A Curious Course

Nazali yekola na Lingala. I am studying Lingala.

I have happened upon a (rather ancient) book and so begin my studies. It is, amazingly, a translation from English to Lingala, which is ever helpful. I have no doubt I could continue with one from French to Lingala but this version serves as a great beginning. I can spend my time trying to remember the Lingala and not worrying if I've gotten the right French translation.

The words and phrases have begun to make sense to me. I was even able to construct a few of my own sentences. It is like a a great mystery becoming revealed. What fun to try out my sentences on whoever is closest and watch their face light up in surprise. Everyone is great help, laughing at my mangled pronunciation and offering advice. For now, it is easiest for me to begin with the book, to see it in writing and understand the construct.

Most challenging is the conjugation (of all words, not just verbs.) There is a prefix that changes the word at the beginning and also one at the end. It really seemed confusing at first, to start out with a verb - loba (to speak) and end up with- nalobaka (I {always} speak...). Its like the word is buried in the middle and you have to find it. It is a different habit to change the beginning of the word, but I think many African languages do this. The word for child, mwana, becomes 'bana' in the plural children. This, while completely and endlessly fascinating to a language hound like me, is the least of the curiosities.

The manual I have borrowed is from 1963. It is called a basic course, and was put out by the department of state. The key to understanding both cultures lies in the translations and selected phrases.

For example, I am perplexed about the included phrase:
Atutani na nzete - He walked into a tree.

I haven't heard of this happening since I've been here, perhaps it is a local affliction occurring in a different part of the city? Perhaps the mondele, unaccustomed to the frequent power outages, needed some time to learn the intricate landscape?

More intriguing,
Alongolaki bilamba na yo ntango nazalaki kolia.
He undressed while I was eating.


I've never had need for a statement of this sort, but perhaps in Kinshasa, all things are possible.

Finally, and most telling are the words appearing in Lingala followed by a near paragraph of possible translations. There are always more English possibilities. It leaves me with a myriad of questions I am compiling for an unfortunate tutor once I am ready.

Mbanda appears initially as the word for 'co-wife, a brother-in law on the wife's side or sister-in-law on the husband's side,' but then expands to include 'people who don't like each other.'

I should think the definition alone would be a strong argument against the practice of multiple wives. And I wonder what is the word for the odd situation when 2 co-wives might actually get along..... Should they continue calling each other mbanda? Or can they get away with moninga (friend?)

There are comic entries on how to handle a run in with the police and also many phrases to do with the military. They seem placed in random order so that when reading through you will find something like:

The soldiers surrounded the village.
The soldiers are polishing their shoes.
This soldier shined his uniform buttons.

From the dramatic to the mundane. There are sections on auto mechanics, buying food, talking to servants and road work. Interspersed are necessary sections about doctors, illness, death, soldiers and natural disasters. The formality and politeness of the time is evident throughout, but especially so:

Just a minute, I'd like to tell you how we used to suffer.

As if such a discussion might occur in passing, while pricing fruit at the market.
More forceful language is 'scene' in the description of a run-in with police.

Apparently, you (the learner) have been pulled over. You don't begin the conversation well, asking the officer if you've killed someone. (Somehow, I imagine the manual taking on a sarcastic tone.) The officer responds that you must not have seen the light (back when there traffic lights in Kinshasa, I assume.)You progress to make the situation worse by stating that you don't see very well, you don't have your license because you've only just begun to drive and the car doesn't belong to you. Finally, you ask how much of a 'fine' you should pay. The officer asks if you have 1,000 francs in your pocket right now (clearly inflation has hit Kinshasa.) Unfortunately, you don't have the money but offer to make a deposit. This lesson ends with the police officer making a grand statement:

Boy, if you don't want to go to jail, shut up and follow me. And that's final!

The meek reply: I understand you, Officer.

The boys and I have had great fun trying to wrap our tongues around all ng's and zali loka's. There seems to be an abundance of n's, g's and k's. For now, many of the words seem strikingly similar. I imagine that will all clear up with time and practice. Though I'm not sure exactly when I might have cause for:

Soko simsi na ngai eyaki mbindu te, kana nakei kotala monganga
If my shirt hadn't gotten dirty, I would go see the doctor.

