Though I have been feeling more in sync with the spirit of Congo these last few weeks, there remains a memory that lingers. It has merged with the special effects of a movie scene, in the way that memories often do, hazing the line between the reality of what was and what appeared to be.
As it lingers in my memory, it carries with it the soft scent of Guinea, country of my heart. I was wandering a grocery store in search of nothing really, except to pass the time while others shopped. The way I see it in my mind is like this, though the reality has long escaped me.
An area of the store opened up to showcase the dairy items and a small deli. There was a man talking to one of the deli workers and I felt his eyes on me as I passed to examine the yogurt and exotic cheeses. I felt the eyes of this stranger and sensed the conversation coming to a lull, a break as the man moved towards me floating softly with a hand reaching out. "That fabric," he said. "That fabric is from my country." His words seemed filled with pause and remembrance in the way of one who has been too long seperated from his homeland. I was wearing the traditional indigo of Guinea, the beautiful deep blue patterned with white cowery shell designs. It is one of my favorite, soothing and gentle against my skin. It always leaves me with the warmth and spirit of guinee filling my soul. I felt beautiful this day, wrapped up as I was in the richness of my homeland. "That fabric is from my country?" he repeated, this time more of a question, as though doubting himself, doubting my self standing before him.
"Yes," I replied, my heart quickening. "From Guinea." And in that moment, my eyes were searching this man for some sign of kindredness. I felt anxious and nervous as though I were meeting an old friend after a long absence, searching for something to say that would cement the bond between us, compatriots. And of course, in my haste, I spewed out a brief description of my times in guinea and spilled out my family connections, saying nothing yet somehow saying too much. Because, while I was filled with this eager desire to cross a bridge, he seemed stuck in awe, a state of perpetual pause.
I rambled on, nonsense that did not seem to move the conversation forward. He just stood with his far off gaze. It is such a complicated affair for me, proclaiming my love for a country that is not my own. Could he see inside me? Could he tell that I was a guinean despite my white skin and American affect? We smiled...or maybe just I smiled. In my memory, this man remains in a state of confusion. I shared names and regions but he never got past the fabric and whatever memories of his country it evoked. I admit, I didn't see much of Guinea in him. He was older, larger, light skinned, business like. Not the artist type or soldier type I am most likely to come across in my travels in Guinea. So there we stood, in the middle of some modern grocery store in Kinshasa, searching each other for signs of a far away home as if reaching out for life lines.
I see other cultures connect. The Belgians are especially good at forming alliances. You need only be from Belgium to be invited to a dinner or an afternoon on the river. It doesn't seem to matter much if you like each other, have things in common or get along. It is the country tie that forms an immediate "us" in this place of "other." Eventual we separated, this man and I. I left with a small feeling of regret, knowing I hadn't expressed myself the way I'd wished and feeling like I couldn't really let him get away- this chance for a connection. Part of me was keen to ignore all the thoughts pointing out our obvious differences. But instead, I drifted off with my doubts, keeping my eyes open for where he would go and wondering if I would work up the nerve to follow and arrange some future meeting during which we would surely have even less to say and share.
I saw him outside in the parking lot, getting into a UN vehicle. There was one last moment of considering a mad dash to his truck with...what? An invitation? A request? A plea? I felt a bit like a drowning victim watching a plane soar overhead that could not see me, would not save me. I was left simply with the memory of his hazy question and confused stare. How could this piece of Guinea be so close and yet so far? Oh, how I miss my country. It seemed to be what we were both thinking, though lost in our separate images of the same place.
In the end, I took refuge in my fabric, wearing it like a treasured shield, a badge of honor and allegiance.
I heard his question for the rest of the day and despite our odd encounter, it gave me hope and courage.
24.2.11
13.2.11
a portrait of the bottom billion
I've been a bit stuck, these last few months. It's become a trap of writing nothing or exploring the same kinds of events over and over. I am grateful that I haven't become complacent. I'm left with finding simple ways to inject some humanity into my daily life---asking someone's name, sharing a windfall of avocados from my storm blown tree, offering a smile, a listening ear, complimenting a beautiful fabric. It's not that I don't want to do more...but effecting change in such a country is difficult, challenging at best.
