A christmas story

They came bearing gifts. I saw two of my street children this afternoon counting a handful of money as they made their way over to me. It couldn't have been more than 500 francs or so, made up of fifties and hundreds.

"Ah, so it is you who are rich today," I greeted them.
"Oui madame," the older boy replied as he handed me 200 franc. I graciously accepted in exchange for my bag of peanut butter sandwiches, chicken and the ever present mayi.

I have heard the saying that giving to street children and beggars only encourages them to continue. If you have read previous posts, you know I have struggled with this a bit- along with the concept of sustainable change. Both these ideas seem to discourage a small, daily kind of giving in favor only of those things that can make grand, lasting change. Those ideas seem to encourage NGO's and others who want their line of work to continue (though I've yet to witness any far reaching changes. To be sure, the dents they make are small and localized. I don't see much difference between that and what I am doing- making small change for a very few people.)


But today, on this holiday that is not mine and yet somehow belongs to everyone, it seems I have received a gift of my own. The surprising offer of those 200 francs makes us more than even I believe.

Water like Gold

I brought them hotdogs and they asked for water. Bringing food to Kazadi several times a day- as one must do with the hospitals here- has me driving up and down the boulevard a lot. I've decided I can no longer continue to drive past the children sitting in the middle of the road just by Mercedes Circle. They are there all day and night begging handouts from the cars who stop at the newly installed red light. Reminiscing about this post, I have since become determined to drive with sandwiches, maybe an occasional chicken and now- water. Because while I've been busy fretting that they are hungry, I never considered their thirst.

For my second trip downtown, I loaded the car with bottled water and a few hard boiled eggs. The boys know me now and ran over to my car (as I held my breath while they dodged traffic getting there. I'll be honing up on my Lingala for "look both ways" and "don't rush, I'll wait for you.") I let them know it was only water this time and they seemed as happy as if I were giving them gold.

Later on that night, (my third trip down to pick up a stranded Ousmane) the kids surrounded my car with happy thumbs up. As I relayed the story to Ousmane, wondering now-as always- where they will sleep, he appeared incredulous. They will go home.

We had a quick conversation about child sorcerers and how many kids have been thrown out of their houses. They have nowhere to return to. Ousmane made me tell the story again so he could try to understand. As if there could be any comprehension. Kin is a wild, wild place.

It was at the very same infamous stop light that we had just witnessed a near robbery. A guy on the street tried to grab the bag off a motorcyclist. He was pulling hard and running along behind it as the motorcyclist took off. Luckily, the biker got away without being pulled off his moto or swerving into traffic. One of the small boys had huddled close to my car as he turned in amazement (and fear?) to watch the spectacle.

But I remain steadfast in my belief that not all the street kids have been so swayed. I have had the chance to meet Gene, who is a bit older than my new friends at Mercedes Circle. Gene hangs out by the hospital. He "parks cars" -something many young boys do in hopes of earning a few franc for "watching the car" while you shop.  I have seen him occasionally before because the hospital happens to be just across from one my favorite stores. Now we have been formally introduced.

I don't really know what I can do for Gene so, for the moment, we are stuck at spare francs and a handshake. Improving my Lingala would certainly go a long way towards communication. I wonder how Gene spends his nights. And while I realize I haven't really made any lasting difference, sometimes I think calling someone by name and offering a bit of respect is a beginning. Who knows where it will lead.....praying for guidance on this one. 

souvenirs

the world is fragile
with these eyes
fresh from visions
of destruction
the ripped and bleeding flesh
has seared its image
in my mind

bits of broken plastic
shards of glass glittering
on the cement
souvenirs of the impact
remains that will slowly erode
with time
as my vision returns
to its calloused state
only the scars
will be left behind
to remind us of how fragile
the world can suddenly
become

Post election lock down

I generally wake every morning to a certain bird that has a very distinctive call and the far away sounds of city destinations being called out by taxi bus money collectors. "Zando......Zando..." they sing, letting everyone know they are heading off to the large market downtown.

This Saturday morning it seemed even the birds were quiet.  Cars could be heard rolling smoothly down the street but no calls from taxis. Apparently public transportation was suspended, though police continued to roam the streets rounding people up.  Though Russia seems to be having similar election woes, DRC is not fairing so well with international attention. No one seems to really get it. (Or rather, they get it and are stubbornly looking out for their own best interests.)


We've been restricted to campus, which I guess in the big picture is a much larger and nicer place to be than some US Embassy personnel restricted to their homes. However the first notice, at the beginning of last week, left me with an odd rebellious streak. My inner 14 year old coming out I guess. I spent lots of time pondering about the effects of walking out the front gate and trying to determine the best method for scaling the barbed wire wall.

Now that they've actually announced the results we all knew were coming, I agree there is not much reason to go out there. Half the Congolese are staying in their homes as well. Its become more than just a police state. The military are reported to be on every corner and the police are armed with the latest in defensive and offensive gear (gifts from the USA apparently.)

But a huge part of me continues to wonder. Who is out there to witness what is going on? How can things really change if everyone remains locked in fear hiding behind the flimsy doors of their homes or fleeing on precarious ferries across to neighboring countries? How can the international community really pretend that the vote was fair and the will of the people is being enacted? Of course, I know the answers to these questions (money, power and greed,) but it remains a source of frustration to say the least.

Our compound was dubbed the cruise ship and teachers planned a plethora of activities including sports every day, poker nights, movie nights and a variety of potluck dinners. Time off from school (added to the confinement on campus) always leaves my mind reeling so I attended very few of these events. I felt guilty enough heading off to the pool with the kids (avoidance of warfare in our very home made this a necessity.) Though most of my Congolese friends report being tucked safely in their abodes, there is still one I haven't been able to contact.

YouTube and twitter abound with videos of demonstrations taking place outside the country along with simple reports from those locked within:

"It looks like they are preparing for war but against who? People are filled with fear - 2 police officers are in front of my house."