Maybe it wouldn't have happened if he'd undressed while I was eating.


I have, intentionally but without malice, left all the accent marks off the Lingala.

Fact and Fiction

As my vacation continues on, I'm finding it filled with little adventure, or those that hold much promise but little reality. I'm trying my hardest to relax and do nothing, as one is supposed to with a good vacation. The closest I can get to this is reading. I've stumbled across a series of books that manage to transport me to different times and places, each in their own way.

The last school I worked in had a reading room, apart from the school library, lovingly created by one of the reading teachers. It was a great collection of books designed to support the curriculum. I appreciated it thoroughly then, as the true resource it was, and continue to remember it fondly from my distance.

There was a section that connected fiction and nonfiction books in an effort to provide a multilayered perspective of a topic. I think of it now as I have just completed two very different books that seem intimiately related. This has happened only one other time in my adult life. I was still in the U.S and part of a book club. We had just finished a book for the club when I happened across the perfect fictional companion. It was such a thrilling expereince, I tried, in vain, to convince the others that I had found the next book. I wanted desperately to discuss, compare and contrast the unique perspectives of a similar subject.

It is especially poignant to me because of my method for choosing books. It is more of a system where they choose me. And it becomes easy for me to think there is a message in every one.

Finally, and simply, the pairs.
From the long but not forgotten book club days- Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver should always be read with The Camel Bookmobile by Masha Hamilton. One is an autobiography of a man building schools across Afghanistan. The other, fictional but based loosely on a real enterprise, is a fascinating drama of a woman delivering books to remote villages in northern Africa with an ending I adore (only my students know what that means.)

Most recently, Till The Sun Grows Cold by Maggie McCune should always be followed closely by The Testament by John Grisham. Maggie McCune writers an autobigraphy of her life that blends into an odd but powerful story of her daughter who fell in love with Africa and eventually married a Sudanese war lord. In the story by John Grisham, which is completely different but somehow related (perhaps only the relevance is sensed by me?) a missionary in the remote forests of Brazil inherits eleven billion dollars and the race is on to find her.



And all of these reads should be followed by a strong game of futbol, a meal of foufou with mbisi and chocolate cake... happy birthday Nabih.

Angst & Awe

the reason I am not a political blogger (aside from the fact that I need things reduced to their simplest terms for adequate comprehension) is the fact that I am very bad at citing remarks. I can never seem to remember where I heard something, only that I did. My reading goal this year was to improve my memory of author names. I am improving in that area and suppose it is time to generalize and pay more attention to when and where I’ve read something of interest.

Of course, this is leading up to a statement, quoted from some other article, from some other place, written at some other time. I came across this fact during a late night scouring session. The internet seems to work best then and I end up sitting awake, searching the web, trying to make contact with the outside world. (UNperpetuation- there is t.v. available here, cable too, even animalplanet. It is an exorbitant sum to get started, however, and I am fairly happy without it.)

Generally I catch up on news from the U.S, followed by news about Congo and then stream music while I write emails or browse for pleasure. It was one evening, while trying to stay informed about the news of the east, that I came across a description of the intake process of refugees into camps. I thought of FEMA and its incredible (insert your own adjective here) handling of the disasters in Louisiana and Texas.

Typical of Africa, what I read left me with a double feeling of angst and awe. Upon arrival, refugees are given a handful of sticks and directed to an area where they then construct their own homestead. We have a sample of such housing on our elementary playground. It was built by a second grade teacher and her class last year. The walls are falling apart and need some upkeep. It is a reminder of how many Congolese women and children are spending their days- repairing a shelter.



I must be impressed that with such few resources they are able to create something that provides (meager) protection against the elements. It is doubtful that the residents of New Orleans would have been pacified with a handful of branches, even if they were carefully chosen for their strength and sturdiness.

On the heels of my amazement, comes an overwhelming angst that so many people continue to live in mud packed houses without adequate washing or toilet facilities, even as I walk unhindered across my green oasis blossoming with electricity, running water and indoor plumbing.

