Maluku

Sunday September 21, 2008 10:01 pm

It appears it is possible to have horrible weekends, even in Africa. This one began as bad as any I’ve had in the States, for no good reason as truly wretched weekends do. Sometimes I think it comes from not knowing exactly what’s going to happen. It eliminates the ability to be visually prepared, an essential component for me.

There was a trip to Maluku for teachers and families. I was told it was a restaurant on the river about an hour and a half away from the school but with a large space to walk around outdoors. I was assured I wouldn’t be tied to a table (easier to fast if I can walk away from the food) and it would be great for the boys.

So I’m picturing some kind of upper class restaurant that has a view of the river and a large rolling meadow to chase the kids around outside. Just showing up for the bus gave me a sense that I might be wrong. People had huge bags with towels and blankets. I heard them talking about swimming. I began to rethink my packing strategy (popcorn for the bus, plenty of band-aids and a camera.) Strangely enough, just before we left, Nabih’s pants split completely open (perhaps not so surprisingly because I had just repaired them that morning.) This allowed me to dash home and grab a change of clothes for him, swimsuits, and a pair of sandals (I also assumed major bugs- they told me no bugs. My feet were dying in sneakers!)


Kinshasa gave way to a bit of harsh countryside speckled with small cement blocks and occasional neighborhoods. There were curtains blowing through the doorways and someone working in every yard. The grasses looked sharp and jagged, everything still waiting on the rain. It was all dry, parched and dusty- a difficult way to live. Every so often a patch of garden appeared flaunting a hint of the green that is rumored yet to come.

Eventually, Congo showed a bit of her hills and small mountains. It is almost similar to the Hudson Valley. The houses became softer, the landscape a bit greener. My eyes are still colored by war and everywhere I looked, I saw soldiers moving through the grass. I wonder how anyone would know what happened. Because most of all, the houses that I saw appeared so distant from the rest of the world, so isolated and small. It was only on the way home, in the dusk, that I saw some had lights flickering inside and small TV’s tuned to local channels.

We arrived at the picnic area and I immediately wanted to go home. An insurmountable wave of irritation and anger overcame me. It settled deep within and churned up every so often lest I forget its presence. I felt stuck and unhappy like a sulking child. The view of the river and mountains spread out before us. Many had already laid their blankets on a perfect spot. I was reminded of a television set tuned to a channel I didn’t want to see.

There were about 4 or 5 small huts along the coastline. They were made in the style of a small cement half-wall and topped with a grass roof. Inside there was a table and chairs. This was the ‘restaurant.’ It was true, I would not be tied to a table. I tried to walk around but it was not clear which land belonged to the picnic area and which was for private houses. There were many people coming and going. Some selling fish or fruits, some were little kids. I watched a group for a bit, playing by their house. It was two boys hacking at a tree with a machete. Ah, the toys of Africa. Before I could become too alarmed, the oldest took it away and then there was something else to hold their interest.

My boys were happy to swim and Mohamed, especially, had a great time. Several of his friends had come along and they splashed and played in the water. There were canoes to look at and some fishermen who caught gigantic fish. All of the children ran to touch them.

But still, I was irritated. I was reminded of a beach in Guinea where we stayed for a few nights. The first day was a bit like this as well. I managed to find a quiet, lonely hut to rest in. Here, I felt stuck with Americans. I just kept looking out at the group feeling so completely out of sorts and out of place. Perhaps a ‘family’ outing with me missing my family? In Guinea, I spent my time drawing but here, someone else was drawing. And that unsettled me too.

Just when I was making it through the day, the boys decided they wanted to go on a boat ride. I was content to let Mohamed go with his friends and a few adults but when Nabih got on, I had to go too. Sensory overload. Frequently this is my problem and my ability to manage it depends on many things. Clearly this was not a day for handling it well. The children were so loud and constantly reaching overboard to grab plants and sticks in the water. It was difficult to convince Mohamed not to do it when everyone else was- my problem for most of the day. I had an odd ‘strict parent’ image of myself that I’ve never seen before. I was also extremely uncomfortable with my seat in the front, near our 12 year old paddle boy. I simply could not enjoy a ride powered by his labor. I did take his photo, he smiled a shy consent when I asked him, and later gave him 400 FC. I couldn’t tell, by the look on his face, whether that was the right thing to do or not. I was simply disgusted with entire affair.

The boat ride truly sunk me. Shortly after, we packed up to go but the bus ride home was a cacophony of song and noise, laughter and howling, crying, screaming, stomping and chaos. If I could have packaged it and presented it again to a workshop of teachers, I could truly explain sensory integration disorder. I only made it through the ride by thinking of people who experience their every day like that.

The front part of the bus was involved in some kind of Casey Cassum count down randomly playing 3 minute intervals of 80’s hits. The back of the bus was filled with children alternately shooting vehicles behind us and barking like dogs and imitating various farm animals (someone had the fine sense to sing that song…who let the dogs out…...which became pigs, chickens and finally children.)

