"She's living out of a suitcase. She had all of her stuff shipped back home." The conversation came on the heels of a premonition someone on campus felt about the security of life for us ex-pats in the DRC. I was catapaulted into a state of shock for entirely different reasons.
Congo is full of aid workers and 'helping' agencies. I've been reading and learning a lot about the real effect this kind of work has on a country. In addition, MONUC is a huge presence here in the capital as well as in the east. It's complicated trying to weigh the cost/ benefits. But because we are already living in such high tension, I had difficulty imagining an event that would warrant evacuating the foreigners.
Nevertheless, my neighbor and I continued to contemplate. What would our contracts cover? Where would we go? And what would happen to any of the things we left behind? She contemplated how to best provide something for her nanny- who would certainly be in dire straits without a job. And I wondered what all of the Congolese who depended on foreigners for their livelihood would do.
But mostly I thought about myself. I felt caught in the dilemma of nationhood. Where would I be shipped off to? I simply can no longer imagine life in the U.S. and feel no desire to go back. For an instant of panic, I felt that familiar, weightless, floating sense of being without a home- no where to go. There are plenty of people I've encountered recently who have lived in the Congo for a decade or more. I wonder precisely at which moment does a country become home and when does the birthplace become abandoned, or if not abandoned, replaced as the country of identification?
While my neighbor continued to make decisions and lists about which of her things would be most important in an immediate evacutaion, I continued a stubborn resistance. I'm not going. Can I really say I'm not going? But I don't want to go. I have nowhere to go. Why should I go? This one track questioning played over and over in my mind as I compared myself to the Congolese--- who had no decision to make. I've long struggled with this ability to fly out of conflict. A privilege? A curse? A point of confusion if nothing more. Suddenly I felt like a refugee in reverse. I fully realized that someone else may very well be making this decision for me. And I realized it is not a hazard of teaching in many places. But in Africa, at any moment, the government could go south and things could get, well.....tricky. But I really am not ready to give up what I have found.
I am still clinging to the idea when you're home, you're home. And I don't feel able to fly off in the face of danger. I have never felt more content in my life, in my being, in the way I am greeted by each new day.
29.11.09
24.10.09
the very nothing
We sped to the airport at 100 mph (ok, so maybe it was 100 kph,) but it seemed as though the car itself were about to take off. At 5:30 am the streets were empty. I harboured plenty of doubts about whether the car was equipped with working brakes but I suddenly felt certain I would make the plane on time...provided of course there were no potholes or unexpected pedestrians to throw the car into a deathly spin.
After a short four days, I was regretfully leaving Lubumbashi, a city that had easily and quickly enchanted me. The Hotel Everybody created an atmosphere reminiscent of Guinee in so many ways and I felt just as awful leaving here as I did on my way to Gbessia.
I slept in Paris. All of the rooms were named after locations around the world (everything from Texas to Tokyo.) The 'deluxe' room included a large bed, small round table and its own toilet and shower. Of course, there wasn't actually any running water but at least I could bathe from my bucket in private. There was also the additional option of a TV, which I found unecessary, especially as there was no electricity except at night when the they ran the generator.
The generator was necessary because Hotel Everybody was also a hopping night spot. Just before dusk, they brought out the round plastic tables imprinted with the blue Primus logo and unstacked the chairs. The courtyard turned into an outdoor lounge and dance floor. A large speaker amplified the music playing in the disco room. People jumped up at their tables or filled in the walkway as the music moved them. And it did.
Every night seemed to bring a different crowd. Saturday, two futbol teams came in, drinking and dancing together. I smiled bemusedly as I tried to imagine American football players holding hands and dancing with each other in such a seductive way. Congolese dance is all about rotating the pelvis and low bent knees bouncing in and out. The sheer joy was evident as young boys sang and gestured trying to outdo each other's moves.
Sunday night was the most popular evening it seemed. Beautiful people in bright whites streamed into the disco room, which seemed to magically expand in order to accomodate them all. It was impossibly full. Walking in there was like stepping out of Africa. Black light flickered as a central disco ball spun a rainbow of fireworks splashing around the room. The music was intensely loud, prohibiting conversation. A smoke horn penetrated the noise every so often with a loud wailing siren as fog sprayed into the room. It was completely surreal.
I found a more enjoyable spot in the dining room where we generally ate our meals. It afforded a view of the stunning young Congolese as they came out of the darkness into the light. Often they paused for a last dance step just outside the doorway or a laugh with their friends. Many were drenched and dripping sweat. All were tall, proud and joyous.
Hotel Everybody had a different story by day, which was just as engaging to me. I spent the mornings walking in the marketplace, drawing and talking with those working nearby. I talked with Mama Louise in the outdoor kitchen and we prepared a few meals together. I made my first dish with the small iron cookstove used for cooking outside in Africa. I found it difficult to regulate the heat but Mama Louise indulged me by adjusting the charcoal as I needed.
I spent an entire day talking to Kazadi- who sold crates of beer and soda from a small cement depot in front of the hotel. I first met Kazadi when he took us to the Lubumbashi zoo- a trip fraught with laughter as we searched 'empty' cages for signs of animal life. One area held a small crocodile which appeared either plastic or dead. Kazadi insisted it was neither and threw a small stone at the animal. Nothing happened at all which only reinforced the point. Kazadi had a gentle manner and beautiful smile. I wanted to hear his story.
We sat in the depot, drawing and talking and watching the people go by. Aside from our brief sojourn to the zoo, Kazadi told me he works everyday from 8-6. He gets paid $20 per month and sleeps on a foam mattress on the cement floor. The windows are broken and the nights are cool in Lubumbashi. He keeps his clothes in a room at the motel which some of the other workers share. He takes one meal a day there and sometimes he pays for it, sometimes it is a gift.
Kazadi tells me he doesn't know the story of his father, as he died when Kazadi was only an infant. He thinks his father was a diabetic. "My mom, I know the story of my mom, " he says. "She collapsed in front of me." He was in sixth grade when his mom died. Someone took him in long enough to get through school and then sent him on his own to find work. He's done everything from selling shoes to stealing before finding the job at the depot.
Kazadi smiled frequently and seemed to have a joy for life that simply amazed me. He said he was only in Lubumbashi for 2 months and dreamed of a better life, studying at university. In some ways, the story of Kazadi is not a terrible one. He is employed, he sleeps inside- out of the rain and the dust, and he eats a daily meal with others. But the sight of his foam mattress rolled up behind the tin door is an image that stays with me.
Upon arrival to my own home, I felt completely overwhelmed by my possessions. I have an entire room dedicated to hanging my wet laundry and this boy is sleeping admist crates of beer. Its not the first time I've encountered someone with nothing more than a bundle of clothes, but I admit to becoming complacent, to forgetting. I look around at the few things I have, blankets, bags, photographs, a calendar on the wall, and I compare this to the very nothing that Kazadi has...and so many like him who, impossibly, have even less.
I remember the friendly smiles I was greeted with, the warmth as people held my hand while we talked and the ready conversation all around. I remember shared plates of food, the energy passing between dancers and the way passers-by would stop in a moment of joy for a quick dance step or to sing a refrain that everyone seemed to know. I remember these things from my quiet, solitary house and wonder who really has less. I know it is only me if I don't do something. And there is plenty that I can do.....
After a short four days, I was regretfully leaving Lubumbashi, a city that had easily and quickly enchanted me. The Hotel Everybody created an atmosphere reminiscent of Guinee in so many ways and I felt just as awful leaving here as I did on my way to Gbessia.
I slept in Paris. All of the rooms were named after locations around the world (everything from Texas to Tokyo.) The 'deluxe' room included a large bed, small round table and its own toilet and shower. Of course, there wasn't actually any running water but at least I could bathe from my bucket in private. There was also the additional option of a TV, which I found unecessary, especially as there was no electricity except at night when the they ran the generator.
The generator was necessary because Hotel Everybody was also a hopping night spot. Just before dusk, they brought out the round plastic tables imprinted with the blue Primus logo and unstacked the chairs. The courtyard turned into an outdoor lounge and dance floor. A large speaker amplified the music playing in the disco room. People jumped up at their tables or filled in the walkway as the music moved them. And it did.
Every night seemed to bring a different crowd. Saturday, two futbol teams came in, drinking and dancing together. I smiled bemusedly as I tried to imagine American football players holding hands and dancing with each other in such a seductive way. Congolese dance is all about rotating the pelvis and low bent knees bouncing in and out. The sheer joy was evident as young boys sang and gestured trying to outdo each other's moves.
Sunday night was the most popular evening it seemed. Beautiful people in bright whites streamed into the disco room, which seemed to magically expand in order to accomodate them all. It was impossibly full. Walking in there was like stepping out of Africa. Black light flickered as a central disco ball spun a rainbow of fireworks splashing around the room. The music was intensely loud, prohibiting conversation. A smoke horn penetrated the noise every so often with a loud wailing siren as fog sprayed into the room. It was completely surreal.
I found a more enjoyable spot in the dining room where we generally ate our meals. It afforded a view of the stunning young Congolese as they came out of the darkness into the light. Often they paused for a last dance step just outside the doorway or a laugh with their friends. Many were drenched and dripping sweat. All were tall, proud and joyous.
Hotel Everybody had a different story by day, which was just as engaging to me. I spent the mornings walking in the marketplace, drawing and talking with those working nearby. I talked with Mama Louise in the outdoor kitchen and we prepared a few meals together. I made my first dish with the small iron cookstove used for cooking outside in Africa. I found it difficult to regulate the heat but Mama Louise indulged me by adjusting the charcoal as I needed.
I spent an entire day talking to Kazadi- who sold crates of beer and soda from a small cement depot in front of the hotel. I first met Kazadi when he took us to the Lubumbashi zoo- a trip fraught with laughter as we searched 'empty' cages for signs of animal life. One area held a small crocodile which appeared either plastic or dead. Kazadi insisted it was neither and threw a small stone at the animal. Nothing happened at all which only reinforced the point. Kazadi had a gentle manner and beautiful smile. I wanted to hear his story.
Kazadi tells me he doesn't know the story of his father, as he died when Kazadi was only an infant. He thinks his father was a diabetic. "My mom, I know the story of my mom, " he says. "She collapsed in front of me." He was in sixth grade when his mom died. Someone took him in long enough to get through school and then sent him on his own to find work. He's done everything from selling shoes to stealing before finding the job at the depot.
Kazadi smiled frequently and seemed to have a joy for life that simply amazed me. He said he was only in Lubumbashi for 2 months and dreamed of a better life, studying at university. In some ways, the story of Kazadi is not a terrible one. He is employed, he sleeps inside- out of the rain and the dust, and he eats a daily meal with others. But the sight of his foam mattress rolled up behind the tin door is an image that stays with me.
Upon arrival to my own home, I felt completely overwhelmed by my possessions. I have an entire room dedicated to hanging my wet laundry and this boy is sleeping admist crates of beer. Its not the first time I've encountered someone with nothing more than a bundle of clothes, but I admit to becoming complacent, to forgetting. I look around at the few things I have, blankets, bags, photographs, a calendar on the wall, and I compare this to the very nothing that Kazadi has...and so many like him who, impossibly, have even less.
I remember the friendly smiles I was greeted with, the warmth as people held my hand while we talked and the ready conversation all around. I remember shared plates of food, the energy passing between dancers and the way passers-by would stop in a moment of joy for a quick dance step or to sing a refrain that everyone seemed to know. I remember these things from my quiet, solitary house and wonder who really has less. I know it is only me if I don't do something. And there is plenty that I can do.....
10.10.09
In Plain English (or as close as I can come to it anyway..)
But that was not even the beginning of the perfect day. (Well, technically, that was the beginning, but that is not yet the perfect part, although it was a nice time.)
I had arranged for Jacques to come to Stand Proud with me this Saturday to do some drumming with the kids. Last week, as we drew, music played and some of the kids were dancing and moving. It seemed evident they would love to have some live music to groove to.
"Are we going to draw today?" one child asked me and I couldn't tell if it was hopefully or with lazy interest. I sent them off to gather the others for a great surprise.The children were immediately drawn to the drums and with Jacques' incredible spirit he easily inspired them to dance, sing and express themselves. Their eyes were filled with pure joy and excitement and smiles lifted every face. I felt completely happy to see them so caught up in the moment. And it really was about the moment. I did not feel any need to think about longevity, sustainability or continuity. I just wanted a day of pure pleasure for these kids. And they got it. So did I.
Nothing gold...
I am sure I would have noticed the armed guard even if Mohamed hadn't said, on the way out of the gate, "You see? Noah's security men have guns." Guns? Weapons was a more accurate word from my perspective. A gun is something small that you can fit in your hand or the waistband of your pants. This was slung over the guard's shoulder and at least as long as his arm, from shoulder to fingertips- unlikely to be hidden in a waistband or anywhere else. The purpose of this machine was to be seen and carried with presence.
I wondered what position his father held that warranted armed security at the gate. And as I drove out, I thought for a moment of the family that lived within the walls and the implications of having such high level protection. Nothing to envy. I went home to record that, while my face painting adventure had been aside the wealthy and important, I was happy to be counted among the peasants.
I had responded to a request from a parent to facepaint at her daughter's birthday. Apparently she had seen my work at the annual welcome picnic for school and gotten my number from the organizers. For unknown reasons, I agreed. In some ways, it sounded fun and in other ways, I simply have a hard time saying no. I agreed to transform a bunch of 5-9 year olds into fairy princesses and wall climbing superheroes in exchange for bringing the boys to the party (which I had heard would be a pool party with swimming, good snacks and fun.) I was completely unprepared for what I walked in to.
The house was a short drive down a very small, country type lane. Typically, the houses were all surrounded by large perimeter walls giving nothing away except a number. This particular house was at the complete end of the road. We were graciously welcomed into the drive by friendly security and my breath was immediately taken away.
I have, in my position as teacher and an American, found myself in some relatively high class homes (the American Ambassador has a lovely home, the president of the Board of Education has an equally luxurious and picturesque abode) but this house instantly transported me from Congo to deep in the middle of a romanticized landscape painting. Bordering the drive was a lush, green lawn that sloped and curved down to the house. There were several small, cottage like buildings on the grounds decorated with minature trees and flourishing shrubs. Just to the left, a view of the backyard unfolded and beyond, a scene reminiscent of a traditional village. Women walked down a dusty road as children ran after a rolling tire. The distant muted tones contrasted sharply with the vibrant greens and warm hues of the yard and house. The doorway was arched and lent a Spanish appeal to the entranceway. African masks hung above the door and beveled glass framed each side. I wanted to wander the gardens, snapping photos and reveling in the beauty. It was at once charming and a bit disarming.
I was welcomed into the house by a beautiful, intensely dark African woman (so many of the families here are breathtakingly beautiful.) We had never met and she introduced herself. I complimented her house as unease began to creep up. I was clearly out of my element. We stepped into a stone tiled dining area where several guests were seated, enjoying drinks and snacks. Most of the conversation was in French and I did not recognize anyone, not even the children. Dashed were my images of painting faces amidst running, jumping children and joking with those I might know from school. I was crushed in a massive, nearly painful grip as she introduced her husband, a bald and serious German.
Children being children, the boys were easily swept off to play with one acquaintance from school. I was left to sit alone, unsure how to join in the conversation and wishing only to hide behind my own mask of painted faces. A butler (?!) offered drinks, which I could only decline. The birthday girl appeared, a delicate, golden child framed with luxuriant curly hair and beset with calm, determined eyes. She placed a chair in front of me and sat down expectantly. I took this as a grateful sign to begin and moved her into a more comfortable placement by the stunning, ceiling to floor glass wall. This put some distance between me and the other adults, relieving the pressure and anxiety of my social phobia. I felt distinctly outclassed.