But I am in awe of their ability to construct and create. It seems we in the west have lost the basic ability to build for ourselves. For most of us, we wait while another prepares the place in which we might begin to carry out the business of living.

It seems without dispute that the only solution to the global issues plaguing most of the world requires a merging of ideas and technology- that which we have learned and that which we have overlooked.

On the Gov't- Quote from a political blogger

Sometimes you just read something and suddenly, the obvious becomes apparent.......
Emin Pasha- blogging at www.congoresources.com-

"Indulge my half-baked ideas as I play political sociologist of the longue duree. The notion that the government exists to serve the people--rather than the other way around--was one of the deepest and most wide-ranging transformations in Western thinking. It came about because centuries of wars, rebellions, and revolutions led Western political thinkers to develop new ideas about the proper relationship of rulers to ruled. These ideas extended across a range of fronts, were given voice by artists, writers, and even composers, and eventually were taken up as causes by new political actors, revolutionaries in their day. Gradually, over time, these ideas took root, spread, and became embedded in the very structure of our government. Now we have so deeply internalized them that they are subtly reflected in everything we do--from how we raise our children, to what TV shows we watch, to what we expect from the police if we are pulled over for speeding. But these ideas are neither universal nor natural. If anything, the belief that the individual is and ought to be subordinate to the government--that the less powerful must yield to the more powerful--is the more "natural," intuitive notion. That's why the Congolese have at times demonstrated so forcefully against MONUC. They know why MONUC is there; they understand what its mission is. When it fails to protect them, they get angry. But from their own government, they expect nothing. And when that's what it delivers, they are neither surprised nor outraged."

What it's really like....

shedding some light on the state of women in eastern congo:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UX8X6b7q7s8

it was the part when she said, 'I have three children from the rapes, including the one in my arms...'

Un-perpetuating the myth

Today was a perfectly great example of an ordinary day. One of my students invited me to his birthday party, so we all went, Mohamed, Nabih and I and one other teacher from school. There is a very sweet little place not far from campus that is built for children’s entertainment. During our day, I had time to reflect.

Yesterday during our shopping trip I noticed a bowl of beetles laying amongst the cabbage and corn for sale (beetles is the nice word, I believe.) Caterpillars are also a delicacy here and they are sold from colorful plastic bowls, often with bread. During one of our writing assignments, which coincided with a read aloud of City of Ember by Jeanne DuPrau, I asked students to describe their family’s staple foods and the ones they would miss the most. Caterpillars made it onto one list. I am told it might be similar to eating Cheetos- a light, crunchy snack. I have absolutely no first hand knowledge on this however. I’ve wanted to catch a photo of this unique finger food and almost shot one of the beetles, moving en masse in their confined quarters. But I really had to question the motive behind my desire. Mostly I saw it as something different and, especially to a veggie like me, so utterly foreign.

During our International Schools Conference, I had the chance to witness many perspectives of Africa and about teaching in Africa as well as presenting Africa. I am acutely aware of the level of thinking that suggests some of us may be perpetuating a stereotype by presenting only the strange and pitiable. This view suggests that we are only talking about war and hunger and famine (and caterpillars for breakfast) and don’t give enough attention to the positive aspects of Africa.

As with all perspectives, it is difficult for me to take sides. I can only be aware. So I am left to question things like my desire to shoot a photo of an odd and delightful street snack. And ultimately, not to do it. On the other hand, I did update my blog with several links relating to the treacherous past of Congo, the current war and hopefully, a few positive projects worthy of note. I added these links, not to perpetuate, but to draw attention. It came on the heels of a conversation with a good friend- thanks K- that sometimes our first step is simply awareness. While I am searching for something more substantial to fill my soul here in DRC, I can at least begin with that.

Finally, to round things out completely, I am here to write about a completely ordinary day at a child’s birthday party. There were several ‘bounce houses’- those blow up affairs where children must remove their shoes in order to jump themselves into oblivion. There was a large slide in the same manner and several trampolines. Another blow up contraption sectioned off an area for soccer. Mohamed joined in a rather lively game and actually held his own. Close by, a net was set up for volleyball. There was a restaurant as well as a snack bar selling fries and burgers and soda (and popcorn, always popcorn.)

