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.
30.9.11
28.9.11
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.
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.
23.9.11
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.
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.
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