I thought again of my trip in Guinea. Our bus ride was long and we sang, but it was the songs and rhythms of Africa. There was an energy that seemed to match the landscape, a harmony that united us with where we were rather than draw distinctions.

It’s not that I didn’t recognize the songs everyone was singing, or even enjoy a few…and they certainly had incredible voices! But it is a culture I was hoping to leave behind, in hopes of embracing a new. This is clearly not the international circuit. It is more like coming to recreate your home here, long enough to get back to your home there.
But I really came to be home, here.

This morning Jacques stopped by with the drums. It seemed a promising start. Even as the boys began to play, a lingering residue of irritability clouded my day. It was a fundraising picnic day for the school, however, and I had agreed to paint faces. So I had to start by painting some kind of smile on my own.

I do like face painting, however, and the creative outlet proved exactly perfect for me. Nabih sat close (he truly is amazing, though grumpy at times) and 2 ½ hours flew by as I turned children into spidermen, batmen, tigers, butterflies and fairies. I was able to hand a box full of cash to the PTC and end my weekend feeling something close to human. Sensorially integrated.

Counting the ways

I read a blog someone had began…Kinshasa how do I love thee….and I am constantly reminded of this, though I think why do I love thee. Most of my queries are not related solely to Kinshasa but Africa in general. It is a constant question about why I am here and feeling so at home when there are definitely sights and systems that simply should not be.

I have been trying to fast for Ramadan and am constantly reminded of how hungry people are. Being hungry makes you very tired and everywhere I see people sleeping, all I can see is how they are starving too. This is the point of Ramadan, to make you aware of the suffering of others. I cringe when I remember times I’ve heard people use the word ‘lazy’ as a descriptor and even when I remember Mama Rochelle dozing off on my back porch. To be fair, people doze off many places, I view it as a form of waiting, but also I have now this extra veil. Hunger is exhausting.

While I am riding through the streets noticing the hungry, tired people catching naps on slender wooden benches or hard concrete steps, I cannot grasp the systems that keep them trapped. Clearly a better standard is possible because many are living it here. But how can it be made accessible? There are many who do not have electricity or running water in their homes, and I can’t think of a single reason for this.

I amuse myself when I am out by guessing what kind of house each person is coming from. It is a great curiosity for me. I saw a woman who had just bought an extension strip and so must assume she has electricity. I try to make a guess about the people in cars but it is not possible yet for me to discern the taxis from the other cars. As we sat outside a store the other day, I kept thinking people were stopping to pick up their friends, the way they coasted to the street edge just long enough for the person to jump in. Only after ( I think my intelligence may be diminishing here in Kinshasa) did it occur to me that they were taxis. I don’t know how you can tell if you’re jumping into a taxi or some kind of crazy terrorist- kidnapper’s car. Just part of the risk I suppose. Chalk it up to another strange reason we all love to be here.

Earlier that same day at the market, I had stopped to regard some oranges someone was selling. At times, my French completely fails and I cannot process the numbers. It finally occurred to me that this particular corner was not one where I wanted to be trying to make a purchase. So I apologized and walked away. Immediately a group of boys came following me, asking for money or food. I caught one reaching his hand into my plastic shopping bag. I made a look of mock surprise and a local “Heh?!” and, luckily, he snatched his hand back and I stepped onto the bus. Just after however, this group of boys was joined by a few older and all began yelling something about a photograph. It seems someone took their picture, which is not allowed in the downtown area. (Can you really imagine a city where no photographing is allowed?) I can’t be sure if this was a real event or one fabricated by the boys in order to demand money (punctuated by threats to call the police.) Even the driver had difficulty getting them to go on their way. Surely this is not the reason why we love it here.

Finally, I went out to see an amazing concert by Youssou N’Dour. The very poignant billboard announcing his show presented one performance at a certain hotel for $200. I opted for the next night at an outdoor arena for $30, chair not included. I took the boys and we really had a good time. Of course, we waited for hours until the show started and Nabih fell asleep. Once it finally began, Mohamed simply could not sleep. It was that engaging. Youssou N’Dour invites many performers to liven up his show, dancers, drummers and others. I thought it would be so amazing to see him in Africa. It wasn’t until after I arrived that it occurred to me (that diminishing intelligence again, I think it’s related to all the burning garbage sending off toxic, brain-damaging waves) that the concert was not accessible to most Congolese. Figure $5 a day- this would be a week’s salary. I could never attend a concert in the States that cost as much as a week’s salary.

There were many Congolese but just as many etranger. And it was amazing to see him in Africa. It has been a long time since I have heard strong and powerful music. I remembered so many things about who I used to be.

That is something that happens here in Africa too. It is very easy to feel cut off and left out. It is very easy to get caught up in the rhythm of work and home, a simple life to be sure, pleasant but also neglectful. I really came to find a service and sometimes I allow myself to become just as busy and self absorbed as I did at home.

