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.
29.8.09
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.
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