I've been reading The Bottom Billion by Paul Collier and while filled with fascinating insight, he's yet to tackle what I consider the hardest question of all. I am only about half-way through this statistical analysis of why some of the poorest countries are not able to overcome their poverty and move into a truly developing model. I've yet to encounter his suggestions (promised in the later half of the book) and nothing he's written seems overly surprising. He does even concede, with regard to aid, that a major overhaul would be necessary albeit difficult due to the fact that "aid" is a business made up of people with careers who want accolades and advancements. That in itself is contradictory to their established goal of creating improvement and self sustaining change. Were countries to become truly self-sustaining, a lot of people would be looking for new employment. Perhaps their jobs could be reconfigured to address some of the new issues that might arise were most of the world to be functioning on a truly level playing field.
Collier does discuss some roles that international governments could play. He briefly alludes to the fact that some countries, particularly those in "landlocked, resource scarce" Africa, should perhaps never have been "allowed" to become countries in the first place. Being in economics, he does not delve into the bizarre history of how those countries were formed or why, but he brushes past this point rather quickly, noting that "what's done is done. It can't really be un-done" though it seems some in Africa might differ. As African countries are dividing themselves and overthrowing dictators, one might almost feel hopeful that change is in the air. What I am really waiting for Collier to get around to discussing is the idea that Western and developed countries have a huge stake in keeping African countries in their current position. It's not really in their best interest to have full functional, well running countries in control of the very resources they are making their living from. He doesn't seem to be acknowledging the fact that many coups and rebellions as well as dictators and military generals have been wholly supported, backed and put in place by the west. But there is still the second half of the book in which he might redeem himself.
I chose this book because, living here in Congo and being in love with Africa as I am, I continue to feel dismayed and hopeless by the cycles of poverty and lack of development I see. It never gets old. Which is why I am writing again of the things I see that turn my head and remain as images, starker than any film, playing over and over again long after I've returned to my house with running water and electricity. As I struggle to free an ice cube from its prison in the tray, my fingers fumbling, my mouth watering at the coolness it promises, this is what I see:
I see her laughing in the sunshine
Talking with a friend as they washed their clothes
Bright beautiful pagnes
Laid out to dry on the grass
I’ve gotten used to many things, here in Congo
The automatic weapon slung over the shoulder
Of a policeman
Though I can’t imagine what need he would ever have
As he directs a car backing out from its parking space
I wonder vaguely if it’s loaded
If he is ever tempted
But it’s become commonplace
My thoughts around it hazy, lazy drifting thoughts
It’s just the way things are, here in Congo
I chuckle at the prices I see in the supermarkets
$150 Lego sets, board games in the $75 range
Status symbols for those who can pay
Ten times the worth of something
Made to break
In a week
They'll be back
Conspiratorially I involve a clerk
In my disbelief
Really? Is that ketchup $13? Do people really buy it?
I shake my head, I can’t imagine
But then realize,
Despite his laugh and comical reassurances
(Yes, they do, they buy it. Is it too much?)
Everything in this store is too much
He probably doesn’t buy anything
I am too ashamed to purchase
The $3 version
Of tomatoes in a bottle
I hold my breath when I see the boys
Clinging to the windows
Hanging outside the moving vans
And when I ride on the smooth hard seats
All I can see
Is how easy it would be
To go flying out the unlatched door
If we took a curve too sharp or hit a bump
Or another car
But I know transportation is hard
To come by, here in Congo
There are so many more sights
I’ve come to see
But don’t really see
You could never get through the nights
If you really paid attention
To everything
All the children on the streets
And where they go at night
Or when it’s raining
It’s not easy to tell how many have homes
They are just escaping
And how many have only their brothers
On the road to shelter them
I play a guessing game
Older than my son?
Younger than my son?
I try to imagine how he would fare
But it doesn’t help with sleeping
Here in Congo
Today I saw her from the window
Laughing with a friend
As they washed their clothes
In a puddle by the road
Such a public puddle
On a city street
I couldn’t imagine how they set out that morning
With two buckets and some laundry
Headed for this particular spot
Where the rain had collected
As we rounded again a second time
The clothes laid out to dry on the grass
A naked baby girl stood in the road
Waiting for her turn
To be scrubbed clean
“Maybe they don’t have running water at home”
Came one casual comment
It seemed to me more like
It was the home they were missing
I can see that chubby little girl
With her bright and laughing momma
Standing in the road
By the puddle
And it’s something I can’t quite get used to
Here in Congo
I've been reading The Bottom Billion by Paul Collier and while filled with fascinating insight, he's yet to tackle what I consider the hardest question of all. I am only about half-way through this statistical analysis of why some of the poorest countries are not able to overcome their poverty and move into a truly developing model. I've yet to encounter his suggestions (promised in the later half of the book) and nothing he's written seems overly surprising. He does even concede, with regard to aid, that a major overhaul would be necessary albeit difficult due to the fact that "aid" is a business made up of people with careers who want accolades and advancements. That in itself is contradictory to their established goal of creating improvement and self sustaining change. Were countries to become truly self-sustaining, a lot of people would be looking for new employment. Perhaps their jobs could be reconfigured to address some of the new issues that might arise were most of the world to be functioning on a truly level playing field.