Leaving the show at night is a feat that definitely calls for outer awareness however. As we walked to the car, the groups of boys quickly assembled. They followed us to our car, and others to theirs, demanding a fee for ‘watching’ the car. The guy who was driving thoughtfully opened our side first and quickly got the boys and I inside. They seemed to surround him with even greater urgency as he made his way to the driver side door. They can get pushy and insistent. I think it is something you know will happen and pretend to have experience with, but I don’t see how it can ever get less nerve racking. It must forever remain a tense moment because there are too many variables to allow a set policy to be effective. Just as things were getting a bit too hands on, another boy came up, loudly sending the others off. Then he, in turn, expected to be the grand winner for saving the day (or night.) Finally, however, the guy who was driving managed to slip some money to the young boy who was originally commissioned for the job. Certainly, we cannot count this in the ways we love thee.

Truthfully, I simply do not know why I am here. Others, and I think there are many, would readily say they do not actually love thee and are here for various reasons financial and career related. Perhaps I have some of those. Just as I have some days when I want to scream in frustration at the lack of internet connectivity or the complicated steps involved in making a phone call. There are the days when trying to complete a simple act, which has now become a twisted contorted version of its former self, is enough to send me over the edge, but still I can say, I do love thee. Just don’t ask me to count the ways.

Mondele

Tuesday September 16, 2008 9:57pm



Every nonwestern (non-White?) country has a term for the whites, usually a word the children scream as they run alongside your car or behind the bus. I have never been able to figure out if I should take offense to this or not. I always picture a bunch of white children running after a black person yelling ‘nigger.’ Of course, the historical context and implications are not there and I’ve come to see it is no comparison but I dislike it none the less. The word in Sousou is fote, in Lingala, mondele, in Wolof toubab. Actually, I learned that ‘toubab’ literally means ‘no worries’ as in a person who is always happy and has no worries. This is a supposed reference to our elevated and wealthy station in life. I might assume the other words have similar connotation but have heard them uttered in such a way as to express disdain or contempt as well.

So here I am mondele but I have managed to make some pleasant Congolese acquaintances despite that. The incident that spurred all of this occurred with the incredible power of class and status associated with mondele. It has been difficult for me to adjust to such strong social distinctions, though I am finding my way. Nabih, however, has discovered long before I how to implement his power. Sad to say, his days of apprentice gardener are over (at least in an official sense, we will be planting a garden of our own next Saturday and he is welcome and invited to dig in the dirt!) It was one day, a few weeks ago now, that he managed to convince someone of his dire need to see me. It was a school day and I had been off running errands or meeting in another room. He could not find me and apparently made his wishes so well known that he was led to the Administration building right to the superintendent herself. A three year old child! Amazing. Of course, I was feeling something other than amazement as she relayed this story to me. Kind as she is, it was punctuated with remarks that stated how impressive and socially intelligent Nabih is, to have managed such a feat. I had other adjectives in mind but smiled politely and agreed with her. Yes, certainly impressive and intelligent.

The positive aspect is that she managed to accomplish what I could not which is to say that Nabih has no longer been hanging around my classroom like a sad, lost puppy dog. The nanny, Mama Vero, is having a much easier time managing him and his willfulness.
We miss Nabih a bit but he still gets to the playground and occasionally plays with the other children. He is still wishing feoverently to go to school and I know he misses having friends his own age to play with. It will be here faster than I know it. He is dressing himself now and even doing his hair. He keeps asking for an earring (so far I’ve said no) and has managed to spend a night or two completely in his own bed.

I guess in many ways he reminds me of Mohamed, who also could not wait to go to school. It will come. Mohamed has asked if I could just teach fifth grade until he gets there so he can be in my class. That might be rushing things a bit. Of course, someone told Mohamed when he finishes his spelling book he will be in second grade. Ambition set in and his teacher actually had to keep the book at school. He completed several pages ahead and even slept with the book. I tried to explain to him that he couldn’t really get to second grad early but he is still determined to try. Just a coupla mondele, looking for the good life.

The Wisdom of Lando

The Wisdom of Lando aka Papa Lando, who cleans my room after school. He sweeps, I grade papers, we trade thoughts.


As I have begun to have conversations in more detail, friendly Congolese want to ask more questions about Americans. I find it difficult to hear them say “les blanc (the whites)” as if we were all the same. Just as difficult as being in the US and hearing people talk of “the Africans.” I want to remind both parties that the country is vast (America) and that Africa is a continent comprised of many countries. One should show caution before making such broad sweeping statements.

However, I suppose there is a bit of human nature to this and tried to find some delight in their (mis)perceptions of Americans. So I composed a list, recognize yourself , be wary, be amused.

