair. It is hard not to give some money or even a T-shirt to the really cute kid wearing an oversize suit jacket and swinging down the length of the bars on the gate outside the store. But he was not alone, there were at least two other children with sad smiles and band-aids, a crying baby and two elderly handicapped sitting in a tricycle-wheelchair contraption found so frequently on these streets. And that was just one small cluster. There is no way to even up all the odds but I could have easily paid the 500 FC.
The bus ran its usual Saturday morning shopping circuit. My 31,000 FC groceries had run out and so I decided to brave the stores with Mohamed and Nabih. We went to typical grocery store type markets and they were actually pretty well behaved (one melt down at the third and final store. It is more difficult traveling in a group like this because you must wait for everyone to finish their shopping and frequently complete an obscene number of errands. I suppose it will settle as the school year gets under way.)
The first store was stocked with such reasonably priced juices and canned goods, I began to think I could actually live and eat in Congo. The fruit and vegetable selections inside the stores, however, was dismal. The items floating by the bus windows on vendors’ heads looked amazingly appetizing. I am eager to shop at some outdoor stands for yellow bananas (as opposed to the furry gray ones being offered at City Market today) and oranges under $12.
Of course, we boarded the bus first, as I was quick to find my supplies and get the kids out. We enjoyed watching the street vendors come up and offer us things. Mohamed got very good at playing the role of middleman. He would point out interesting items to those of us on the bus and if we declined he would shake his head at the vendor and shrug his shoulders, saying “Nope, she said no.” As if he had really tried to make the sale.
So a man selling green beans walked by and tried valiantly to sell his ware. Someone on the bus was interested and so was Mohamed. So I made the sale. But I pushed for a lower price, figuring this is what I was supposed to do. We did get 2 bags, 500 FC less than he suggested. But here it is 9:30 at night and I am still thinking about it. I didn’t really know what was a good price and after paying $10 for 5 oranges, could I really argue about $2.50 for a large bag of good looking green beans? I don’t feel good about this.
Because I hate to be taken advantage of (should I mention the babysitter who asked for, and got- I suppose that’s the point-[at the school’s expense] $20 for one night’s worth of child care!!?? Ps- the going rate is $5 per day, maybe $10 if they stay the night…) and because I want to do what is right I try to haggle. I’m not great at it which gives me a rude, insistent style. And in the end I feel worse than if I had just paid what they were asking (although I put my foot down at $20. I would not have paid that.)
It is hard to feel we are all getting a fair deal when things start out so inherently unfair. It is hard not to give some money or even a T-shirt to the really cute kid wearing an oversize suit jacket and swinging down the length of the bars on the gate outside the store. But he was not alone, there were at least two other children with sad smiles and band-aids, a crying baby and two elderly handicapped sitting in a tricycle-wheelchair contraption found so frequently on these streets. And that was just one small cluster. There is no way to even up all the odds but I could have easily paid the 500 FC.
Skipping Stones
8.8.08 9:34 pm
Skipping Stones
I wake every morning to birds and singing. I am told it is the military base which is just up the road from us (along with a Belgian horse riding centre.) The music has an allure, quite un-military like. Mohamed was singing it this morning. In Guinee, I woke to the call to prayer. There can be nothing more beautiful than that but this is something. It reminds me of where I am and how there can always be cause for singing.
The first week of orientation is officially over. Now that I am past my initial terror, I have begun to assess my surroundings. We have been touring a lot with the campus bus which means we are traveling as a group of expats. It is a community unto itself and it shows in all the shops we frequent, the art galleries that boast American prices, and the restaurants serving brick oven pizza (ok, one woman did order the antelope.) But it has been a useful and entertaining introduction. Helpful in creating a bridge between us as professionals and also preparing us to navigate our needs independently.
Yesterday we took a tour of the city which seemed to highlight all the colonial points of interest. While I am aware of the significance, I wonder, surely the history of Congo began before 1836. At the medical stops we were told, this hospital is great, it is run by Europeans or, there is a dentist, they are very good -three Belgians. I canot get into the many layers behind these statements but feel frustration simply at their existence.
I am eager to see another side of Kinshasa. It remains an immense city with apartments and houses of every kind. It strikes me as rather clean and I have been told this is due to a recent push by the mayor to improve the circumstance. It is a remarkable job.