"The police are everywhere, the army is on every corner, the Presidential Guard is armed to the teeth."

Protests have broken out in London, DC, Brussels, France and South Africa. The Carter Center has finally released a report stating that elections lack credibility but there seems little hope that this will have any real effect. SMS capabilities have not been restored and the quiet, empty streets (for the most part) seem directly related to the heavy police presence. How long can they stay out there and what will happen when they finally get the order to go back home?

A small series of adventures

Quest for a canvas- adventure #1

School has been closed for days. We had an extra long Thanksgiving weekend due to the Nov. 28 elections and now, due to the government SMS shut down, we are experiencing another near week off from school. Of course, local reaction to the results leaves everything up in the air and open to change. We could be home for awhile. That leaves me with plenty of time to paint….and I even have a fresh new canvas to contemplate. 

Obtaining the materials for that constituted something of an adventure- back when adventures could happen (aka before post-election lock down.) It began with asking one of the artists teaching an after school program to bring me a frame and some raw canvas….apparently called calico here. I begrudgingly gave him the money for the frame, a price I thought was exorbitantly inflated.  Of course, he reminded me I could remove the finished painting and stretch a new canvas on it thereby making it endlessly re-useable- if rendering my completed piece unhangable. We discussed the price to no avail as he convinced me that I didn’t have the saw to cut my own wood (or even any wood to cut if I did happen to have a saw somewhere—no garage in Kinshasa filled with rusty tools or scrap pieces from a long ago do-it-yourself project) or the ability to fix all the pieces together (after close inspection of my frame, I still cannot discern the secret to keeping the pieces together.)  Thus having clearly laid out the details of my helplessness, he didn’t waiver in his $15 fee. And I had no choice to pay it. But I wasn’t happy.

We moved on to the discussion of the canvas….and another outrageous quote. I tried to justify the fee to myself by thinking about the hours I would spend trudging up and down the rue de commerce, going into every fabric store in search of calico. The rue de commerce seems a herculean effort to me and it was an easy sell. But then he returned with double what I had asked for and requested more cash. My patience worn out, I tried to explain all of my budget constraints (no, I can’t really spend a week’s worth of grocery money on canvas just for myself) and this time I held firm in refusing to pay. Mostly I just didn’t like the fact that I felt like I was being corralled into paying too much for something that I could find for myself. So much for my previous justification and my weariness about facing the infamous rue.

But I was now in command of a frame and some canvas ….next step- gesso. I figured I could easily track this down as I had heard the artist himself refer to it as gesso…though with a slightly softer and more slurred “g.” I remembered seeing a brightly colored paint store in Kintambo and figured that would be a good starting place. “Store” is really a large word for what I found in actuality. Upon stepping into the doorway, I was faced with a counter. Behind it were shelves full of paint containers, some already opened and hand mixed. I was given the option of latex….which didn’t sound quite like gesso. After some discussion about the use of this paint, I was directed to a small market just after Bandal, some 15 minutes or so from where I was. Turns out the “market” was actually another version of the rue. 

This one boasted a larger street (paved, 2 lanes, lots of traffic) and seemed to me to be the commercial district for plumbing, painting and toilets.  Most of the stores looked like garages with the entire front open and men sitting on chairs alongside coiled plumbing wires and sinks. I made my way to a crowded section smelling of toxins and loaded with women and charcoal cookers. Explosive dangers aside, I contemplated paint stands overflowing with milk cans- no need for labels as the colors dripped down the side turning pastoral cows into blue and orange washed out versions of their former selves. 

People called from every direction eager to sell me all sorts of fabrications. I stepped up to one counter and, after some discussion about which color I wanted (gesso is normally available only in white- clue #1 that they might not have exactly what I was searching for)  was led  down a long, dark crowded hallway and around a corner. “Go in, go in,” they implored as I made my way over saturated rags and suspicious barrels into an office filled with dusty desks and grime covered windows. I surveyed the inventory with a fire marshall ’s horror. It seemed likely to spontaneously combust at any moment. As they offered to mix something up according to my specifications, I could see the dollar signs flashing in their eyes. No, I am not a chemist and barely certain what makes gesso preferable over ordinary white paint, but vowed to find out as soon as I could get to the nearest google station. (Gesso is thicker, lasts longer and is a mixture of plaster, glue whiting and paint which makes for better absorbency and texture.) 

I finally called the artist to find out exactly what gesso is known as here on the streets of Kinshasa. Veneer blanc. He told me he usually purchases it at a shop downtown. So, back into the taxi bus and off to the opposite side of town (closer to where I had started, of course, where all good adventures begin.)  

Another circular tale…..adventure #2

I realize I may not have written of this perfectly ridiculous adventure and have been amiss in not sharing it with you. It began, as most great adventures do, with an erroneous sense of direction and purpose. I had set out to pick up Guy from a friend’s house. I was armed with a telephone number and street address. I even had a hand drawn map with familiar sounding street names. I felt confident of success. I set out duly following the arrows and making left turns where indicated. 

It wasn’t long before I stopped and began to ask for directions. This becomes an adventure in itself. Some people are unable to help and just point off down the road. Other people eagerly call in women and men from their stands, beckoning them over and enlisting advice from what becomes small crowds of bystanders. Inevitably, they will discuss among themselves and finally report back to me with a point and a shooing off motion (very similar to the first type of direction helper, only with more drama and fanfare.)

All requests always end with something like, “just go straight and ask some more people down there.” My search for Avenue de Fleuve (conspicuously named Avenue of the River- an easy enough landmark to find) was one that led me completely down Avenue Justice, around the government buildings and then back to the embassies housing section, located far too close to the beginning of my journey than the map allowed. A friendly group of older men had warned me that the Avenue de Fleuve was broken up into several non-connecting sections and so I should be careful to notice house numbers. An even friendlier street vendor offered to accompany me (and sell me some of his art during the drive.) I graciously declined.

