Rock Star

Oct 27 9:08 pm

There is a spider just outside our back porch that has built a massive and intricate web. It has not been disturbed by the wind or rain or falling debris of the last few nights. The boys have named him (or her) Rock Star and she has been with us for several months now. She has become our version of Animal Planet. We observe her activities everyday and even managed to catch her repairing her web. She seemed to be using her long thin legs as needles, sewing the threads in a delicate pattern. We have seen stranded insects caught and awaiting death. And who could resist witnessing the feast?!

It seems that Rock Star has either given birth (although we did not notice any egg laying or hatching) or made a friend. There is a Rock Star, Junior now in residence slightly below the original. Every so often I stop being stunned by the beauty and wonder if I should worry about a Hitchcock-ian overtaking. Mostly I don’t. They are doing a double duty of pest control and scientific entertainment.

I have been noticing an abundance of small wildlife lately, perhaps an indication of truly slowing down and adopting the African pace and rhythm. Mohamed even pointed out several snails along the path that were so cleverly camouflaged it took some minutes to spot them. The one crawling (do snails crawl, or slither? Neither word seems apt. Maybe creep, or slide- although slide is too fast. Truly, the snail jut seemed to be, in this spot one moment and in that spot the next) by the front porch posed for a photo.

The time off was good for scouting around and noticing things. Lamine was able to join us for a few weeks and that was eye opening as well. His presence swooped down on all of us and he became a celebrity overnight. There is a not-so-subtle gossip ring that sends news of campus from one house to the next. I’ve never actually heard anything but I know it exists. People just show up at my house (take Jacques for example, who delivered the drums- he never asked where I lived, he just showed up one Sunday morning. I don’t even think he knows my name.) They greet me with questions about events I am certain I never shared. Such is living on the island, a public-private affair.

Everyone seemed to know of Lamine’s arrival and with the assistance of Nabih (the new mayor in town) he met many people living on campus as well as most of the maintenance crew. Within a day he had met a fellow countryman from Senegal and discovered where to purchase West African goods. In 2 days he had convinced the gardener to finally trim the opening through the stone archway (apparently Nabih had given previous orders not to cut the vines) and to begin turning the soil for a long awaited garden. By the morning of day 3, on my way to school, one of the maintenance guys stopped me to ask where I’d found such a great African husband? A regular rock star.

Of course it helps that he came bearing gifts. The children were thrilled to have “Christmas in July” and Mama Vero felt happily blessed with her supply of children’s clothes. On day 4 she was giggling like a schoolgirl as she invited her friend to come and sample some rice with chicken and tomato sauce. She simply could not believe that he had cooked it and how! Of course, I’d been inviting her to eat with us for weeks but maybe my invitation was lacking in pizzazz.
In no time, it seemed I had to run off to Uganda. That was an experience unto itself and though I missed everyone, I don’t regret going. The return passed just as quickly, though it seemed some of the initial fervor had worn off. The boys were as excited as ever to watch movies and play tennis or soccer with Baba. I had the chance to see that being married to a rock star isn’t always what it seems.

I also realized a bit about my own extended family and how our cycle of meeting and parting created for me a familiar and comfortable sense of being. I used to visit with my aunt every summer and on holidays. There was a great feeling of being on vacation together and setting aside the everyday worries and duties to just enjoy being together.

But now we’re back to school and routines and back to being just three, unless of course you count the other Rock Star, oh and Junior makes 5.

Kaloli-Kampala

19 Oct. 2008 10:00 pm

The birds resemble old men as they walk around, hunched over, lifting their scrawny legs high before taking off to nest atop the trees. A cup of tea costs more than my meal of matooke and vegetable sauce. I am in Uganda for the AISA conference and it is another world. I say I am in Uganda, but I know there is a real Kampala here under the manufactured British beauty. This Africa is very neat and clean, the roads are paved and even have markings painted on. This part of Kampala is quite new and fresh. When I see what can happen here, I cry for Congo. There is simply no excuse for the way so many live in Africa. There is simply no excuse for the low expectations that I may have held. (I suppose I could continue to say there is simply no excuse for all of the garbage littering the rest of Kampala- and why such a small area manages to be so clean?)

Our plane took us first to Nairobi and I must admit shock at the zigzagging freedom we were allowed. No yellow lines marked our path into the country. There were no military holding back vicious looking German Shepherds with rifles slung casually across their back or held menacingly in their hands. In my naivety, I thought all African airports looked alike. Not so Jomo Kenyatta. Even Entebbe glimmered with new tile and a Western style appearance, shelves stocked with merchandise. Immense bags of candy filled the stores. A glimpse through the windows showed books, shoes and many other items determined to fill as yet unknown needs.