Ÿ American women are free, they have a lot of privelege and don’t want to get married.
Ÿ If you did want to get married, it doesn’t cost too much. (no dowry.)
Ÿ If you have a lot of children, the government will help you (pay you.)
Ÿ If you have a job in America, you will become rich.
Ÿ Families don’t stay together in America, they’re not close. (surely this is true in many cases, but also NOT for many close knit families who have seen generations pass through one house or piece of land.)
Ÿ Everyone in America has a job, a lot of money and no one is hungry. (We could only aspire to this.)
Ÿ It is only the people in Texas that are mean spirited. The rest of the states are good natured and friendly to all.
Ÿ Your children will take care of you when they are adults. (Really, this is an African idea that is assumed to be true for Americans. Lando laughed at me when I told him how grown children will still ask for money to help with college, a car, a house, etc. He laughed even louder when I told him about the huge hospitals where we stash our old folks and pay other people to take care of them. He did not believe me. “Who pays?” he asked incredulously.)

An interesting concept was raised about salary. Lando remarked that in Congo workers are often paid by the day. In America, it is better, he reasons, to be paid by the hour. It sounds good until you realize all of the regulations in place. There are overtime limits and many companies discourage or even prohibit any overtime at all. Often, companies look for part-time help, in which case the hourly pay adds up to much of nothing, a little bit of something. And most ironically of all, the better jobs in America are the ones that pay in salary, not even by the day but by the year. These jobs are often time consuming and people take work home with them. They work on weekends or long distance electronically while on ’vacation’ or holiday. Generally, you work until the job is done, which it often never is and so the salary becomes small compensation for the quality of time you’re missing. There was really no way to explain this to him that he would actually believe and comprehend so I just left it. Yeah, it seems reasonable that getting paid by the hour would be a lot better. Just like it seems reasonable that getting to America would solve all your problems make the world a better place. Some things, there’s just no arguing. As for the Texas thing, well………

International Instructor

It has been difficult to arrive at this publication. Too many thoughts, not enough time, frustration setting in. I have been reading a book subtitled A Handbook for Teachers in International Schools and it has brought many things to my attention.

Adjustment- As with any change there are stages of adjustment. I can recognize my “honeymoon” stage now that I have passed it and am beginning to face some of the frustrations of living and teaching here. Part of it also was that I simply did not want to succumb. I think I am still doing ok but there are definitely days when everything just seems off.

There can be a lot of pressure trying to manage a class of very differentiated learners with little to no support. Pacing is the most difficult. I can manage modifying test and homework but I find it a challenge to keep everyone interested in the lesson. I still feel at times that I am doing entirely too much talking. It is not easy (possible) to make every lesson full of sparklers and streamers.

Most interesting has been what I am learning about requests. I may present an assignment and punctuate it with a ‘please,’ as in “Do numbers 1-23 in your math book, please.” Or “Please draw a picture to go with your paragraph.” Somehow, the mere fact of including please results in an immediate hand raise and question….”Do we have to?”

I cannot laugh at this any more and just try taking a deep breath. “Yes, you have to.” Without the please it sounds very abrupt and directive, which is what I need to learn to be.

I am learning other things as well, like how to use an overhead projector ( go left to move right, up to move down, etc. and purchase an LCD ASAP.) The kids seem to like the projector. I took a poll. It also made it into our appreciation box (Yes, someone actually wrote “I appreciate the overhead projector” -10 year old author.) Believe it or not, I also conducted a small group math lesson using individual chalkboards. I felt like a one-room school house. The boards were actually convenient and made the lesson fun. It’s not that we’re so low tech, it’s just unreliable tech right now.

My classroom is really quite spacious and bright, plenty of room for 25 students and a reading area, small group work area and cubby space. We have a bright tile floor and high windows that let in the light.

I have really been enjoying my teaching here. Sometimes I must say I do feel the pressure. This is mostly because I am favoring small group work now and this is a new concept for many of the children. It is important to remember my job is to coach them and guide them into developing the skills that make successful collaborative projects work. Our class museum will be a first experience.

There are other recognizable instances from the book---names for one. There is a student in my class whose name I could just not figure out. For the first two weeks of school I was calling him by his last name. He never told me. When I asked him what his father called him, he told me “Junior.” So I had to laugh. Surely he didn’t want me to call him Junior in class. Compositionally, some families write the last name first and it appeared that this family had done so as well. Turns out they had not.

Finally, I am suffering at times from a feeling that I must do it all. This is common to me, as I tend to be a perfectionist, but I must realize it is simply not possible. Having several children in class that do no speak English raises a great challenge because I want to provide them with all of the individual attention and assistance they deserve. It is simply not possible to do this with such a large class.

So it continues to be imperative that I creatively search for ways to instruct and explain our lessons. This is good. Living on campus, however, means that I am often creatively pondering these strategies in the evening hours as Mohamed and Nabih try to amuse themselves by wreaking havoc on my classroom.

Nabih may be considering changing his profession from gardener to instructor and Mohamed is getting quite adept at fencing with a yard stick.