The boys had no trouble relating, however, and made themselves quite at home playing and eating. Mohamed took advantage of the pool which boasted a marble fountain of an African princess holding a calabash. Everywhere I turned, I was confronted with glass French doors, polished tile floors or winding steps leading to small landings equipped with ornate metal benches and chairs. I remained in a state of shock and silence as long I could before making what I hoped was a not too hasty exit.
In searching for the hostess to offer my thanks and farewells, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen. It was a kitchen with a solid, hinged door. The kind that hides a trio of cooks and cleaners. The kind that is not welcoming to strangers or houseguests. It was not a kitchen of warm laughter shared over hot beverages, but one of hushed whispers and silent smiles of service. As full of fairy tale potential the house seemed to be, I, cynically perhaps, sensed a falseness to it all. Perhaps my vision was tainted by the veils of injustice. I felt slightly off balance because I could not quite reconcile how something this exquisite could exist in the middle of such disheartening poverty.
Vero lives up the road about 5 minutes. I am completely aware that at her house there is frequently no water for weeks at a time. She shares a two room flat with 3 other adults and 5 children. Her elderly aunt has moved to an area around the back of the house and sleeps with the rabbits and pigeons she raises. I simply couldn't put the two worlds together and felt ill at the prospect of trying. Oddly enough, I have passed hours at Vero's, reluctant to go home. Yet here, surrounded by oppulence, I couldn't stand another second.
As we passed the armed guards, I thought of the privileged life the three dazzling children and their equally gorgeous parents would continue to lead. I could envision their daily joys and successes and simply wondered why life couldn't be as golden for everyone.
I wondered what position his father held that warranted armed security at the gate. And as I drove out, I thought for a moment of the family that lived within the walls and the implications of having such high level protection. Nothing to envy. I went home to record that, while my face painting adventure had been aside the wealthy and important, I was happy to be counted among the peasants.
I had responded to a request from a parent to facepaint at her daughter's birthday. Apparently she had seen my work at the annual welcome picnic for school and gotten my number from the organizers. For unknown reasons, I agreed. In some ways, it sounded fun and in other ways, I simply have a hard time saying no. I agreed to transform a bunch of 5-9 year olds into fairy princesses and wall climbing superheroes in exchange for bringing the boys to the party (which I had heard would be a pool party with swimming, good snacks and fun.) I was completely unprepared for what I walked in to.
The house was a short drive down a very small, country type lane. Typically, the houses were all surrounded by large perimeter walls giving nothing away except a number. This particular house was at the complete end of the road. We were graciously welcomed into the drive by friendly security and my breath was immediately taken away.
I have, in my position as teacher and an American, found myself in some relatively high class homes (the American Ambassador has a lovely home, the president of the Board of Education has an equally luxurious and picturesque abode) but this house instantly transported me from Congo to deep in the middle of a romanticized landscape painting. Bordering the drive was a lush, green lawn that sloped and curved down to the house. There were several small, cottage like buildings on the grounds decorated with minature trees and flourishing shrubs. Just to the left, a view of the backyard unfolded and beyond, a scene reminiscent of a traditional village. Women walked down a dusty road as children ran after a rolling tire. The distant muted tones contrasted sharply with the vibrant greens and warm hues of the yard and house. The doorway was arched and lent a Spanish appeal to the entranceway. African masks hung above the door and beveled glass framed each side. I wanted to wander the gardens, snapping photos and reveling in the beauty. It was at once charming and a bit disarming.
I was welcomed into the house by a beautiful, intensely dark African woman (so many of the families here are breathtakingly beautiful.) We had never met and she introduced herself. I complimented her house as unease began to creep up. I was clearly out of my element. We stepped into a stone tiled dining area where several guests were seated, enjoying drinks and snacks. Most of the conversation was in French and I did not recognize anyone, not even the children. Dashed were my images of painting faces amidst running, jumping children and joking with those I might know from school. I was crushed in a massive, nearly painful grip as she introduced her husband, a bald and serious German.
Children being children, the boys were easily swept off to play with one acquaintance from school. I was left to sit alone, unsure how to join in the conversation and wishing only to hide behind my own mask of painted faces. A butler (?!) offered drinks, which I could only decline. The birthday girl appeared, a delicate, golden child framed with luxuriant curly hair and beset with calm, determined eyes. She placed a chair in front of me and sat down expectantly. I took this as a grateful sign to begin and moved her into a more comfortable placement by the stunning, ceiling to floor glass wall. This put some distance between me and the other adults, relieving the pressure and anxiety of my social phobia. I felt distinctly outclassed.
The boys had no trouble relating, however, and made themselves quite at home playing and eating. Mohamed took advantage of the pool which boasted a marble fountain of an African princess holding a calabash. Everywhere I turned, I was confronted with glass French doors, polished tile floors or winding steps leading to small landings equipped with ornate metal benches and chairs. I remained in a state of shock and silence as long I could before making what I hoped was a not too hasty exit.
In searching for the hostess to offer my thanks and farewells, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen. It was a kitchen with a solid, hinged door. The kind that hides a trio of cooks and cleaners. The kind that is not welcoming to strangers or houseguests. It was not a kitchen of warm laughter shared over hot beverages, but one of hushed whispers and silent smiles of service. As full of fairy tale potential the house seemed to be, I, cynically perhaps, sensed a falseness to it all. Perhaps my vision was tainted by the veils of injustice. I felt slightly off balance because I could not quite reconcile how something this exquisite could exist in the middle of such disheartening poverty.
Vero lives up the road about 5 minutes. I am completely aware that at her house there is frequently no water for weeks at a time. She shares a two room flat with 3 other adults and 5 children. Her elderly aunt has moved to an area around the back of the house and sleeps with the rabbits and pigeons she raises. I simply couldn't put the two worlds together and felt ill at the prospect of trying. Oddly enough, I have passed hours at Vero's, reluctant to go home. Yet here, surrounded by oppulence, I couldn't stand another second.
As we passed the armed guards, I thought of the privileged life the three dazzling children and their equally gorgeous parents would continue to lead. I could envision their daily joys and successes and simply wondered why life couldn't be as golden for everyone.
27.9.09
Madame Mondele
I returned minus one pair of scissors. I am trying to figure out if I should be grateful or indignant. I did begin with 12. It could easily have appeared to the untrained eye that I had plenty to spare. I am forever battling this concept of poverty versus prosperity.
It actually began when I dropped Mohamed off at a birthday party. A new restaurant has opened in Kintambo which has left everyone abuzz. Birthday parties themselves have a tendancy to leave me feeling overwhelmed and out of my social sphere. It is then that I realize Mohamed's friends are children of diplomats and ambassadors. The luxuries I see upon dropping him off make my radiant surroundings seem dreary in comparison. The latest party was being held at the aforementioned new hotspot in town. The bright, colorful building boasted sparkling glass doors and shiny tile hallways. One entire wall was covered with a mixture of paintings and three dimensional art complete with African masks and a cowrie shell design. Several flights up we were presented with a very Western style cafe. Burly men in black t-shirts and nylon caps were waiting to greet us. The dining area was full of tables and patrons enjoying an early lunch. A private party room off to the side enclosed a childrens climbing and play area. As I'd heard a salad and pita sandwich had run one couple something in the neighborhood of $30, I could not really comprehend the price of this party- 20 children for sandwiches, fries and a drink.......
Everything I do here puts me in the land of the surreal. At one time in my not too distant past, I was standing in a cold kitchen accepting bags filled with staples from a dear friend who was aware of my dire situation. No money for nutriants or warmth. My landlord was offering to loan me money so I could put a bit of oil in the tank during a long and particularly cold winter. I couldn't see past the next meal. But here I am pulling into a parking lot filled with sleek, shiny SUV's in polished blacks and grays. I dropped my child off at a birthday party that probably cost more than I spend on a month of groceries. As I pulled around to the back exit, the gate opened to reveal a teeming mass of children clothed in dusty rags waving sticks, empty hands and cheerful smiles in my direction as I, the imposter, deftly drove the car over piles of paper scraps and around craters that littered this back alley. When I returned a few hours later, the children were gone- disappearing with the rain- but I could still see them, and I could still feel their presence along the cramped and littered lane.
Whle Mohamed was whooping it up with his friends, Nabih and I headed for ACDF. This day I had brought their drawings, of which I have been collecting for unknown reasons, and thought we could work together on a forest collage. I was also prepared with their salt sculptures and paints from the previous week in case it seemed possible to organize and manage two different activities at once. I can never be sure how many kids will be there and which ones exactly. It makes a continuing project challenging at best.
After arriving, I quickly decided to scrap the painting plans and work solely on the collage. I taped up some sheets of large green paper which were a sharp and welcome contrast to the gray, dingy walls. The kids seemed to get the idea pretty quickly and began easily cutting out their past drawings. Many were also anxious to begin new drawings which were also cut out and pasted. It was a hive of busy concentration. Several children quickly became designated the 'gluers' and were in charge of assembling the collage on the wall. Less clear were my directions, suggestions and samples of how to construct trees, grass and water. We managed to get a few tree-like structures around the edges and a square of water somewhere in the middle to accomodate a swimming rhinocerous whose legs were accidently cut off by an overly enthusiastic snipper.
In their zeal, however, things began to become fantastic. Horses were flying in the sky only inches away from army helicopters. Men walked effortlessly along the jungle treetops and jeeps supported elephants without caving in. I laughed as I questioned in my broken French, "Es'que ca vole?"
They laughed right back assuring me it was so, animals and houses alike could fly.
I managed a shift when one boy proudly showed me his drawing of one the new washers. Yes, it was definately reminiscent of the sporty machines sitting in the corner. A few moments later I noticed him grandly applying glue and tacking his portrait to the uppermost corner of our second jungle scene.
"Do they really have that in the forest?" I inquired. I really could not tell if they were getting the concept of creating a jungle collage or if they were expressing perspective in a different way. I am well acquainted with the village drawings that are multilayered, descending down the page, house upon house upon garden until a river runs along the bottom. It is akin to the Oriental design using a vertical, rather than horizontal, perspective.
Yet again I was met with laughter and a nod.
"C'est vrai?! Un machine, dans le foret?" Really?! A machine in the forest? I felt determined to get to the heart of the confusion. But as he turned to look at me and assure me, completely and truly with every ounce of his being that YES! there were washing machines in the forest, the trees finally gave way and I saw everything for what it was. His eyes were shining and he patted the corners of his creation firmly to the wall. His work was on display for all to see. THAT was greater than any juxtaposition of brown and green construction paper I was hoping would be assembled into an arrangement of tree and leaf like shapes. There was a use for their carefully drawn designs of the past and it was simply to be hung, admired and commented upon.
As I was realizing this, I looked over to the benches in the back of the room. A few mintues after arrival, a storm appeared in the sky forcing the older teens and visitors to move inside. They sat on the benches, talking or just looking, not having much to do. Some took up the task of coloring or cutting, others just chided those who were involved. There is an art to this patient waiting here in Africa. I've seen it many places as well as repeated in the theater. African dramas are often comprised of social scenes that involve sitting and talking. Its true to life. But it also requires a constant readjustment of my perspective.
Comparitively, drawing a realistic model and hanging it on the wall turns the piece into a focal point, a source of discussion, admiration and even some good natured joshing. Recognition and validation by one's peers secured. (I am sensing a pattern here. I just need to remember that I see it and that it is of value.)
This day there was more of a teaching component to the activites. I felt a distinct eye on me as the mothers of prospective recipients watched from their new, inside seats. We were now the entertainment. And I do have a role to fill on these Saturday's. While I continue to decipher what it means to me personally, the children have no doubt. "Madame, madame.." they call as I hand out supplies. They want refills, pencil sharpeners, more markers, markers that work,...etc. Occasionally, I feel they are too demanding and I try, in Lingala, to get them to say please. "Soko olingi," I prompt. Although I've learned a few useful phrases, their reaction never differs. They smile and laugh as general comments circulate the room. I can never be sure if they take me seriously. And with the extended audience, the chorus of "Madame" was ever growing, song like and clearly the subject of some discussion. We will have to work on my name and I on theirs.
There are moments of concentration and focus interspersed with chaos and confusion. Generally it is in the setting up and cleaning up that supplies tend to go missing. I have been aware of this and understand it is a risk of the trade. The lego building has remained on hiatus for this very reason. I imagine there is a bit of it that could be cured by relationship building. The more often I visit the center, the better we come to know one another, the more respect we might develop. But I am distinctly aware of a bridge I cannot cross. As I work there, I see myself through their eyes. I feel foreign and unknown to myself in this light. It makes the gaps between us seem all the more insurmountable. With my 12 pairs of scissors and 13 glue sticks, every week I show up with books and paper and crayons in bright pink pails. Just last week, I was badgered to rudeness by a girl who wanted one of the pails and felt I should be obligated to give it to her.
I begin to lose my patience. I want them to make the connection that I am bringing these supplies and materials for their benefit and if they filch them piece by piece, there will be nothing left to bring. I want it to be an even exchange of gifts. If I bring the the entertainment, they can respond by sending me off with all of my original pieces. But it cannot really work this way. No matter how many times I come, there is always the chance that I won't show up. They are awaiting the day when I fly off to some other locale, leaving them once again to dusty, dreary Saturdays sans l'art, sans l'jouie. Until some other mondele shows up with grand ideas and hopeful plans. I am not sure if I can transcend this image of the wealthy white. I still carry memories of my own dark time, peering into empty kitchen cupboards and wondering how the children will eat. I know that, in comparison, it is not really the same. But I also know that, while I do not necessarily want to be their 'madame mondele,' I have not comitted to Kinshsasa. It is very likely I am waiting for a plane to whisk me off to some other locale.....
It actually began when I dropped Mohamed off at a birthday party. A new restaurant has opened in Kintambo which has left everyone abuzz. Birthday parties themselves have a tendancy to leave me feeling overwhelmed and out of my social sphere. It is then that I realize Mohamed's friends are children of diplomats and ambassadors. The luxuries I see upon dropping him off make my radiant surroundings seem dreary in comparison. The latest party was being held at the aforementioned new hotspot in town. The bright, colorful building boasted sparkling glass doors and shiny tile hallways. One entire wall was covered with a mixture of paintings and three dimensional art complete with African masks and a cowrie shell design. Several flights up we were presented with a very Western style cafe. Burly men in black t-shirts and nylon caps were waiting to greet us. The dining area was full of tables and patrons enjoying an early lunch. A private party room off to the side enclosed a childrens climbing and play area. As I'd heard a salad and pita sandwich had run one couple something in the neighborhood of $30, I could not really comprehend the price of this party- 20 children for sandwiches, fries and a drink.......
Everything I do here puts me in the land of the surreal. At one time in my not too distant past, I was standing in a cold kitchen accepting bags filled with staples from a dear friend who was aware of my dire situation. No money for nutriants or warmth. My landlord was offering to loan me money so I could put a bit of oil in the tank during a long and particularly cold winter. I couldn't see past the next meal. But here I am pulling into a parking lot filled with sleek, shiny SUV's in polished blacks and grays. I dropped my child off at a birthday party that probably cost more than I spend on a month of groceries. As I pulled around to the back exit, the gate opened to reveal a teeming mass of children clothed in dusty rags waving sticks, empty hands and cheerful smiles in my direction as I, the imposter, deftly drove the car over piles of paper scraps and around craters that littered this back alley. When I returned a few hours later, the children were gone- disappearing with the rain- but I could still see them, and I could still feel their presence along the cramped and littered lane.
Whle Mohamed was whooping it up with his friends, Nabih and I headed for ACDF. This day I had brought their drawings, of which I have been collecting for unknown reasons, and thought we could work together on a forest collage. I was also prepared with their salt sculptures and paints from the previous week in case it seemed possible to organize and manage two different activities at once. I can never be sure how many kids will be there and which ones exactly. It makes a continuing project challenging at best.