I am still struggling with conflicting emotions about certain aspects of life here (originally detailed in “Complaining” but I think it will not make it to posting. It is hard to give the right words to this dilemma.) Truly I cannot complain. I find it luxurious here, an idyllic garden as was described to me.
The boys have found some friends to play with and run around the campus riding bikes, visiting each others houses, and shaking sticks at trees. It is beautiful to watch them in this way.
I have found someone to watch Nabih and he seems especially content with this. Last night he was repeating all of the French I spoke to Lamine and is certain to adapt with ease. Mohamed is at just the age to be resisting a bit. It will come but for now he is trying to find his comfort zone. The mayonnaise and watermelon have received his approval (even better than America!) but with all other things, the jury is still out. (The bike riding and volley ball may be pulling him to the positive however.)
I too search for my zone. It is such a different experience from being in Guinee. I love speaking French again and have met many interesting and friendly people. However, I have been dismayed at the disconnect I see and hear. It is along the lines of class and race and I don’t feel quite comfortable on either side. (Clearly there is not much I can do about race but…I’d like the chance to meet some Congolese and often end up talking to the campus/house workers. It is obvious things are not done this way but it is one aspect I cannot undo, perhaps to my ultimate detriment.) I find it hard to adopt the role of wealthy American. A woman I enjoy talking with invited me last night to join the Belgian riding club. “The children could go together.” I find her helpful and informative, but way out of my league. I cannot ever imagine joining a riding stable- here in Congo or anywhere really. It is wrong; even if I could afford it, I do not think emotionally I could manage it.
I am feeling the things I forgot as well…or elected not to bring. Long pants for Mohamed, warm sweaters (yes, I have been cold here in Kinshasa and there is a potential problem of A/C- too much-if you can believe it.) I was preparing to come and live simply only to find the best of everything. People come and create a pampered zone for themselves. I suppose that immigrants do it everywhere, arrive and immediately try to recreate what they know. I am not really looking for America here in Kinshasa, but I will not deny it is luxurious to have access to some of the comforts of home (internet access for one and perhaps the washing machine for the other. I would love to have a few small Tupperware containers and 3 plastic water bottles. Did I mention my first shopping bill…a receipt for the memory books 31,360 FC… Dollar store anyone?)
Mohamed is being eaten by the black flies, Nabih not so much. I am missing shea butter here, which seems something of an anomaly. (Who knew I would need to bring shea butter to Africa? I‘m convinced it is the only thing that heal Mohamed.) Lamine insists there must be a community of Peul selling West African goods somewhere but anyone I ask has yet to know what I am speaking of. I’ve managed to find my other African favorites and have dined so finely on palm oil, peanut butter, and cassava leaves. One good sauce by candlelight (the electric does go out occasionally but has yet to be a major inconvenience, rather a cause for celebration each time it is restored) has such power to leave me feeling content. The rhythm of African days is a beautiful thing.
Classes will begin in one week. I have spent a day straightening my room and taking stock of the materials. I will have a full time teaching assistant who is a certified teacher….another of those conflicts I am still struggling with. I am almost ashamed to be here. But it is the system and somehow we are working within it. (Perhaps I will develop a symbol to insert every time I come up to a thought that requires more words than I can possibly give, ¥ .) It is nice, however, to have a place to focus that seems familiar ground. Aah, the classroom. I have been assured the students will not be throwing chairs but may be a bit chatty and personally intrusive. Let it be known immediately what topics are off limits. (Apparently it is the ‘nanny/driver syndrome’, where the students believe you are just another hired hand to be spoken to in any way they wish. Honestly, the children I have met so far, missionary families, have been extremely calm and polite.)
It will take some time, this city life. Perhaps it is just step one on my way to the school whose fees can be paid in chickens and manioc leaves. It is difficult to be believe I am striving for even simpler yet. I still dream of Guinee. Kinshasa is comfortable. Guinee is vibrant.
So that is why I am here skipping from one topic to the next, much as my emotions skip from frustration to pleasure, much as my understanding skips from enlightenment to ignorance. I am still balancing the welcome and look forward to a time when I am more aware of the process and more attune to the inner messages of Kinshasa life. There are double meanings everywhere. Even here, skipping stones.
Skipping Stones
I wake every morning to birds and singing. I am told it is the military base which is just up the road from us (along with a Belgian horse riding centre.) The music has an allure, quite un-military like. Mohamed was singing it this morning. In Guinee, I woke to the call to prayer. There can be nothing more beautiful than that but this is something. It reminds me of where I am and how there can always be cause for singing.
