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.....

In Plain English (or as close as I can come to it anyway..)

This is the kind of day that has me repeating to myself, 'I really love my life.' The fact of the matter is I have never felt this way before. I am cognizant each and every minute of the pleasure my life brings. The gratefulness to which I approach everything is a drastic turn from the previous me who was, basically, a shouting, raving lunatic- completely stressed out and unaware of how to overcome it all.

Most days the sun, with its nurturing heat and vibrant rays is enough to reduce me to a humble state. Today was one of those perfect days full of experience and exuberance. One of the teachers at school volunteers at an orphange (I believe there was a previous post about a trip we made there.) He arranged to have the kids come to campus and several teachers had them in for a 'class.' We made books in my room and it was fun. The kids were well mannered and quiet....so quiet. Of course, I did see them on the playground and I know what happens with a bit of freedom. But they had lunch and I made some watermelon slushies (which I don't think were actually a great hit, but they did seem to like the sandwiches...) Mohamed had a great time playing with all of the sports equipment and showing them how to use everything.

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.

Walking in to ACDF, I felt at home. Ahhhh, these are the kids I know. Because we were a bit late, it seemed they had given up on me. Most had moved off to the bedrooms in search of an afternoon nap.
"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.