I continued my pattern of drive a bit and ask a bit. I even began to call the house where Guy was to see if someone there could assist with directions. He (predictably) told me to ask someone on the street. At about this time I had been driving for nearly 45 minutes and found myself on a dark, deserted road with the river to my right and large, imposing and unfriendly houses to my left. “But there is no one to ask,” I responded. “Is your house near the embassy housing?”  This is when the directions began to go very wrong. “Just ask for Jean Pierre Bemba’s house. Then you will find us.” Who? Bemba, as in the guy at the Hague? Really?

I felt quite ridiculous asking for his house on these dark city streets. I knew it deep and true that I was far from my intended destination.  A security guards and a policeman standing on the corner looked like a hopeful (or maybe desperate) alternative. I had the friend’s father on the phone again and the security guard began a conversation with him. This conversation was then transferred to the policeman who was encouraged to join me in the car. We were to follow the road (straight!) and after making a left hand turn, ask around a bit. Frustration engulfed me and, seeing that the officer had no weapons, I accepted the proposal. We drove back in the direction I had initially come from, closer to where the hand drawn map had indicated. We asked a lot of people. We turned around a few times. We even called the house once more.

Before I knew it, we were back to looking for one Mr. Jean Pierre Bemba’s house on Avenue Justice. Although my rational mind knew it could not be this complicated, a surreal sense of timelessness and spacelessness had taken over. I was no longer on the streets of Kinshasa but hovering above in some sort of warped science fiction strand of the universe where left was up and right was down and there was nothing in between. We finally arrived at JPM’s house and made yet another call. “I can’t see you outside,” the mother remarked. “I don’t see the car.” I tried to explain it was because I had not yet arrived but clearly we were suffering some kind of communication malfunction that language alone could never transcend.

Somehow we were eventually able to make the arrangement to meet at the gas station on Justice just after the Supreme Court.  The friend’s father showed up (without Guy) only to tell me he would be back in one minute. He had to drop someone off or pick something up. I was left there feeling I’d already made an enormous imposition on the policeman’s time and wondering why the man had not simply brought my child to the meeting place. I continued to hover in the Just Above Reality space.  

Finally he returned and we followed him to his house, a mere seconds away. I parked outside and met him in the interior parking area reserved for residents. As we made our way to the elevator he asked me if I had been in Kinshasa long. “This is my fourth year, “ I replied.

“And you don’t know your way around here yet?” I stared incredulously at the back of his head, practicing my deep breathing and patience building techniques. I ratcheted it up a notch when his wife made the same comment.  

In the end, it took me nearly 2 ½ hours to find this house, return the ever gentile policeman and make my way home. Here are the new directions, and estimated travel time, as I have been able to reconstruct them:

  Follow Avenue Justice to the gas station after the Supreme Court ( note the change here from someone’s personal house to a major landmarked building. Of course, I think there is only one gas station on Justice anyway.) Turn left at the station and make your first right. (20 minutes.)

I am overwhelmed by the simplicity of it all. I must have spoken to thirty people that night and called the inhabitants themselves at least five times.  No one ever said, Go straight. Make a left. Make a right. No one ever said, Supreme Court.  I have no feelings to sum up that ride. It was one of those adventures that we watch ourselves participating in and maybe even narrate for ourselves along the way, trying to guess the outcome as a reader might with an enthralling mystery novel.  The ending was nothing like what I had imagined at the beginning.

Enfant sans langue

I've been initiated encore. It seems there is no end to the initiation rites here in Congo. I've weathered my first middle school conferences and I can say they left me feeling worlds away from elementary school. I usually spend the year with my 5th graders prepping them for the hectic and perhaps impersonal world of middle school. I tell my parents that this is the last year of the "mother hen" syndrome where one teacher can coach and coddle and gently ease the student into independence. I rage on about the horrors of homework piling up from multiple classes and try to instill all sorts of organizational habits in my young fledglings.

But the truth is, I have been elementary teacher for most of my years and so I am only half way sure if my rantings are true. But now I walk away with the proof.  Partial proof to be fair. In elementary we have the luxury of being concerned with the whole child. Examining background and previous experiences helps us to determine learning styles, areas of strength and potential challenges. Being the teacher of all subjects allows us to pull in strengths from other disciplines and make connections for the child so he or she can see how one subject might be similar to another (yes! bring those math skills into learning how to count in French - 80 is really just 4 twenties.)

But in middle school compartmentalization begins. One class requires a completely different set of skills and behavior patterns than another. The student is left on their own to make comparisons and draw conclusions of similarity. Which probably works out all right for most. But hasn't the new swing of education brought us away form reaching "most" of the children and tailoring our instruction to meet all children? I know these are the troubles that plague me into the night. Not the majority of my class, but that one student. What am I going to do to make things accessible for him or her? How am I going to turn this material into something he or she can grab onto and find meaning in?

The report card was average. It was not a surprise to me. I know we (parent and child) are working on some things. Some of them rather serious deficits. So I planned to approach the conferences in terms of finding out what specific skills we could improve upon that would make a difference overall. I also planned to have a chance to explain some of the background difficulties that we are facing.

French was our first stop. The worst grade and the most important skill needed. Because in our life, I have witnessed a tragedy. My son is coming from a childhood where French was the second language and continues to be a prominent language in his family of non English speakers.  Somewhere along the way he lost both his maternal tongue and his small bit of French, leaving it virtually impossible for him to communicate with his biological  mother and family.  I see he is now left with only his incomplete and often hazardous English. He uses words like "thingy" a lot. Expressing himself is  a challenge compounded by other delays and physical impairments suffered in childhood. In infancy he suffered head trauma and I have always believed this affected the area of language. Add that to the tumultuous teenage years when appearance is everything and we end up with a quiet boy who thinks a lot and speaks out tentatively. But in middle school they didn't seem very interested in hearing about this. It wasn't about the whole child and how we could help to compensate for some very real challenges. In my class we memorize.

