Its All here

Well, feeling a bit foolish, I'd like to say I've found a great blog with beautiful photos. It is almost exactly oppostie my blog and it tells many of the things I just can't seem to say in a clear direct way.

The other thing is, I've come up with a plan. Whether it will be fruitful or where it came from exactly, I'm withholding all judgement. I know only it is something I can envision and this lends some credence to the whole crazy scheme.

The better blog, or maybe just the other blog:

http://www.travelblog.org/Bloggers/Mondelay/

This doesn't mean I've given up, it just means I'm amassing my photos. They're coming....

Patience & Perseverance

It took awhile to get these photos posted, but here is our walk home through an impending storm. Our house is just below the elementary school soccer field. Its only a five minute walk but we could see the sky changing and smell rain in the air.




There's always an intense wind that picks up just before the storm. The build up comes with enough signs so that everyone might scramble inside or find some dry shelter. This is also the part that lends itself to an eerie movie. The prelude to the storm suggests strength and magnitude and biblical cleansing. It is here that the thunder rolled along the heavens, hinting at another world up top.

By the time we reached our house, the sky had gotten quite dark. Nabih kept asking if it was night. It was really only around 3:00. It seemed like the clouds were making mountains off which the thunder rolled and bounced. Just as we reached the back yard, there was a burst so loud we set off on an involuntary run.

Our front sidewalk, which we don't use that often, quickly turned into a small river. We sat on the back porch enjoying our (belated) slice of Thanksgiving sweet potato pie as the rain pelted us through the screen. "How can the rain fall sideways?" Mohamed asked incredulously. Ah, the power of the wind. There is often a lake sized puddle on the back porch the morning after a rain, and I try to remember not to leave the shoes out there. A few hot, sunny days always wipes the warning from my mind.

After the thunder and lightning had their say, the rain was free to fall in musical melody. This is the view from the front step. There is a nice covered area that is perfect for watching the storm, taking a few photos and breathing the clean scent of the falling water. Luckily, it's also wide enough to catch me as I jumped at a final burst of thunderous applause that clapped from the sky. The bolt of lightning was so clear and close I thought I might have captured the image. Slightly tempted to stay out and try again, this once, better judgement ruled and I watched the rest of the storm from inside.

Audience

Rather than read along with my old book club, I read about another kind of missionary. Roger Youmans, who is a missionary doctor, wrote an autobiography (When Bull Elephants Fight) about his many years working in Kinshasa and other areas of Congo. It was a detailed account and gave some amazing insight on how things have (or haven't really) changed since the early 70's when he was here. Even he, as a doctor, sometimes wondered exactly what he was doing here.

I've also spent some time reading other blogs. I like to find some written by others living in Africa and there are plenty. But the latest one I read was written by a fellow teacher here who has just had a baby in the U.S. I wondered what made her blog different than mine (for clearly it was) and came to a few realizations.

- Its o.k that my blog is different than most others I've read. I guess it is a true reflection of me and that's really all it should be. (It took me awhile to arrive at this conclusion, but once here, I am solidly here.)
- Pictures definately add to the blog. There's definately more reading involved here and photos could break that up. I remember intially hoping to tell this story through images. Just as I recommitted myself to posting more, I woke up to the realities of actually trying to do that. Nevertheless, I have some photos saved and an approaching storm I'm dying to share. Nabih seems committed to this as well because during our trip today (yes, I drove the boys to get Mohamed's hair cut) Nabih stole the camera and began shooting all kinds of photos from the back seat windows- a post unto itself.
- Finally, I realized it has something to do with audience. Clearly, she was writing with an audience in mind. With a specific purpose of updating her family and friends about how life and pregnancy in Congo was faring. It has taken me some time to consider my audience (I can no longer truly say I am writing solely about teaching as I've talked very little about my classroom or other challenges related to teaching here.) I intended to write in essay- like form about the issues as they caught my eye, and I think I have done that. I've written about things that I've been compelled to write about, things that linger in my mind and haunt my dreams. I guess I'm not always clear as I could be and hardly ever straightforward, but there's no way around it. Hard as I try to write something simple, I get bogged down in the hazy mist of my perception. I can see too many sides at once.