After arriving, I quickly decided to scrap the painting plans and work solely on the collage. I taped up some sheets of large green paper which were a sharp and welcome contrast to the gray, dingy walls. The kids seemed to get the idea pretty quickly and began easily cutting out their past drawings. Many were also anxious to begin new drawings which were also cut out and pasted. It was a hive of busy concentration. Several children quickly became designated the 'gluers' and were in charge of assembling the collage on the wall. Less clear were my directions, suggestions and samples of how to construct trees, grass and water. We managed to get a few tree-like structures around the edges and a square of water somewhere in the middle to accomodate a swimming rhinocerous whose legs were accidently cut off by an overly enthusiastic snipper.
In their zeal, however, things began to become fantastic. Horses were flying in the sky only inches away from army helicopters. Men walked effortlessly along the jungle treetops and jeeps supported elephants without caving in. I laughed as I questioned in my broken French, "Es'que ca vole?"
They laughed right back assuring me it was so, animals and houses alike could fly.
I managed a shift when one boy proudly showed me his drawing of one the new washers. Yes, it was definately reminiscent of the sporty machines sitting in the corner. A few moments later I noticed him grandly applying glue and tacking his portrait to the uppermost corner of our second jungle scene.
"Do they really have that in the forest?" I inquired. I really could not tell if they were getting the concept of creating a jungle collage or if they were expressing perspective in a different way. I am well acquainted with the village drawings that are multilayered, descending down the page, house upon house upon garden until a river runs along the bottom. It is akin to the Oriental design using a vertical, rather than horizontal, perspective.
Yet again I was met with laughter and a nod.
"C'est vrai?! Un machine, dans le foret?" Really?! A machine in the forest? I felt determined to get to the heart of the confusion. But as he turned to look at me and assure me, completely and truly with every ounce of his being that YES! there were washing machines in the forest, the trees finally gave way and I saw everything for what it was. His eyes were shining and he patted the corners of his creation firmly to the wall. His work was on display for all to see. THAT was greater than any juxtaposition of brown and green construction paper I was hoping would be assembled into an arrangement of tree and leaf like shapes. There was a use for their carefully drawn designs of the past and it was simply to be hung, admired and commented upon.
As I was realizing this, I looked over to the benches in the back of the room. A few mintues after arrival, a storm appeared in the sky forcing the older teens and visitors to move inside. They sat on the benches, talking or just looking, not having much to do. Some took up the task of coloring or cutting, others just chided those who were involved. There is an art to this patient waiting here in Africa. I've seen it many places as well as repeated in the theater. African dramas are often comprised of social scenes that involve sitting and talking. Its true to life. But it also requires a constant readjustment of my perspective.
Comparitively, drawing a realistic model and hanging it on the wall turns the piece into a focal point, a source of discussion, admiration and even some good natured joshing. Recognition and validation by one's peers secured. (I am sensing a pattern here. I just need to remember that I see it and that it is of value.)
This day there was more of a teaching component to the activites. I felt a distinct eye on me as the mothers of prospective recipients watched from their new, inside seats. We were now the entertainment. And I do have a role to fill on these Saturday's. While I continue to decipher what it means to me personally, the children have no doubt. "Madame, madame.." they call as I hand out supplies. They want refills, pencil sharpeners, more markers, markers that work,...etc. Occasionally, I feel they are too demanding and I try, in Lingala, to get them to say please. "Soko olingi," I prompt. Although I've learned a few useful phrases, their reaction never differs. They smile and laugh as general comments circulate the room. I can never be sure if they take me seriously. And with the extended audience, the chorus of "Madame" was ever growing, song like and clearly the subject of some discussion. We will have to work on my name and I on theirs.
There are moments of concentration and focus interspersed with chaos and confusion. Generally it is in the setting up and cleaning up that supplies tend to go missing. I have been aware of this and understand it is a risk of the trade. The lego building has remained on hiatus for this very reason. I imagine there is a bit of it that could be cured by relationship building. The more often I visit the center, the better we come to know one another, the more respect we might develop. But I am distinctly aware of a bridge I cannot cross. As I work there, I see myself through their eyes. I feel foreign and unknown to myself in this light. It makes the gaps between us seem all the more insurmountable. With my 12 pairs of scissors and 13 glue sticks, every week I show up with books and paper and crayons in bright pink pails. Just last week, I was badgered to rudeness by a girl who wanted one of the pails and felt I should be obligated to give it to her.
I begin to lose my patience. I want them to make the connection that I am bringing these supplies and materials for their benefit and if they filch them piece by piece, there will be nothing left to bring. I want it to be an even exchange of gifts. If I bring the the entertainment, they can respond by sending me off with all of my original pieces. But it cannot really work this way. No matter how many times I come, there is always the chance that I won't show up. They are awaiting the day when I fly off to some other locale, leaving them once again to dusty, dreary Saturdays sans l'art, sans l'jouie. Until some other mondele shows up with grand ideas and hopeful plans. I am not sure if I can transcend this image of the wealthy white. I still carry memories of my own dark time, peering into empty kitchen cupboards and wondering how the children will eat. I know that, in comparison, it is not really the same. But I also know that, while I do not necessarily want to be their 'madame mondele,' I have not comitted to Kinshsasa. It is very likely I am waiting for a plane to whisk me off to some other locale.....
20.9.09
what i could have written about but didn't
completely unsatisfied with my most recent entry but unsure of how to change it...i decided just to invite you to sample the random, swirling thoughts that fill my head each day from which i try to construct coherent, interesting and descriptive sentences. i could have written about
Instead, working to focus and present information (more photos pleeeze) on aspects of life as
an enfant du pays......sans le famille, sans les amies, sans l'amour, mais avec le main de dieu
raising two boys in africa, loving dance, and searching for adventure as found in everyday heroes
- a dancing pig
- the 23 year old who left it all to learn swahili and start a school
- how completely unimportant and meaningless my own personal life felt after reading that article
- oatmeal raisin cookies, homemade ice cream and teaching couple from sudan
- the 10 year old girl filled with emotion who thought her cousin was involved in congo's abusive tin mining practices
- chocolate banana cookies, homemade frozen yogurt and a neighbor
- malian women refusing their own right to speak for themselves and be educated
- the 4 year old who had an entire building of children repeating his sing song words (yes, that would be my four year old.....he's got a gift--- of some nature)
- the conservative right, as found everywhere here in drc and the vast approaches i've developed to respond and interact with them on a daily basis
- emotional uncertainty and psychological imbalance...as experienced here in drc on a daily basis (oh wait, i think my last post was about that...)
- the huge wedding? or other event held just around the corner, creating thrilling traffic scenes as drivers hauled their oversize camions into alternate lanes despite oncoming traffic (no worries, accident averted...i had at least 2 inches between my mirror and theirs)
- insects and the complete annoyance and final tolerance of finding them absolutely everywhere, surely i've eaten more than a few....am i still a vegetarian?
- the process of creative (or written!) art and how the end result often does not match our emotional journey nor our aesthetic preferences.........
Instead, working to focus and present information (more photos pleeeze) on aspects of life as
an enfant du pays......sans le famille, sans les amies, sans l'amour, mais avec le main de dieu
raising two boys in africa, loving dance, and searching for adventure as found in everyday heroes
19.9.09
the stories we tell
It all started with a song. A song and an energetic yet sensual video. Sometimes these things just have to catch you at the right moment. This one did. The basic premise of this love song, set to a rhythm and blues beat backed by a vocal quartet, was 'tell me what you want.' Presumably, the sexy young singer was ready to accomodate.
But its all about timing and this particular evening, I saw much more in the lyrics. I was reminded how we all search for someone to listen to us and show interest. It is how we fall in love, by creating a story around someone and elevating them above the others. Something unique and special has made this person stand above the rest. It is easy to be seduced by the stories people tell us of ourselves and even to begin to see some truth in there. I have been struck with fascination at our human need to be validated by others. And I have been struck by our human tendancy to follow the stories. We surround ourselves with people who mirror back an image that is similar to the one we hold. Occasionally, it is possible to break free from that, to change the image of oneself and find some liberation in a new story.
This is where the song left me, questioning whether or not I am ready to believe in a different kind of reality. It is a precarious state.
With the school year back into full swing, I am feeling full of the complex and often conflicting emotions that come with teaching, and even more, teaching in an international school. I still struggle with the balance of communities...the inner, ex-pat community and the outer Congolese community. Here, there is very little mixing. I have attributed this to my often timid nature and slow pace, (it takes me forever to adjust to change and venture forward...) but I am beginning to suspect it is so much more than me. And it leaves me longing for the west, where I feel the vibrant music and strong culture could reach out to encase me.
But what do I really know of the culture here? Or even there...? I have made the on-line acquaintance of a Congolese student studying in the United States. He is intelligent, passionate, and full of hope for his country. He is an eloquent speaker and has inspired me (among so many others) to take up the cause of Congo, teaching, educating and speaking out. I am excited about what I am able to teach my students and the discussions that result. Last year, I spent a lot of time understanding the history of this country- a history that moved me to tears and inspired horror at both the abuses and my own ignorance of the facts. It is fitting then that this year I spend some time acquainting myself with the present- understanding current events, their relationship to the past and speaking out, if nothing else, with some hope for the future.
But it is easy for me to lose my focus. I am quick to fall from grace and abandon the hope inspired by this student whose passions run so deep. At times, I feel so far removed from anything useful. There is a disconnect between the enthusiasm and value I feel when teaching about Congo and any actual relationships I have been able to form. It is a strong and distant separation that has been difficult to cross. I wonder what I am doing here after all.
In my isolation, I frequently find myself contemplating this imbalance of community. What doesn't change is that I am most content when surrounded by large groups of people- who often happen to be speaking a language I cannot comprehend. It is the African house that tempts me, with its jumble of occupants coming and going, finding a way to live bound together in their desperation. Its a desperation that is visible and yet, irrelevant somehow. It soothes me to be so surrounded. Always I am left feeling content just to remain, with an odd sense that I could simply begin, right here, where I am and make up a new life.
At Stand Proud today, I was able to restore my focus. It only takes a week or so for me to come unraveled and I was in a terrible state this morning, wondering why I even go there and what was the point? Weren't there bigger things I could be doing? Or nothing at all? Nothing at all was tempting me, as desperation and uselessness sought to find a nesting ground.
I had made up some salt dough so we could try our hand at sculptures, thinking of possibly painting them the following week. No one was disappointed by the lack of legos, instead showing intense curiosity about the product I brought.
"Not foufou," I told them. "Faux pas mange." It only took one sniff to convince them not to eat the dough. With some Lingala translation help from those more versed in French, I got my point across about what they were supposed to do. Eagerly, they took up the task of creating boats, little soliders and an occasional animal.
A man was present this day that I had not seen or spoken with before. He was one of the therapists that come to work with the kids. He remarked how beneficial it was for them to be working with the dough and with their hands in general- drawing, coloring, kneading. Focus restored. Thats all it took to remind of why I go there. Small help, but help nonetheless.
I think it is in being there and feeling so at ease that I can begin to imagine my story changing. Even as I reflect on the concrete, positive effects of working physically with the material, I hold a strong belief in the development of imagination and expression. It is important for those children to be able to imagine a different life. Although I feel the steps we're taking are minute in that regard, we are taking steps. It's the hard part to remember. And I as well.
I am taking ever small steps in changing my own personal story. While I may be tempted to see this perspective from another and enticed to respond to the call to 'tell me what you want,' I know it is not sustainable. They are simply words of a story that will soon enough be tarnished, changed and forever altered. Once again I begin the solitary task of painting my own images and quieting the desire to feel relief in the words of another.
But its all about timing and this particular evening, I saw much more in the lyrics. I was reminded how we all search for someone to listen to us and show interest. It is how we fall in love, by creating a story around someone and elevating them above the others. Something unique and special has made this person stand above the rest. It is easy to be seduced by the stories people tell us of ourselves and even to begin to see some truth in there. I have been struck with fascination at our human need to be validated by others. And I have been struck by our human tendancy to follow the stories. We surround ourselves with people who mirror back an image that is similar to the one we hold. Occasionally, it is possible to break free from that, to change the image of oneself and find some liberation in a new story.
This is where the song left me, questioning whether or not I am ready to believe in a different kind of reality. It is a precarious state.
With the school year back into full swing, I am feeling full of the complex and often conflicting emotions that come with teaching, and even more, teaching in an international school. I still struggle with the balance of communities...the inner, ex-pat community and the outer Congolese community. Here, there is very little mixing. I have attributed this to my often timid nature and slow pace, (it takes me forever to adjust to change and venture forward...) but I am beginning to suspect it is so much more than me. And it leaves me longing for the west, where I feel the vibrant music and strong culture could reach out to encase me.
But what do I really know of the culture here? Or even there...? I have made the on-line acquaintance of a Congolese student studying in the United States. He is intelligent, passionate, and full of hope for his country. He is an eloquent speaker and has inspired me (among so many others) to take up the cause of Congo, teaching, educating and speaking out. I am excited about what I am able to teach my students and the discussions that result. Last year, I spent a lot of time understanding the history of this country- a history that moved me to tears and inspired horror at both the abuses and my own ignorance of the facts. It is fitting then that this year I spend some time acquainting myself with the present- understanding current events, their relationship to the past and speaking out, if nothing else, with some hope for the future.
But it is easy for me to lose my focus. I am quick to fall from grace and abandon the hope inspired by this student whose passions run so deep. At times, I feel so far removed from anything useful. There is a disconnect between the enthusiasm and value I feel when teaching about Congo and any actual relationships I have been able to form. It is a strong and distant separation that has been difficult to cross. I wonder what I am doing here after all.
In my isolation, I frequently find myself contemplating this imbalance of community. What doesn't change is that I am most content when surrounded by large groups of people- who often happen to be speaking a language I cannot comprehend. It is the African house that tempts me, with its jumble of occupants coming and going, finding a way to live bound together in their desperation. Its a desperation that is visible and yet, irrelevant somehow. It soothes me to be so surrounded. Always I am left feeling content just to remain, with an odd sense that I could simply begin, right here, where I am and make up a new life.
At Stand Proud today, I was able to restore my focus. It only takes a week or so for me to come unraveled and I was in a terrible state this morning, wondering why I even go there and what was the point? Weren't there bigger things I could be doing? Or nothing at all? Nothing at all was tempting me, as desperation and uselessness sought to find a nesting ground.
I had made up some salt dough so we could try our hand at sculptures, thinking of possibly painting them the following week. No one was disappointed by the lack of legos, instead showing intense curiosity about the product I brought.
"Not foufou," I told them. "Faux pas mange." It only took one sniff to convince them not to eat the dough. With some Lingala translation help from those more versed in French, I got my point across about what they were supposed to do. Eagerly, they took up the task of creating boats, little soliders and an occasional animal.
A man was present this day that I had not seen or spoken with before. He was one of the therapists that come to work with the kids. He remarked how beneficial it was for them to be working with the dough and with their hands in general- drawing, coloring, kneading. Focus restored. Thats all it took to remind of why I go there. Small help, but help nonetheless.
I think it is in being there and feeling so at ease that I can begin to imagine my story changing. Even as I reflect on the concrete, positive effects of working physically with the material, I hold a strong belief in the development of imagination and expression. It is important for those children to be able to imagine a different life. Although I feel the steps we're taking are minute in that regard, we are taking steps. It's the hard part to remember. And I as well.
I am taking ever small steps in changing my own personal story. While I may be tempted to see this perspective from another and enticed to respond to the call to 'tell me what you want,' I know it is not sustainable. They are simply words of a story that will soon enough be tarnished, changed and forever altered. Once again I begin the solitary task of painting my own images and quieting the desire to feel relief in the words of another.