After passing a weekend where I had begun to overhear more French phrases and attempt to communicate with his uncle and younger brothers in French, I was feeling pretty encouraged. I was ready to applaud his effort and look at some real strategies for improving upon this. What I found was in stark and startling contrast to this. We were told he puts out no effort and doesn't try. He just needs to memorize. I attempted to point out that memorizing was definitely not a strong point. I attempted to explain some of the language difficulties that I have noticed for years. My pleas fell on deaf ears. And more than that I was told I was not doing my job as a parent to teach him these things at home. Because, after all, the teacher had done her job in the classroom and all the other kids could do it.
I attempted to point out that not all children learn the same and are not coming from the same physiological or experiential backgrounds.

We continued our debate getting nowhere. There was some definite miscommunication. I wasn't asking for different expectations but a different approach to learning. I was asking for my child to be seen as an individual and treated as such in the classroom. To be noticed for his strengths and encouraged in his efforts. I wanted his fears recognized and allayed. I wanted the classroom to be a safe learning environment. And above all, I didn't want this to turn into one of those experiences that drives a child to hate an idea simply because he was not supported in his learning. This is one area that is too important. In recognition of the futility of our conversation, I was left with these parting words, "Madame, laisse moi tranquille."

I feel good in saying that the rest of my conferences did not go this way at all. With tears of frustration I made my way around the room talking to other teachers, hearing his strengths and making plans for improvement. I am happy to say he was able to hear that he is smart, has great ideas, has shown more effort and should strive to be a "B" student or even an "A." I heard encouragement and support. I even heard a couple of mother and father hens offering their time and acceptance of questions. We talked strategy and uncovered hidden feelings that were preventing full participation. From the rest of those conferences, we left with insight and a clear direction.

But into the evening, I still realize the sting of being told I am not doing my job. I didn't try enough, wasn't involved enough. And I wonder how my child can sit in a classroom like that each day, afraid to ask a question or try a new word for fear of doing it wrong or being called out for his lack of proficiency.

We talked a lot afterward, he and I, about our own personal goals for French. About the connection to family and culture. I tried to rejuvenate his desire and let him know the effort I had seen at home. I try to tell myself that one small portion of his day can be weathered and overcome by what we do at home. I suppose I can view it as one glimpse into the harsh world to come......but do I really have to? Surely it can be a different way. We made our plans and set our own goals and I will try to hold onto these as I watch him grow, a child without a complete language to call his own.

Silent Night

It's 2 am in Congo and for the first time ever I have been awakened by silence. Even the bullfrogs are quiet. Since moving to upper campus, I have found my evenings marred by loud, rumbling trucks as they pass at all hours. Less interruptive is the call of the taxi buses, singing out their destinations as they pass. Sirens also make an odd appearance in the cacophony of late night sounds, and I usually remind myself that there aren't many Western style ambulances or police cars (where are those sirens coming from?) Apparently I have gotten used to all this, as we humans are wont to do, and this early am it seems the absolute quiet has driven me from slumber.

It's election night in DRC and not a sound can be heard. I could almost be back in upstate New York with only the crickets to serenade me in these wee hours. The late night revelers have vanished, the overly loud music unplugged, the drummers retired indoors. But I know all are not sleeping. Somewhere, people are planning, configuring, and conspiring. Maybe they're counting too.

After weeks of speculation, I was surprised to hear a friend express hope for the results. "The time to speak was long ago," I argued, "when they were passing the law of one round." I can't imagine the results being anything other than favorable for the incumbent. It has always seemed the anticipation is not for the results but the response. How will the Congolese react to what must be a certain, if not altogether accurate, declaration? It seems impossible to know the true will of the people with elections passing this way. But it must come as the first step in achieving change.

Congolese voters search for their names before voting

Voting can be a powerful, empowering process. But it can also lead to intense emotional frustration. I spoke to some Congolese who, on the eve of election, still hadn't decided who they were planning to support. As I spent the day washing dishes in buckets and wondering how long our water reserves would hold out, I found it hard to imagine how anyone could be in favor of the status quo. But expectations are different here, life experience is different and people vote along passionate lines.

Of course, with no candidate debating or discussing of prominent issues and potential solutions, it may be hard to cast a vote inspired by anything more than passion. And blind belief.

Queue outside a polling station in Kin

the value of a praise singer

It is human nature to become accustomed to our surroundings. Whether good or bad, after the initial adjustment period we begin to adapt. We start to take certain conditions for granted and no longer realize the effects they have on our daily well- being.  Only in their absence can we begin to evaluate the formative impact elements of our environment have had on us.  Sometimes these elements come in the form of a person.

It was only with the recent restoration of peace to what had become a tension filled interaction that I was able to remember these truisms. This year has been particularly challenging for me in terms of exciting developments in my professional career and perplexing difficulties in my classroom.  For several months the stress of it all has invaded my quiet, thoughtful evenings turning them into long, questioning nights.  It spilled over into my personal relationships and colored my communication with abrasiveness.  As things have begun to settle, students developing routines and modeling new behaviors, I have been able to return to gentle expressions and appreciations of those around me.

I have even been able to challenge some of my students by introducing them to one of my favorite books, The Ear, The Eye and The Arm by Nancy Farmer.  This book is set in a futuristic Central African country and weaves elements of tradition and science fiction expertly together.  The story follows three privileged but sheltered children who set off on a “field trip” across the city and end up getting kidnapped. One of the main characters is the family praise singer who struggles with his guilt in helping the children escape and conflict with his mother over their imprisonment and return.  I like to point out the role of the praise singer to students as a decidedly African element.  Praise singers have maintained their role in recording and spreading African history for centuries. Most notably, West African griots continue this tradition in their songs and music produced today. Radios all over Africa come alive with songs dedicated to presidents and politicians during election campaigns-the most modern knock-off of the traditional praise singer role.