And, while I'm not really sure if anyone is actually reading, or who, it's not really my motivation (though I have wondered how to get more notice in the blogging world...) It ends up like my painting, sitting on the floor of my bedroom, where I glance at it in passing, wondering briefly where the future will bring it. The purpose is in the process, the final result simply a pleasant extra.

Clear like honey

This is one of the first mysteries I encountered here, in my very backyard. I found three of these in the small 'play-house' outside our back porch. When I first found it, I'd hoped to collect more. Bamboo sheaves had turned out to be great for making small paintings on. I was full of imagining how I could turn these into sculpture or collage.

In the photo it is compact and curly. It is hard and strong. I cannot bend it or break it. I even had a bit of difficulty trying to put in the thumbtacks so that I could hang it in the window. I assumed it to be dead and long discarded from whatever tree it fell. However, it possesses life. I have witnessed it's ability to open, dependent upon the weather it seems, to a long and nearly flat state. I've asked everyone who has come within sight of my back porch if they can identify it or have ever seen such a thing before. I even ventured beyond, carrying the pod like an unknown treasure or hidden curse to the neighbor for evaluation. The neighbor who has lived here for 18 years. Nope. Never saw anything like it.

Mama Vero, equally amazed as I (you must imagine the first few events, when we were sure it was our minds deceiving us and not the actual movement of this forgotten relic) has never seen anything like this either. She was quick to point out that it must be spirited. Of course, anything foreign or not easily understood can be chalked up to spirited. But I too was wondering.

Finally, I asked Papa Josef, one of the main gardeners and safety officers for the school. He seems to be a knowledgeable man of many talents and I figured if there was an answer, he would have it. He said yes, it comes from a tree on campus and he went so far as to point one out to me. I admit to being skeptical. He does have a reputation to protect I suppose, or at least some pride. Maybe I just wanted it to be mystical. He provided detail, such as the fact that it is indeed a pod (clearly) and made up of layers. Deep inside is the life. Even now, I could open it and plant it and the seeds would grow. I am not tempted, as I much enjoy the changing design, and, while it may come from a campus tree, I have not found another. Odd, considering how the mangoes and flowery apples thump continuously to the earth below.

I'm contemplating other things as well. There is plenty of time to think in the Congo. Most recently a painting I've finished, mediocre at best. I can see where I’ve gone wrong, where it could be improved. But now that the canvas is full, I am faced with the dilemma of starting again in hopes of perfecting it or simply starting anew. I suppose it is what masters do, rework, rework, and rework (revise, we call it in the writing world. Something I am forever insisting and modeling for my students.) But here in the land of scarce resources it seems a sin. Of course, what good is a mediocre painting? If the subject is compelling enough, certainly it deserves to be reworked. Am I still compelled? Sometimes I think, once the work is done, what good is a painting at all?

While not the only reflection I’ve been struggling with, by far the most benign. At least I’ve found the answer to my earlier question. (No, the C.C. is not always right, or wrong.) It came by way of a power outage that led to one woman working in her doorway. Nabih and I passed on our way from the sandboxes. I stopped to say hello, as she looked so inviting, sitting at a student desk placed directly in the door to allow for maximum light. She is not one of the teachers who live on campus, and I’d made several assumptions. However, life beyond the walls remains an endless fascination so I stopped with my many questions. Turns out, this time I was the one who was all wrong.

The conversation was quite interesting, though told with her characteristic confusion. It is as if she does not want to burden the listener with too many details but finds it difficult to edit. As she speaks, she closes her eyes and makes such pauses one might think she has lost her way altogether. My experience tells me simply to wait, silently inviting and encouraging more. Slowly her story unfolds.