29.8.09
observations of a bean
This is nearly my 100th post, and I'm still not sure if I've captured Kin the way I see it. Surely it is a monumental task. Adding to it is the fact that there isn't a consistent image or experience. Life here seems viewed through a fluid, molten mask that offers an ever changing perspective based upon so many arbitrary details.
What I noticed most about my return was the darkness. As we drove along the candlelit streets, I felt enveloped in darkness. It was not just without but also seemed to seep within to my very core. I could feel it changing me. When I returned home, my house appeared too dimly lit. I turned on as many lamps as possible with no relief. I found it difficult to adjust. Even the daylight did nothing to alleviate the sense of closing in and closing down. The sky brightened only to a mellow gray, never revealing the warmth of its sun or the blue promise of hope. Returning felt a bit dismal.
But with some reflection, I now view this as a necessary transition to a slower pace. One I was less aware of on my first arrival. This was not a new trip, filled with awe inspiring images and unique experiences. This was a return. There was a rhythm waiting to find me and welcome me home. I needed to slow down to hear the songs around me. I needed quiet lights that would not blind me from the magic and the messages resonating from the earth, the air, the very space and time and moment that I occupied.
Here life requires a different way of interacting with the world, a softer, gentler pace. It is a way of being that cringes under the harsh, flourescent brightness of artificial light. It was a drastic contrast to the me that had existed only a day before.
Even now after four weeks, I am still adjusting. Before I left Africa, I was full of fervor- painting, drawing, writing. Music pushed me to an emotional edge that I happily tumbled over. Upon my return, I have yet to dissolve into that timeless void of creativity taken hold. In an effort to stay the isolation and lonliness that frequently plagued me last year, I've filled my days with work and obligations and occasional social visits that leave me longing for solitary reflection and contemplation.
I'm still working on the balance. A neighbor asked me to drive her to the vet this morning and I had time for reflection while I waited in the car. Everything I saw came as pages in a sketchbook and my fingers ached for a pencil, a piece of charcoal, anything to scratch with.
It was a moment to become reacquainted with the Africa that enchants me and the part of myself that is free enough to be enchanted. I watched a young girl learning to balance an empty bucket. As it began to tilt to the side, she stooped, careened, caught it and turned the whole thing into a dance step. She was clearly enjoying herself. When she returned with the bucket full of water, she did not lose her playfulness and managed a bright and cheerful grin at passersby who caught her in the act of dance and practice.
I watched the early morning routines, washing and brushing, taking place outside as they do in Africa. It is the dark interiors and lack of running water that bring families out to prepare for their day. Nothing is hidden. It is the openness and unabashed frankness of the routines that speaks to the timid, shy part of myself. The part that prefers to hide away in brooding silence. There is no space for that here and I let it wash over me, a welcome nourishing rain of acceptance and being.
I saw a young boy sauntering down the road, combing his hair and feeling good. I watched a father and his sons run up and down the hill, getting in their morning excercise. Two little girls were playing a game that consisted of climbing up the rocky side of their porch without holding on and trying not to fall backward. They jumped and grinned and pantomimed with energy and passion, congratulating each other on their accomplishment. When they ran over to some discarded potato chip bags, I could not tell if they were cleaning or using the refuse for play. One of the girls abandoned the task to carry a jerry can of water to the porch. Her body drooped and sagged with the weight of it, but she shuffled along until she could deposit the load. She returned to her friend, silvery bags now forgotton, and the two girls ran off holding and pulling each other, giggling with conspiracy, chip bags left in their dusty wake.
To accompany this festival, across the street an older boy stood propped against a lamppost. I couldn't have waited for more than 15 minutes but he sang (to me?) the entire time. He had a sweet, deep voice that was the perfect backdrop for the small bits of daily life that played so poignantly before me. Beside him two younger boys dissected flaps of cardboard, inspecting their strength and potential. With a final slap, one of the boys gathered his cardboard and glided up the hill, singing in a voice completely at odds but some how complimentary to the original serenader.
I don't know what it is about these simple scenes that tug at me and seduce me so. I wanted to remain, caught up in their comings and goings. Caught up in my obserations. Completely lost in the state of simply being.
What I noticed most about my return was the darkness. As we drove along the candlelit streets, I felt enveloped in darkness. It was not just without but also seemed to seep within to my very core. I could feel it changing me. When I returned home, my house appeared too dimly lit. I turned on as many lamps as possible with no relief. I found it difficult to adjust. Even the daylight did nothing to alleviate the sense of closing in and closing down. The sky brightened only to a mellow gray, never revealing the warmth of its sun or the blue promise of hope. Returning felt a bit dismal.
But with some reflection, I now view this as a necessary transition to a slower pace. One I was less aware of on my first arrival. This was not a new trip, filled with awe inspiring images and unique experiences. This was a return. There was a rhythm waiting to find me and welcome me home. I needed to slow down to hear the songs around me. I needed quiet lights that would not blind me from the magic and the messages resonating from the earth, the air, the very space and time and moment that I occupied.
Here life requires a different way of interacting with the world, a softer, gentler pace. It is a way of being that cringes under the harsh, flourescent brightness of artificial light. It was a drastic contrast to the me that had existed only a day before.
Even now after four weeks, I am still adjusting. Before I left Africa, I was full of fervor- painting, drawing, writing. Music pushed me to an emotional edge that I happily tumbled over. Upon my return, I have yet to dissolve into that timeless void of creativity taken hold. In an effort to stay the isolation and lonliness that frequently plagued me last year, I've filled my days with work and obligations and occasional social visits that leave me longing for solitary reflection and contemplation.
I'm still working on the balance. A neighbor asked me to drive her to the vet this morning and I had time for reflection while I waited in the car. Everything I saw came as pages in a sketchbook and my fingers ached for a pencil, a piece of charcoal, anything to scratch with.
It was a moment to become reacquainted with the Africa that enchants me and the part of myself that is free enough to be enchanted. I watched a young girl learning to balance an empty bucket. As it began to tilt to the side, she stooped, careened, caught it and turned the whole thing into a dance step. She was clearly enjoying herself. When she returned with the bucket full of water, she did not lose her playfulness and managed a bright and cheerful grin at passersby who caught her in the act of dance and practice.
I watched the early morning routines, washing and brushing, taking place outside as they do in Africa. It is the dark interiors and lack of running water that bring families out to prepare for their day. Nothing is hidden. It is the openness and unabashed frankness of the routines that speaks to the timid, shy part of myself. The part that prefers to hide away in brooding silence. There is no space for that here and I let it wash over me, a welcome nourishing rain of acceptance and being.
I saw a young boy sauntering down the road, combing his hair and feeling good. I watched a father and his sons run up and down the hill, getting in their morning excercise. Two little girls were playing a game that consisted of climbing up the rocky side of their porch without holding on and trying not to fall backward. They jumped and grinned and pantomimed with energy and passion, congratulating each other on their accomplishment. When they ran over to some discarded potato chip bags, I could not tell if they were cleaning or using the refuse for play. One of the girls abandoned the task to carry a jerry can of water to the porch. Her body drooped and sagged with the weight of it, but she shuffled along until she could deposit the load. She returned to her friend, silvery bags now forgotton, and the two girls ran off holding and pulling each other, giggling with conspiracy, chip bags left in their dusty wake.
To accompany this festival, across the street an older boy stood propped against a lamppost. I couldn't have waited for more than 15 minutes but he sang (to me?) the entire time. He had a sweet, deep voice that was the perfect backdrop for the small bits of daily life that played so poignantly before me. Beside him two younger boys dissected flaps of cardboard, inspecting their strength and potential. With a final slap, one of the boys gathered his cardboard and glided up the hill, singing in a voice completely at odds but some how complimentary to the original serenader.
I don't know what it is about these simple scenes that tug at me and seduce me so. I wanted to remain, caught up in their comings and goings. Caught up in my obserations. Completely lost in the state of simply being.
22.8.09
Almonds
Returning to Africa was nothing like I expected it to be. I stayed in New York for four weeks and it wasn’t until the ride to the airport that I began to wonder if I could just melt back into that world. As I watched families on vacation towing eight foot campers stacked with bicycles and other symbols of leisure, I seriously began to consider the possibility of blending in to this lifestyle…becoming oblivious again and enjoying selfish comforts with my family.
I sat in the parking lot of a rest area, contemplating this. I was trying to convince myself that it didn’t have to be way I was making it out to be. The sun glinted off the cars, creating a dazzling rainbow of metallic colors. I gazed at a couple picnicking under a tree and searched for a different perspective of the American life overflowing with material wealth and abundant luxuries. Almost. I could almost envision a life basking in the Florida sun (I know I am not ready for another New York winter…) watching my children run and play and grow carefree. Before I could be completely seduced by this idea however, I realized it would only be a matter of time before my mind would wander across the ocean in search of something more.
More what? That is the question that remains….but I felt resolute and determined in my return. I had a clear image of how it would transpire. So I was surprised when I landed at Charles de Gaulle (if you’ve been there, you wouldn’t be…) and felt annoyance creeping up. Certainly, I had been traveling all night with two children in the smallest of spaces. It’s not a situation apt to produce cheeriness in the best of us. But things started to get to me.
Things like the mass of people that formed when boarding was announced. No orderly line of consideration and patience here. No children and elderly boarding first. Just a massive lump of people all rushing and cramming forward oblivious of each other. I felt slightly better once aboard the plane. Although there was a definite situation there (someone was being restrained and crying out in fear and terror,) people were concerned and involved. Suddenly, a community.
Flights to Africa are not quite like flights to any other destination (although, admittedly, I haven’t been to a wide variety of places.) You can always tell when you’re on the last leg of the journey. Passengers remain in their seats long enough for the plane to get into the air. After that, it’s more like a cocktail party. People mill about the cabin, visiting each other and getting drinks. A crowd assembles in the back near the snack cart. It felt familiar, comforting even.
But when we arrived at Ndjili, the aggravation retuned. I found myself bothered by bad breath and incensed by the inconsiderate ‘line.’ Even worse, this time we were meant to board small buses that would ferry us across the tarmac to the customs agents. I was actually nostalgic for the rigid military line we marched in during our previous arrival. The air was cool and I missed the warm heat I had anticipated would envelop me. As I shivered in the night, I imagined one of the boys making it on the bus and waving at me through the window with his face pressed against the glass as we were separated.
The customs line was long and slow but actually queued. We made it through with nary a glance, even a welcome hello. I was glad to see the school’s protocol waiting for me because after 24 hours of travel, I was definitely not ready for the battle of bag retrieval and customs bargaining. He took care of everything while we waited outside.
It wasn’t until later that I began to notice other signs. Sometime mid-day, completely jet-lagged and disoriented, I stumbled up to the main office to snag a car and stock up on some groceries. The fact that I could navigate the unmarked boulevard downtown without crossing into oncoming traffic despite my state of half-sleep was a sure sign that Kinshasa had grown on me. I even managed haggling for vegetables at the market. I began work in my classroom the very next day with a calm and relaxed, perhaps even distant, approach.
Sometime around the sixth day, while accompanying a friend on another grocery trip, it finally hit me. We were in one of our favorite shops buying $13 bags of almonds, which we were going to share until finding out how ‘reasonable’ they were. That freed us up to split a $25 bag of walnuts. She passed the freezer and murmured….”Look, $10 ice cream.”
“Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?” I asked her as I gave the bag of walnuts a violent shake. She nodded her head and laughed as I realized we were seriously afflicted with second year syndrome.
Tired of doing without, we promised to buy all the crazy expensive luxury items we had foregone…cheese and nuts and heavy cream to make my own desserts with. I could even imagine myself splurging on the occasional $16 pint of strawberries. Well, almost. We kept small francs ready to give to hungry children as we rode with our windows down. It felt so liberating to free myself from the shackles and constraints of money. I know it will catch up with me…in fact it already has a bit. The strawberries are definitely out, but I might splurge on the almonds again. They take granola to a whole new level. I’ve practically forgotten about the eight foot campers and the parking lot full of flawlessly painted vehicles. I don’t need to be whisked off on a vacation that costs more than most Congolese earn in an entire year. I have almonds. And for some reason, that is satisfying to me. I am happy to be returned.
I sat in the parking lot of a rest area, contemplating this. I was trying to convince myself that it didn’t have to be way I was making it out to be. The sun glinted off the cars, creating a dazzling rainbow of metallic colors. I gazed at a couple picnicking under a tree and searched for a different perspective of the American life overflowing with material wealth and abundant luxuries. Almost. I could almost envision a life basking in the Florida sun (I know I am not ready for another New York winter…) watching my children run and play and grow carefree. Before I could be completely seduced by this idea however, I realized it would only be a matter of time before my mind would wander across the ocean in search of something more.
More what? That is the question that remains….but I felt resolute and determined in my return. I had a clear image of how it would transpire. So I was surprised when I landed at Charles de Gaulle (if you’ve been there, you wouldn’t be…) and felt annoyance creeping up. Certainly, I had been traveling all night with two children in the smallest of spaces. It’s not a situation apt to produce cheeriness in the best of us. But things started to get to me.
Things like the mass of people that formed when boarding was announced. No orderly line of consideration and patience here. No children and elderly boarding first. Just a massive lump of people all rushing and cramming forward oblivious of each other. I felt slightly better once aboard the plane. Although there was a definite situation there (someone was being restrained and crying out in fear and terror,) people were concerned and involved. Suddenly, a community.
Flights to Africa are not quite like flights to any other destination (although, admittedly, I haven’t been to a wide variety of places.) You can always tell when you’re on the last leg of the journey. Passengers remain in their seats long enough for the plane to get into the air. After that, it’s more like a cocktail party. People mill about the cabin, visiting each other and getting drinks. A crowd assembles in the back near the snack cart. It felt familiar, comforting even.
But when we arrived at Ndjili, the aggravation retuned. I found myself bothered by bad breath and incensed by the inconsiderate ‘line.’ Even worse, this time we were meant to board small buses that would ferry us across the tarmac to the customs agents. I was actually nostalgic for the rigid military line we marched in during our previous arrival. The air was cool and I missed the warm heat I had anticipated would envelop me. As I shivered in the night, I imagined one of the boys making it on the bus and waving at me through the window with his face pressed against the glass as we were separated.
The customs line was long and slow but actually queued. We made it through with nary a glance, even a welcome hello. I was glad to see the school’s protocol waiting for me because after 24 hours of travel, I was definitely not ready for the battle of bag retrieval and customs bargaining. He took care of everything while we waited outside.
It wasn’t until later that I began to notice other signs. Sometime mid-day, completely jet-lagged and disoriented, I stumbled up to the main office to snag a car and stock up on some groceries. The fact that I could navigate the unmarked boulevard downtown without crossing into oncoming traffic despite my state of half-sleep was a sure sign that Kinshasa had grown on me. I even managed haggling for vegetables at the market. I began work in my classroom the very next day with a calm and relaxed, perhaps even distant, approach.
Sometime around the sixth day, while accompanying a friend on another grocery trip, it finally hit me. We were in one of our favorite shops buying $13 bags of almonds, which we were going to share until finding out how ‘reasonable’ they were. That freed us up to split a $25 bag of walnuts. She passed the freezer and murmured….”Look, $10 ice cream.”
“Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?” I asked her as I gave the bag of walnuts a violent shake. She nodded her head and laughed as I realized we were seriously afflicted with second year syndrome.
Tired of doing without, we promised to buy all the crazy expensive luxury items we had foregone…cheese and nuts and heavy cream to make my own desserts with. I could even imagine myself splurging on the occasional $16 pint of strawberries. Well, almost. We kept small francs ready to give to hungry children as we rode with our windows down. It felt so liberating to free myself from the shackles and constraints of money. I know it will catch up with me…in fact it already has a bit. The strawberries are definitely out, but I might splurge on the almonds again. They take granola to a whole new level. I’ve practically forgotten about the eight foot campers and the parking lot full of flawlessly painted vehicles. I don’t need to be whisked off on a vacation that costs more than most Congolese earn in an entire year. I have almonds. And for some reason, that is satisfying to me. I am happy to be returned.