We discuss the merits and drawbacks to having a personal praise singer, as described in the story. His job is to sing for the family members each morning sending them off to face their daily duties in good spirits and pumped with positive adulations of themselves.  Students generally point out that hearing only wonderful things about yourself might lead to believing that there is no need for improvement.  They discuss the oddness of having someone make public your every move and a bit of uncomfortableness at giving someone the ability to influence and sway your thoughts- clouding judgment and the ability to reason.  They seem to understand that praise, when used without discrimination, can be a powerful tool that leads to greed and delusions. In the story, the praise singer is so effective that the parents are lulled into a semi trance state where they comply with any request and can be easily fooled. This is how the children, sons and daughter of a presidential general, make their escape from the house and begin their journey into the world for the first time.

The concept of such a praise singer never ceases to intrigue me. Because while too much praise can be detrimental, just enough seems essential. How many children pass through their days without hearing a single positive comment about who they are or who they will grow up to be? How many children are lacking the confidence or the ability to dream because no one has ever told them they could? I often see the children selling things on the street or the ones who are begging for bits of small money and wonder if they have ever heard they are beautiful or clever or brave? I ponder what effect it could have on them, like a treasured secret, to know someone is thinking they hold such value.

I return to this often. It is the idea that we consistently search for significance in ourselves through validation from others. Though mystics and yogis may tell you that only the individual should determine   self- worth, this interdependence seems an integral part of human nature. We crave attention and confirmation from others.  I suppose the idea is that if we are surrounded by positive affirmations as young children, we will grow to embody them and come to recognize these attributes as desirable in others. But life is damaging.  Our individual journeys take a toll on our spirit. Some of us become dented and distorted along the way. A well placed comment has the ability to brighten a moment or rejuvenate a tired day.

And so it was that I heard such a quiet comment, offered in such a casual way that I remembered the value of praise singer.

Mikes at the Airport

     Travel has always held a certain appeal to me. Walking is my standard passion, allowing me to feel in control and on the move. Though I have never felt limited by how far my feet can actually take me, bicycles and automobiles offered a second freedom, opening the roads and highways up to endless destinations. Airports, however, have become the ultimate symbol of converging cities, countries and continents. They are a point of potential where everyone is on the brink of some new adventure. My first international flight enchanted me with its multitude of languages and customs. I waited patiently for the English version of the announcements, delighting in the sounds of Flemish, French and Spanish that came before. I secretly loved the fact that my native tongue wasn't first or even most important. 

     Airports are a place of bringing people together. Even a departing friend or family member suddenly becomes all the more dear and close to heart in the face of an airport goodbye. Strangers are flung together for long hours and uncomfortable circumstances which often results in a sense of camaraderie and unity. People feel more at ease sharing their stories and taking time to talk to those that they may have previously brushed past brusquely on the street. Its kind of a limbo state in between the busyness of everyday life and the quiet contemplation of a retreat. The busyness of an airport is usually of the hurry-up-and-wait variety while the contemplation comes along in sleepy waves as the clock jumps hours trying to keep up with the plane, hurling its passengers back and forth through time. Even those waiting on the ground have gone through their own kind of warp, anticipating the arrival and setting out early to beat traffic. There is the suspense of wondering if the flight has made it in on time and all has passed as it should. 

     In Kinshasa, the suspense grows a hundred fold. Traffic is legendary. One can sit for hours barely moving, slowly following dusty detours. The alternative is to leave early enough to avoid the rush which allows you to arrive with hours to spare. Hours waiting for the protocol by a roadside gas station or sitting in the parking lot of Ndjili, wondering if your brother will actually make it past customs this time.

    The suspense builds because arriving at the airport does not provide any of the reassuring feedback one might receive in the US. There are no electronic flight schedules to monitor or any way to determine delayed or arriving planes. There is not even much sense of getting out of the car as entry into the airport is strictly forbidden.

     When I went to pick up Kazadi two years ago, he was flying in from Lubumbashi. It was a local flight and during the day. I spent some time hanging outside the doors where in-country arrivals exit. A man named Mike struck up a conversation with me as we were hustled from our shady waiting spot by humorless painters afraid of dribbling on us. We stood side by side in the narrow line of shade cast by a lamppost awaiting our guests. Turns out Mike, an herbal doctor, and his cousin needed a ride into the city, which I was happy to give them.

     Last Wednesday I was sitting in the car observing the airport at night. It had been a long journey, began when the sun was still high in the sky. I'd already witnessed my share of attempted car washers and competent tire changers overseen by a muscular man in fatigues. People were clearing out, cars were leaving and lights were being turned off from within. I wondered where my brother was and if immigration had their clutches sunk too deep. A tall man walked by dodging puddles from the recent downpour and discussing possibilities with the two young boys deftly wheeling his suitcases. I had spotted him earlier as he spoke to a woman just getting into her car. She appeared to be an airport employee leaving for the night. She had driven away and the tall man had disappeared somewhere. As he passed this second time, he noticed me gazing out the open window and I heard him say, almost to himself, "Let me see if I can request some services..." He changed course and made his way over.

     Turns out he was also named Mike, a Kenyan from Switzerland working at a local NGO. He'd had his car brought to the airport only to arrive and find it with four flat tires. He was also in search of a ride to the city. We talked a bit in French and English, remarking on the state of the country and the differences one could feel in the air. Our conversation was a mix of history and philosophy peppered with  personal revelations. It's amazing how easy it is to strike up a conversation with someone at the airport.