The biggest attraction, however, was a ‘go-kart’ area. The karts were really large bikes with three or four large, sturdy wheels. They moved by pedal power and had a variety of seats. Some allowed for passengers, some were close to the ground but all were reminiscent of buggies built for crossing desert dunes. Children and adults rode around the paved track showing off their (very African- or NYC-ish, whichever you prefer) driving skills. Like a mini Kinshasa, there were traffic jams, fender benders, and traffic directors ready to help with a hefty push. Young boys delighted in taking the turns fast and controlling the skid with a hand brake. Many slightly more cautious drivers pedaled younger brothers and sisters around. Even some brave moms dared the roads in an effort to provide a quick (or slow and halting as the case often was) turn around the track. There appeared to be no time limit on the ride and children drove laps until stopped by sheer exhaustion.

There was a second area with smaller bikes and trikes for children like Nabih. He didn’t quite have the strength to make one go on his own but with some strategic assistance he managed to get around the track several times. It was a hot, sunny day full of simple, clean fun. We discussed the few opportunities for entertainment in Kinshasa, and tried to brainstorm some possibilities (water park, for one.) Personally, I think a roller rink holds potential. Most of the places in existence are picnic areas with a nice view, a cool breeze but not much in the way of actual entertainment. It is another juxtaposition- this calm and tranquil life leads to a patient people, satisfied with small things. It is a nice way to be. Of course, its also a bit boring and there is very little stimulation, educational or otherwise, for children and families. I am reminded of Florida, with its vast array of museums, libraries, and cultural venues aimed at enriching family life. We could use a bit of that here.

But today, we found a small pocket in Kinshasa to enjoy good food, conversation and small thrills. (Plus, I have been given the gift of an Indian sari- perhaps my wardrobe will be changing. I have never worn a sari before and while they are certainly elegant, I am not and so assumed we two did not mix. But! ever open to new things, I will try. )

Kansas

as in Dorothy, we're not....

? ? 50, 30, ? As we near the middle of a marking period, I scan my grades to check on general progress. That is what I came across in the math section of my record book. It is a student I have been struggling to reach. He clearly has some intensive special education needs. I’ve seen some small progress in the area of writing but math remains a mystery. In a class of 25, I feel like I can never get to everyone the way I want, the way I need to.
I have made special effort here, instituting after school help twice a week and even offering a program for the December break. I’ve tried to line him up with a tutor but it gets tricky in that area. He really needs a qualified teacher, I believe, to make any kind of true progress and they are hard to come by.

I decided to approach the administration to find out exactly what it is I’m supposed to do with this child. Retention is hardly appropriate, nor do I believe it would adequately fill in the gaps that are missing. Many of our students have gaps.

I’m not sure what I was expecting or hoping for. I suppose that may have been my first error. Never go into a meeting without some idea of the desired outcome. I wasn’t thinking long range either. Error number 2. I left the meeting in a daze, feeling as if I’d been punched in the stomach. Error number 3. Always keep yourself composed. I felt like being physically ill, and I know my face showed every bit of it. I had to work to close my mouth as it hung open in shock. And I can’t get past the outright racism of the statement to determine if that’s what it actually was.

I’m told to write a letter requesting a meeting with family based on my concern about the student’s future at the school. Long before, when I knew nothing, I thought there might be some kind of entrance exam or application to get in. But there is not. And if there is no screening process to weed out potential difficulties, how do we then institute a process where we kick them out once a problem is identified? I’m told there is a screening process but I believe it has yet to be clearly identified. If there is no initial judgment, how can it be brought about mid-year? Oh, oh you mean that kind of learning difficulty? No, we don’t take those.

But I’m not really sure what that means, because he is not the only one in my class suffering from broad gaps or lack of adequate progress and achievement. He is not the only who will require support and modification of program in order to be successful. But I am told that he is an African child and as such, already of higher education and status than most of his compatriots. He can continue in any number of the available schools from the other private ones in the area to the “public” African schools.