30.6.09
Death of a spider
I've lost another friend this week. She was a distant friend, to be sure. Having made her home in the uppermost corner of my bathroom ceiling, we never came into close contact. I did gaze in her direction several times a day, checking to be sure she was still in presence (and also, I admit, that she wasn't about to fall on me, being right over the doorway as she was.) She did come down once or twice, for food I imagine.On one occasion I had the chance to see her at eye level. She had stopped in the outer edge of the molding, just by the light switch. I thought she was leaving us, but I found her later that evening in her familiar spot.
I am not a great fan of spiders and certainly never had the desire to pet her or touch her. On the contrary, I often imagined the terror and hysteria I would feel if she fell on me. Actually, I did wonder if the fondness I felt for her would alleviate some of that. I think I was trying to make it a true fondness- to cement our relationship.
All the while I was wondering about the meaning of so many spiders in my life. Not just passing through or scurrying along the woodwork but really present. I did not give her a name. (She was not nearly as fascinating as Rock Star, having no web, although I did witness her munching a rather large cancrelat) But I gave a lot of thought to what message I could derive from their presence.
I searched through the symbolism of spiders in myths and lore. Several relevant topics came to light (things always seem relevant when we are looking.) Spiders are often meant to depict creativity and wisdom, as well of course, as trickery and aggression. All of these things have a potential meaning to my life and I could pick any one of them to see a messge in. And for awhile I did enjoy a subtle meaning from each of them.
It was only later, while reading a children's story to the boys, that I found a completely satisfying connection. It came when I wasn't even looking, the way all the best revelations come. We were reading the story of Mohamed and his escape from Mecca. While traveling with Abu Bakr towards Medina, pursued by enemies filled with bloodlust and hate, Mohamed took shelter in a cave. Allah caused a spider's web to cover the entrance to their cave and this natural camouflage (along with a nesting bird in a nearby tree) was enough to convince the warriors that the cave was empty.
Staring at me from the page was a simple spider's web. It all seemed to connect, in one perfect moment. The story, from A is for Allah (by Yusuf Islam,) was contained on a page about the hijrah or the journey from one place to another. In the case of Islam, it was the journey of Mohamed seeking a place to worship Allah freely. It was a journey of sacrifice and new beginnings. For the people of Medina, who not only welcomed Mohamed and his followers, but agreed to give half of their belongings the emigrants who had come with so little, it was a moment of acceptance and transformation.
With this new thought behind my little friend in the ceiling corner, I had a lot to ponder. So I was a bit disappointed to return home yesterday and find her missing. I had expected it would be coming, spiders don't live very long. But I missed her immediately. And then a thought occurred.
I checked with Mama Vero to be sure. "My friend is gone, hey?" I asked. She hesitated. I knew.
"Did you like her?" Mama Vero could never really understand my tolerance of all the spiders around our house. The story slowly came out that it was an untimely death. A killing. A murder. I was truly crushed. Somehow, even ridiculously so, I felt like I had betrayed my spider friend, left her unprotected. Perhaps there is a message in here as well.
Mama Vero laughed at my dismay, but I am left feeling profoundly sad over the death of a spider.
29.6.09
the lion's den
As with all good journeys, there must be a return. As we draw ever closer to our return, I find I am completely unprepared. I have become used to thinking in a myraid of languages and using whichever word pops into mind at the time. I enjoy the peaceful calm that comes from knowing exactly how I do not belong. And I have come to approach every situation with an equal mix of curiosity, understanding and mystery. It suits me.
That is not to say I will not enjoy the physical pleasures of life in the states. Consistent electricity and reliable running water are sure to be comforts. But, in the oddest of ways, I will feel disconnected and out of touch. I will be back to feeling like I cannot do anything there. I cannot do enough (irrationally so, as I realize many people are doing great things there, originating projects that reach across oceans, over mountains and beyond borders...)
I realize I have never truly understood this aspect of myself, however. How is it that I am so deeply affected by the woman and her children living outside (for three months!) Why have the young Somali men, boys really, who each lost one hand and one foot, invaded my thoughts nearly every waking moment since reading their story? (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8118306.stm )
I don't understand how these things get inside of me so much that I can feel their fear and hear them calling out. I see them sleeping as I sleep, their lives forever changed.
Yet, even more than the mystery of myself is the mystery of others? Why doesn't everyone lose sleep over these things? What kind of place the world could be if we were all spending our nights tormented by the injustices. But I know how it happens. It happens because it must.
I recognize this as akin to the loss of my children. When it hits me, it is a completely overwhelming and all consuming grief. It is nothing I could sustain however, having long since developed a way to endure, to bury this torment so I might attend to daily tasks of living. But you can never adequately grieve a distance such as this and it is here I remain. It will be a small thing that throws me off, a motion in Mohamed reminiscent of Mason, a slip of my tongue or a flippant email reminding me how trivial my role in their lives is.
We cannot sustain the horrors of this world and continue to build our daily lives, celebrating the personal gains and growth of the ones we love. But every so often, a case will stand out, touch us in a way that is more severe and push us into action. So I am left these days merely questioning myself. What is my own action against the suffering I see? Living here I am constantly on the edge of some overwhelming emotion, being moved to tears, whether they be of beauty, humility or sympathy. A trip back is not going to change this.
And that is not even the real hesitancy behind my return. I know that as much as I've changed and grown, it was all expected and welcome. I've never viewed my journey here as anything other than a homecoming. Africa did not let me down.
This return is more like the obligatory visit to a family that holds you in hostility and contempt. Somehow, the mountains that once comforted me seem foreboding in their ability to judge. I have found a freedom here, a liberation I am not ready to concede.
The way back seems littered with dark, stormy memories. This trip resembles so many other trips back. I do not rush into the welcome arms of a lover, but tread ever cautiously, watching all sides, wary and unprotected. Powerless. Moving into the lion's den.
That is not to say I will not enjoy the physical pleasures of life in the states. Consistent electricity and reliable running water are sure to be comforts. But, in the oddest of ways, I will feel disconnected and out of touch. I will be back to feeling like I cannot do anything there. I cannot do enough (irrationally so, as I realize many people are doing great things there, originating projects that reach across oceans, over mountains and beyond borders...)
I realize I have never truly understood this aspect of myself, however. How is it that I am so deeply affected by the woman and her children living outside (for three months!) Why have the young Somali men, boys really, who each lost one hand and one foot, invaded my thoughts nearly every waking moment since reading their story? (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8118306.stm )
I don't understand how these things get inside of me so much that I can feel their fear and hear them calling out. I see them sleeping as I sleep, their lives forever changed.
Yet, even more than the mystery of myself is the mystery of others? Why doesn't everyone lose sleep over these things? What kind of place the world could be if we were all spending our nights tormented by the injustices. But I know how it happens. It happens because it must.
I recognize this as akin to the loss of my children. When it hits me, it is a completely overwhelming and all consuming grief. It is nothing I could sustain however, having long since developed a way to endure, to bury this torment so I might attend to daily tasks of living. But you can never adequately grieve a distance such as this and it is here I remain. It will be a small thing that throws me off, a motion in Mohamed reminiscent of Mason, a slip of my tongue or a flippant email reminding me how trivial my role in their lives is.
We cannot sustain the horrors of this world and continue to build our daily lives, celebrating the personal gains and growth of the ones we love. But every so often, a case will stand out, touch us in a way that is more severe and push us into action. So I am left these days merely questioning myself. What is my own action against the suffering I see? Living here I am constantly on the edge of some overwhelming emotion, being moved to tears, whether they be of beauty, humility or sympathy. A trip back is not going to change this.
And that is not even the real hesitancy behind my return. I know that as much as I've changed and grown, it was all expected and welcome. I've never viewed my journey here as anything other than a homecoming. Africa did not let me down.
This return is more like the obligatory visit to a family that holds you in hostility and contempt. Somehow, the mountains that once comforted me seem foreboding in their ability to judge. I have found a freedom here, a liberation I am not ready to concede.
The way back seems littered with dark, stormy memories. This trip resembles so many other trips back. I do not rush into the welcome arms of a lover, but tread ever cautiously, watching all sides, wary and unprotected. Powerless. Moving into the lion's den.
Commercial district
Ever in search of clean water, I was on my way to buy more PUR packets for distribution to Vero. I thought that, since she has a tap of running water in her yard and I’ve seen some neighbors come to get water as well as the soda and pop she sells, if I could get her hooked on using the packets, it might benefit the whole neighborhood. (I’ve since come down from my lofty cloud but you know, it never hurts to dream.)
Albert has told me to come to the PSI office anytime and pick up a box. This office sits on a relatively nice, paved street. It is wide enough for two lanes of traffic and a row or so of pedestrians to manage without getting in each other’s way. However, those in the office inform me they are out of boxes and send me to the commerce district to ‘any pharmacy’ that will have some.
Rue de commerce is organized that way. All the pharmacies are in one cluster, then the hardware stores, and the fabric shops, etc. Everything grouped together by product. It turns out that none of the pharmacies had whole boxes available either, but what a series of adventures to discover this.
The streets themselves, adventure one. They quickly turned from fairly smooth and paved to swelling mounds of packed earth more reminiscent of a dirt bike race track than a ‘rue de commerce.’ Aside from the frequent ups and downs, there are people and pushcarts to avoid. Many of the carts are loaded with goods higher than my car. Up to four men might be struggling with one in order to get it to navigate the hills and valleys and avoid the outright ditches.
Second adventure- leaving the car. The streets are swarming with people, mostly men, sitting, watching, waiting. They have been eyeing me from a distance and I know they will be ready to pounce as soon as I step out of the car. I really don’t want to go into the ‘pharmacy’ I’ve happened to stop in front of. It is small and dirty and crowded. Outside a line of older men loiter with nothing to do except gaze in my direction. Inside, behind the counter the clerks are wearing face masks. In a corner a woman sits on the floor counting out pills into a small plastic baggie. On her lap is a basket full of unrecognizable remedies. The entire scene makes me feel like fleeing.
As expected, a young someone has attached himself to my elbow, completely intruding on my business. No pharmacy privacy act in effect here, that is for certain. He listens to my request so he will be ready to provide any small amount of assistance which I could easily perform for myself. Such as finding my way across the street to another pharmacy when this one does not have what I want.
Actually, although I consider it for a moment, I am happy enough to have him accompany me. I can hear the shouts of ‘Mondele! Mondele!” rise above the general din of the busy streets. It is a cry that always generates an initial, somewhat comical urge to run and hide. Everyone should have to feel this way at least once in their lives. Trapped inside your own skin, wanting to get out.
Someone tries to join us and I am satisfied to already be “taken,” having developed a slight preference for my guide. He leads me into another ‘pharmacy,’ this one more open and bright. I am nearly standing outside as I place my request. I appreciate the openness, having felt completely closed in within the dark, blue painted cement of the previous shop. My guide ‘translates’ my order, though we are all speaking French. I understand it to be part of his job, doing things for me that I can do for myself. I collect my purchase and he walks me back to my car, all the while questioning if I’ve been able to buy the quantity I was looking for and assuring me he would be happy to run off in search of more. No, I thank him and tell him I am finished for this day. I give him the obligatory tip- too much but still just about one dollar- and settle back into the car for adventure number three.
How do I get out of here? The commerce area is a veritable maze of shops and people, push carts and animals. Somewhere in here is the Grande Marche and I know several of the roads will lead to that dead end. A small group of men have begun to bang on the window, demanding money and so I choose to drive straight off rather than execute a timely turn. I always believe the people on the street to be much faster than my car could ever go. It is better to just get out rather than wait for them to gain force in numbers.
My desired path is cut off by a huge lake of water. Another man overtakes the window, jogging along, tapping and talking. I make all decisions by instinct (l’aide de Dieu) and crack the window slightly to hear him. He is friendly, encouraging and helpful. He gets me turned around, provides directions de sortie, and wishes me bon journee, with a fairly beautiful smile.
Albert has told me to come to the PSI office anytime and pick up a box. This office sits on a relatively nice, paved street. It is wide enough for two lanes of traffic and a row or so of pedestrians to manage without getting in each other’s way. However, those in the office inform me they are out of boxes and send me to the commerce district to ‘any pharmacy’ that will have some.
Rue de commerce is organized that way. All the pharmacies are in one cluster, then the hardware stores, and the fabric shops, etc. Everything grouped together by product. It turns out that none of the pharmacies had whole boxes available either, but what a series of adventures to discover this.
The streets themselves, adventure one. They quickly turned from fairly smooth and paved to swelling mounds of packed earth more reminiscent of a dirt bike race track than a ‘rue de commerce.’ Aside from the frequent ups and downs, there are people and pushcarts to avoid. Many of the carts are loaded with goods higher than my car. Up to four men might be struggling with one in order to get it to navigate the hills and valleys and avoid the outright ditches.
Second adventure- leaving the car. The streets are swarming with people, mostly men, sitting, watching, waiting. They have been eyeing me from a distance and I know they will be ready to pounce as soon as I step out of the car. I really don’t want to go into the ‘pharmacy’ I’ve happened to stop in front of. It is small and dirty and crowded. Outside a line of older men loiter with nothing to do except gaze in my direction. Inside, behind the counter the clerks are wearing face masks. In a corner a woman sits on the floor counting out pills into a small plastic baggie. On her lap is a basket full of unrecognizable remedies. The entire scene makes me feel like fleeing.
As expected, a young someone has attached himself to my elbow, completely intruding on my business. No pharmacy privacy act in effect here, that is for certain. He listens to my request so he will be ready to provide any small amount of assistance which I could easily perform for myself. Such as finding my way across the street to another pharmacy when this one does not have what I want.
Actually, although I consider it for a moment, I am happy enough to have him accompany me. I can hear the shouts of ‘Mondele! Mondele!” rise above the general din of the busy streets. It is a cry that always generates an initial, somewhat comical urge to run and hide. Everyone should have to feel this way at least once in their lives. Trapped inside your own skin, wanting to get out.
Someone tries to join us and I am satisfied to already be “taken,” having developed a slight preference for my guide. He leads me into another ‘pharmacy,’ this one more open and bright. I am nearly standing outside as I place my request. I appreciate the openness, having felt completely closed in within the dark, blue painted cement of the previous shop. My guide ‘translates’ my order, though we are all speaking French. I understand it to be part of his job, doing things for me that I can do for myself. I collect my purchase and he walks me back to my car, all the while questioning if I’ve been able to buy the quantity I was looking for and assuring me he would be happy to run off in search of more. No, I thank him and tell him I am finished for this day. I give him the obligatory tip- too much but still just about one dollar- and settle back into the car for adventure number three.
How do I get out of here? The commerce area is a veritable maze of shops and people, push carts and animals. Somewhere in here is the Grande Marche and I know several of the roads will lead to that dead end. A small group of men have begun to bang on the window, demanding money and so I choose to drive straight off rather than execute a timely turn. I always believe the people on the street to be much faster than my car could ever go. It is better to just get out rather than wait for them to gain force in numbers.
My desired path is cut off by a huge lake of water. Another man overtakes the window, jogging along, tapping and talking. I make all decisions by instinct (l’aide de Dieu) and crack the window slightly to hear him. He is friendly, encouraging and helpful. He gets me turned around, provides directions de sortie, and wishes me bon journee, with a fairly beautiful smile.
20.6.09
Socially serving
The minature pink buckets were perfectly designed for holding crayons. I cannot begin to guess what their real purpose might be but it seemed they were designed for us. There was a little black handle which made it convenient for passing (though I noticed today that no one actually did) and the lids made them perfect for travel.