She spent the last 10 years in China. There came a time when many people kept repeating that they felt she should be moving on, she was needed in another place. Though these were fellow Christians, they did not know her well. Through a series of events and meetings she found herself in Congo. It seems they were not ordinary meetings but with people well placed in the government to facilitate the process of gaining a visa during a time when tensions were rising. She came with an interest in pygmies. She had met just the people who also shared this interest and steered her in the right direction. Upon arriving, she felt a need to find some work to fund her passion. The timing was such that as she approached the superintendent here, someone had broken contract, leaving a void which he was only too pleased to fill. The story goes on as she lives and works in Congo, helping the pygmies develop some kind of sustainable living. She talks about reaching a block, when she just wasn’t sure how to continue. After much prayer, the answer comes to her, “Honey.” Only the way she tells it is like this- " I kept asking, what do I do now? and he said, 'Honey.' " So clear, just like that.

It turns out, gathering honey had been an indigenous part of pygmy life, with gatherers climbing some 300 feet to capture a hive. Another chance meeting with just right person puts her in contact with a beekeeper who is willing to send a trainer to work with her and the pygmies teaching them how to bee farm.

This is not a made up story but one example of a life working exactly as it should with purpose and direction. I am entertained and inspired. How fortunate that I passed to say hello with a question poised on my lips. But part of me wonders why I continue to waiver. I speak with confidence about having patience and knowing the right thing is coming. But inside I wonder about my doubts and insecurities. I wonder about my lack of direction and whether my prayers are simply not absolute enough.

I'm hoping for some kind of answer.

I have been spending my days on this oasis, doing very little to reach out.

But I want to know- what exactly am I doing here? Or, better put, what can I do best here? Where can I find service?

Just before leaving the U.S. I felt more and more strongly that I could really only find some kind of peace and happiness through service. For a long time, I skimmed by pretending my job, with its intense emotional demands, was service enough. There is no pretense now, no excuses. I'm just stalling, waiting for a crisp clear answer. Clear like honey. My doubter's soul says, she heard it, why can't I?

It has caused me to reread some of my earlier posts. In doing so I realize I can comment with positive affirmation. The move here has been enough to quiet my soul. It seems able now to listen. Despite the stereotypical cliché that was my dream, it’s turned out to be exactly what suits me.

Now that I've relished in the dream for several months, its time to get up and start the business of living, whether or not its clear like her honey or full of little bee body parts, all viscous and cloudy like mine. They both sweeten the tea, I suppose.

Conservative Wright

I really wanted to make another wr- word there but have refrained. I am amazed at my ability to still be shocked by events around me. As those who know me are aware, I tend to spend some time observing and keep my personal perspective, well....personal. In this case, it frees up others to be all out in the open with theirs.

I took this weekend to enjoy the sun and have fun. Yes, fellow New Yorkers, it's November 17th and I have a bit of a sunburn. We spent Saturday and Sunday afternoon at the pool. The pool is one of the true highlights here. There are days when several other people come to enjoy the deep, warm water. This provides some interesting socialization. Some days, the place is deserted and it feels like having an Olympic sized pool to yourself. Saturdays are usually good for the former, Sundays for the latter. The reason being that many of the families here are Christian (conservatives, are these words always linked?) and attend church followed by a light meal out or shopping. It is only us pagans that shop on Saturday (or Muslims as the case may be.)

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon with a clear blue sky and warm yellow sun. I'm guessing the temperatures were in the 90's but that is another of the Western measurements I've come to do without (I don't know if Celius will ever really mean something to me.) It is enough to look outside and know the day is grand. The pool was nice with several other families. Nabih and Mohamed had a chance for some other adult attention. I am half listening to the conversations around me but they're focused on nail polish and hair highlights. The talk gently drifts to on-line brides and trying to set up one of the faculty this way. There is still the tinge of gossip floating around the words and I think idly to myself that this particular person might prefer a husband more than a wife. Someone voices that exact thought and I hear a sharp intake of breath, like a machete slicing the tall grass we have growing all around the edges here. "How could you say that? Don't say that."