Maybe I think of Guy, who is suffering so much to learn to read. And I recall how he was pushed through an African school, where no one seemed to recognize his difficulty or care, or have the means to deal with it. But we have the means. We are able to support and modify, we are able to present in multilayered ways. So why is he being shoved into a system where they cannot or will not be able to help him?

Or maybe I am just thinking about how shy and awkward this student was during his first few weeks of school. He is new to the country and it was not an easy transition. He had difficulty making friends and being accepted. But I see him now and I see the way he has branched out and blossomed. And I see the way all of that will contract again. He will become lost and ignored in the back of a class where he will daydream his days quietly away. And he will have me to thank for that.

Reflections of a Tourist?

Last weekend I took Mohamed to get his hair cut. We didn't go to that barber, underneath the tree. Our barber actually had a door to walk through and 2 chairs for clients, as well as a row for those waiting. There was even a small T.V. in the corner showing a futbol match.

One of my students had come to school sporting the 'fancy' cut Mohamed loves. The kind where they shave designs in your hair. I managed to find the scoop and we set out in search of a lightning bolt or shooting flame. (Mohamed has become adept at drawing sports cars lately and he adds a symbol of speed and power to each.)

We were accompanied on our trip, mostly because I needed directions, and I was quite self-conscious as we left the gate. Big brother is watching? Back to the gossip ring. I felt a strange need to explain where I was going and why. It was fairly easy to dim the light that shone on that particular aspect of campus life. It's much nicer to live in ignorant bliss. But I was slightly disturbed at having to acknowledge it at all. Sacrifice comes with the garden of eden? Sometimes it just feels like one big glass fishbowl.

We made it first to one barber, only to be turned away because Mohamed's hair required clippers and the electricity was not strong enough there. A second shop supplied electricity, parking, and a huge baobab for shade. Underneath the tree was a kaleidoscope of life. One woman sat selling bananas from an umbrella covered table. Another was bagging burnt wood? charcoal? for sale. Closer to the road, a group of young men played Foosball. Some were sitting on benches watching, some were napping. The parking area doubled as a car wash/ repair spot and so men wandered back and forth scrubbing, washing and drying- themselves and the shiny new SUV's that seemed so out of place. A few sat inside an abandoned car, napping or simply enjoying a soft seat.

Children and chickens played all around. Naturally, they became interested in Nabih and tried to get him to play but he wasn't interested. He was busy keeping a fearful eye on the chickens and hiding behind his hat. One bold little beauty came up and tried grabbing him out to play but he refused all her attempts to entice him.

I thought several times about taking photos but didn't want to stand out as a tourist. I realized the complete futility of this statement even as I thought it. As if I could be anything but. I enjoyed watching the sights as much as they all enjoyed watching me, each foreign to the other. I had the chance, standing under the tree, to comprehend the powerlessness and vulnerability that comes from being unable to control the color of your skin.

I may learn the language and the customs. I may learn to bargain as good as any Congolese and I may even learn to read between the lines and comprehend the humor. I may appreciate the dress and the art. I may even move among the streets with confidence and ease. But I will never be mistaken for a local.

Mohamed was pretty happy with his hair cut. I think he ended up with something more like a firecracker than a death defying flame. He's got plans for next time, however. And maybe I'll bring my camera and get a shot of that outdoor arcade. Nabih and I can even take turns posing with the chickens and the charcoal and the children.

Just a Gardener

Its difficult to write lately. Not for lack of subject matter, more for lack of translation. My double perspectives are catching up with me. I want to write about the oddities I see here but I end up sounding too much like complaining. I’m still enchanted. I just wanted to give a more accurate picture of what it is like at times. Unsuccessfully, so far. I'll come back to that.

Something that is proving a bit challenging for me, as my stay becomes longer, is being a good judge of character. I’m trying to realize that I may not be an especially good judge of character. I’m trying to learn from my past mistakes, perhaps. And it’s really throwing me because I’m just not sure what went wrong. I have always chalked it up to personal growth on my part and lack of such on the other, but how many times does that occur? And why does it reoccur? I’m beginning to think my vision is flawed. Delayed?