The ride to the Center was cool and energizing. There is nothing better than the anticipation of making art. I had brought along a bunch of plastic and foam tracers in the form of geometric shapes. I thought we could start there. I still haven't decided if I should be teaching art, merely providing an environment in which it can happen or something betwen the two.
The little kids came quickly enough and found seats together. Over the hour and half I was there, the living area filled with older kids as well. Most of them traced the shapes and colored them in, as requested. A few were able to turn the shapes into something and some even went freestyle. I maneuvered around the room in my fashion, asking kids about their drawings and inviting them to dream. It is difficult for them, I see, this dreaming part. American kids would be so brash and bold, laying out all the plans for how BIG their lives would be. "And THIS will be my house, and here is my car, and I will have two dogs....."
One boy drew a guitar and when asked if it would be him playing it, he shook his head. Nope, not me. "Then you will be the singer, hey?" I asked. He acquiesced but it seemed more in an effort to please me than something he really believed. I figure they've got to be able to see it before they feel like going to acheive it.
I refused to allow myself to take pictures this day, though my hands were really aching to. I sat and watched the children drawing, behaving as children. Some fought over materials. There was a bit of hiding and hoarding. But mostly, they were concentrating on their drawings with effort and attention. I listened to Nabih's distinct laughter as two boys found some amusement in teasing him.
One thought kept washing over me as I looked out across a sea of big smiles and bright eyes and curled up legs and wasting limbs. These are the throwaways. I was sitting in this room filled with such energy and beauty and I knew that in their society they are not considered worthwhile. The worst part is that everything I saw struck my Western eyes as temporary and irrelevant. Their disabilities hardly seemed debilitating and in a western world, they would be hardly so. Or maybe my eyes cannot see the way they used to. Africa has certainly colored my ideas about what is and is no longer important.
Leaving there, I was ready once again to go anywhere but home. My hands were so hungry to hold a camera, a real camera and everywhere I turned my eyes saw the frame of a shot. This is a new obsession for me, or perhaps an old one gaining strength. The equipment I have does no longer allow for the things I really see.
And the image I brought home with me was of the family still camped out in the driveway. I've a feeling I will be marking my visits to the center by the progress of this woman and her children. She was sitting despondently with her head in her hands when I drove up. Laundry was scattered out upon the weeds, drying. Her children sat behind her in a row, equally depressed. No one moved. They looked much the same when I left. It is a desperate situation. Where should the homeless go? There are no social services to step in and provide a safety net. There is no government aid to make sure the children are fed. She is living in a driveway with her children and the entire neighborhood passes by her each day. Everyone sees them, but what is to be done? I seriously considered of giving her a hundred dollar bill I happened to have in my bag. It seemed a like a ridiculously absurd amount of money and somehow not enough all at the same time.
I kept thinking about the more, the real, the substantial change she needed. I am no longer wondering why her and what good is helping just one? I am now thinking, we crossed paths for a reason and how can I best socially serve? I have to do something. Because while I am now sheltered and warm, bathed in artifical lights in my pocket of western world, she still sits outside. Hungry and cold, wrapping her children in thin blankets and huddling around a small fire. The mother in me knows how the mother in her is slowly dying.
The ride to the Center was cool and energizing. There is nothing better than the anticipation of making art. I had brought along a bunch of plastic and foam tracers in the form of geometric shapes. I thought we could start there. I still haven't decided if I should be teaching art, merely providing an environment in which it can happen or something betwen the two.
The little kids came quickly enough and found seats together. Over the hour and half I was there, the living area filled with older kids as well. Most of them traced the shapes and colored them in, as requested. A few were able to turn the shapes into something and some even went freestyle. I maneuvered around the room in my fashion, asking kids about their drawings and inviting them to dream. It is difficult for them, I see, this dreaming part. American kids would be so brash and bold, laying out all the plans for how BIG their lives would be. "And THIS will be my house, and here is my car, and I will have two dogs....."
One boy drew a guitar and when asked if it would be him playing it, he shook his head. Nope, not me. "Then you will be the singer, hey?" I asked. He acquiesced but it seemed more in an effort to please me than something he really believed. I figure they've got to be able to see it before they feel like going to acheive it.
I refused to allow myself to take pictures this day, though my hands were really aching to. I sat and watched the children drawing, behaving as children. Some fought over materials. There was a bit of hiding and hoarding. But mostly, they were concentrating on their drawings with effort and attention. I listened to Nabih's distinct laughter as two boys found some amusement in teasing him.
One thought kept washing over me as I looked out across a sea of big smiles and bright eyes and curled up legs and wasting limbs. These are the throwaways. I was sitting in this room filled with such energy and beauty and I knew that in their society they are not considered worthwhile. The worst part is that everything I saw struck my Western eyes as temporary and irrelevant. Their disabilities hardly seemed debilitating and in a western world, they would be hardly so. Or maybe my eyes cannot see the way they used to. Africa has certainly colored my ideas about what is and is no longer important.
Leaving there, I was ready once again to go anywhere but home. My hands were so hungry to hold a camera, a real camera and everywhere I turned my eyes saw the frame of a shot. This is a new obsession for me, or perhaps an old one gaining strength. The equipment I have does no longer allow for the things I really see.
And the image I brought home with me was of the family still camped out in the driveway. I've a feeling I will be marking my visits to the center by the progress of this woman and her children. She was sitting despondently with her head in her hands when I drove up. Laundry was scattered out upon the weeds, drying. Her children sat behind her in a row, equally depressed. No one moved. They looked much the same when I left. It is a desperate situation. Where should the homeless go? There are no social services to step in and provide a safety net. There is no government aid to make sure the children are fed. She is living in a driveway with her children and the entire neighborhood passes by her each day. Everyone sees them, but what is to be done? I seriously considered of giving her a hundred dollar bill I happened to have in my bag. It seemed a like a ridiculously absurd amount of money and somehow not enough all at the same time.
I kept thinking about the more, the real, the substantial change she needed. I am no longer wondering why her and what good is helping just one? I am now thinking, we crossed paths for a reason and how can I best socially serve? I have to do something. Because while I am now sheltered and warm, bathed in artifical lights in my pocket of western world, she still sits outside. Hungry and cold, wrapping her children in thin blankets and huddling around a small fire. The mother in me knows how the mother in her is slowly dying.
13.6.09
The beautiful ugly
A few boys have come out into the street to show off their moves. They are rapping and dancing to music pulsating from behind two steel doors. The doors are painted a deep blue with orange diamonds in the middle. It is a small but busy street. A family has taken up residence in a nearby driveway overgrown with weeds. A fire burns down the road and at the end, across the street, I have a vision of two tents made from tarpulin, one blue the other brown. Various people emerge including two small children who've also come to the road to dance.
We're waiting outside ACDF or Stand Proud, as its known. It is a center that houses children and youth with leg disabilities. They are waiting for operations that will restore their mobility. The average stay is six months to a year. The children attend school, when possible, and also spend some time recuperating and learning how to navigate with their new braces or repaired limbs. Older recipients work in a nearby workshop making the braces.
The center itself is small but somehow spacious. There is a large courtyard with a tree placed in the center which provides a shady place and an air of comfort. The living room is large with several sofas and a television. Sleeping cots fill two corners and reach as high as the ceiling. The brown, plastic coverings invoke everything but images of sweet dreams and goodnight kisses.
African walls are difficult to keep clean and here is no exception. With a hundred children at least, the walls are marked with grime, handprints, smudges and layers of dirt. There is a slight perfume of urine in the air and many of the cushions exude a stronger scent. But the children have managed to assemble in the spacious openness of the salon, ever ready participants.
I've come with the boys to begin some kind of art groups and as I listen to the music of a hundred voices, I realize I have some serious organizing to do. We planned to work on the floor, as tables are a scarcity and many of the children have leg braces that prevent traditional chair and table work. The floor is a maze of children, casts, and crutches. I am praying every moment that I do not step on a tender limb as I pick my through trying to hand out materials. Mohamed is a great assistant and together we get the job done.
For this introduction I had asked the children to label the paper with their name and age and then to draw a picture of themselves with their friends or people they like. Djomas was my translator. It is difficult to tell his age but I felt in good hands. He is young, for sure, but also a former recipient who is now in daily charge.
Once the materials and task were presented, I made my way around trying to connect with the children, looking at their drawings and getting a sense of who they were. I was most struck by the subject matter. I didn't see a lot of people. I saw cars and flags and a few schools and houses.
"Where are you?" I asked again and again. Many pointed to their written names and said, "Here. I am here." I pressed them, asking if they were inside the car or behind the flag. In a desperate attempt to express myself, and uncertain if I was being understood, I drew a quick figure of myself with glasses and skirt, pointing out each as I added it. Although the older ones have a better understanding of French, I wanted to be sure I was making my point. He nodded his head. I promised to return to view his self-portrait. When I did, I found it looked amazingly like me, having done a much better and more detailed version of my quick sketch.
There were a few people, singers, muscled men, and soldiers. I didn't see any pictures of children playing or even just standing. I've thought a lot about this, their refusal to depict themselves. There was one boy who drew a detailed image of a brace, with straps and belts attached. The rest drew what they knew, I suppose, or what their neighbor was drawing.
It made me think of the way so many artists strive to acheive a child like freedom in their artwork. Here I was surrounded by children who were not accustomed to having the materials to express themselves with freedom. It will make me happy to see this barrier come down after months of working at the center.
I also decided that I will need to break them up into groups. We are going to work on images of ourselves. A brief talk with the director opened my mind to situation that many of these children are coming from. As handicapped children, they are thought of as less, undervalued and uninvested in. Lisa told me many of the children arrive too shy to speak. The time at the center proves to not only be a catalyst for physical movement and growth but emotional opening. They are suddenly surrounded by others going through their very experience. The older children serve as a model of hope and potential for the future, for a future.
It was a fast hour. The children drew, turned in their pictures and all the materials. Some even helped to resort the crayons by color and talk to Mohamed and Nabih as they finished up their drawings. I felt full of energy and light as I started the car. OK, now where? is what I was thinking.
Because coming back home, to this quiet, tranquil place means coming back to my state of reflection and meditation. It is necessary but lonely. The truth remains: in these last ten months there has been not one wish to be someone else, living another life, not one thought that darkness could be better than any light awaiting, not one sustained moment when I believed there was something I couldn't do. Instead, I have been full of challenging myself, pushing forward in spite of ignorance, unknowns and uncomfortable situations.
It is easy to do this here because everywhere I turn there is inspiration. I have only to look outside these walls and find people seemingly smaller, more incapable, more full of fright and insecurity than I. And they are all making it, every day, with a subtle joy. With this easy comparison, I suddenly feel full of possibility and purpose. It is within my ability to do something. And suddenly my life no longer seems like an ugly burden that I cannot manage. There is something beautiful here and I have begun to see it even inside of me.
It is difficult to post photos here, though I do have some. Posting them for now on FB and will return to try again....
We're waiting outside ACDF or Stand Proud, as its known. It is a center that houses children and youth with leg disabilities. They are waiting for operations that will restore their mobility. The average stay is six months to a year. The children attend school, when possible, and also spend some time recuperating and learning how to navigate with their new braces or repaired limbs. Older recipients work in a nearby workshop making the braces.
The center itself is small but somehow spacious. There is a large courtyard with a tree placed in the center which provides a shady place and an air of comfort. The living room is large with several sofas and a television. Sleeping cots fill two corners and reach as high as the ceiling. The brown, plastic coverings invoke everything but images of sweet dreams and goodnight kisses.
African walls are difficult to keep clean and here is no exception. With a hundred children at least, the walls are marked with grime, handprints, smudges and layers of dirt. There is a slight perfume of urine in the air and many of the cushions exude a stronger scent. But the children have managed to assemble in the spacious openness of the salon, ever ready participants.
I've come with the boys to begin some kind of art groups and as I listen to the music of a hundred voices, I realize I have some serious organizing to do. We planned to work on the floor, as tables are a scarcity and many of the children have leg braces that prevent traditional chair and table work. The floor is a maze of children, casts, and crutches. I am praying every moment that I do not step on a tender limb as I pick my through trying to hand out materials. Mohamed is a great assistant and together we get the job done.
For this introduction I had asked the children to label the paper with their name and age and then to draw a picture of themselves with their friends or people they like. Djomas was my translator. It is difficult to tell his age but I felt in good hands. He is young, for sure, but also a former recipient who is now in daily charge.
Once the materials and task were presented, I made my way around trying to connect with the children, looking at their drawings and getting a sense of who they were. I was most struck by the subject matter. I didn't see a lot of people. I saw cars and flags and a few schools and houses.
"Where are you?" I asked again and again. Many pointed to their written names and said, "Here. I am here." I pressed them, asking if they were inside the car or behind the flag. In a desperate attempt to express myself, and uncertain if I was being understood, I drew a quick figure of myself with glasses and skirt, pointing out each as I added it. Although the older ones have a better understanding of French, I wanted to be sure I was making my point. He nodded his head. I promised to return to view his self-portrait. When I did, I found it looked amazingly like me, having done a much better and more detailed version of my quick sketch.
There were a few people, singers, muscled men, and soldiers. I didn't see any pictures of children playing or even just standing. I've thought a lot about this, their refusal to depict themselves. There was one boy who drew a detailed image of a brace, with straps and belts attached. The rest drew what they knew, I suppose, or what their neighbor was drawing.
It made me think of the way so many artists strive to acheive a child like freedom in their artwork. Here I was surrounded by children who were not accustomed to having the materials to express themselves with freedom. It will make me happy to see this barrier come down after months of working at the center.
I also decided that I will need to break them up into groups. We are going to work on images of ourselves. A brief talk with the director opened my mind to situation that many of these children are coming from. As handicapped children, they are thought of as less, undervalued and uninvested in. Lisa told me many of the children arrive too shy to speak. The time at the center proves to not only be a catalyst for physical movement and growth but emotional opening. They are suddenly surrounded by others going through their very experience. The older children serve as a model of hope and potential for the future, for a future.
It was a fast hour. The children drew, turned in their pictures and all the materials. Some even helped to resort the crayons by color and talk to Mohamed and Nabih as they finished up their drawings. I felt full of energy and light as I started the car. OK, now where? is what I was thinking.
Because coming back home, to this quiet, tranquil place means coming back to my state of reflection and meditation. It is necessary but lonely. The truth remains: in these last ten months there has been not one wish to be someone else, living another life, not one thought that darkness could be better than any light awaiting, not one sustained moment when I believed there was something I couldn't do. Instead, I have been full of challenging myself, pushing forward in spite of ignorance, unknowns and uncomfortable situations.
It is easy to do this here because everywhere I turn there is inspiration. I have only to look outside these walls and find people seemingly smaller, more incapable, more full of fright and insecurity than I. And they are all making it, every day, with a subtle joy. With this easy comparison, I suddenly feel full of possibility and purpose. It is within my ability to do something. And suddenly my life no longer seems like an ugly burden that I cannot manage. There is something beautiful here and I have begun to see it even inside of me.
It is difficult to post photos here, though I do have some. Posting them for now on FB and will return to try again....
5.6.09
Finis
It is official. I have survived my first year teaching in Congo. I'm sitting in my class now feeling strangely let down. The children have all flown off to their exotic locale or been spirited away by drivers and nannies. It is a different world from the final days of past where the staff gathered to cheer and wave as the buses carted students off to their summer vacations spent in farm fields and dirt bike tracks.
It doesn't help that with the dry season comes gray skies and cool weather. The winter of Kinshasa is a dreary place. Perhaps I would feel differently if I, too, were jetting off to friends and family, but instead I feel somewhat lost and unprepared. The calendar of this international lifestyle rolls along with a force and speed of hurricane winds until slamming to a sudden halt almost unexpectedly. It's jarring.