I am enjoying the hotel, the conference and meeting other professionals. I haven’t much to spend, however, and forego the group trips to the local shopping mall (mall!) The crafts sound interesting and I am almost overtaken by a Congolese want- such a lack of material items makes me feel that I have needs which may not really even be there. It is a desperate desire to stock up on goods that I may not see again for months.

Truly it is quite beautiful here and the billboards encouraging home ownership could almost lure me into thinking Uganda is well developed and prosperous. Surely it could be on its way. The road from the airport was well paved, lined with more motorcycles than pedestrians and bordered by (sidewalks!) small shops filled with goods and lit from within by bulbs (electric light bulbs!) It is amazing how quickly we adapt to our surroundings. I have only been in Kinshasa for 3 months and here I am expressing amazement about small tin shops powered with current. Perhaps I must mention the road from N’Djili, where masses of people huddle around candlelight as they try to sell their goods in the dark night air. There are no sidewalks, more people than cars and more cars than actual items to buy.

The newspaper I read this morning highlighted several differences as well. There were more opinion pages and advertisements, an entire section on commentaries and politics. More humor, albeit British style- the paper was scarcely PG-13. I browsed sections on fashion and music news, even classifieds, all in English; another foreign concept for me- Africa in English. I can’t get the French to stop falling from my lips.

I spent the evening talking with 2 Congolese teachers from school. I had been hoping to understand this perspective. Like Lamine and his friends, they spent some time talking about race and history. There are so many ethnicities and for those in Congo/Uganda/Rwanda a history rife with tension and war. There were clearly two perspectives, neither easily arrived at. One was still filled with fear and anger, emotion enough to water her eyes during the conversation. The other, more worldly, filled with understanding and compassion. It is not the people that should hate each other, it is the political few that created and sustained the wars. A difficult position to arrive at with conviction, to be sure.

As they related their stories, I was reminded of a story I had heard earlier during a workshop entitled Tales to Change the World. This was a story that described exactly the perpetuation of hatred and prejudice before me, of deciding without really knowing. I took the time to repeat it, this simple folktale about making a friend and knowing he’s a friend even if others tell you it can’t be so. And this story spurred another tale or two, from a similar perspective. Stories of true life experience. Stories of war. Tales that worked in the same way to make a small change, a slight shift in perspective and possibility. I should not think to cry for Congo, but shine with light towards the energy of change. Even if it only begins with a story.

Driving storms

Saturday October 10, 2008 9:18 pm

It’s a perfect rainy night for sleeping, but I cannot. Lamine is coming in early this morning and it has been affecting me oddly all day. At least that’s what I think has been affecting me. Saturday shopping can sometimes be odd enough unto itself.

The rainy season rolled in on a thunderous storm cloud sometime last week. A thunderstorm in Congo is unlike anything I have experienced…ever. It is truly biblical. Only with the heaving thunder, do I get such a clear picture of how immense and large the sky really is. It’s like another land up there, cavernous and vast. “Clap” is too weak a word for what happens after the rumbling buildup. The surging booms and crackles echo off the atmosphere, giving a vivid picture of the planet’s roundness. The finale is so forceful it seems as though the earth itself will split in two. It could be felt so intimately I feared perhaps I might break apart as well.

There was no sleeping that night either so I rose, did schoolwork and read a book until 3 a.m. I could not help but think, if this is how the rainy season goes, it will be impossible to get much sleep.

Tonight around dusk the air turned such a deep and rosy pink. I could only think of that weather rhyme…”Red sky at night sailors delight, red sky in morning, sailors take warning.” At least that’s how I think it goes. But clearly, I felt red sky at night, get ready for fright. Sure enough, less than an hour later the wind picked up. The most fascinating thing about the wind here is that the trees are so tall and thin. They rain down mango and avocado fruits like pelting hail. Even the ‘leaves’ that tumble are huge palm fronds that quickly cover the path. It is easy to imagine a hurricane scene from some deserted island movie and the destruction that will follow.. Perhaps after some months experiencing the season, these storms will not produce such drastic images. With no personal history to reference, every storm holds the potential to create a massive impact. It is delicious to be home, feeling cozy and safe.

Tonight, however, I had been invited to a wedding reception and was obliged to have my first driving experience. I suppose, like Africa, I can never do anything halfway. I did try to excuse myself from the event but it was too late. There were three very formally dressed people unable to travel by foot or by car to their destination. SO! I waded up to the jeep (this is quite a hike across campus, through a mucky soccer field and across a flooded drive) imagining a lightening strike at any moment. After a slight scare, I managed to gain access to the key for the vehicle. Behind the wheel, the world was right again. I do love driving.

I agreed to bring them up the road to the reception but decided I would not stay and simply return straight away (perhaps due more to social phobia than the storm. A fully formal event such as this was probably not the best idea to attend alone.) As promised, the place was only 5 minutes or so up the road, 7 km away. Theoretically, a straight shot.