The hunters

Yay! One photo. After waiting so long, none of them seem particularly exciting. I've posted photos on Picassa web and invite all to see them there. Here are Mohamed and Nabih inside the 'jungle'- a short path to school surrounded by trees and shrubs and bugs. I guess they're hunting lions in the photo. There a million great sticks and pieces of bamboo to be found, no need to bring toys! I am working on taking some more photos of life and will hopefully will have luck again to post them here.

The dance

5 September 2008 10:30 pm

Last Saturday we went to see a dance show. I was a bit nervous because you can never be certain how an event will turn out and I can always be certain that one of the boys will have a major breakdown. (All the good stuff happens right in the middle of naptime. Perhaps there is some sense to the birthday party we have been invited to tomorrow which initially seemed odd, occurring from 10-12.)

We went to see the dance teacher, Jacques, perform with his group. It was a free show at the Cultural Center of Congo- fancy name, fancy-ish place. Either it could be more or it used to be more, probably a bit of both. Small audience, simple performance no costumes, few props. I had no idea what to expect and could never have anticipated anyway.

The show was, not being a dance critic, a ‘modern- interpretive’ style, I suppose, if such a thing exists. I found myself at once moved and uncomfortable by it. African art is generally filled with dramatic pauses that go on too long for Western senses and music that is too loud and overbearing. I brought so much of myself to this show that I couldn’t really be sure if what I was feeling truly came from the dance or from me. I spent a bit of time trying to determine if my background knowledge was the right ‘set’ to be using to evaluate the performance.

It was punctuated with moments of blaring horns and convulsive body movements. All that I’d ever read about torture and prisons filled my head. All the biographies I’d read about journalists and young women, college students, and small boys fleeing for their lives only to be captured and imprisoned for simply being, caught up with me. It went on for a long while.

The dance included some Western ballet, puppet- like and domineering (Belgian influence perhaps?), followed by a moment of African freedom with traditional drums and dancing. This moment of hope quickly led back to discussion and confusion, yelling and accusation accented again with convulsing and twitching, violence and intimacy interspersed with moments of searching, “Moi?, Moi?” the refrain.

Finally, there seemed to be death, as several dancers fell to the floor and their partners tried everything to support them, to raise them again to life, eventually succumbing themselves to grief. A child jumped down from his perch where he had remained throughout the entire show. He regarded his people and addressed the audience, “Moi?”

I could never tell if I liked the show. There was clearly some talented dancers and drummers. There was clearly a powerful message. I felt so overwhelmed by a country at war for more than a decade, a powerless people living with violence and despair. I saw poverty in a way I had not truly seen it before. I felt it. It was there with me, a living breathing thing in the room.

Like the show or not, it was art- authentic, expressive, effective. Impossible not to be disturbed.
After, we went to the river to walk behind the embassies. It was breezy and beautiful though hauntingly so. The war was just behind my eyes.

A word about Nabih

5 September 2008 9:30 pm

Nabih is on Nanny # 4. It has been a terrible wave of women trying to keep up with him. During the reign of Nanny #3 he became obsessed with the art teacher’s husband who is a soccer player from Nigeria. He’s young and friendly and willing to watch soccer or Scooby Doo with Nabih. Best of all, he doesn’t mind hanging out with Nabih as long as he brings his own food. Nanny #3 let this go a little too far I think when he began taking naps there and hanging out on the porch waiting for his “friend” to come back.

Actually, Nabih described him as his big brother, Chica. I knew it was serious when we walked home with Rhonda, his wife, one day. I was trying to get back home quickly, a case of walking and talking together, when Nabih asked to see Chica. “I just want to see his face,” he said sounding like a school girl with a crush.

I know that it is many parts of many things- missing his dad, too many nannies, not enough little friends to play with, the opportunity to watch TV, and just some friendly, funny company.
Which is why I am supremely happy we have found Nanny #4- Mama Vero. She has a wonderful disposition- laughing all the time- and exudes patience. I’m not sure how great this really is because when I would have become stern long before, it seems certain she never will. But Nabih is mostly happy with her and frequently pretends like he is going home with her when she leaves. He has invited her to bring her children to play with him and she laughs at this.

While I think he is now visiting Chica less (and napping more at home) he has developed another peculiar habit. He comes to school. He wants badly to go to school and I am wanting to work this out for him but (well, cereal is going for 22 bucks) so its on hold for now. He comes to the school yard (accompanied by Mama Vero) and hangs around for most of the day. We have a morning recess and an afternoon recess so during those times he plays with the kids. My fifth graders are amazing and some of the boys have taken to playing soccer or catch with him. Even Mohamed and his friends were having races with him today. When the children go back to their classes, Nabih sidles up to the maintenance guys. He helps rake leaves or just practices sweeping with his stick (they are using large palm leaves so its not that much of a stretch.) They tell me everyday how friendly and intelligent he is. He’s become everyone’s problem. Sometimes, you just have to go home. He never wants to. Everyday it is a contest to see who can talk him into it. Sometimes one of them will walk with him halfway, sometimes they will promise candy, and sometimes they just tell him to go home and eat lunch- come back later. He always does.