They begin to discuss the California referendums and whether or not gay marriage was passed. Lost still in my sun induced haze, I remain unprepared for what is about to happen. There is a bit of discussion about whether it passed and if it was in fact overturned and then cheering. Cheering. I feel like everywhere I turn there is cruelty in the air, lurking behind a friendly face and open smile.

The conservative right, I remind myself. I find most of the missionary families to be gentle and nice. The staff here are pleasant enough. But I am just distanced enough to forget the core beliefs.

In the high school newspaper there was a tongue in cheek photo of one of the coaches crying because McCain lost. It is hard for me to imagine how we could both be working at the same school. I find it difficult to understand how people with such a closed mind would end up in such a diverse and international place. Then I realize there is fault in my thinking, in assuming everynone is here to embrace the many cultures and try to understand different beliefs. They have come to change something they see as wrong and to dominate a system they believe is flawed.

We were all there at the pool, enjoying a swim, splashing and playing together. There was almost a poetry there, the two opposite extremes coming together. I'm just not sure anyone got that but me. Before my silence was taken as complacency, I decided to leave. Sundays are a much better day for swimming.

Muse

It was not a figure of expression when I described the tears in my eyes during Jacques show. He has quite a talent for choosing music and seems dedicated to an international mix. It is a treasure to have met him. Today I found out the exact song that humbled me and I should have known is was a song for Allah. Nothing else could hold such power. It's here now, for all to enjoy. We've been listening all night, the boys and I. Painting and singing. That's (truly) why I came to Africa. To follow the muse. To find my passion. To grow closer to my belief. Celebrate life, sab vird karo, Allah, Allah.

Saturday shopping...

.... or something like that.

I find it too hard to fit into this jagged world, where she eats potato chips from a can, ignoring the boy outside with no pants. The store is filled with jeans, overpriced to be sure. If we each gave $5 it could be done. But they are full of their evening at the Ball and thinking of Christmas trips home. I know $20 will not rid my stomach of hunger or fill my night with sleep.

I am reminded of another trip, another she. “Cholera has broken out, killed 14 people.” It’s the Belgian (yes, we are reduced to nationalities here in the world of international teaching.) He’s trying to show his awareness of politics, thinks we’re all fools for not discussing more, being more aware. I read the paper once a week and have found several good radio websites. I opt to say nothing. A man selling plastic containers walks by. “That’s what I need, food storage.” It comes from a young American, not caring about the 14 dead or the thousands displaced. It’s amazing how narcissistic people can become here. They think of it as a survival strategy- don’t look at the beggars and thieves, they will go away if you ignore them. No questions about where they will go or why they are beggars and thieves to begin with. I tried to placate the Belgian with a question half posed- “Where? Around here or in the east?” Of course, I know it’s in the east, where the real tragedy is occurring. From our stance, it seems as far away as America. At least it will until something happens to bring it closer to home, or to inconvenience our lives.
It was regrettable that time, to see the indifference.

But this time, unforgiveable. We found ourselves in a travel tour bus, four American/European women pretending the little boy on the sidewalk didn’t exist. It’s altered my ability to interact with them, not that the bond was ever especially strong to begin with. I am as stunned by the cruelty as if one of them had gotten off the bus and slapped the boy in the face. They do not see it as cruel, they choose not to see at all.

I’m determined to take photos. It has only just occurred to me the reason photos are not allowed is because of the dire situation downtown. It’s not security but national image that is at stake. The store I’ve come to hate is City Market. It’s ridiculously expensive, (home of the $22 box of cereal) but also home to a small community of street people. Except they’re not people, they are women and children. Women nursing babies and smoking cigarettes. Children hoping for a Coke or piece of bread, sitting on dirty blankets, breathing in fumes from the cars and buses that pass. Today, they were arguing. Two women, one whose veins in her neck stood out as she yelled. She loosely grasped a plump baby that looked as if it might tumble to the ground. From somewhere, a saw appeared in her hand. She held it casually by her side as she yelled. Point taken, I suppose.

