I've resisted writing for a number of reasons, though lack of material cannot be counted among them. I've been searching this third year for the Congo that I have thus far only read about, heard about from Congolese abroad or dreamt about as I envision the work others are doing. Sara Rich seems to have found a perfectly beautiful niche working with children in Goma. Long breaks from school remind me that's why I came to Africa. Kambale Musavuli is another activist for Congo that frequently leaves me feeling inspired and always more knowledgeable. But occasionally, I must admit, I am also left searching for this Congo that everyone has so fallen for. Because sometimes, I'm just not feelin' it.
Kinshasa is a tough city. It's like the New York of Africa. If you can make it here.......But lately, I find myself examining what "make it" really means. What qualifies as "making it" in Kinshasa and is that the only level I am really aspiring too? These long days around my house leave me feeling aimless, useless and unfulfilled.
It was only a few days into the break when my son fell and hit his head. I knew immediately he would need a stitch or two but waited a bit before bringing him down to the clinic. I bandaged him up while trying to decide if I was overreacting or not. A few hours later, the bleeding started again and I knew we had to go. It was a calm trip down to the bottom of the hill where a medical clinic awaited us. We didn't wait terribly long, though the slow pace of the everyone had my nerves on edge. I'm glad he wasn't actually gushing blood or in any serious condition. Hospitals in Africa always give me pause. And here, I have yet to encounter the bedside manner that is reassuring to me. I remember the friendly doctor in Conakry who checked out Mohamed when he had a severe case of malaria. He explained things to me, talked to Mohamed and in general made us feel welcome and reassured.
The clinic nurses at Ngaliema, however, went about their job in a silent and relaxed manner. They had very few words and asked only the basic questions. A few times when I wondered exactly what they were doing and why, they responded, but added, "Do you accept?" I'm not sure what this was supposed to convey to me, but somehow felt if I said no they would have stopped. I felt certain I could never really receive an answer about what was necessary or needed. They would do whatever I asked, best interest or not. I am no doctor.
I spent some time marveling at the surroundings. It really is like being in Babel. Everything is charming until there's an emergency. Medical care is scary. Simple problems suddenly become life threatening. You walk in with a cut and leave with some infection that leads to permanent damage. These were the thoughts going through my mind as I eyed the plastic water bottles strung to the side of the medical cart. They each had a piece of masking tape identifying the contents. One was nearly filled with used needles. I couldn't really tell what function the others served. Plastic gloves were in supply and I carefully watched for signs of sterility and cleanliness, even as I noticed a trail of ants marching along the lower shelf. Sterility and cleanliness can be challenging in the tropics.
In all, Nabih was quite brave and the suturing took only minutes. The doctor made some contact with Nabih, asking him if he could go ahead and give the shot. This time I felt it was more of a putting at ease gesture than one he would really heed had the response been no. I have no idea how well the stitches were put in. There seems to be a rather large bump, but the head is closed, it was cleaned and Nabih appears none worse for the wear. We were told to come back in two days....and every two days after until they are removed.
If the first trip had me wondering, the second trip had me rushing out the door in a panic. I opened the curtain to the examining area and found a man blowing his nose on the floor. He looked at me and promptly stuck his finger in his nose. I ushered Nabih outside and sat on a low wall for some much needed deep breathing. I was angry because I felt tied to this clinic and didn't really see another place offering something more sanitary. I was angry that I was angry. I took many deep breaths before deciding I could return. If the man even moved, I decided I would, in my calmest and most sincere voice, simply ask him to wash his hands first. It was another nurse who came in to change the bandage and do the clean up. The man didn't even look at me. It was not out of embarrassment but simply out of distraction. I have never been able to get used to this habit of public nose picking and cleansing. You can find a young boy selling packets of tissue every three feet, but apparently these are reserved for the mopping of sweat, not nasal hygiene.
Later, more private ranting led to the conclusion that just studying about germs is not enough. If you learn in a dark and dirty classroom, you will not understand the dangers lurking there. I relented slightly, understanding as well that most university classrooms here have 300-400 students. How much and how well one learns is completely up to them. Diplomas and tests can be easily bargained for.
But these are not the stories I want to be telling. They are not the stories I want to be living. As the second semester begins, I had planned to have my students begin work on a heroes wall in our cafeteria. I wanted them to paint portraits of some less than well known people who have made a difference in Congo. Floribert Cheyeba , Armand Tungulu and the doctor from Panzi Hospital Dr. Denis Mukwege as well as Drs. Kasereka and Lyn Lusi , founders of HEAL Africa are among some of the potential heroes to be portrayed. The work they have done and are doing is amazing, passionate, necessary and of a kind I just don't run into. And it's becoming a problem for me. I feel like I'm becoming part of the problem.
I don't really see a clear path ahead of me. I've long held a steady vision of what I want my future to be like. While I can see it clearly, the road there is shrouded in mystery. Time seems so altered here, though truly it is only due to the glasses we wear. I have resisted putting down roots considering this merely a temporary situation. It is this very perspective that colors everything with a rose red haze of waiting. Nothing is too serious (after all, we don't really live here) and nothing is too personal (surely we'll be moving on soon...or they will.) It's a perpetual state of getting-to-know-you. It has the capacity to satisfy at times and drive me to madness at others.
While we spent the first two years in one house, this third year we moved next door. We still live in the same aura, albeit with a bit more privacy and a cool front porch. I have enjoyed living on lower campus far form the complexities and cliques of the upper scene. I've been given the offer of moving to another house on campus next year. It's larger and more centrally placed, along with an enclosed backyard. I hadn't noticed a need for any of those things (a larger house only means more cleaning to me) but understand domestic geography has a motivation all its own. One night, while sitting on my front step, enclosed by my deliciously overgrown garden, with it's dangling palm tree fronds and wild flowers blooming everywhere, I realized another reason why I didn't want to move. Where I am situated now, close to the wall that surrounds us, the sounds of "neighbors" fill my days and nights. I listen to the children playing. I hear their shouts and cries from child to parent. I've often heard a word that sounds close to "Nabih" and a very English sounding "mom," distortion from the wind perhaps.
I hear wild parties, loud music and soccer cheers. I've been woken with the military marching and singing in tune and lulled to sleep by the laughter of men talking and drinking into the night. I delight in sounds I can't decipher, the music of the African tongue. I've occasionally been alarmed by a shrieking child, screaming woman or the ominous repetition of popping firecrackers. But I witness these sounds of life tucked behind the safety and security of my wall. Not at all what I imagined when I moved to Africa.
Security is a must. Though I've long abandoned a quest for material things, the very presence of my whiteness, my foreignness cements the idea that I have more than the average Congolese.
The wall. The gate. The security. One of my main reasons for wanting to get out of this city is in search of a more open Africa. A more integrated presence. Kinshasa is such a multi layered, complex city. It is reminiscent of tales from India, with their caste and social class systems. Everyone belongs to a layer and there is simply no crossing over.
I recall with irony the nights I've longed to be in NYC attending an African dance class, absorbed by in the rhythms and energy of Africa. While my feet may rest on African soil, it is far too often my heart is bound and trapped by the prestige of being "safe." Kinshasa is a difficult city with a complicated past. The generations have been saturated with such a contorted view of the world that I am constantly confronted with my alternate selves. I contemplate my potential move to upper campus with its closed -in yard and luxurious space and I see it as a move in-land, though it's probably not any more remote than I am now. But from here, I have a chance to hear the vibrant sounds of life around me, encouraging me to shed the last vestiges of this prison and form connections that will lead to my true house- one that's smaller, with an open yard and filled with children. Out of these walls and beyond this city.