Things I have seen though, that I believe in, include our safety officer, Papa Josef. Since I have been here, I’ve only seen him in this role. He takes it very seriously and I delight in hearing him rebuke the drivers for one infraction or another. He is essential in communicating across the language divide that often separates maintenance and chauffeurs from faculty. He is expert at developing a relationship with the children and keeping their needs in mind. He seems to have every elementary student’s phone number in the palm of his hand, ready to dial should a child be left waiting too long.

Last evening, the elementary school performed their annual holiday concert. It was truly a grand affair and the students were spectacular. The music teacher (intern) really came into her own and chose an eclectic range of songs from around the world. Children sang in many languages and brought a true sense of hope and unity to the evening.

It began as expected, with everyone meeting in their classrooms. After the grand finale, however, the students were simply dismissed. Parents scooped children directly from the stage or gathered them off the sidewalk. I was slightly uncomfortable with this arrangement after the strict U.S. policy of signing kids out from the class and making sure safety and security abound. It can be very loose here at times. So it was that I encountered a parent on the sidewalk, telling me one of my students was stuck, having been dropped off by a parent who thought the evening would be longer than it was.

I took the student, found his brother, made a call and we all sat down to wait. We had some fun reviewing social studies facts for a test and playing simple games on my phone. Papa Josef checked in, as he can be counted on to do, to make sure I was staying with the child and had called the parents. I didn’t see any other teachers or staff. I know if I had gone ahead home and not run across this student, he would be staying with Papa Josef until someone came. I think everyone on campus is secure in that knowledge.

Which is why, at that time as many others, I hear the echo of someone telling me, “But he’s just a gardener.” Perhaps when she arrived she saw him that way, but since I’ve arrived, I’ve seen him only as a safety officer, a resource and necessary part of student life. When I saw him gardening in our neighbor’s yard I thought, “What’s he doing? He’s not a gardener! He’s the safety guy!”

There are many hidden treasures here and I’m not always sure I can be counted on to spot them all. Likewise, I may be mistaking a mere glass globe for a pearl. The lens I am looking through is distorted by culture and language and it is difficult to be certain I am seeing clearly.

I was recently asked to sign a letter of complaint against someone and found I simply couldn’t do it. I tried to evaluate my real reasons and am still wondering which of us has the more valid points. Perhaps this is a natural give and take, but here the consequences seem so much more severe. It is an immense responsibility to accept that, as a result of my statements, a job may be lost. I do not want to face the implications of that. However, I also realize the need for expectations to remain high. Sympathy is not enough to keep a job.

I did feel, however, that the letter of complaint was quite severe and could have simply been addressed through conversation. I felt perhaps that the author was a bit picky. And then I thought that perhaps my experience in Congo was not as thorough as hers, and maybe she had a right to be picky. I also felt that sometimes people just don’t communicate well enough with the people they are asking to drive them around. I understand I am a bit laid back, often to my detriment. Sometimes people make assumptions that just aren’t true. But I’m not sure if that would be me or them. So, I couldn’t sign the letter.

Everyone seems to have their own unique perspective based on completely different schema. It is a time when my ability to judge character is really coming under scrutiny. Though I may not be great at this particular skill, it is hard to accept too much help here. Ultimately, I must decide what works for me in my world. Because here in international teaching, we are like a bunch of concentric circles, orbiting in our own ellipses, colliding occasionally with common needs or interests but maintaining space and distance, coming as we are from such diverse backgrounds and reference points.
It’s a mini cosmos, with an occasional blip of chaos and one or two stray gardeners wandering about.

Not So Far Off

Remember that post where I was talking about tropical storms and the image they brought of destruction and mayhem? This last storm was not so far from the vivid description seen so often in films.

I heard this huge tree fall in the middle of the night. It took down a light post as well. Exactly opposite the tree is my bedroom window. I suppose we are lucky it was pushed in this direction.

The next day, our gardener hepled another tree to fall. At the time, however, I was unaware of this and it seemed as though trees were toppling all around us. This is not exactly the sign I was hoping for, but I am not one to complain. Now if I could only figure out what it means.....

Beware the future, obstacles may bar your path?