In many ways, I have already jumped through my summer and am planning for December. I don't like this fast forward façon d'être. I want to slow down and enjoy every moment. It's concentric circles, life in an international school balanced with life in Africa.
Reflection? I have enjoyed this year immensely. I love the potential of the school and I have found that I truly am meant to be teaching. If there was a doubt about whether I was meant for this occupation, it is all cleared away. Professionally, its been an amazing year.
Personally? I am completely missing the vibrancy and rhythms of Afrique l'ouest. It is one of those situations that pulls from each limb, contrasting directions. This story is not over, truly just beginning. Never one to remain idle, I've already begun developing some project ideas to see me through until July. I am not entirely in love with Kinshasa, but for now, we get along.
It doesn't help that with the dry season comes gray skies and cool weather. The winter of Kinshasa is a dreary place. Perhaps I would feel differently if I, too, were jetting off to friends and family, but instead I feel somewhat lost and unprepared. The calendar of this international lifestyle rolls along with a force and speed of hurricane winds until slamming to a sudden halt almost unexpectedly. It's jarring.
In many ways, I have already jumped through my summer and am planning for December. I don't like this fast forward façon d'être. I want to slow down and enjoy every moment. It's concentric circles, life in an international school balanced with life in Africa.
Reflection? I have enjoyed this year immensely. I love the potential of the school and I have found that I truly am meant to be teaching. If there was a doubt about whether I was meant for this occupation, it is all cleared away. Professionally, its been an amazing year.
Personally? I am completely missing the vibrancy and rhythms of Afrique l'ouest. It is one of those situations that pulls from each limb, contrasting directions. This story is not over, truly just beginning. Never one to remain idle, I've already begun developing some project ideas to see me through until July. I am not entirely in love with Kinshasa, but for now, we get along.
23.5.09
Wildlife Academy
It's 4:30 am. I've been up for an hour and a half. I may have gone to bed too early. For me, this means something in the 8:30 or 9:00 range. I am finding my rhythms of sleep have become deeply disturbed. I realize the days and nights that I manage to I rise and fall in harmony with everyone else are really deviations from the pattern rather than a return to normal life.
Maybe being single again has something to do with my fractured sleep cycle. Maybe it is stress from events coming or maybe it is Africa, letting me know the natural world is too full of wonderous beauties waiting be drunk in, while life is too short to allow for adequate consumption.
It is the birds that keep me company in the early hours, and in the darkness of night? A mixture of human interactions, insect melodies, frogs that sound twice any size they could truly be, and numerous other unidentifiable night creatures. Maybe it is this mystery that prevents me from peaceful slumber.
Most recently we have discovered a new housemate- a mouse with a voracious appetite for fibers who is eating through all of our clothes. I see him nearly every evening, scurrying along the edges. I had thought he confined himself to one or two rooms, as he always came running along the path from the kitchen to my closet and then along the wall to my dresser. However, one evening when we were all sitting in the living room, I saw him come down the hall and round the corner into the kitchen. It seemed he had found my room empty and come to join us for a family fun night.
He cannot be caught. There are no mouse traps. I have requested several, was told they were searching Kinshasa, and finally, no, could not find any. I have a large metal rat trap reminniscent of the French guilloutine. He has eaten several snacks from there, being too small to actually trip the catch and so I've abandoned this idea altogether. I'm told to get a cat, but I can't quite get over the ragtag nature of most Congo cats long enough to actually let one in my house.
I did find a rather large lizard stuck on the back porch however. When I came home from school, he was clinging to the screen trying to figure out why he couldn't jump off into the bushes below. (Bushes=outside, lizard= inside.) He was not one of the cute little Santa Fe wall deco lizards that I usually see runnning along ceiling corners. He was big and meaty, one of the blue and orange lizards we like so much...from a distance. It was a Lucille Balle comedy hour trying to get him out. He ran one way, we ran the other. All the while I was shouting at Nabih to shut the door or he would run into the house (I'm wondering now if he might not have been able to catch the mouse. He was probably a gift I ran off.) Actually, I did not run him off. It was Mama Vero who got a broom and was chasing him around the porch while he skittered here and there full of fright and confusion. My method involved leaving the screen door open and letting him leave on his own good time while we huddled safely inside. She took a more direct approach.
I have had to take a direct approach in finding Nabih a school. While he is clearly getting some kind of education at home, learning French and how to ward off giant orange glo reptiles, it's time for something more. I have been visiting Kinshasa preschools and feel a bit like the lizard stuck on my back porch. The whole process is dizzying and disorienting.
I was willing to consent to the first school we saw, mostly because I know several other families that go there and it is close. The program itself was not impressive, but acceptable. We visited the class for an hour and saw (many) children working in small groups. They had a numbers area on the carpet, a writing area and two reading areas. One adult was at each table and worked with the children individually. There was a cute row of blackboards, child height, and the one or two kids working here were supposed to be copying words from the wall. Some children spent a bit of time sitting and waiting for an adult to help them and some also got books to read and sat on the carpet. I didn't see any toys, but there was a bookshelf with some unidentifiable stuff packed in bags and boxes. Looked like a few puzzles and maybe a building toy. The kids appeared to spend most of their time deeply focused on academics. Just as we were leaving, a whole group lesson had them sitting on the floor trying to remember the names of garden plants. It seemed a ridiculous lesson with difficult words to remember. It did include a song and a few examples of real plants which the kids got a turn touching.
This mediocre school later informed me, on what was to be Nabih's first day, that he needed to cut his hair. I was inscensed on several levels and we left there with me a raving lunatic- something I'm not usually prone to here in the DRC. I did run into the director later that weekend while shopping and she assured me the whole thing was a huge mistake, but damage done.
I took a morning off to visit two other schools. One run also by an Indian woman and operating on the British curriculum. This was a very small school and only had six children in the class we went to visit. Each child sat at a table and everyone faced a chalkboard. The floor was cement, no carpet and no open place to play. The small tables took up the entire area. There were no visible toys and no books. There were, I was assured, puzzles and toys locked up in bins in the cabinet. Illuminating word choice. There were textbooks (yes, in preschool) and notebooks filled with children's letters and numbers. There was even some addition. I was also shown a small notebook filled with drawings and dictations. We did not stay to visit in this class and were not invited to do so. There was a much older girl sitting at one of the tables and it is unclear what her role or purpose for being there was (punishment? helper? During the presentation of notebooks to me, the children, in their neglect, had begun a general discussion about whose turn it was to write on the board and what exactly should be written. There was some quarreling and the girl didn't move or say a word, so I'm guessing punishment was the reason for her presence.)
We visited another class, same set up- cement floors, chalkboard, small tables, children writing. I was told about monthly contests for handwriting and poetry recitation. I was told events inspired the kids to do better as they compared themselves to how well others did and developed a sense of competetion. I kept trying to balance the idea of such academic focus with the developmental need to play and explore. Does copying the word twenty-nine really mean something when you're four? In trying to be careful not to view everything with an American ego, I wonder if there isn't something to pushing our children to BEGIN early and get started on the race of good grades and high marks and recitiation.
It wasn't long before images of my own students came to mind. The phone calls I get asking, "Ms. Soumah, what does it mean when they say infer?"
And.."What am I supposed to do for number 4? It says what do you think...?"
I'm not ready to give up my ideas of American education yet. So with these images I headed off to the Belgian school, reported to have a great pre-k program, albeit in French.
I was in not in great humor uppon arriving. I'd been disarmed by the previous school who told me Nabih would have to pass a test to get in (yeah, to preschool. But "I'm sure you can teach him what he needs to know..." If I could do this, I wouldn't be looking for a school. We talked about the social aspects and finally she clarified the test as one to establish a baseline but I was basically feeling hopeless.)
I arrived at the office and hazily comprehended the French instructions about admissions process. I asked if I could see a class and I got directions. To go. Alone. It seemed bizarre to me- a stranger, given the go ahead to walk around the campus, unaided.
In order to get to the maternelle side, I had first to pass through a locked gate by the security post. I stopped and peered into the first classroom I saw with an open door. Two teachers were painting at easles and behind them were the children. Wonderous children! Laughing, playing, imagining, creating, sitting-on-top-of-the-tables children. I breathed in the sight. It was familiar and comforting. A teacher noticed me and came to talk. I discovered they were preparing for a parent carnival and so all of the classes have gathered together this day and things were not running as usual. She offered to show me another classroom where I saw carpets, tables, paintings on the walls and TOYS. Lots of toys in plastic tubs and cubby compartments. I saw signs everywhere of living, breathing, thinking children. She was cheerful and bright as she explained the program. She attempted several times to connect with Nabih, who remained his surly self. As we departed, she remarked on his hair, "Tres kool."
I rode back home with happy visions of the wild school, the full of life school, the play and have fun while creating with new friends school. And I try to convert Euros to dollars. The wildlife academy quickly becomes the unaffordable academy. But I can't stop seeing the little girl sitting on top of the table, flying her lego plane through air. It's an image I can sleep with.
Maybe being single again has something to do with my fractured sleep cycle. Maybe it is stress from events coming or maybe it is Africa, letting me know the natural world is too full of wonderous beauties waiting be drunk in, while life is too short to allow for adequate consumption.
It is the birds that keep me company in the early hours, and in the darkness of night? A mixture of human interactions, insect melodies, frogs that sound twice any size they could truly be, and numerous other unidentifiable night creatures. Maybe it is this mystery that prevents me from peaceful slumber.
Most recently we have discovered a new housemate- a mouse with a voracious appetite for fibers who is eating through all of our clothes. I see him nearly every evening, scurrying along the edges. I had thought he confined himself to one or two rooms, as he always came running along the path from the kitchen to my closet and then along the wall to my dresser. However, one evening when we were all sitting in the living room, I saw him come down the hall and round the corner into the kitchen. It seemed he had found my room empty and come to join us for a family fun night.
He cannot be caught. There are no mouse traps. I have requested several, was told they were searching Kinshasa, and finally, no, could not find any. I have a large metal rat trap reminniscent of the French guilloutine. He has eaten several snacks from there, being too small to actually trip the catch and so I've abandoned this idea altogether. I'm told to get a cat, but I can't quite get over the ragtag nature of most Congo cats long enough to actually let one in my house.
I did find a rather large lizard stuck on the back porch however. When I came home from school, he was clinging to the screen trying to figure out why he couldn't jump off into the bushes below. (Bushes=outside, lizard= inside.) He was not one of the cute little Santa Fe wall deco lizards that I usually see runnning along ceiling corners. He was big and meaty, one of the blue and orange lizards we like so much...from a distance. It was a Lucille Balle comedy hour trying to get him out. He ran one way, we ran the other. All the while I was shouting at Nabih to shut the door or he would run into the house (I'm wondering now if he might not have been able to catch the mouse. He was probably a gift I ran off.) Actually, I did not run him off. It was Mama Vero who got a broom and was chasing him around the porch while he skittered here and there full of fright and confusion. My method involved leaving the screen door open and letting him leave on his own good time while we huddled safely inside. She took a more direct approach.
I have had to take a direct approach in finding Nabih a school. While he is clearly getting some kind of education at home, learning French and how to ward off giant orange glo reptiles, it's time for something more. I have been visiting Kinshasa preschools and feel a bit like the lizard stuck on my back porch. The whole process is dizzying and disorienting.
I was willing to consent to the first school we saw, mostly because I know several other families that go there and it is close. The program itself was not impressive, but acceptable. We visited the class for an hour and saw (many) children working in small groups. They had a numbers area on the carpet, a writing area and two reading areas. One adult was at each table and worked with the children individually. There was a cute row of blackboards, child height, and the one or two kids working here were supposed to be copying words from the wall. Some children spent a bit of time sitting and waiting for an adult to help them and some also got books to read and sat on the carpet. I didn't see any toys, but there was a bookshelf with some unidentifiable stuff packed in bags and boxes. Looked like a few puzzles and maybe a building toy. The kids appeared to spend most of their time deeply focused on academics. Just as we were leaving, a whole group lesson had them sitting on the floor trying to remember the names of garden plants. It seemed a ridiculous lesson with difficult words to remember. It did include a song and a few examples of real plants which the kids got a turn touching.
This mediocre school later informed me, on what was to be Nabih's first day, that he needed to cut his hair. I was inscensed on several levels and we left there with me a raving lunatic- something I'm not usually prone to here in the DRC. I did run into the director later that weekend while shopping and she assured me the whole thing was a huge mistake, but damage done.
I took a morning off to visit two other schools. One run also by an Indian woman and operating on the British curriculum. This was a very small school and only had six children in the class we went to visit. Each child sat at a table and everyone faced a chalkboard. The floor was cement, no carpet and no open place to play. The small tables took up the entire area. There were no visible toys and no books. There were, I was assured, puzzles and toys locked up in bins in the cabinet. Illuminating word choice. There were textbooks (yes, in preschool) and notebooks filled with children's letters and numbers. There was even some addition. I was also shown a small notebook filled with drawings and dictations. We did not stay to visit in this class and were not invited to do so. There was a much older girl sitting at one of the tables and it is unclear what her role or purpose for being there was (punishment? helper? During the presentation of notebooks to me, the children, in their neglect, had begun a general discussion about whose turn it was to write on the board and what exactly should be written. There was some quarreling and the girl didn't move or say a word, so I'm guessing punishment was the reason for her presence.)
We visited another class, same set up- cement floors, chalkboard, small tables, children writing. I was told about monthly contests for handwriting and poetry recitation. I was told events inspired the kids to do better as they compared themselves to how well others did and developed a sense of competetion. I kept trying to balance the idea of such academic focus with the developmental need to play and explore. Does copying the word twenty-nine really mean something when you're four? In trying to be careful not to view everything with an American ego, I wonder if there isn't something to pushing our children to BEGIN early and get started on the race of good grades and high marks and recitiation.
It wasn't long before images of my own students came to mind. The phone calls I get asking, "Ms. Soumah, what does it mean when they say infer?"
And.."What am I supposed to do for number 4? It says what do you think...?"
I'm not ready to give up my ideas of American education yet. So with these images I headed off to the Belgian school, reported to have a great pre-k program, albeit in French.
I was in not in great humor uppon arriving. I'd been disarmed by the previous school who told me Nabih would have to pass a test to get in (yeah, to preschool. But "I'm sure you can teach him what he needs to know..." If I could do this, I wouldn't be looking for a school. We talked about the social aspects and finally she clarified the test as one to establish a baseline but I was basically feeling hopeless.)
I arrived at the office and hazily comprehended the French instructions about admissions process. I asked if I could see a class and I got directions. To go. Alone. It seemed bizarre to me- a stranger, given the go ahead to walk around the campus, unaided.
In order to get to the maternelle side, I had first to pass through a locked gate by the security post. I stopped and peered into the first classroom I saw with an open door. Two teachers were painting at easles and behind them were the children. Wonderous children! Laughing, playing, imagining, creating, sitting-on-top-of-the-tables children. I breathed in the sight. It was familiar and comforting. A teacher noticed me and came to talk. I discovered they were preparing for a parent carnival and so all of the classes have gathered together this day and things were not running as usual. She offered to show me another classroom where I saw carpets, tables, paintings on the walls and TOYS. Lots of toys in plastic tubs and cubby compartments. I saw signs everywhere of living, breathing, thinking children. She was cheerful and bright as she explained the program. She attempted several times to connect with Nabih, who remained his surly self. As we departed, she remarked on his hair, "Tres kool."
I rode back home with happy visions of the wild school, the full of life school, the play and have fun while creating with new friends school. And I try to convert Euros to dollars. The wildlife academy quickly becomes the unaffordable academy. But I can't stop seeing the little girl sitting on top of the table, flying her lego plane through air. It's an image I can sleep with.