The first week of orientation is officially over. Now that I am past my initial terror, I have begun to assess my surroundings. We have been touring a lot with the campus bus which means we are traveling as a group of expats. It is a community unto itself and it shows in all the shops we frequent, the art galleries that boast American prices, and the restaurants serving brick oven pizza (ok, one woman did order the antelope.) But it has been a useful and entertaining introduction. Helpful in creating a bridge between us as professionals and also preparing us to navigate our needs independently.
Yesterday we took a tour of the city which seemed to highlight all the colonial points of interest. While I am aware of the significance, I wonder, surely the history of Congo began before 1836. At the medical stops we were told, this hospital is great, it is run by Europeans or, there is a dentist, they are very good -three Belgians. I canot get into the many layers behind these statements but feel frustration simply at their existence.
I am eager to see another side of Kinshasa. It remains an immense city with apartments and houses of every kind. It strikes me as rather clean and I have been told this is due to a recent push by the mayor to improve the circumstance. It is a remarkable job.
I am still struggling with conflicting emotions about certain aspects of life here (originally detailed in “Complaining” but I think it will not make it to posting. It is hard to give the right words to this dilemma.) Truly I cannot complain. I find it luxurious here, an idyllic garden as was described to me.
The boys have found some friends to play with and run around the campus riding bikes, visiting each others houses, and shaking sticks at trees. It is beautiful to watch them in this way.
I have found someone to watch Nabih and he seems especially content with this. Last night he was repeating all of the French I spoke to Lamine and is certain to adapt with ease. Mohamed is at just the age to be resisting a bit. It will come but for now he is trying to find his comfort zone. The mayonnaise and watermelon have received his approval (even better than America!) but with all other things, the jury is still out. (The bike riding and volley ball may be pulling him to the positive however.)
I too search for my zone. It is such a different experience from being in Guinee. I love speaking French again and have met many interesting and friendly people. However, I have been dismayed at the disconnect I see and hear. It is along the lines of class and race and I don’t feel quite comfortable on either side. (Clearly there is not much I can do about race but…I’d like the chance to meet some Congolese and often end up talking to the campus/house workers. It is obvious things are not done this way but it is one aspect I cannot undo, perhaps to my ultimate detriment.) I find it hard to adopt the role of wealthy American. A woman I enjoy talking with invited me last night to join the Belgian riding club. “The children could go together.” I find her helpful and informative, but way out of my league. I cannot ever imagine joining a riding stable- here in Congo or anywhere really. It is wrong; even if I could afford it, I do not think emotionally I could manage it.
I am feeling the things I forgot as well…or elected not to bring. Long pants for Mohamed, warm sweaters (yes, I have been cold here in Kinshasa and there is a potential problem of A/C- too much-if you can believe it.) I was preparing to come and live simply only to find the best of everything. People come and create a pampered zone for themselves. I suppose that immigrants do it everywhere, arrive and immediately try to recreate what they know. I am not really looking for America here in Kinshasa, but I will not deny it is luxurious to have access to some of the comforts of home (internet access for one and perhaps the washing machine for the other. I would love to have a few small Tupperware containers and 3 plastic water bottles. Did I mention my first shopping bill…a receipt for the memory books 31,360 FC… Dollar store anyone?)
Mohamed is being eaten by the black flies, Nabih not so much. I am missing shea butter here, which seems something of an anomaly. (Who knew I would need to bring shea butter to Africa? I‘m convinced it is the only thing that heal Mohamed.) Lamine insists there must be a community of Peul selling West African goods somewhere but anyone I ask has yet to know what I am speaking of. I’ve managed to find my other African favorites and have dined so finely on palm oil, peanut butter, and cassava leaves. One good sauce by candlelight (the electric does go out occasionally but has yet to be a major inconvenience, rather a cause for celebration each time it is restored) has such power to leave me feeling content. The rhythm of African days is a beautiful thing.
Classes will begin in one week. I have spent a day straightening my room and taking stock of the materials. I will have a full time teaching assistant who is a certified teacher….another of those conflicts I am still struggling with. I am almost ashamed to be here. But it is the system and somehow we are working within it. (Perhaps I will develop a symbol to insert every time I come up to a thought that requires more words than I can possibly give, ¥ .) It is nice, however, to have a place to focus that seems familiar ground. Aah, the classroom. I have been assured the students will not be throwing chairs but may be a bit chatty and personally intrusive. Let it be known immediately what topics are off limits. (Apparently it is the ‘nanny/driver syndrome’, where the students believe you are just another hired hand to be spoken to in any way they wish. Honestly, the children I have met so far, missionary families, have been extremely calm and polite.)