Tuck Your Shirt Out

The Yellow Belt. Mohamed has proudly graduated to a new level in karate. He gained this new status at a four hour presentation ceremony. It was certainly an experience for me, being relatively new to the karate experience itself. There was time to honor the masters who had come to judge the students and time to honor the teacher. There was time to allow all of the students to show what they had learned. (And with Nabih, there was time to check out the college soccer game going on in the field next door, as well as a basketball game on the court-worthy of a posting all its own.) The karate students came forward by school to present a series of moves and then again by rank to be judged for acceptance to a new level. The whole affair was a unique mixture of English and French and Chinese.

Mohamed took his karate very seriously, practicing the series of steps he would be required to perform. For days before the show, he would ask me if I wanted to see ‘tuck your shirt out.’ I gave him my full attention despite my confusion. Illumination came during the presentation when I heard the instructor give the commands,” Tak, Eshate, Aiea!”
It is a wonderful juxtaposition that I can afford karate lessons here in Kinshasa as I never could in America. Twice a week after school is a mere $30 per month. I must relate everything back to groceries because sometimes we just want something fun to eat. Pizza at $12 a slice means we are better off taking an extra class of karate. Or private dance lessons.

Yes, I am finally learning the traditional dances of Congo and they are beautiful. My spirit could be wooed and captured by dance if it were more feasible to travel to the country and see it. I’m working up it. I’ve only just begun to drive in Kinshasa. The dangers of the bush should wait. For now I’ll just tuck my shirt out and have faith.

The halfway point

It is about half way through the school year. Next week we will be breaking for a much needed vacation. Three weeks sounds like a long time now but it's sure to fly by in an instant. The patience required to work here has begun to stretch a bit thin. The charm has been washed away by the rain. On some days, a mere stapler can reduce me to a crumpled mass of tears. There are definitely some simple things that could go a long way top making life easier. A stapler is high on my list. One memorable afternoon I was trying to put up a bulletin board in the cafeteria. It is an oversize one and the upper grades had decided on a theme. I was trying, alone, to put up the background. It would have gone fairly well except the stapler kept jamming. So, there I was, holding a huge roll of paper, half stapled to the wall and in need of a pair of scissors on the nearby (but not quite close enough) table to clear the mangled staples. Its one of those scenes that could be funny if you were in the right mood. It just seems that every time I try to get creative I am stymied by a stapler. Because, yes, as I leaned against the board to keep the weight of the paper from pulling the whole thing down and stretch out cautiously with my other arm, I seriously considered yelling for help. Help? I realized the situation was too ridiculous to invite someone to witness and continued on my own. For the love of a stapler. (I won't even bother to describe the small red stapler I was using. It resembled more toy than office apparel and I longingly recalled the sturdy black machines of my not so distant past.)

Other small items holding vast power over me include whiteboard markers and poster paper. Poster paper simply because there is none. When I want to do a project involving posters I must either ask the students to buy their own (resulting in different sizes, shapes and colors) or I must try to create it by cutting sheets from rolled butcher paper. This scenario leads me to sprawling on the floor with sheets of paper curling around me as I try to cut, measure and flatten. There is nothing funny about this even on the best of days. Whiteboard markers? OK, I can see the humor here. This is the only situation I actually laugh through, and that might be more a sign of serious damage than good humor. The last time I went to refill my supply, I was able to choose from red or green. (There used to be blue long ago, even black, but now it's holiday colors only.) The markers are of such poor quality that they fade quite quickly once exposed to the air. I have been known to begin chucking them into the garbage can during a lesson, one after another as I heave and sigh searching for patience. It is usually in the middle of a lesson that I grab a marker to illustrate a point, only to have nothing come out. Chuck. Into the can. I do this mostly so I will be forced to walk up to the admin building and request more. However, I had to stop myself, during one particularly intense frenzy, before I threw them all away and had nothing left to continue the lesson. This is the part where I laugh and laugh because wouldn't the students just love it if I had to cancel a lesson for lack of equipment. Its hard to believe today I was longingly recalling the chalkboard. I have always hated chalkboards.