He is a presence. And when I get home, he tells me again how he wants to go to school. So I tell him I will be his teacher and while Mohamed is out prowling with his friends, Nabih and I do some work on letters and colors and counting. Gardner by day, student extraordinaire by night.

Food and things

5 September 2008 9:00 pm

In retrospect, the Western Union experience did not really merit a whole paragraph but truthfully it was exhilarating. I’ve been out a few times since then, each one unique and worth mentioning, though probably in less detail. The problem is I am, by nature, a homebody (and by pocketbook) and with no one to visit, it becomes even more pronounced. In addition (work-a-holics) it is just too easy to go to my classroom and get things done. Plus, I am really enjoying the time with my boys!

I realize I could be a bit more specific about the shopping experiences, as I wanted more details when I was on the other side of the ocean. And there is much to say because groceries have a variety of ways of arrival.

“The Bus” - Most times I take the Saturday shopping trip downtown and buy canned goods, cheese, small snacks, paper goods and soap. I’m trying to establish a better system so I don’t have to go every Saturday but things like cheese are hard to keep on hand. They are very expensive and because the power goes out so frequently (every day this week from 9:30 am to 6:00 pm) refrigeration is unreliable. Don’t want to stock up on too much cold stuff. Shopping in the stores downtown is…..exhausting. There are a few small stores that price in dollars or francs and are fairly reasonable. 

However, it is almost never possible to get everything you need in one store. SO, we usually start with the most reasonable and least expensive. As you move up in price the whole system itself becomes more complicated. Items are priced with a letter and a number (for example, A34.) You must then look on a chart posted somewhere nearby and find A34 and the corresponding francs. Then, if you’re me, you have to do a mental conversion to dollars. And then, if you’re still me, you stand there looking dumbfounded at the item you thought you wanted to buy. Which is how I found myself staring at a $22 box of cereal. Yes, dollars. Twenty-two of them. I just kept shaking my head and walking around the aisle looking at all the cereal. I couldn’t seem to accept the prices (range $16-$22) and thought if I circled enough something previously missing would suddenly become clear. It did not. We settled on an $8 box of yogurt/oatmeal containing 6 packets (just add hot water) that the boys LOVED. It didn’t last long but was bug-free.

Because, while considering price, one must also consider quality and determine if there will be bugs inside the (previously) desired item. I have found several brands that I feel are fairly safe but always there is a close inspection and cleaning of everything. Yay for downtown shopping.

“Home delivery”- the most convenient and comes in a variety of ways. There is the vegetable woman, Mama , who comes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. She usually has an assortment of good looking carrots, green peppers, cucumbers and bananas. She sells tomatoes, onions and even peanuts (yum!) Her prices are reasonable enough considering she is at your door and her things usually look better than anything in the store. As you know, she has saved me on more than one occasion. (Watermelons!)

The other delivery option is a woman who bakes things and sells eggs. I think she is part of the missionary connection here. Her baked goods are really healthy (whole wheat often) and really good! She has saved us a few times as well. There was a cold evening (really, it was quite brisk, I know you don’t believe me but I could have used a sweater) in August when someone delivered fresh baked bread and rolls to our door. The night before it had been eggs and a bag of muffins. It was really amazing, especially so because our cupboards were bare. We had a most delicious breakfast that truly seemed to be a gift from God and tasted as heavenly.

I’m told the campus food service (school lunch) will also deliver bread but haven’t yet tried this service. I’m hoping it will help to cut out the Saturday morning excursion. The last delivery comes in the way of gifts or requests from people coming and going. The most interesting was a jar of honey I received from Nanny #1, Mama Helene. She was very happy to offer and assured me the last occupants of 58A used this honey all the time for sweetening and for stomach aches. I was glad to accept and simply wondered what to do with all of the little bee bodies and wings floating on top. Really, it appeared more full of insect parts than honey. However, after a few days most of this had formed a thick top layer which I scooped off and then spent a good Sunday straining honey. Yeah, quality time with the family. It does make a good cup of tea though, and even sweetens a cup of Nescafe pretty nicely.

“Marche”- Finally, there is the outdoor market. I took the walk with another couple, thankfully!- because it was quite far and Nabih insisted on being carried all the way. (He is a good 50 pounds now, and while a bit taller, he’s still fairly stout. Yes, it was a back ride because there is no other way to carry him.) The streets were dusty and even in some places showing signs of the rainy season mud to come. Clearly the “bus” would never travel down these parts, mud or not. After 20 minutes or so we arrived at a typical African food market. The streets were narrow, packed with people and paved with mud and garbage. Vendors were lining both sides of the alley way we turned up. Some women were braiding children’s hair, some were sleeping, some were chatting with neighbors. A busy, dusty place full of waiting and life. The further into the market and the more food displayed the hotter and buggier it became- flies, bees, gnats swarming fish, flour and plantains. Some vegetables looked ok, the manioc I’d been searching for finally found and sweet potatoes, all at livable prices. Peanut butter here ground right before your eyes. I don’t understand the allure, wincing at the conditions, wishing better for everyone but certain I’d be back.