      In the midst of this, the protocol--who had all along been assuring me everything was fine this time and my brother was not going to be deported---arrived at the car. Alone. I immediately stepped out and began questioning him. All was not going exactly smoothly and he wanted me to begin making some calls. We had people on alert this time in case of this very thing. I looked at Mike as he loaded his bags into the back of the jeep and shrugged my shoulders. "You see, you've asked for a ride and now you are caught up in this problem." He seemed undeterred by a prolonged wait and was instead determined to offer his help in whatever way possible. Oh the unity inspired by an airport parking lot. We three charged up to the entrance ramp.

The officer there was not happy to see us. He seemed to think the protocol had disrespected him by returning with so many people who thought they were just going to march right in. Mike, being half Congolese though raised with his Kenyan side of the family, was very adamant about gaining entrance or, at the very least, some concrete information. I couldn't really tell if his claim to connections was valid or a mere show of pomp and flashing badges meant to inspire compliance. As I occupied myself with phone calls, Mike gained the ear of an official passing by at just that time. He informed us that all the detainees would be released immediately.

Ousmane came sauntering out minutes later. The protocol went back in to retrieve the passport, an affair that took another half hour or so. Mike and Ousmane became fast friends as they shared tales of their travels and woes. They surveyed the flat tires and commented some more on the state of the country. Mike repeated his vow to make formal complaints when he returned the next morning.

It was near midnight when we finally all piled into the small car, bags stacked high and knees scrunched tight. We made our way through dark and deserted streets back to the main city. I worried a bit about leaving Mike off at Kintambo to search for a taxi to his place in Macompagne. We left with an exchange of numbers I might never use and that sense of camaraderie and unity so often accompanying a travel ordeal. 


I seem to have developed a habit of picking up Mikes at the airport.

beautiful like this

People were staring at the market today. Everywhere I went, it seemed people were eyeing me.  I’ve learned to find some humor in it and simply laugh at the odd feeling it evokes in me.  Most often, it seems people are looking at my clothes. I can’t quite figure it out because I am not the only mondele to wear African fabric. Maybe it happens to everyone else as well.  But the Congolese often remark, “Vous est porte le pagne.”   

 “Chaque jour,” I respond. I wear the traditional African wrap skirt nearly every day.  

 I remember my Christmas list when I was 10 years old. I wanted a new wardrobe to help me adjust to a new school and some fairly intimidating classmates. I was looking for style. I wanted “wrap around skirts” – a fashion of the times—and shirts to go with. One for each day. I didn’t get any that year but have since been able to fill my closet with brightly colored African skirts that envelope me in a sense of warm comfort.  

What I adore about Africa is that people love fabric. They find pleasure in the patterns and designs. They appreciate its beauty and color. And when I am wearing it, I become beautiful too. Both men and women were complimenting me today. Not in the leering, sleazy way so often found on the streets of America, but in a gentile, graceful way. I can see the guy sitting just outside Kin Mart, “Mais, vous est belle.”  A small comment that brought a bit of sunshine into my gray and rainy day.  I can also see the two women in the produce section of Express, clearly discussing my clothes. Finally, as I walked away, one of them came up to me and remarked how much she liked the fabric. “Vous est bien porte, vrai Congolese. It’s very nice,” she said with a glorious smile and thumbs up.

Living in Africa can make me feel beautiful like this, when even another woman finds a moment to compliment you. I have been moved to this myself.  It’s hardly difficult as I find African women to be stunning in general. But add a regal fabric and royal manner and I am often inspired to compliment or ask from where the tissue was purchased.

In New York, I was bound by the cold. I often had to wear layer upon layer of shapeless, baggy clothes in an effort to be warm. In Florida, I remember having a frank discussion with a colleague who finally admitted parents may find my apparel unfamiliar—odd, she said. Here in Africa even wrapping for the chilly weather becomes an exercise in adorning oneself in an explosion of pattern and color. I have found my dress to be a point in common. It seems to express not just my love for the style, but my honest appreciation for the culture. Yes, living in Africa can make me feel beautiful like this. Kitoko makasi.

A Small Influence (or so I like to think)

My short story for today involves a scene I chose to participate in outside a pharmacy in the city. As is generally the case, I can't be certain about the true facts, but I choose to believe I had a small influence and feel better about saying something rather than nothing at all. Here is what happened:

We pulled up to a relatively quiet parking spot in front of the pharmacy. In the past this particular area is quite busy with tons of people waiting for transport, hanging around and other general commotion. The combination of a new traffic light (it works!), some recent  road work and a Sunday afternoon seemed to have generated a calm and rather sparse atmosphere. Two people were lounging on the steps. One was a young boy wearing multicolored socks-the kind that have holes for each individual toe- and flip flops. A few toes had emerged from the socks and he was curiously waving a small flag of Brazil as he lazily took in the cars passing on the boulevard. The other was a man who appeared to be sleeping. He was propping himself up on his arm and had his legs splayed in such an uncomfortable way that we speculated about whether or not he could actually be deep in slumber. Our friends went into the pharmacy while we continued to survey the scene.

Another man approached the Impossible Sleeper and shook him. No response. Another shake resulted in some swatting away hand movements one might make towards an annoying mosquito but no real conscious reaction. The man took a cursory look into Impossible Sleeper's shirt pocket and walked around the corner. He returned with 3 or 4 of his friends who began to truly shake IS once more. After no response, the group proceeded to go through his pants pockets, look through his wallet, and take off his shoes (snazzy blue sneakers) and belt. As they began to unbutton his shirt, I wondered how far they were going to go.

We in the car pondered what to do. We thought about calling the security from within the pharmacy and wondered where all the normally present police were. I began some conversation through the window, shaking my finger and saying something like "Laissez lui, c'est ne pas bonne." One of the guys looked kind of apologetic at us and told us this man had drunk too much.   But he did tap his friends on the shoulder and make some comments, pointing at our car. Of course, after I had gotten all of their attention, my friends in the pharmacy asked me to come in. Which meant I had to get out of the car that was now surrounded by the would-be muggers. Though they did appear to be somewhat friendly muggers. As I made my way up the steps, they told me they were Impossible Sleeper's brothers, a story which seemed to have little merit except for the fact that everyone appeared to be in such good humor. Maybe they were friends of some sort.