Equally frustrating is the lack of Internet connection. Like everything, its only frustrating if it isn't there when you need it. Personally, I manage well enough. But, educationally, there is plenty we could do if we had strong computers and certain Internet. (We could get around the obstacle of dying whiteboard markers, for instance.) I do have an LCD projector, which is helpful and I may plan to use it more often to avoid the invisible ink syndrome. We have textbooks but I feel a lack of paper. This may or may not be true. There is just the air of scarcity when I go to request supplies. I might receive one packet of colored construction paper (last request resulted in only blue) or asked how many manila file folders I need (how 'bout the whole box?)

After all is said and done however, what I miss most truly with my entire heart, soul, and every fiber of being are index cards. I miss small index cards and jumbo ones. I miss having them available in assorted colors like yellow, blue and red. I miss being able to grab an index card and jot down a note. I miss being inspired in the middle of a lesson and grabbing a handful to hand out to students for a quick activity. I miss using them to make flashcards, vocabulary cards, recipe cards, outline notes, color-coded group work, guess who I am? game, spelling cards on a ring, spelling sort in a pocket chart, quick note home to parents, here take my email, note to self about things to do tomorrow index cards.......

The Bread Scene

The Bread Scene 30. 11. 08 8:53 pm

Last night we went with our neighbors to see their son in his debut performance. He is 14 years old and has been taking sax lessons with an accomplished saxophonist. The evening was pleasant, if you don’t count Nabih’s wild side. He was very overtired and it tends to have the opposite effect. Mohamed, on the other hand, stuffed himself to exhaustion and practically fell asleep in his chair. I did notice his smile however, which revealed his dimple and lit his eyes in pure joy. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen him so free.

The music was a fun mix of American and Congolese, with a special highlight including a jingle for “Comfort,” a feminine product marketed here in Kinshasa. Apparently the saxophonist had written it, and it was being produced by our neighbor. I was introduced briefly to a minister of some sort, (political not theological) but honestly, it didn’t really mean much to me (clearly, it was supposed to.) I haven’t yet figured out all the titles or how the government works exactly (running on the Parliament system here.) The most ironic was listening to La Bamba- a Spanish song in an African restaurant that moved everyone to sing the chorus. The band members gave everything over to the student, really offering a chance for him to shine in the spotlight. While the boy was capable and even talented, I eventually came to the conclusion that perhaps there was more to this than just a simple performance.

Our neighbors are good people and I generally have a good time when we go out together, though I undoubtedly end up feeling like the peasant farmer (I’m trying to see the charm in peasant farming…) They are on the wealthier end of the spectrum and dazzle with class and fashion. They seem to have a sweet marriage, a true partnership and a wonderful way of making me feel completely comfortable. It is always an experience.

On the way home, they decided to stop for bread. I frequently feel, when riding in this car, like I am part of a Nascar test drive. That is, I feel I’m in the hands of a professional driver in every sense of the term. We were speeding down the road in a frantic rush of freedom, as the traffic had just let up, when I felt the car (violently?) swerve to the side of the road where a troupe of women walked with bags of bread.


The air inside the car became quiet as even the children were entranced by the sight. Outside the air was a fury of insistence that would put the most profitable Florida car salesman to shame. It seemed as if hundreds of women materialized, all shoving their bags of bread against the window and even into the car itself. She turned on the interior light and calmly searched for some francs. This is the kind of scene that would leave me feeling rushed and confused. But she took time to turn back and ask if I would also like some bread, unfazed by mounting vehemence outside.

The women were calmed by a word or two in Lingala and the scene ended with laughter, cheers and well wishes. She always gets the best deal and speaking Lingala goes a long way in obtaining that. It is easy to see they delight in these small exchanges, impressing the Congolese with their knowledge of local language, bridging the gap and creating the social connection. It is a necessity for the long term. She smiles back and explains how there is a bakery near by which practically guarantees a fresh loaf.

We zoom off again and I am lost in the darkness of the night sky, punctured only by the occasional roadside candlelight. I think of one of the walks I took with Nabih outside the restaurant. It was surrounded by a school and a medical centre. The school posted a sign on the gate offering employment. I wondered what it would be like to live and work in such a place, surrounded by life.