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.

Possibility

Things never work out the way you thought. Or more accurately, most often things have a specific way of working out and that may or may not be the way you wanted. It is getting slightly easier to adjust to this perspective. But it does take concentration and a certain conviction to do so. I have to work at it.

The last few days have been such a kaleidoscope of emotions that I can't really pick what I want to write about. The village is a great place to start. It is slow going. I knew it would be, taking the trip only every other weekend. There are 2 schools of thought in art therapy- the idea that values the creation as cathartic and important in and of itself versus the idea that verbal processing is a necessary component for self reflection and growth. Being me, I see the inherent value in both sides.

With the boys, there is the challenge of language. If I am to be running the group as a 'group' then I need the ability to monitor the language more than I can. They are social, chatty and make comments frequently- the kind 17 year old boys make. But, I cannot understand their words and thus guide their interactions into a 'group norm.' And so, instead, I ask questions. I make quiet suggestions about their art work and the direction it will take. I am trying to open their minds to the possibility of a new world in ever subtle ways.

In one case, a boy had drawn a picture of his hand, outstretched. I asked him what was behind it, what was he reaching for? He did not want to say. Finally, he said,"Nothing," though added a watch to the wrist.

"Is it true," I asked, "that you want nothing?" I was half joking, trying for a light-hearted interaction but also pushing him to think a bit. He looked me directly in the eye and I am not exactly sure what I saw there. But he said again, "Rien." It's not easy for me to tell if he meant it, if he meant to give me his tough guy look, or if he simply meant he couldn't face it.

On the other hand, a boy was drawing a fairly skilled image of some monkeys in a tree. He had placed a stylized sun in the corner. I invited him to decide, " Is it day or night?" and he took this suggestion and decided to make it a night party. He was open to a new idea and also seemed excited at figuring out how to make it appear a night sky. It seems like a small thing, but I clearly saw a light in his face as he thought about it and responded with a smile, "La nuit."

It was because of this light that I was paricularly distressed to see later, another boy painting over the beautiful orange-red sun. He had crossed out the original artist signature and signed his own and made a few changes to the color. Disappointing.

I sat with the two boys and an educator/translator to try and discuss things. Time was short and it didn't end the way I'd have liked. There was still some resentment, naturally. Both boys are fairly talented but clearly it was a motive of jealousy. It is hard for these boys to feel successful and valued. It is one of those moments that makes you want to stay for so long, trying to replace all of the things they are missing. Its not possible, I know.

But there was that moment of light and it's all I can see from here. There was a shift in possibility. Things don't always have to be what they once seemed. You might just have to work a bit at seeing it.

A real deal

It's finally happened. I caught myself holding up a box of cereal and remarking, "It was only $6." After my friend responded, rather dryly, "A real bargain," I had to stop and consider.

I guess I've changed. I feel such a loss of the small things, fresh fruits and vegetables, that I am now willing to pay for $6 for 4 oranges or a box of Honeycombs (they were worth every penny! yummmm!) I find myself spending more on groceries than when we first arrived as my mind has slowly accepted the exorbitant prices and come to terms with what might be considered a bargain. I've stopped imagining the grocery shelves of home, lined with sales and discounts in the $3-$4 range. I guess this means I'm acclimating. My new range is $5-$10. Yes, I spend $8 on a package of 6 hotdogs so the boys will actually eat something for lunch besides bread.

I think what's more important to realize here is that this change is not limited to the price of my groceries. It signals an acceptance of things that I'm sure I've yet to comprehend. It is a subtle shifting of perspective to my relative environment.

I now read The International Educator and become enchanted with the question, where do we want to live next? This new world seems vast and open, yet it contains within it an (odd) community of drifting nomads ('global nomads' and 'third culture kids' were the terms I recently read about when refering to the children of such families.) The thought of leaving Africa still creates that bottomless pit anxiety feeling that lets me know I'm not quite ready to move off the continent. But still, I'm left with possibilities.

