19.4.10

the poet from Mwene Ditu

I met him in Lubumbashi
A boy from the village
of Mwene Ditu
Where they live 60 kilometers
From the diamond mines
But don't have running water
Inside, No electricity
Where bicycles run
Like cars

I met him in Lubumbashi
Selling cases of Coke
Primus, Skol and Fanta
from a run down depot
with a broken window and
a metal door
his cot rolled up
behind

He arrived in the capital
Kinshasa
with just one suitcase
a few clothes, some photos
and papers from his past

Yesterday, as we walked
home from the pool
where he's taught himself to swim
I saw him carrying
One of his old school notebooks

What are you reading
I wondered.
Philosophy,
he said.
Descartes, Marcel, Plato
Do you know Socrates
he asked


9.4.10

ESL in DRC

ESL is a fact of life in Congo. Everywhere people are learning English, speaking broken, accented English or that careful, proper English that uses words native speakers hardly ever do. For the U.S. citizen, reference points are all wrong, even in our American school, because the students are coming from around the world with their own reference points. That is how I found myself reading an essay about ice skating, Christmas coming, and hot summer days. I forgot where I was and questioned the student. "Hot? Christmas is almost here? Where are you???"

"In South Africa." She shrugged. I mentioned to her, and to everyone, that identifying the setting is very important. It helps to orient the reader to your time and place, the time and place of the story. If reading is an escape, as the author, we must provide the means of travel.

Sometimes, words aren't enough. Identifying setting doesn't really add to clarity. More than a translation and definition is needed. And this is how I found myself trying to explain the concept of kitchen items and uses during my Monday night ESL 'class.'

I've been trying to teach English to two women every Monday since August. I can't really tell how far we are getting. Everyone acquires language at their own pace. I was surprised to learn that English is taught in Congolese schools (and in many African schools.) It is much like the language classes taught in U.S. high schools. Having no one to practice with and living in English speaking houses, most people do not retain much of the language they studied for 3 or 4 years in high school. So it is here.

Student number 1, Mama Vero, works around enough English speaking people that she has a fairly quick understanding of the words. She is just not yet confident enough to be speaking too often herself. Student number 2, her sister Odille, really doesn't have much exposure to English. It takes her longer to grasp the defintion, the concept and then to pronounce the word.

We've been working with a picture dictionary which is really helpful for translating the French words I may not know. We also have an English-Lingala book - no pictures and really outdated but occasionally useful. As with any task I undertake, I often find it easy to lose focus and to become over or underwhelmed with what I am actually accomplishing.

I have been trying to focus on practical English- words that well help them on the job, the job being housework and child care. I figured, when I offered this English speaking evening, that acquiring the language would open up more job opportunities for them. I have been slowly realizing the obvious- learning English in Africa is more than just language translation.

There have been a few instances where the translation is simply meaningless. I do know the word for brown in French, but here, they seemed mostly to use the word chocolate. I thought it quite opposite from the eskimos- who've been mythically reported to have some 35 different words for snow. In this land of tans, browns, toffees, dark chocolate and deep rich charcoal browns they had only one insufficient word.

The unit on household items was equally daunting. We are stalled at kitchen. The picture of a kitchen in the Oxford Picture Dictionary is quite detailed and filled with many gadgets I simply skipped over. Toaster and garbage disposal to name a few. Electric can opener and blender to name a few more. We briefly discussed dishwasher and microwave, mostly out of novelty for the former and occasionally you will find the latter in an ex-pat home.  The words were harder to remember in this case because, for Odille especially, she doesn't utilize these items on a daily basis. Her kitchen is outside. I've seen her cut a handful of scallions by gathering them together and running them along the blade of the knife. Cutting board?

I've seen her lay out the materials she needs on the seat of a chair, which she has turned facing her, as she sits in an opposite chair, outside where she can feel a slight breeze and have enough light to see by. Counter? And while she is familiar with a refrigerator, understanding the two parts (freezer and refrigerator) takes some explaining, as does oven versus stove.

It was one particularly painful back day when I thought that African kitchens, outside and with their chairs and stools, made much more sense than our Western kitchens, where we stand and labour on our feet once again. The most useful kitchen, I think, would be a hybrid. A kitchen with low counters and shelves so we could sit and chop and cut and mix. A low, wide oven that would allow us to boil and bake and steam from the comfort of a seat.

We used my kitchen, with its high counters and wooden cupboards, to work on most of the words. Sink. Faucet. Drain. Yup, they didn't have any of those things at their house. We used the picture for testing. What is on the table? What is the dad doing? I got a bit overzealous with my questions before realizing that eggs, milk, butter and flour would not necessarily signal pancakes or some kind of batter to them. I realized too late that the carton of milk did not resemble the can of powdered milk we buy here. All of these things required lengthy explanations (some people do buy milk in a carton here,  Vero would have seen this, Odille- no.)

I decided the next few lessons would involve cooking. We had been pretty good at defining words and building vocabulary but we hadn't done a lot of discussion. I thought cooking some things together in a kitchen would provide the perfect practice for asking and responding to questions and directions.

We made potato chips. We peeled potatoes and washed them in the sink. We sliced thin pieces and fried with a spatula. We sprinkled salt and flipped the potatoes over when they were crisp. Things were going well. I had Vero repeat all of the directions to me for each new batch of chips we put in the pan. I sent her home with a small bag, realizing she would never make these herself, though she had all the materials. How could she spend so much time preparing something that wouldn't fill the belly through the night?