In actuality, I found my self on the opposite side of the road more frequently than on my own. Several times I looked up to see a truck or bus coming at me with only one headlight. There are even a few cars with no headlights at all. Of course, when looking up I was unable to examine the road for deep craters. (They tell me with enough practice, I will have memorized where the holes are, thus freeing my eyes for oncoming traffic.) This entire scenario is only possible because everyone is traveling 20 mph…maybe even less. At least, I was. There was a small stretch where I managed to get into fourth gear but it was a dark lonely patch of road near school with few pedestrians and real pavement.

Despite my initial hesitation to travel out into the storm, I am quite happy I did because I feel completely free now. There is hope that I will learn the route and head out into Kinshasa should I need to. Of course, Saturday shopping has always been about more than just the shopping…..

Wonderland

Monday September 29, 2008 9:51 p.m.

There is a magical path to school showered with wispy strands of a vibrant pink flower. The tree grows in my backyard. It began a few weeks ago. The ground beneath turned a slight pinkish hue. Slowly it began to spread until there was a full carpet of hot pink. It is a bright and unworldly sight. I am somehow reminded of James and the Giant Peach as I set off for school (perhaps I’ve had a warm-up with all the centipedes I find in the shower each morning.) It is such a simple, yet wondrous thing, this tree shedding its petals in such a beautiful, casual way. I still cannot believe these colors exist in nature. I grew up with the bright but earthy tones of New York autumns. The hues there are often as grand, the colors as lively. But I have never been privileged to have a door to Wonderland in my backyard. Not a day goes by that I don’t stop to remind myself, yes, I am living my dream. This was it. To be here. And I so completely am. It is as wild as the lizards that crawl across my wall. (They are in the same fashion as the wall hangings often found in the Southwestern décor, only with a moveable component.)

There are moments I stop to think, so this is what its like, to have the very thing you dreamed. To live a good, charmed life. And it certainly feels that way to me despite the frequent electric outages (actually decreased in the past few weeks) and water outages (still fairly predictable- Saturdays mid-morning.)

There have been days when Mohamed is particularly weepy that I stop to wonder. But I think it is due more to some we’d like to vote off the island than to any great disaster of change. I’m sure there are moments when we might be voted off as well…. But I can see it becoming a bit difficult to manage children’s relationships in such a close neighborhood with such a small school.

It is all connected to the difficulty in traveling and arranging play-dates outside. I’m trying to promise I’ll get there and stop being complacent with our lack of mobility. Driving is a huge step. There appear to be no traffic laws -it is even possible to drive down the middle of the street, creating a third lane of traffic. Why not? After all, there are no lane markers. I have seen a traffic light, though it doesn’t appear to currently be in use (or at least not connected to any voltage.) In many intersections there are police directing traffic, but the hand signals are clearly in another language (Lingala, perhaps? Probably not French, as I can’t quite make them out.) It is not just the other cars that one must worry about. The pedestrians walk around in a daze. They step into the street and begin to cross without even noticing they have entered into dangerous territory. I have seen too many people begin to walk only to come alive at the last minute- they shake their head as their eyes begin to come into focus. Sometimes they step back, often they just stop so you can swerve around them. It is considerate.

I have not yet been able to forget the words of advice offered during our brief intro to driving in Kinshasa. Most notably, if you should hit someone, do not stop. Drive directly to the nearest police station, hospital or government office. Hitting someone can quickly result in an angry mob outside your car. If possible, it is advisable to get the person into your car and take them to the hospital or police station. It is not advisable to get out of the car. It is not advisable to hand the police your real driver’s license. Do not open the window to the police but show them your i.d. through the rolled up window. Or, if you must, slide it through a slight slit in the top (even better- carry a laminated photocopy of the real thing.) As Americans, this is contrary to everything we’ve learned. It is such a contrast from a country where the police are to be trusted, obeyed, and respected. It is assumed they will do what is right and true and just…for most anyway. (Do I need to preface this by saying white Americans?)

Here, the Congolese that work into the evening are sure to be gone by nightfall. The military are not far from where we are. They ride the streets at night. It is supposed to be a safe, secure feeling but here in Wonderland, it is just not so. They are feared for harassment and brutality. How can a country hope to recover when there is no safety for its citizens? When I try to think about the wrongs of Africa, it becomes such a twisted, convoluted mess. It seems impossible to find a way to unravel the jealousies and hatreds, the hunger and greed; it seems impossible to open the closed minded focus that sees only what is good for some as opposed to all. It seems impossible to find a solution that is even slightly plausible.

And yet, today I managed to receive 2 dinner invitations, both from long term families, who have somehow found a way to chip slowly at a small piece, to make a bit of a difference in the way that they know how. Sometimes it seems like that is what I’m doing here, searching for my gift. Searching for a way to make a bit of positive change. Of course, I’m assuming I have a gift and that its forces can be put to good. If not, I suppose there’s always tea with the Mad Hatter.