It will take some time, this city life. Perhaps it is just step one on my way to the school whose fees can be paid in chickens and manioc leaves. It is difficult to be believe I am striving for even simpler yet. I still dream of Guinee. Kinshasa is comfortable. Guinee is vibrant.
So that is why I am here skipping from one topic to the next, much as my emotions skip from frustration to pleasure, much as my understanding skips from enlightenment to ignorance. I am still balancing the welcome and look forward to a time when I am more aware of the process and more attune to the inner messages of Kinshasa life. There are double meanings everywhere. Even here, skipping stones.
Fotos de Congo
I've been having trouble uploading photos but will continue trying. I believe it is actually a problem with the site and they are working on it.
6.8.08
Campus
These few days have been getting to know each other, the campus, and Kinshasa. It has been wonderful for developing cohesiveness but hard on the kids. I am torn between wanting to be around others and needing to be alone. It is a process of listening and watching to see who might be a friend and a test to see if I can really manage the children alone. No. Well, it’s not too bad but Nabih throws fits with regularity. He’s tired and overwhelmed and sometimes I think it would be easier to just stay home. Which is what we did tonight.
There is every kind of character here and I am in flux about the many ironies confronting me. We are in the middle of Africa but it is not the same as being welcomed by the family of dance. I appreciate my secure surroundings and the fact that I can walk home on a dark street in complete safety. I am coming to appreciate some of the neighbors and quick chats or informal stop bys. It could be a community. I wonder if I could fit here.
Just outside the wall I hear the sounds of city life. Children are playing and chickens are roaming. Tonight as I read the boys to sleep, I heard the night drumming with energy. Sometimes it feels like out there is Africa. In here is just a lovely place to be.
The rain forest is beautiful (and I’m told it’s not even really green yet. My eyes cannot prepare for the feast awaiting them.) Today I saw my classroom and became excited about the business of being here. In the summer, I forget how much I love to teach. But the school really is amazing and seems to have so much to offer. I am looking forward to being part of a team again.
Mohamed has made some friends and had some fun riding his bike around. He was so bold as to make his way home alone one day and, though frantic at his absence, I can be glad that he has so quickly learned the way and knew the right place to go. There is a volleyball game on Sundays that will make him happy to join and even a Congolese dance class we may try.
But this is all here, in relative safety and seclusion. It is a different way to be in Africa. I miss the warmth of being around artists, the music and dancing. The easy way of talking without speaking.
With patience things will come, connections that are meant to happen. That is what I am really doing this week; learning how to slow down and to have patience. Life on campus.
There is every kind of character here and I am in flux about the many ironies confronting me. We are in the middle of Africa but it is not the same as being welcomed by the family of dance. I appreciate my secure surroundings and the fact that I can walk home on a dark street in complete safety. I am coming to appreciate some of the neighbors and quick chats or informal stop bys. It could be a community. I wonder if I could fit here.
Just outside the wall I hear the sounds of city life. Children are playing and chickens are roaming. Tonight as I read the boys to sleep, I heard the night drumming with energy. Sometimes it feels like out there is Africa. In here is just a lovely place to be.
The rain forest is beautiful (and I’m told it’s not even really green yet. My eyes cannot prepare for the feast awaiting them.) Today I saw my classroom and became excited about the business of being here. In the summer, I forget how much I love to teach. But the school really is amazing and seems to have so much to offer. I am looking forward to being part of a team again.
Mohamed has made some friends and had some fun riding his bike around. He was so bold as to make his way home alone one day and, though frantic at his absence, I can be glad that he has so quickly learned the way and knew the right place to go. There is a volleyball game on Sundays that will make him happy to join and even a Congolese dance class we may try.
But this is all here, in relative safety and seclusion. It is a different way to be in Africa. I miss the warmth of being around artists, the music and dancing. The easy way of talking without speaking.
With patience things will come, connections that are meant to happen. That is what I am really doing this week; learning how to slow down and to have patience. Life on campus.