Much earlier in the year, I had also taught her to make her own yogurt. I even provided the thermal container and the occasional small starter batch of yogurt. That was before the congelateur broke down. Vero and her sister used to sell Cokes and soft drinks, commonly called sucre (sugar) here. But when the large, deep cooler broke down, that prospect for earning money also broke down. Along with the occasional yogurt treat. And the PUR water. Vero told me even though she had been making clean water, the kids would always run over and grab a drink directly from the tap in the yard. It didn't seem to make sense to her to keep buying the packets, even if they're only 4cents each.

We'll continue English, and cooking, at least until the summer reprieve. What they'll remember and what they'll actually use- well, I can't really be sure. But our high school language teachers never seemed to dwell too long on that thought.  Besides, Vero and Odille already speak Swahili, Lingala and French. That's more than most potato chip eating, yogurt loving Americans anyway.

4.4.10

I've been Booted

When I first arrived at school, we were given an interesting orientation task. The staff was divided into groups and each group had to find something that all members had in common. A typical community building, ice breaking type of exercise. In general, groups came up with forgettable responses that did not truly get to the heart of the matter- unifying us as educators, neighbors, and colleagues. However, one group did manage to cross  the boundary and came up with a truly unique bond. They'd all been arrested at one point or another (well, except one person, whom they were willing to overlook in the name of sensationalism.) It was a funny and surprising admission from a group of teachers. One of them addressed us apologetically and said, "Well, when you live in Africa its not really that hard to get arrested." It seemed to change the perspective of trouble with the police from an "if" to a "when."

And so my "when" nearly arrived on this holiday weekend, though I have vowed personally to avoid African police stations if at all possible. Some doors seem likely to open only in one direction (it could also be my avid love of reading all things African or about Africa that has given me a slightly skewed vision of what goes on in some departments...)

We had taken a trip out to the store, as so many adventures seem to begin here. Road work has created a bit of havoc on the main boulevard. Before we knew it, we were coralled downtown much further than we intended to go. There was only one lane of traffic open, going in one direction. Choices were slim. We ended up by a frequented store (of many ex-pats here in Kin) and near the US embassy, a somewhat notorious part of town.

Not surprisingly, we were signaled to pull over. There were a lot of cars being pulled over. I was reminded  of the end-of-the month inspection checks in the U.S. But then my friend pointed out a white SUV with a yellow tire boot. It was empty and on the opposite side of the road, which had become increasingly congested. The Kinshasa gare central is in this area and just after the turn there is a large taxi pick up area. Between the taxis and the long line of cars pulled over, there wasn't a lot of room for other motorists to pass.

We began our dance with the police. They want the windows rolled down, I want to keep them up. They want my documents, I don't want to give my documents. They were asking for the 'card rose' which I didn't appear to have. I did have several letters with official looking titles and stamps however. And while I was carrying on this dispute, my friend and passenger noticed they were trying to boot us. I immeidately began to drive causing the 'booter' to jump back from the car. This also caused the police officer to become quite angry with me and we began something of a yelling exchange. My part went something like this, "Hey! Hey! Hey! You can't do that. What's the problem? We didn't do anything. Hey! Hey! Hey!..." and so on. His part went something like this..."Attention. Who do you think you are? You think this country is for you?!?! You need some discipline." And here all of my novels and travel biographies produced a vivid image of what Congolese police discipline might entail. I demanded pardon but continued to let him know that we had everything we were supposed to. So what was the problem? I let him know we had called someone to "help with the speaking" and he pretended not to hear me so I would roll down my window.

Onlookers and passing cars began to cause a fuss, as we were blocking the path of taxis. One of the orange vested men (the 'booters', I gathered) signed to me that we should pull up and over a bit. Ah, but how? I could go nowhere. He pantomined unlocking the boot so I could move out of the way. I just shook my head. If he unlocked my boot, I was driving away- although, with the traffic condition, I surely wouldn't get far. I figured it was only fair since he had thoughtlessly locked me in an inconvenient place for no apparent reason.

So we sat in the hot car, baking, discussing the benefits of a good sweat bath now and then. We watched the Congolese passing us and laughed at the way they stared at the tire and then stared at us. Doubletakes that caused the eyebrows to crumple in confusion or be raised in sympathetic wonderment. A few street boys even came over to speak some English and offer their advice: we were screwed. This really caused us to crack up in laughter. Everyone seemed to be telling us the obvious. But they did it with such concern and sincerity.

Once the boot has been applied, talking yourself out of the situation seems unlikely. I watched another couple get pulled over. The woman opened her door and stepped outside. (Isn't rule number 1 never to get out of the car? I thought.) I envied the way the breeze seemed to twirl her skirt around. Sweat dripped from my chin. We were waiting for some relief from the embassy. The man from the truck came over to inquire if we were ok...well, aside from being trapped-literally-inside our car. They drove away, no problems it seemed, leaving us contemplate why some mondele  were booted and others were not. Its all arbitrary here.

Our embassy guardian arrived, another Congolese police officer but in plain clothes. Upon sight, I didn't have much faith in him. "I am here for you," he told us and did take our documents and engage in discussion. There seemed hope of a resolution. It just came down to time. Resolutions can be lengthy....and costly. At one point, he snatched the papers from whoever was holding them and threw them in the car. "Don't give them anything!" he said. It didn't seem like things were going all that well. More discussion. Abruptly we were told we could go. The boot was removed. "We are not criminals..." I heard in careful, accented English as we drove away. It was the orange vested booter. Neither are we, I thought. Why the boot? It seemed like such extreme measures. Meanacing measures.

We did eventually make it to our intended destination, and shopped in soaking wet clothes, to the curisoity of those in the store. We even went to lunch to celebrate our freedom. On the way home, we passed the (gas)station in Kintambo and noticed  a group of orange vested men and a pile of yellow boots. Someone else's adventure.....