Collier does discuss some roles that international governments could play. He briefly alludes to the fact that some countries, particularly those in "landlocked, resource scarce" Africa, should perhaps never have been "allowed" to become countries in the first place. Being in economics, he does not delve into the bizarre history of how those countries were formed or why, but he brushes past this point rather quickly, noting that "what's done is done. It can't really be un-done" though it seems some in Africa might differ. As African countries are dividing themselves and overthrowing dictators, one might almost feel hopeful that change is in the air. What I am really waiting for Collier to get around to discussing is the idea that Western and developed countries have a huge stake in keeping African countries in their current position. It's not really in their best interest to have full functional, well running countries in control of the very resources they are making their living from. He doesn't seem to be acknowledging the fact that many coups and rebellions as well as dictators and military generals have been wholly supported, backed and put in place by the west. But there is still the second half of the book in which he might redeem himself.
I chose this book because, living here in Congo and being in love with Africa as I am, I continue to feel dismayed and hopeless by the cycles of poverty and lack of development I see. It never gets old. Which is why I am writing again of the things I see that turn my head and remain as images, starker than any film, playing over and over again long after I've returned to my house with running water and electricity. As I struggle to free an ice cube from its prison in the tray, my fingers fumbling, my mouth watering at the coolness it promises, this is what I see:
I see her laughing in the sunshine
Talking with a friend as they washed their clothes
Bright beautiful pagnes
Laid out to dry on the grass
I’ve gotten used to many things, here in Congo
The automatic weapon slung over the shoulder
Of a policeman
Though I can’t imagine what need he would ever have
As he directs a car backing out from its parking space
I wonder vaguely if it’s loaded
If he is ever tempted
But it’s become commonplace
My thoughts around it hazy, lazy drifting thoughts
It’s just the way things are, here in Congo
I chuckle at the prices I see in the supermarkets
$150 Lego sets, board games in the $75 range
Status symbols for those who can pay
Ten times the worth of something
Made to break
In a week
They'll be back
Conspiratorially I involve a clerk
In my disbelief
Really? Is that ketchup $13? Do people really buy it?
I shake my head, I can’t imagine
But then realize,
Despite his laugh and comical reassurances
(Yes, they do, they buy it. Is it too much?)
Everything in this store is too much
He probably doesn’t buy anything
I am too ashamed to purchase
The $3 version
Of tomatoes in a bottle
I hold my breath when I see the boys
Clinging to the windows
Hanging outside the moving vans
And when I ride on the smooth hard seats
All I can see
Is how easy it would be
To go flying out the unlatched door
If we took a curve too sharp or hit a bump
Or another car
But I know transportation is hard
To come by, here in Congo
There are so many more sights
I’ve come to see
But don’t really see
You could never get through the nights
If you really paid attention
To everything
All the children on the streets
And where they go at night
Or when it’s raining
It’s not easy to tell how many have homes
They are just escaping
And how many have only their brothers
On the road to shelter them
I play a guessing game
Older than my son?
Younger than my son?
I try to imagine how he would fare
But it doesn’t help with sleeping
Here in Congo
Today I saw her from the window
Laughing with a friend
As they washed their clothes
In a puddle by the road
Such a public puddle
On a city street
I couldn’t imagine how they set out that morning
With two buckets and some laundry
Headed for this particular spot
Where the rain had collected
As we rounded again a second time
The clothes laid out to dry on the grass
A naked baby girl stood in the road
Waiting for her turn
To be scrubbed clean
“Maybe they don’t have running water at home”
Came one casual comment
It seemed to me more like
It was the home they were missing
I can see that chubby little girl
With her bright and laughing momma
Standing in the road
By the puddle
And it’s something I can’t quite get used to
Here in Congo
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