The First 24
The plane ride, while long, was rather uneventful. Or rather, when I arrived at the airport I was initially told the flight was closed. With beads of sweat pouring down my face I wondered exactly how I was going to call with the news. I did my very best to concentrate on deep breathing (this is not happening, this will not happen,…) aware that all the passengers were watching me, waiting for a spectacle. Denial works sometimes and after looking at my ticket (not just to Paris but then to Congo...no, there is probably not another connecting flight), some arrangements were made to hastily get me on the plane. The baggage was deemed too heavy and I was frantic to make the flight. I tore open the bag and tried to decide what things could go. Books? Yes the books on teaching poetry and enriching the lives of youth, gone. Not the bag of medicines. String? Yes the bag of string I wanted to make the Huichol Indian yarn paintings, gone. I‘m tearing things out of the bag dropping stuff on the floor and feeling completely ridiculous. There was no maximum weight listed anywhere. Lamine has done this a million times. Isn‘t this what overweight fees are for?!?!
The man eventually helps me out and passes the bag. I rush through security barely saying goodbye, …..all so we could then sit on the tarmac for an hour and a half. I went from running to the gate pulling children and bags behind to sitting impatiently in a cramped airline seat. Only two of the seats were together but the flight attendants managed to work things out. After that, things were fairly uneventful. Nabih had one small moment of being very over tired and hyper active but by then we had nearly arrived. In Paris we did meet 2 other people going to TASOK and so we became a group.
The arrival in Kinshasa, again, uneventful. Perhaps the night air softened things a bit…..the military guys look less severe with their weapons in the shadow of night (though nothing really softens the acrid smell of burning toxins.) There are areas marked by long yellow lines to walk in imposing a rigid military stride on us all. Anytime the group got too wide, we were ushered back to the marked areas. Guinea was that way as well. It seems so strange to be walking in straight lines and corners when the pavement is vast and open (due of course, I suppose to the crowd control technique.) We were quickly ushered to the VIP area where we found ourselves in comfy chairs and sipping Cokes. Nabih had a pretty major meltdown here but it was really nothing compared to the Conakry airport. For that, I suppose I am grateful. Once I may have had the energy to figure it out, but not this time, not with two children.
After our bags had been corralled, we descended into the night. Outside the airport was full of children selling eggs and others just asking for money or singing things of America. Mohamed was confused by this. He saw children looking like his brother but acting so different. It took awhile for everyone to sort their gear and so the kids sat in a car surrounded by other kids gawking in the windows wondering if they “speaka Englis?”.
“Can we go back to America tomorrow?” Mohamed wondered. He then set about the task of comforting Nabih by explaining how we would be leaving tomorrow and Baba would come to get us.
Perhaps here is where it started, listening to the children and their fears, spoken so openly and with a ready solution. Perhaps it grew when there was talk of missing bags or when my last finally arrived but was split open down the side. Somewhere along the way I began to panic.
The house was a complete surprise. I’m not exactly sure what I had been expecting but it was certainly…LESS. I was not prepared for the enormity of the house. I felt swallowed up and overwhelmed. I did not pack any of the things that would be necessary to cozy this place up. It seemed to be vast tile and freshly painted wall space. Three bedrooms (though one is not considered that I suppose. In my world, it’s perfect for 1.) It seemed so big and empty and there wasn’t much hope of us filling it up.
Mohamed made a valiant effort and decided to put away his clothes and toys. He alone unpacked the suitcase and informed me of where, exactly, I could find the clothes for Nabih.
“We are lucky,” he said as he lined up all his toys: a row of cars followed by a row of lizards and then a few wrestling guys. I could tell he was thinking about the airport. “We have a lot of toys. See?” and he passed his arm across the meager collection. It could fit inside a gallon zip loc bag. I love this side of him, seeing his riches for what they are and making no presumptions.
I imagine his little six year old body straddling two worlds- one of nannies and drivers and European vacations with one of boys in the night trying to sell boiled eggs to jet-lagged Americans. It’s up to me to keep his fragile wisdom whole.
So the small storm began again, swirling in my stomach. By the time we had readied for bed it was a raging hurricane of doubt and fear. Surely I had made the biggest mistake to come here alone. I wanted something comfortable and known as much as the children. I wanted to embrace their simple answer of going home to all things familiar. Failing that I wanted someone else to be here to help weather the clouds of change. There was no way to sleep through the inside noise.
Somewhere in the night, my worries turned to the open bag and what might have fallen out. I worried that I had foolishly placed a box of blank checks in there and that it had been stolen. I was certain at that very moment my bank account was being raided of its whole $500 and then drawn negative. I felt so completely and utterly alone. I prayed all night.