Maybe it was the woman who cracked open a coconut after witnessing our discussion about how to do it (intuitively she must have known what we were saying.) Mohamed really wanted the nut and we bought one after the live demo. Or maybe it was the woman who was selling roasted peanuts saying “Give me…” I gave her a quick English lesson to say “Buy my peanuts” which ended in laughter and head shaking. Or maybe it was the boy selling oranges who seemed far too serious to be just a boy. It’s the energy of the market which fills more than just the need for food. It’s the exact opposite of the sterile environment housing the $8 oatmeal.

American football

28.08.08 8:08 pm

Recess here is an adventure onto itself. The playground is immense and really could be broken into four major sections. There is the lower soccer field, the upper playground with monkey bars and swings, the basketball court, and the other play area with slides, 2 tether balls and a wooden climbing structure (you know, wooden bridge, fireman’s poles, that sort of thing.) Because the area is so large I find it challenging to be out there for my weekly duty. It is a duty that involves walking the various play yards (helpful for deterring the black flies) and monitoring the many ways children play. Lunch and recess is a whole school affair (elementary anyway. )

It is a good time to get to know some of the younger kids and also figure out the relationships between them Its multi-age and that can work…or not. Mohamed has pestered one of my students until they are now ‘friendly.’ Mohamed tags after him in basketball and soccer and they have developed something of an agreement. ( I think its something like Mohamed can play as long as he’s not annoying and doesn’t hog the ball.)

Today, however, a group of five children came stumbling up the hill carrying a kindergartener. When I asked them to put him down they explained that he kept hitting them. One of the boys, a second or third grader, looked at me earnestly and said, ”We’re playing a rough game and he could get hurt.”
When I asked what they were playing I heard a chorus of, “American football.” I had to laugh. American football. “ But you’re not tackling each other, right?” A bunch of head nods, of course they were.

So I introduced them to two-hand touch. As I’m pointing out how to touch someone with two hands, the sweet and earnest kid looks at me and says, “Yeah, then we push them down.”
“No, in two hand touch, two hands on someone means they’re down. You don’t push anyone over.”
They were not thrilled with this idea. They shake their heads and walk away. I hear them say, “Let’s play soccer.” So much for American football.

A Slice of Home

28.08.08 8:08 pm

Yesterday I finally met the dance and drum teacher. I saw him walking across campus from my classroom window and knew immediately it was him. I had to work to remain focused on the student presentations going on. As school was letting out, I found him outside my door talking to Justin and the library teacher. I sprinted over to ensure an introduction.

Initially I had thought to play it cool. I wanted to show up at the dance class just to watch, evaluate, hopefully catch an earful of music. But he was there and I found myself gushing, blubbering and rambling all over. There was nothing cool or reserved about it. There I was being overwhelmed by a feeling of home from a complete stranger, an African stranger at that, reminding me of my little slice of America. It was a bit like meeting the radio personality you listen to every morning. You hear their voice so intimately in the car on the morning commute and you begin to think you know them, that you are forming some kind of relationship. Its natural, you’re listening every day, laughing at their jokes, agreeing with their commentary or sometimes even arguing against it, there in your car driving to work. But when you actually meet the person to accompany the voice it is a strange experience of sensory dislocation. Your ears recognize a familiar and friendly sound, your eyes witness a complete stranger and worst of all, that person has no idea who you are. Its over as quickly as it began, all the intimate mornings exposed for what they truly were- shams, false, one-sided attempts at friendship and camaraderie.

Meeting the drummer was a bit like that. I was so anxious to be surrounded by the sound of drums and the rhythms that bring me comfort I was spilling all of my history and inviting Mohamed and Nabih to rehearsals. The more he tried to explain that he could give a drum class to the boys but that drumming generally occurred off campus, the more I was envisioning the familiar. And when he brought up his own ‘ballet traditional’ I had to concentrate on breathing to prevent babbling. Here was finally someone talking a language I understood.

So I’m flowing with this feeling of familiarity and understanding and it takes me a minute (or 10) to realize that he is really not flowing with me. There’s actually no reason he should reciprocate this feeling of brotherhood and let us come to ‘repetitions’ (as opposed to shows, which are great but the boys need the informality of a rehearsal. I suppose he would like the formality of a paying ticket.)

