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.
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.