I've also begun to consider the qualities I want in a school. It's something that began with the AISA conference, where I was able to meet and talk with educators from around Africa. The quality of schools seems to differ greatly as does their involvement with the local community. And this is one of my passions; it's why I am here to begin with.

I am happy with all of these changes and most often simply wondering why it took me so long to get here, in these familiar surroundings where nothing looks or feels like home, but everything is exactly as it should be.

City streets

At first I thought it was a bird. The air is constantly filled with the sounds of chirping, calling, singing, whistling birds. I've recognized the call of pigeons and parrots. I've heard one bird that seems to sing the scales and it becomes clear where all of our inspiration for music comes from.


But the sound went on, coming closer until it passed my classroom windows. No bird, this. The notes took on rhythm and purpose. A song with so much feeling. True whistling is like playing an instrument, I realized. It was quite beautiful. And that's what gives Africa its life. There is always someone singing or whistling, tapping out a beat, calling a name. It is not the quiet, private, solitary street, the hurried-rushed-walk-to-work-with-your-head-down-eyes-averted street of American cities. It is instead the greet-my-neighbor-stop-to-talk-let-me-look-at-you street of an African city.

I walked to the market today with my neighbor and her baby. Women everywhere called out, "Baby, baby!" and came gliding up with arms outstretched to welcome the little one. It seemed as though they were about to scoop him up and surely would have were he not so snugly nestled in his wrap. Even men remarked on his interesting ride, "Est que il va tombe?"

The streets are always full of people talking and pointing, whispering and shouting. They are laughing and giggling and trying to entice- Come, come buy my things, come talk to me, come just to stand here next to me. Just come.

It is the stereotypical image of Africa but its more. It's the exact opposite of independent, soliatry success. It's human contact and social intricacy, and its what makes everything so complicated and hard to manage. It's what erases boundaries and blurs the lines.


And it is what I remark in the village too. I say I am going there to help them, but sometimes it seems I cannot bring them more than they can give to me. Because these boys, they break out in song with such clear, sweet voices. And it's all the spontaneous noise that erupts with such emotion that wins me over. It's why I can't go back, even if I'll never quite acheive it myself. I soak it up and it makes me well.

woman

Last night I talked to someone online for two hours. I laughed until I cried. I found the conversation witty and intelligent. And for just a moment I wondered what it would be like to really know someone that way. To know someone like me- who could read my words and understand, or debate, or hunger for more.

Just a moment before reality comes crashing back in, reigning glass and chunks of rubble down on me as I remember where I've been. Second chances only come once. I feel too young to contemplate my future lonliness and far too old to have it any other way.

Africa seems full of women like me, but I am, after all, not quite like them. They're left with each other to pass the days and mark the time, to chatter and socialize. But with my Western mind it still seems harsh and solitary. Most of the time, I am full of responsibilities and tasks that create a busy pace of falseness. I wear my labels with determination. Who will I be today?

Daily living here requires such energy and attention, weeks and months can pass before I look up to see me. There is time for lounging by the pool and escaping into books. There is time for planning lessons and preparing meals. Always there are knees to wash and elbows to mend. It is familiar and everyday. I am the mother, the teacher, the reader, the cook.

There is time also for the dreamer, the artist, the dancer. These so comforting in their ability to soothe, so risky with their potential to illuminate. I have developed a way to rise with their crest and brace for the fall. Because I cannot fight nor bury this need. And I have a found a way to live together with all of these things, these labels and tasks that define me without ever really explaining.

But there is another label, buried like a long forgotten treasure tossed carelessly into the depths of a closet, and retrieved from its dusty corner only because it was discovered during a search for something more modern, more relevant and important. Even in its retrieval, it is not rescued but merely glanced at with puzzlement. This thing still hanging around? What is this thing anyway? Whatever was it used for? Yeah, I don't think we need this anymore. And back it goes scraping across the gray and gritty floor in slight protest. But it sure was pretty once.