In the morning I found my box of checks securely placed and thanked God for supporting me. The next nights passed nearly the same, full of smaller storms of self-doubt. It was not until Monday night that my stomach calmed enough for real sleep. And it is not until tonight that I have remembered why I came. Slowing down is hard and I resist…but I have passed through the most difficult part of the change and am ready to embrace the adventure.
The man eventually helps me out and passes the bag. I rush through security barely saying goodbye, …..all so we could then sit on the tarmac for an hour and a half. I went from running to the gate pulling children and bags behind to sitting impatiently in a cramped airline seat. Only two of the seats were together but the flight attendants managed to work things out. After that, things were fairly uneventful. Nabih had one small moment of being very over tired and hyper active but by then we had nearly arrived. In Paris we did meet 2 other people going to TASOK and so we became a group.
The arrival in Kinshasa, again, uneventful. Perhaps the night air softened things a bit…..the military guys look less severe with their weapons in the shadow of night (though nothing really softens the acrid smell of burning toxins.) There are areas marked by long yellow lines to walk in imposing a rigid military stride on us all. Anytime the group got too wide, we were ushered back to the marked areas. Guinea was that way as well. It seems so strange to be walking in straight lines and corners when the pavement is vast and open (due of course, I suppose to the crowd control technique.) We were quickly ushered to the VIP area where we found ourselves in comfy chairs and sipping Cokes. Nabih had a pretty major meltdown here but it was really nothing compared to the Conakry airport. For that, I suppose I am grateful. Once I may have had the energy to figure it out, but not this time, not with two children.
After our bags had been corralled, we descended into the night. Outside the airport was full of children selling eggs and others just asking for money or singing things of America. Mohamed was confused by this. He saw children looking like his brother but acting so different. It took awhile for everyone to sort their gear and so the kids sat in a car surrounded by other kids gawking in the windows wondering if they “speaka Englis?”.
“Can we go back to America tomorrow?” Mohamed wondered. He then set about the task of comforting Nabih by explaining how we would be leaving tomorrow and Baba would come to get us.
Perhaps here is where it started, listening to the children and their fears, spoken so openly and with a ready solution. Perhaps it grew when there was talk of missing bags or when my last finally arrived but was split open down the side. Somewhere along the way I began to panic.
The house was a complete surprise. I’m not exactly sure what I had been expecting but it was certainly…LESS. I was not prepared for the enormity of the house. I felt swallowed up and overwhelmed. I did not pack any of the things that would be necessary to cozy this place up. It seemed to be vast tile and freshly painted wall space. Three bedrooms (though one is not considered that I suppose. In my world, it’s perfect for 1.) It seemed so big and empty and there wasn’t much hope of us filling it up.
Mohamed made a valiant effort and decided to put away his clothes and toys. He alone unpacked the suitcase and informed me of where, exactly, I could find the clothes for Nabih.
“We are lucky,” he said as he lined up all his toys: a row of cars followed by a row of lizards and then a few wrestling guys. I could tell he was thinking about the airport. “We have a lot of toys. See?” and he passed his arm across the meager collection. It could fit inside a gallon zip loc bag. I love this side of him, seeing his riches for what they are and making no presumptions.
I imagine his little six year old body straddling two worlds- one of nannies and drivers and European vacations with one of boys in the night trying to sell boiled eggs to jet-lagged Americans. It’s up to me to keep his fragile wisdom whole.
So the small storm began again, swirling in my stomach. By the time we had readied for bed it was a raging hurricane of doubt and fear. Surely I had made the biggest mistake to come here alone. I wanted something comfortable and known as much as the children. I wanted to embrace their simple answer of going home to all things familiar. Failing that I wanted someone else to be here to help weather the clouds of change. There was no way to sleep through the inside noise.
Somewhere in the night, my worries turned to the open bag and what might have fallen out. I worried that I had foolishly placed a box of blank checks in there and that it had been stolen. I was certain at that very moment my bank account was being raided of its whole $500 and then drawn negative. I felt so completely and utterly alone. I prayed all night.
In the morning I found my box of checks securely placed and thanked God for supporting me. The next nights passed nearly the same, full of smaller storms of self-doubt. It was not until Monday night that my stomach calmed enough for real sleep. And it is not until tonight that I have remembered why I came. Slowing down is hard and I resist…but I have passed through the most difficult part of the change and am ready to embrace the adventure.
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