I asked the driver, Papa Mazando, to deliver the pants. He handed the bag to a woman, gesturing and explaining. I could barely see from the bus window, but I caught a glimpse of her face as she held the pants out and joy as she presented them to the boy. I don’t know if it was the right thing to do, surely not the wrong thing. I understand the solution to these problems cannot be conquered this way. But, of all the children outside that day, there was just one with such a simple and obvious need. It was the only thing to do. For some reason, I wasn't really sure if she would be joyful.

He doesn’t leave my mind that simply. I think of him as the rain pounds the roof. I try to find comfort in stories of secret dry places where he might take refuge. The television would paint a picture of him finding an abandoned building with some bedding and a fire to keep warm by. I know the truth is he is probably wet and cold, soaked in his new pants and hungry with his old, empty stomach. I am humbled with gratitude for my dry house and cozy bed. Though this night, it provides little comfort.

Food- again

I've been wanting to write about food for awhile, and I've probably written about food in the past. When there is not much entertainment or social connection, food becomes many things. But lately, I've seen even more.
Perhaps it is with the onset of the rainy season. Or perhaps it began with the new generator house being built and the presence of men on campus too noticeable in their bright red suits. The gardeners and maintenance men here tend to wear a dull blue that blends with environment. But everywhere people are looking for food.

I've become more aware of where my food comes from. Similar to having a garden back home, the tomatoes and lettuce we get (from the garden next door) are more flavorful. The mangoes are heavenly and the avocado divine. I feel so treated and blessed, maybe because they are expensive and rare in the States. But to simply pick a papaya from the tree seems a wonder. I marvel at these small joys, a perk to living on campus with its abundance of fruit trees and gardening space. But I see everyone else searching for mangoes that have fallen and are just right (I have not mastered this art and cannot find the edible ones, though Mohamed often tries.) They search for mushrooms to such a degree that both boys spot them on the weekends and pick to save for Mama Vero when she comes on Monday. It sparked a delicious conversation in which Mohamed insisted they were mushrooms and Nabih said, "No! Champignons." I could only laugh and say,"Yes" to both.

People look hungry to me when they are stooping to gather something from the earth, though I don't know why it is so. It is natural to gather our food, fresh from the soil. But I am tamed and used to seeing it growing in quarantined plots or beneath the harsh, artificial lights inside a store.

Parents

It was a long day of meeting and talking with parents. They can be a powerful force, I'm told. it is easy to see why. First because they are paying for the education and so, feel more directly that they are entitled to receive a certain quality of service. Second, the teacher population is transient and I am sure it is trying for the parents to be orienting new teachers each year, never really knowing what to expect. I can see with their eyes how it must be difficult.

I can see with my teacher eyes also, however, and that it can be scary to be at the mercy of so many parents who might seem whimisical or blinded by love for their child. I did manage to pass the most scrutinuous inspections and, though I began rather nervously, by the fifth conference become lost in some kind of haze, discussing other people's children as I see them and the policies and procedures of the class as I designed it.

Despite the many perspectives, I'm happy to say that nearly every family remarked how their child was happy to come to school each day. This is worth remembering. The children are having fun.

The conferences themselves were a walk through many lands. Only 3 of the families spoke English as a first language. I conducted one conference entirely in French and another brought her daughter to translate to Hindi. Some of the parents were not entirely happy with the mark of 'satisfactory' and definately not with 'C,' though I tried to explain that they are both avergae and acceptable grades. I can understand dissatisfaction with 'C' more so than 'S.' Parents are expecting the best.

Never one to give out squishy grades, I did have to inform some that their children were simply not working up to potential. Some of the messages were more dire, an emotional need for a period of adjustment, or lack of regard all around. Some were facing what is clearly a child with special needs but certainly cannot be discussed as such. Expectations are high.