14.5.09
Summer Fever
The children have it bad. It is even infecting me. With only three weeks left to go, we're all dreaming of summer. Even as I take time to reflect, I am caught up in the changes that are swirling around us. The migration beings. This morning I received a letter indicating that this week would be the last week for a student. Today is Thursday. This week is practically over. I see tears forming just behind the eyes as I talk to her and try to determine excatly what the travel dates are.
This is the ritual. Late arrivals, early departures and all of it unexpected and sudden. Beyond control. Having just read "Third Culture Kids," I am aware that this is the culture we're talking about: a culture of constant change and inevitablity. It adds a completely new dimension to the experience of a school year. I have witnessed the skipping of social steps in order to form quicker, more intense friendships. No one has time for small talk. They've been through it all before.
This year I have taught the touchy-feelingest, footsie-playingest group of boys I think I will ever know. It has been difficult for me to balance the constant disruption of all their back patting, foot rubbing, shoulder poking behavior with what I recognize as their unabashed craving to be comforted. I've always noticed with admiration the way African men will grab each other by the arm or hold hands while walking with a close friend, but these are eleven year old boys that think nothing of giving each other shoulder rubs while watching the high school choir during an assembly. They walk arm in arm on the way to lunch as if they might not make it were they to attempt the journey alone.
Some of them have known each other for a few years, some met just this past August. They have found a way to support each other and to really live here and now. It has made some of our class events take on an even greater sense of importance. We are marking moments of time that will be forever remembered as, "When I lived in Kinshasa, I remember we..." It's like teaching school and summer camp all rolled into one. Only these kids don't have next summer's reunion to look forward to. When they say goodbye, it will most likely be forever.
I am closing this year with a real sense of accomplishment. It comes from our community service project, which had initially caused me so much grief because we could not provide a sustainable gift. I have received something more from this experience than I expected and I suspect it is what will sustain me to keep pursuing these kinds of experiences.
The project began with the students writing very funny skits- spoofs of traditional fairy tales with an environmental theme. The dinner theater was a great success. The plays went well, the kids served spaghetti and everyone enjoyed the cookies they baked for dessert. We raised a respectable amount of money.
I finally connected with the right people and we decided to spend half of the money on trees to help stop erosion at a local orphanage. The other half of the money would go towards clean water packets to be donated to children at Stand Proud (www.standproud.org)- an amazing organization that provides surgeries and braces for kids with missing or malformed limbs.
What has stunned me about my students is that, in just this last week, they have translated one of the plays into French and are going to perform it during the donation ceremony. Of course, we’ve yet to see how it will turn out, but it is their sheer confidence that dazzles me. Rewrite our play into another language? Perform it before 200+ people and be filmed while doing so? Give up our free time to practice and our Saturday to perform? Yeah, no problem. We can do it. We can do anything. And I believe them. This whole event seemed to get bigger than we wanted or anticipated. The company that has asked to film the event for use in advertising and promoting the PUR water packets is another exceptional organization (http://www.psi.org) working in Congo to provide health products to low income families at cost.
Working with the people at these two places and exposing my students to their capabilities of making real change has given me one small breath of hope and inspiration. Maybe I am doing something useful after all.
This is the ritual. Late arrivals, early departures and all of it unexpected and sudden. Beyond control. Having just read "Third Culture Kids," I am aware that this is the culture we're talking about: a culture of constant change and inevitablity. It adds a completely new dimension to the experience of a school year. I have witnessed the skipping of social steps in order to form quicker, more intense friendships. No one has time for small talk. They've been through it all before.
This year I have taught the touchy-feelingest, footsie-playingest group of boys I think I will ever know. It has been difficult for me to balance the constant disruption of all their back patting, foot rubbing, shoulder poking behavior with what I recognize as their unabashed craving to be comforted. I've always noticed with admiration the way African men will grab each other by the arm or hold hands while walking with a close friend, but these are eleven year old boys that think nothing of giving each other shoulder rubs while watching the high school choir during an assembly. They walk arm in arm on the way to lunch as if they might not make it were they to attempt the journey alone.
Some of them have known each other for a few years, some met just this past August. They have found a way to support each other and to really live here and now. It has made some of our class events take on an even greater sense of importance. We are marking moments of time that will be forever remembered as, "When I lived in Kinshasa, I remember we..." It's like teaching school and summer camp all rolled into one. Only these kids don't have next summer's reunion to look forward to. When they say goodbye, it will most likely be forever.
I am closing this year with a real sense of accomplishment. It comes from our community service project, which had initially caused me so much grief because we could not provide a sustainable gift. I have received something more from this experience than I expected and I suspect it is what will sustain me to keep pursuing these kinds of experiences.
The project began with the students writing very funny skits- spoofs of traditional fairy tales with an environmental theme. The dinner theater was a great success. The plays went well, the kids served spaghetti and everyone enjoyed the cookies they baked for dessert. We raised a respectable amount of money.
I finally connected with the right people and we decided to spend half of the money on trees to help stop erosion at a local orphanage. The other half of the money would go towards clean water packets to be donated to children at Stand Proud (www.standproud.org)- an amazing organization that provides surgeries and braces for kids with missing or malformed limbs.
What has stunned me about my students is that, in just this last week, they have translated one of the plays into French and are going to perform it during the donation ceremony. Of course, we’ve yet to see how it will turn out, but it is their sheer confidence that dazzles me. Rewrite our play into another language? Perform it before 200+ people and be filmed while doing so? Give up our free time to practice and our Saturday to perform? Yeah, no problem. We can do it. We can do anything. And I believe them. This whole event seemed to get bigger than we wanted or anticipated. The company that has asked to film the event for use in advertising and promoting the PUR water packets is another exceptional organization (http://www.psi.org) working in Congo to provide health products to low income families at cost.
Working with the people at these two places and exposing my students to their capabilities of making real change has given me one small breath of hope and inspiration. Maybe I am doing something useful after all.
5.5.09
31 flavors
I have been imploring my students for months to open with a good beginning, a hook. In the interest of practicing my own preachings, I set out to find a number....a large number, the estimated population of Kinshasa. I stumbled upon an amazing account of life in Kinshasa written by Mayamba Thierry NLANDU, Professor of English Literature at the University of Kinshasa (Congo) http://i-p-o.org/kinshasa.htm
5 to 7 million was the number I had been looking for. Apparently no one really knows how many people live in Kinshasa, sprawling as it is, desparate and uncountable thousands living in cramped and unknowable conditions. Professor Nlandu writes an accurate and intriguing account of the city's urban and suburban counterparts and their reaction to the environment they struggle against daily. He writes of the lively and expressive night life (of which I have only heard rumors...) and the role of violence and poverty. It seems a hopeless and dismal situation and he hides nothing. It seemed a fair portrait of a people who have travelled so far to overcome their history, though it might appear a stagnate pace to one ignorant of the journey.
Nlandu writes of a comparison between the urban and suburban dwellers of the city, and so perhaps a bit out of context, but inherently relevant, is his comment,
"Materially poor persons, all of them do 'not have' many things. That is why they should concentrate on the inner strength of their 'being' to retain a feeling of human dignity."
And to think I was just going to write about going out for an ice cream. Because that's what was on my mind. I joined the FB network, initially to try and entice readers here. I've since come to see it is pure expression that keeps this blog rolling and, while readers make me feel validated and even interesting, it is not an essential component for posting. I publish because I must.
FB has become an altogether different kind of outlet, a place for small talk and cryptic messages. Once in awhile, the two collide. Because, as I've written, we are feeling an effort at maintaining our human dignity here. We want simple things like cold cereal and ice cream. It was with determination that I vowed to bring the boys out to the new ice cream shop, even if it cost more than our monthly grocery bill. Just once, we were going to have some fun.
The FB part of me says, yeah, tres kool- great new spot in Kin-city. And it is. New and clean with walls of a deep, purple mauve reminiscent of blackberry ice cream. Silver chrome stools lined up along a counter and mirrored backdrops hanging behind a soft cushioned booth. Pale green chairs and tables complimenting the walls in the way only a sock-hop, cone-shop could. The flat screen TV, however, breaks the innocence with its explicit images of music video lust and illusion. This is Kinshasa, after all.
We enjoyed our cones wrapped in dripping, soggy napkins. The boys wished they could try every flavor and I watched with interest the families and couples that came through the door, eager, like us, to feel something akin to 'normal.' A simple pleasure, a quick treat.
But in Congo, its always more than that. Two worlds collide. Outside the door awaits the ever present security. An impressive guard, this one I saw. Tall, uniformed and active. Very active. The gangs of kids just outside the parking lot, on the small, narrow street band together in their hunger. They take bold steps towards patrons leaving the shop and try to outwit the guard by dividing into teams and flanking opposite sides of the cars. It is not so much the physical need that motivates them but an inner hunger, that seeking for human dignity Nlandu writes of.
It is this agony and desperation, cultivated through no error of their own, that invades my ability to enjoy a quiet evening. It is palpable in the air, vivid in their eyes and screaming in their actions. It is such an overwhelming feeling of unjust and incomprehension. I see it. I hear their silent question repeated so often it unleashes a furious righteousness. Why? Why do they have so much when we have nothing? Why do they eat colorful ice creams and drive away in shiny cars while we tour these streets in mismatched shoes and ragged clothes? Why them and not us?
There's no answer. After our treat, we went to the river. There is a quiet, peaceful place by the embassy residences where many families come to walk, ride bikes and take a casual stroll. It has, again, a feeling of harmony and well being. For the etranger, it is a nostalgic feeling of home, where one could walk safely down a street or let their children loose on tricycles and scooters. The houses are well built and maintained. The roads- impeccable, no sign of erosion in sight.
5 to 7 million was the number I had been looking for. Apparently no one really knows how many people live in Kinshasa, sprawling as it is, desparate and uncountable thousands living in cramped and unknowable conditions. Professor Nlandu writes an accurate and intriguing account of the city's urban and suburban counterparts and their reaction to the environment they struggle against daily. He writes of the lively and expressive night life (of which I have only heard rumors...) and the role of violence and poverty. It seems a hopeless and dismal situation and he hides nothing. It seemed a fair portrait of a people who have travelled so far to overcome their history, though it might appear a stagnate pace to one ignorant of the journey.
Nlandu writes of a comparison between the urban and suburban dwellers of the city, and so perhaps a bit out of context, but inherently relevant, is his comment,
"Materially poor persons, all of them do 'not have' many things. That is why they should concentrate on the inner strength of their 'being' to retain a feeling of human dignity."
And to think I was just going to write about going out for an ice cream. Because that's what was on my mind. I joined the FB network, initially to try and entice readers here. I've since come to see it is pure expression that keeps this blog rolling and, while readers make me feel validated and even interesting, it is not an essential component for posting. I publish because I must.
FB has become an altogether different kind of outlet, a place for small talk and cryptic messages. Once in awhile, the two collide. Because, as I've written, we are feeling an effort at maintaining our human dignity here. We want simple things like cold cereal and ice cream. It was with determination that I vowed to bring the boys out to the new ice cream shop, even if it cost more than our monthly grocery bill. Just once, we were going to have some fun.
The FB part of me says, yeah, tres kool- great new spot in Kin-city. And it is. New and clean with walls of a deep, purple mauve reminiscent of blackberry ice cream. Silver chrome stools lined up along a counter and mirrored backdrops hanging behind a soft cushioned booth. Pale green chairs and tables complimenting the walls in the way only a sock-hop, cone-shop could. The flat screen TV, however, breaks the innocence with its explicit images of music video lust and illusion. This is Kinshasa, after all.
We enjoyed our cones wrapped in dripping, soggy napkins. The boys wished they could try every flavor and I watched with interest the families and couples that came through the door, eager, like us, to feel something akin to 'normal.' A simple pleasure, a quick treat.
But in Congo, its always more than that. Two worlds collide. Outside the door awaits the ever present security. An impressive guard, this one I saw. Tall, uniformed and active. Very active. The gangs of kids just outside the parking lot, on the small, narrow street band together in their hunger. They take bold steps towards patrons leaving the shop and try to outwit the guard by dividing into teams and flanking opposite sides of the cars. It is not so much the physical need that motivates them but an inner hunger, that seeking for human dignity Nlandu writes of.
It is this agony and desperation, cultivated through no error of their own, that invades my ability to enjoy a quiet evening. It is palpable in the air, vivid in their eyes and screaming in their actions. It is such an overwhelming feeling of unjust and incomprehension. I see it. I hear their silent question repeated so often it unleashes a furious righteousness. Why? Why do they have so much when we have nothing? Why do they eat colorful ice creams and drive away in shiny cars while we tour these streets in mismatched shoes and ragged clothes? Why them and not us?
There's no answer. After our treat, we went to the river. There is a quiet, peaceful place by the embassy residences where many families come to walk, ride bikes and take a casual stroll. It has, again, a feeling of harmony and well being. For the etranger, it is a nostalgic feeling of home, where one could walk safely down a street or let their children loose on tricycles and scooters. The houses are well built and maintained. The roads- impeccable, no sign of erosion in sight.
I do enjoy our walk. I enjoy sitting on the grass and talking with a friend while my boys climb trees and roll down a hill. I enjoy it because I must. It is a break from the constant sense of need that follows me whenever I go beyond the gates. But I cannot stop my own questions from rolling through my mind. I cannot stop my own anger and furious frustration.
If it can be built here, why not everywhere? Why is the suitable only developed for the elite? My mind cries with anguish at the images of an Africa living up to her potential, an Africa built to maintain the human dignity of her people. I can imagine the magnificence of such a place, more difficult to see is the road leading up to it.
Kinshasa the lush and green and plentiful. Well, at least from this perspective.
28.4.09
100 proof
I enjoy navigating the roads of Kinshasa, never knowing for sure how a trek through a 'puddle' might turn out. I don't drive to the village, however, as it is quite a distance and appears to require some careful negotiations. There are some areas where the road narrows and police sit in plastic chairs, manning each side. I have noticed the driver, Charles, and others in the car nodding and waving to them as we pass. I assume they know each other, and that without that connection it might be difficult for one to pass unheeded.I have seen such casual things on the quiet, country roads and always imagine what it would be like to walk them myself. Machetes and machine guns are not unusual. Unfortunately, a white woman walking would definately be.
This last trip, as we were leaving, two of the men generally manning their post from plastic waved us down by the side of the road. There was some discussion in rapid, loud Lingala and I tried to determine the mood of the conversation.
It wasn't easy. There were handshakes and greetings, smiles, head nods but also, clearly, debate. I am always fascinated by how others deal with the shake-down, ever eager to pick up tips. Charles is particularly impressive with his social skills, so I paid close attention. As I heard numbers being thrown around, one of the men left to get something.
He returned with a bottle of whiskey so potent my nose burned with the scent of it. It was offered to the men in the car, refused only by one, enjoyed by two. Admist laughter and male bonding, we drove off. Didn't see it coming but I guess I wasn't completely surprised either. What did I think they were doing all day in the hot sun in their white plastic chairs?
After everyone else had been dropped off, Charles headed to bring me home. It was then that we came across the water route shown above. I feel a kindredness with Charles because he is a skilled and sometimes crazy driver. As he peered out at the water road, I knew what he was thinking. I could almost hear him calculating the turn around time and the huge traffic jam awaiting us if we were forced to take an alternate route. I could see him judging the outer edges of the road and even the distance of the sidewalk. I could sense how badly he just wanted to go for it. We sat there watching the road for awhile, contemplating.
Of course it was impossible. We turned around. He found another passage and we got off again. I became amazed by the people taking shelter under roof overhangs and on small porches. They appeared all lined up along the side of the road, waiting.
It seems so bizarre that life stops for the rain. Everything is on pause. Rain is not new to Africa and I wonder why, in this case, people choose just to stop rather than adapt. Stalls close down, goods get wrapped up and people huddle in small dry spaces patiently watching the water tumble from the sky.
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