It wasn’t really until the next day that I had the good sense to be embarrassed. It seems a bit of home sickness crept up on me. Nabih has been bugging me for weeks to take him to ‘the drumming’ and I guess I got carried away. Of course, Mohamed says he doesn’t want to drum (he already knows how) but I understand his reservation as well as his style of observation. He may not want to drum with a teacher, but watching a few practices will send him home to try out all the new moves he saw.

And me? I would love to dance, really dance. The classes on campus will not have live drumming and that will only leave me feeling hugely unsatisfied. So my quest remains, because it has truly become one. It is a search to find someone to give me lessons, or at least a place to visit where we can feel the energy and life of Africa. Completely. I’ll try to be a little more reserved next time, but with such a vital quest, I doubt I’ll manage subtle. I guess I can always blame it on being American.

Kabila's Car

Our day was going well, some more students had arrived (it seems the first week is a bit like that) but those of us who have been present were starting to feel the routine. The class had just left for PE and as Justin came in he asked if I’d heard anything.

“Anything like what,” I asked. He made a booming sound. This morning there had been several. I had also heard something like that yesterday afternoon. I’d asked Gloria what she thought (ever smiling Gloria, nanny #2) and she’d told me it was training. No, I had not heard “training” any of the time I’d been here. I did not believe Gloria. I explained all this to Justin and he agreed. They don’t do that kind of training at the camp.

“See that black car. That’s Kabila’s car. When you see that car, if something is going on they send it to pick her up.” President Kabila’s daughter is in third grade (no pressure on the new third grade teacher from Atlanta.) There were three or four people standing around the car on their cell phones. Justin went off to find out what was going on.

I never did find out. The day continued to pass. I resumed teaching, feeling like I was waiting for the early snow dismissal we used to get in RV. Eventually the car left, I’m not sure if the daughter was even actually picked up or if they were all just on alert. I’m just happy to be in on the system. There are so many little things that could really mean something, if you only knew what you were looking at.

That was Wednesday and I haven’t heard any ’training’ since then. I have become increasingly upset, however, by my isolation. A radio would do a lot to ease that sense of being secluded, though I wonder how much ’news’ would accurately flow. I’m realizing that is less the point for me, being an information hound- I‘m a former NPR junkie and this would definitely be withdrawal. It‘s been 22 days with no news.

The other thing I’ve really got to do is just go out. I realized that I have some fear surrounding this issue. I blame it on the kids but I’m not sure if that’s entirely true, although it would be a heck of a lot easier to take a walk up the street alone. The boys can be surprisingly well behaved at times (its just a matter of which times?) These last few days the helplessness and lack of independence have really got to me. I just want to jump in the car and go to the store (I’m sure I could reference this to an earlier post, I knew it was coming.)

I did take a step to remedy the situation today however and feel ever better for it. I navigated the Western Union on my own- sounds simple? I was dropped off in front of a store with a sign that said Western Union. Inside however, there was no service for that. I was directed down, not several doors but to the next shopping plaza. (I asked 2 people to get this information and I’m pretty sure one of them said it was clearly marked. I was slightly distracted by his gun lying on the floor behind him though and perhaps he said something else entirely.) In the adjacent shopping plaza there was no sign for Western Union but a bank with 2 doors. I asked again (third person) and somehow still managed to choose the wrong door.( I don’t think my French is really that bad, I just didn’t follow the directions and assumed both doors went into the same place.) I ended up inside an office building and asked again. Next door, ok. I went. It is here that I finally found clearly marked W.U signs along with a million people standing in a long line and all of the waiting chairs full. I notice the waiting chairs always seem to be full and can’t really tell if they are waiting to conduct business or just, well, waiting. SO, I ask again (person number 5, I believe.) He is happy to help and I join the smallest line (no line actually. I am the only one on it. Does one person make a line?) My transaction passes well (and quick!) and I sail out into the sunny morning.

I’m ready to go walking. I did try especially hard to pay attention today because really, I want to be driving. I think maybe this is how it feels to be such a stranger. But then……

We’re in the grocery store browsing through the mayonnaise. She mentions to me that she really likes the mayo with olives. Its really good. “Oh, is that what you got?” We all received a gift basket in our apartments and I assumed they were basically the same. I did not have olive mayonnaise. I’m having a hard time making decisions about the rice (placed right below the mayonnaise, of course) and she is gone. It was a passing comment really but I’m intrigued. I look at the mayo. One says ’citron’ interesting but I don’t think so. The others say, …ouefs… I guess the picture does show them to be a little dark, not green exactly but a brownish color. The eggs here are brown. I just look after her. Olive mayonnaise? Maybe that’s how it feels to be such a stranger. I guess there are degrees.

The rest of the trip is fine, I almost buy a newspaper but it’s really impossible to buy anything from the ‘tour’ bus. I had really been hoping to travel this morning in a smaller car. Somehow it didn’t workout. Systems. I’m hopeful for next week. For now, I guess I’ll just have to settle for being creative and making up my own news.

Maybe Kabila just got the word on the olive mayo…..needed a jar himself.