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