I enjoyed talking to the parents for the most part and was able to gently steer the conversation to focus on improvements and hopes for the future. I felt that they liked me (Kinshasa is a small community and it is definately a collective sense of "they") and it gave me a cozy sense of being watched over and inducted into their cultures.

One parent explained it this way, so eloquently: Every night she is there to assist her children with homework, with schoolwork, whatever they need. Because there are 2, she will divide her time between them, watching over both and providing support. When the grades come back, if her daughter has a "C" then she is feeling perhaps she did not help enough. She will even question, "Did I give too much time to the other child?" She tells me she will feel guilty, as if she is failing her child by not helping where needed.

This was a quite an eye opening perspective. I realized I had been very clear with my group of fifth graders about the expectations. I had even 'cancelled' classes at times to review the importance of a response or assignment. But perhaps this message had not been transferred adequately to the parents. Suddenly I felt as if the burden is not mine alone but I have many helpers. These children will succeed.

Of course there are some that simply do not really see their whole child. I think, as a parent, it is not always possible. But there are beautiful people here. Everyone seemed to have such grace and a pleasant appearance. I do enjoy this job.

I cannot begin to write about the most bizarre conference. Just know that the conversation, occurring in French, had something to do with vomiting over bowel movements (ask me how this relates and I surely cannot explain) and brilliance, somehow the two are connected? Unfortunately, I am pretty certain I cannot attribute this to a translation error. Nope, she said it. Ka-ka. Several times. That is when the mist turned into a heavy fog and I knew I stepped over..........

witness

It is difficult to write tonight. All day I'd had ideas about writing some teacher talk things. Sometimes I wonder what the purpose of this blog is, and I think, it was to write about teaching here. But of course its about living here too. And, because I can't do anything simply, its about the complexities of one life in Africa.

Then I went to Jacques' show. I am reminded that there is no such thing as one life. All lives are connected, through intention or not. I was prepared for the show,as much as one can be: la violence fait a la femme. The dance was definately in the same style as the previous. I kept thinking of painting and how there would be an artist's signature through figure and form. It was there in style and music, in the way modern and traditional dance fused and interchanged. The dance was just as powerful, sometimes uncomfortable, overtly sexual. At times the dance was satirical but I wondered how the audience could laugh when I had tears in my eyes. The techno-pop background music varied between traditional Congolese drumming and a beautiful African song evoking freedom and hope. That is the melody that brought me to tears. It transported me back to another Africa, my first Africa. And I realize that I miss that time immensely. I was a different person then and I can feel the age in me now.

As America rejoices a new president, I seem to be caught up in a cycle of loss. In one small moment, I heard Barack refer to those in the forgotten corners of the world, and I felt seen. But I awoke to find Rock Star missing the next day. "It's kind of sad," Mohamed repeated all through breakfast. "Baby junior must be sad, too." It is strange how much I miss walking out onto the back porch to catch a quick glimpse of his (or her) activities.

It is lonely here and after the dance I felt the energy of people all around me. I felt the person that I used to be and remembered how she would have stayed and soaked it in, savoring the richness of the art. There is something unexplainable about watching social commentary expressed this way, hearing the audience reaction as they recognize mockery and anguish. There is something profound about watching it with the Congolese, the artists. They are not the Africans of CNN.

There the tragedy is sterile, dramatized and impersonal. Another African mishap. Here, it becomes so much more. A people awakening to their future and claiming their past.

The show took place in a small outdoor courtyard, cement stage covered with a tin roof. The audience sat in plastic chairs under a slight drizzle. There was electric and amplification. There was even some attempt at stage lighting. In this world, its quite a success. I am struck by the image of someone just beginning, working on a dream. Doing something.

It brings me back to why I am here, what am I doing? And how I so wish to be doing.
It is difficult to have patience, an essential component to life in Africa. I am pushed to paint, through my limited resources and large silent house.

Maybe tomorrow I can write of teacher things. Tonight, I can see only the dance. I can feel how it touched my soul, and try to face the piece of myself that knows what really happened on stage. The rest, for now I can only witness.