I was of little use to my friends in the pharmacy and so came out pretty quickly. By this time, Impossible Sleeper had become Groggily Awake. He had his phone in his hand, shoes and belt by his side and was talking to Toe Socks. Apparently the pharmacy security guard had come out just after I had gone in.

I can't be sure exactly what I witnessed. The whole thing had a kind of college haze feel to it. However, the would-be muggers seemed pretty secure in themselvese. At one point they were walking confidently away with a handful of blue shoes, a belt and a white cell phone. Moments like these offer an opportunity to show us how we will really respond to others needs. So, college haze or not, I'm glad I spoke up and was happy to see Groggily Awake had all of his belongings. Perhaps next Saturday night he will think twice about sleeping it off in the street.

I must also say I am happy-and perhaps a bit lucky-to see the would-be muggers had something of a conscience. At least with others watching, they were able to make the right decision. They didn't run off with their loot or fight for what wasn't theirs, but returned it in good humor. Lessons to be learnt for all.

food that falls from the sky... and other things that just make sense

I grew up surrounded by apple trees in the fall and the smell of freshly cut grass in the spring. Rain in the air signaled blossoms and growth. It brought hope for warmer weather and renewal of energy. Moving to a new country means adapting to new weather patterns and the feelings they evoke. While I have never missed the winter, autumn and spring are subtle periods of transition that ease my spirit into a new way of perceiving the world. 

Here in Kinshasa, rain is not always gentle. Storms are frequent and fierce. My first storm in Kinshasa was also my first day driving on unpredictable and busy night roads. I remember an enormous feeling of reluctance to go out. I had not yet become accustomed to the patterns of weather that would allow me to determine the implications of being caught out in the rain. As the palm trees swayed and the bamboo creaked, I had visions of tropical hurricanes and deserted islands.

I've since come to delight in the intensity of a Congo thunderstorm. I can join the locals in peering at a dark impending sky and shake my head. "No, it's not going to rain today." And I can sense the subtle changes that bring a sure need to carry an umbrella.

I have also come to realize and respect the power of the rain. One bewildering image I hold onto comes from a trip I was taking out to the village. It had begun to rain on our way and suddenly the streets were clear as people huddled under storefront overhangs and gathered along sidewalks as if waiting for a parade.  I found it comical to see the masses stopping their travels and postponing their schedules to simply wait out the rain.

This rain has been falling here for years, I thought. Haven't they developed a system for coping, for forging ahead and managing this small inconvenience? At the time I'd yet to see the damage brought by erosion or the roads that developed lake sized holes after only minutes of being exposed to water plunging from the sky.

This fourth year has found me waiting out the rain, understanding it doesn't last in its intensity. Patience is the surest tool of managing my safety and the most sound method for arriving dry and intact.

There are other facets of Congolese life that I've come to understand and, if not wholly embrace, at least I feel a sense of purpose behind these actions. This past week we've witnessed a deluge of caterpillars that appear to be a plague sent from heaven itself. They've arrived in such numbers the school kids are screaming and squirming as the little worms wriggle and fall onto backpacks and shoulders. They delight in tormenting each other with the small creatures we find covering our walks, walls and ceilings.

This influx of creatures has led many to become inspective, peering closely to see how they move, how they eat and how they form cocoons. A life science dream happening right in front of us. Many students ran to get containers and offered leaves and mangoes and small piles of grass to their new friends.

But it is not just the students who are profiting  from this event. Many of the adults can also be found outside, gathering mounds of caterpillars into glass and plastic jars or even homemade paper containers. Apparently the caterpillars make a tasty meal.

I admit to spending an evening in a hot car trying to determine if the sweat rolling down the inside of my shirt was truly perspiration or overzealous caterpillars exploring the dark and cozy underfolds of my clothing. 

Though I do not partake of this delicacy myself, it strikes me with a simple beauty and ingenious. Food falling from the sky. It makes perfect sense to grab a quick and nutritious snack while comfortably waiting out the rain under a storefront overhang.

Orphans like me

I am impressed
by orphans like me
that have been flung
into this world
like leaves scattered
into the wind
far from the branches that birthed them
distant from roots that
nourished them
leaving behind our trees
of biological family

I gather these leaves
Their colors and textures
Pleasing in their differences
Rich in their ability to compliment
The skills and talents
We have obtained
through our singular lives

I am impressed
by orphans like me

year of the taxi

I've taken more taxis in these past few weeks than in all my years here in Congo. Despite the numerous warnings, I enjoy the taxis. I like learning the calls that will get me where I want to go and being ushered into waiting cars and buses. I find simple pleasure in the way the city streets pass outside my window and the gentle brush of a person sitting next to me. I like the interaction between passengers- a quick 'bonsoir' or passing small talk. The buses offer the most opportunity for conversation. We share the waiting and the heat.

My trip today was somehow especially  sweet. I went to pick up Mohamed at a friend's house. Getting there was quick and easy. The way back meant traffic and detours were against us. Mohamed was a pleasant walking partner. Even on the street, people talk to us.

We caught a bus in Kintambo and found ourselves in the way back. Mohamed was worried about how we would get out and whether or not we would see our stop in time. A man sitting next to us called him 'our little Congolese brother.' I've learned to enlist the aid of other passengers when I want to get out. They usually speak more French than the drivers and are willing to be louder than I. As I stepped around a leg and over a seat, one man said, "If you find this isn't where you want to be, just get back in." I found them words of comfort and caring. Like he knew I would be too hesitant to get back in if I found myself ill placed. But I am bolder here in Congo. And as I learn my way around the streets by foot I worry less about where I land.

