Sunday September 21, 2008 10:01 pmIt 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.