I appreciate these interactions. They help me see a side of Congo I could love. They help my patience grow and make me feel connected. Enlightenment from a taxi ride.

death in the drc

My neighbors are dying. It started with a man whose name I still cannot remember. I am haunted by this. I first met him as the chauffeur for our superintendent. He was so well respected that we sought to offer him a more prominent position working for the school. Some paperwork issues prevented this and led to his eventual dismissal. He found work for one of our school families instead. I saw him often on campus and always made a point to speak with him. A few years ago I sought his services to train a young friend of mine. I hoped he would not only lend his expertise as a driver but also his manner of being, his professionalism. It was a month or so ago that I learned of his death. I have no details.

Last week, a member of our atelier, the custodians and gardeners who keep our campus running and looking beautiful, lost his three year old son. The boy had been at home with his older brother when he suddenly took ill. He died quickly before his parents could even return home and seek medical care. Although money is the customary response, nothing I could offer felt adequate. I see this gentle man who has returned to work after only a few days off and am troubled by the sadness in his eyes. My words of condolence seem ineffectual and small. Death is all around us.

Mama Vero is a woman whose family I have come to know personally. I have visited her house, listened to the stories of her family and run around the yard with her children. She lost her cousin this week. He was a working man, recently imprisoned and finally released, who refused to seek medical care. It is said that upon leaving prison, one must get quickly to a doctor. Congolese prisons are places that breed illness and disease. They think he died from tuberculosis. He had a cough that wouldn't stop until one day it just did. He left behind a wife and young children.

Just as she was leaving with sad news of the funeral occurring tomorrow, Kazadi returned from the market. He asked me if I knew Patrick. Of course, I was acquainted with the young entrepreneur who sold phone cards just outside of the gate. I always preferred to buy from him and often tried to delay my purchase until I saw his umbrella out and his stand open. I hadn't seen him since my return from the summer. Kazadi told me he had stopped by when he saw a woman in Patrick's usual place. Upon inquiring, he found that Patrick had died. Although I did not know this man very personally, the news caused my mouth to drop open. I froze in mid preparation of our evening meal. Patrick? Dead? Not much was offered in the way of reason. Apparently he had died 5 months before. He had a swelling on his arm which was believed to have come from someone he was in conflict with. This ill wishing neighbor had placed a curse on him. No cure could be found and so he succumbed to death.

All around me, my neighbors are dying.

year 4

And so begins another year in Kinsahsa....with all of the elements of a true Kinsahsa livelihood- a bit taxing, fast paced, full of colors and confusion, infused with passion and heartache, at times overwhelming in it's generosity and undervalued in potential.

I've arrived here changed in many ways. My brief sojourn in the US already feels to be more than a world away.
I've returned to Kinshasa with expectations and hope, only to have suffered as many losses as bits of wisdom gained. The accumulation of knowledge and perspective comes at a price. Once our eyes are opened, once an image has been viewed, it is impossible to un-see it ....though it seems we spend lifetimes perfecting this ability to unsee. 
In the words of The Book Thief.... I am haunted by humans.

the spaces in between

Coming back to New York gets harder every year. People fill up my facebook wall with comments like welcome home, but I wonder what they are really referring to.  It certainly doesn’t feel like home.  The feelings that wash over me as I make my way up familiar roads surrounded by this Hudson Valley beauty are not the welcoming kind.  They are filled with the memories of hardship and alienation that I endured here.  I feel a bit of surprise to find myself back in a land that evokes no comfort.  I knew I was coming but still wonder what it is I am doing here, again.  It was an emotional risk stepping away from here, and returning only brings the sense that I haven’t become completely free.

I wonder for a moment if this is how other immigrants feel when they return to their homelands.  My mind is filled with images of the African artists I know who bring guests home with them each year. It’s not exactly the same I quickly realize. There is a fierce pride and love of their land that I am missing.  

I am here to visit family, reduced at this point to a single person. It’s not enough to fill up every day. I visit some of the friends that I’ve managed to maintain contact with over these years, but they are busy with their lives. In many cases it’s become an annual one day visit. I wonder if it’s worth it, though I enjoy the conversation and the reconnecting.  It’s not the visits I dread, but the spaces in between. The long and awkward days of wondering how to fill my time.

We visit parks and pools, swimming holes and beaches. I appreciate the open, public areas to while away our time. I appreciate the simple tranquility of playing in the green grass and feeling completely safe and sure.  Such an ordinary day at the park is not easy to come by in Kinshasa, but these outings make me more resolved to create them.  The truth is, we’re not here on vacation, so the typical spending money and sightseeing are limited options.   We don’t have a space to call our own or reliable transportation. Every day becomes a maze of determining what we are going to do and how we are going to do it causing the least inconvenience to others. The lack of independence troubles me. 

The empty spaces also inspire reflection.  At times, this can be helpful , but too much leads to depression. I’ve done enough looking back and want to be filled with bright light of the future. It’s hard to engage in forward thinking and planning from this state of limbo.  And I did resolve to take a true respite from work and not complete any major tasks during this break.  I promised to enjoy my children and be truly grateful for the time we have to share together.  I promised to be present in every moment. 

Many of our moments are filled with TV (the boys sound like commercials as we drive past places they’ve heard about- can we stop at Wendy’s?  They have a new fruit salad for only $2.99.) I am dismayed and overwhelmed by their constant requests for everything they see in the stores as we stock up on school clothes and supplies. Even the grocery store has become a series of unending demands for all the foods we cannot find in Kinshasa. 

It’s difficult to continue our sweet routines of stories and books before bedtime.  But we've come to accomplish a mission and if we are successful perhaps this will be the last trip of its kind. As with all challenges, I've learned a bit about myself this trip, who I am, who I want to be and who I want around me. Eager now to begin the business of filling in the spaces.